Inner City

by Scott Norton Taylor

  Chapter 4

  Callen stood on the deserted platform. Outside the sun would soon rise revealing a bright blue sky and high white irregular clouds projected onto the underside of the UV curtain. It would be a perfect day. The temperature would be exactly twenty-five degrees. The weather bureau saw to that. People would soon pour into the carriage system on their way to work. Whatever Callen was going to do he had to do now. He stood trying to make sense of the electronic schedule on the wall.

  Across the platform, a giant smiling woman looked down on him. She had perfect hair and perfect teeth; her beauty secret, “Pro elastin-mannitols”. To one side of the platform, a harsh warning in bold red letters read - Littering = One Million Dollars.

  Callen noticed little. He worked his eyes along the small lights of the electronic board and found the carriage line he needed and then made his way to the correct platform. A holographic guard appeared out of nowhere and made Callen jump.

  “What are you doing out so early?” the guard asked.

  “Meeting my parents.”

  The guard looked Callen over.

  “How old are you?”

  “Seven.”

  The guard paused, unsure what to make of Callen.

  “Come do a scan for me.”

  Callen sagged with disappointment. He walked with the guard towards the scanner box and only then spotted the teenage boy coming down the magnetic walkway from above. Callen froze in terror as the boy stared at him, then, without another thought, Callen turned and ran for the edge of the platform. The guard swung around in confusion. He began yelling into the air.

  “I have a seven-year-old boy at Northbridge; he’s run on being asked to scan.” The holographic guard disappeared and reappeared down the platform in front of a sprinting Callen.

  “Stop!” the guard shouted holding up his hands. Callen dodged the guard and raced to the end of the platform, throwing himself to the floor and sliding over the edge to the carriage tracks below. He ran to one side, avoiding the humming charge of the magnetic rail. He ran faster than he’d ever run in his life, down the tunnel until he disappeared into the darkness. The guard kept shouting behind him, updating his report.

  “He’s now left the platform. He’s in Northbridge tunnel heading west!”

  Callen ran, hugging the walls. Once clear of the station he began to lose the light. He stumbled a few times on uneven ground. It took two dozen steps for his eyes to adjust and once they had, he found it surprisingly easy to see. He moved at a steady pace as the light from the entrance grew smaller behind him.

  Out of breath and unable to keep sprinting he slowed to a jog, then a fast walk with the occasional few jogging steps thrown in for good measure. He didn’t know where he was going or what he was going to do – he just wanted to keep moving. He looked back over his shoulder, fearing the murderous teen with his knife, but he couldn’t see anyone entering the tunnel entrance behind him.

  The sheer plastic walls encased him. The sameness of each step and each inch of the tunnel was relentless – and then he heard a rumble - a new terror coming at him. A carriage was approaching. How much room would he have to let it pass? Callen pressed against the wall as the growl of the wind, pushed ahead of the carriage, grew louder. The roar raced to meet him. The wind pushed announced the beast, whistling and licking at Callen’s body. Around an invisible bend, the metal serpent flashed into view. A bright light was all he could see as the howling gust of wind met him with a roar. Callen braced himself. The carriages whistle by on their magnetic track. The wind almost knocked him off his feet. The clear windows flashed a mosaic of the city’s belongings: an old man, a business woman reading a paper, a mother and her young child. They appeared and were just as quickly gone. Callen’s pushed his head hard into the plastic tiles. Could he be seen by those travelling aboard the carriage? Would they tell the guard where he was?

  The carriage passed, heading to the platform. Callen exhaled and gathered himself. He stared at the disappearing beast, almost in shock to still be in one piece. He took a moment and then continued.

  The tunnel had no markings, making it hard to judge any distance. A yellow line within the white plastic wall never left Callen’s side. There was nothing different from one step to the next. If he kept walking, he’d end up at the next station. Maybe he’d arrive before anyone in authority had time to get up ahead to cut him off; maybe not. He’d have to take that chance.

  Callen stopped, thinking he heard footsteps behind him. He stayed still, listening, but heard nothing. He began walking again. He heard the footsteps again. Could it be the teenage boy? In the darkness of this tunnel, Callen knew the boy could finish the job he’d started without being interrupted. Callen’s body would lie undisturbed for days. His fear piqued. He sprinted onward until he glimpsed something up ahead. With each step, the outline became clearer. His excitement turned to relief when he reached a small worker’s entrance in the wall. Inside was a metal ladder. Callen jumped through the doorway and hung his feet, searching for the top of the ladder with his toes. Once he was standing on the first rung, he slowly climbed down into total darkness.

  Callen climbed down for many steps until, in blackness, he ran out of rungs and his hands slipped as his feet hung. He desperately flailed around for more of the ladder. He didn’t have the strength in his arms to raise his legs back up. He could see nothing. His shoulders hurt, his grip started to fail, until, without any other choice, he closed his eyes and dropped. His fall was less than half a body length. The surprise of the ground being so close caused him to sprawl awkwardly on the dirt floor. Callen lay in shock, alone and lost. The thought of the boy chasing him kept him moving. He got to his feet and searched the darkness until he found a wall. He traced his hand along it and began to walk as far away from where he landed as he dared. He stumbled many times, but once he felt he’d gone far enough to be safe, he sat and tried to be completely still, listening for sounds of the teenager coming down the ladder behind him. Callen heard nothing.

  He sat in darkness a long time. He adjusted his position, so his backpack supported him against the wall, his head lolling against it. He could see no more than a few shadowy forms of the nearby rock wall. He tried to concentrate, to stay focused, but his exhaustion was too much. His eyes drooped until sleep overcame him.

  A rasping spark created a flame from a lighter close enough to singe Callen’s hair. A foot kicked him awake. Floating in darkness, lit up like a superhero villain, the seventeen-year-old boy smiled. This forgotten worker’s tunnel would be the perfect place for murder.

  “Hello, kid,” he sneered. Callen opened his mouth and squeaked. Somewhere in his throat, a blood-curdling scream ricocheted around, searching for an escape. The knife shone, reflecting the flame.

  “Shouldn’t be spying, kid,” the boy drawled. Callen shook as his lip flicked back and forth. Deep breaths escaped like he was winded. The boy held the knife at Callen’s throat. Callen began to cry with tiny, surrendering whines through clenched teeth. He tensed, expecting death. A heavy thud rang out. The knife fell from the boy’s hand along with the lighter. A moment later the boy followed, hitting the dusty floor with a solid thump. Callen opened his eyes unsure what happened. The boy’s lighter flicked back to life, its owner, unconscious on the ground. Above him, an old bearded man dressed in rags looked the lighter over appreciatively. The man flicked the lighter closed and began to shuffle away.

  “Wait,” Callen called after him.

  “Why?” came the gruff reply over shuffling feet.

  “I don’t know where I am.”

  “Below Sydenham Street.” The old man shambled away. Callen jumped to his feet, wincing in pain from his side.

  “Please,” he called out. “I don’t have anywhere to go.”

  The old man’s shuffling stopped. He gave an annoyed sigh. He moved cautiously towards Callen and clicked his newly won lighter back to life. He moved it around in examination.

  “What’s in the bag?”<
br />
  “Clothes,” said Callen. The old man sneered and turned away, unimpressed.

  “And food,” Callen almost shouted after him.

  The old man came back. He moved the lighter around Callen’s face, then down his side where blood was again seeping through his shirt.

  “Can you walk?” the man asked.

  Callen nodded. The lighter’s cap snuffed the flame.

  “This way,” the old man said.

  Callen happily followed the shadowy figure into darkness. He was happy to be in someone else’s care. He never gave a thought to any danger. Callen would be dead without this man’s intervention, left to rot in one of the world’s largest tombs.

  They walked for a long time. There was rubble on the ground. Small crushed rock evenly spread by time. Callen stumbled many times. The old man’s shuffling avoided this as they pushed deeper into the tunnel. Callen was some way behind, his side still seeping blood. He’d taken to pressing his palm firmly to the wound to stem the flow. The pain made him grimace, but he forgot his injury as they turned the next corner and saw a piece of hessian cloth up ahead. The cloth covered an opening; a cave, crumbling into the wall; it was the old man’s home. Callen stared at the dim light coming from inside through the cloth door. The old man swept past to be silhouetted, not in darkness, but in the light of the new day. Callen reached the doorway and pushed the cloth aside. The light was coming from a small tunnel in the back wall.

  A plastic sheet partitioned the cave. There was a fireplace dug into the rock with signs of frequent use. Some badly fashioned benches, made from discarded plastic, and a bed made of plastic crates stacked together was the only furniture. Rags covered the bed. They were similar to those the old man wore. Perhaps it doubled as his wardrobe?

  Callen stood watching the man as he lit candles. They added to the light coming from the small tunnel.

  “Where did you get that?” the old man asked, pointing to Callen’s bloody wound.

  “In a park.”

  “How?”

  Callen paused, unsure how much to tell.

  “In a fight,” he offered.

  “Over what?” the old man asked, as he knelt by Callen’s side, removing the blood-soaked towel and inspecting the wound properly. Callen hesitated. The old man looked at him, curiously. He knew there was more to be told, but he wasn’t going to force the boy to speak.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “You don’t want to say; we’ll leave it unsaid.” The old man went back to work. He moved to his shelf and took a bottle, tipping it onto a rag. Callen watched as the old man brought the rag to Callen’s side. Callen shrieked and squirmed in pain. It felt like being branded with a red-hot iron. The old man held Callen in place as the severe heat and sharpness bit at his side. After a long moment, the pain lessened. Callen tempered his desperation to break free. He regained his breath and lost the frantic look in his eyes.

  “I don’t have stitches,” the old man said. “But if you stay still for a day or two it might take. Looks like you’ve lost a lot of blood. Not enough to kill you, but enough so you should lie down for a bit. This’ll kill any germs and stop it infecting,” he said, holding up the damp rag in his hand. The old man put the stinging liquid away. The rag went into a bucket of water to soak.

  “So what have you got to eat?”

  Callen unpacked his bag, bringing out synthetic bread and meats. Next came the jar full of chocolate fudge. Callen explained the fudge needed the ice cream pie to set it off, but, under the circumstances, the fudge would still be worth eating alone. The old man laughed, easing any remaining tension. They sat and ate. As they did, Callen asked the sort of questions only a seven-year-old can. Who was this man? Where was he from? How and why did he live where he did? The old man was happy to give up his secrets. His name was Lewis Aurum. He was born and bred in the city. He worked hard for almost fifty years and had nothing to show. All he ever did was earn enough to pay other people for the staples of life. His time and anything he produced seemed far less valuable to them. He’d often end up working for little compared to some. Desperate to change his situation and get ahead, he turned to crime. They caught him and charged him with fraud, sentencing him to three years public service. When released he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. His police record meant they blamed him for an attack he didn’t commit. He received a life sentence of incarcerated public service in the Outlocked wilderness. He was set to work on a lifetime of maintenance jobs at a city waste outlet. It wasn’t a life he was willing to accept, so he escaped, but the Outlocked attacked him. They were fiercer than any stories he’d ever heard. He knew they were going to kill him, but they tried to torture him first, to make his last moments a living hell. They used him as prey in some sick game, hunting him down. Over and over again they set him free only to chase him callously. Lewis risked his life to escape, finding a path that led to a small tunnel out of those savage lands. Lewis turned to the source of early morning light coming into the cave.

  “That tunnel saved my life,” he said. Callen stared at the opening, awestruck. He was looking at a doorway to the Outlocked world.

  The cloth door lifted. Callen and Lewis turned to see the teenage boy with his knife. The boy had a trail of blood down his cheek from his right temple. His hair was dusty on one side from where his head slept unconscious on the ground. He took a step into the cave.

  “You should have stayed out of it, old man,” he menaced with a wave of his knife. Lewis stood, preparing for battle. Callen feared for him. The man looked as old as anyone Callen had ever seen, by his guess, at least one hundred and sixty. While this wasn’t unheard of for someone from the city, Lewis’ life of hardship meant he was only seventy-three, but Callen had no way of knowing this.

  The teenager and Lewis circled, wary, sizing each other up. The boy lunged forward. Lewis grabbed him, pulling him into a wrestle. Callen tried to help, but the teenager threw him away. The blade tore at the flesh on Callen’s upper arm as he was thrown to the ground, blood baptising the knife for the second time. Lewis battled on, but it didn’t take long before the tension left the fight. The teenage boy thrust his arm into the old man. Callen couldn’t see the weapon, but he knew where it was.

  Lewis collapsed into his killer’s arms. The knife embedded to the hilt in his stomach. Lewis’ face contorted. He coughed as he slid down the teenage boy’s body and found rest on his knees. He cried out in a short, sharp exclamation as the boy removed the knife and stepped back. Lewis coughed blood and fell forward, his support removed. He clutched at his stomach and shrank slightly, before hitting the dirt floor and curling into a foetal position.

  A stream of blood came from underneath him to the foot of his attacker. The teenage boy stood still, staring at his victim. The old man lay dying, gasping for breath. The boy wiped the blade on his pants. The shine returned to the sharp edge. He turned to Callen who clutched at the fresh wound on his arm. Blood formed a red glove as it coated the skin on Callen’s hand. Droplets of blood were hitting the ground, launching off the bend in his elbow. Callen was in pain, but he wasn’t ready to die. Without thinking he threw himself into the tunnel. The teenage boy lunged and managed to catch a foot, but his grip wasn’t strong, leaving him holding a size five shoe.

  Callen crawled further. The tunnel was long with a number of sharp bends. He could hear the same shuffling sounds coming behind him as the larger boy tried to follow. Callen sped up, not thinking where he was heading; he just kept scrambling forward until hitting the morning light and emerging onto the steep shale covered slope. He rolled and skidded to the bottom, across loose rocks and sand, coming to rest fifty or sixty metres below. Above, at the opening of the tunnel, the boy looked down at Callen.

  An Outlocked savage saw dust clouds and blew a wooden horn to signal the arrival of an intruder from the city. Callen saw a swarm of Outlocked moving to him out of the surrounding hills. Fear gripped him. He turned to head back up the steep slope, but the boy with his knife
was waiting for him, flashing a malevolent smile. Callen froze and ran from both the boy and the approaching Outlocked. The savages were increasing in number and came from every direction. Their unkempt hair, emblazoned with ornaments of nature, jumped and bounced with every step. Their garments, dirty and poorly cut from skins, gave them a prehistoric look. Callen grew more frantic and sped up. He didn’t see the Outlocked scaling the slope, heading for the teenage boy. The boy disappeared quickly inside the tunnel, happy to leave Callen to fend for himself; certain the Outlocked would finish the job he started.

  Callen scrambled from his pursuers until his exhaustion caused him to stumble, but he didn’t fall. The Outlocked overtook him, wielding him around, like cowboys mustering cattle, until Callen was heading back towards the hill where he’d first arrived in this land. Callen had lost all sense of direction and simply wanted to escape the savages. He didn’t think of the pain from his wounds or care he was bleeding freely; he just wanted to stay ahead of those chasing.

  The Outlocked chanted and screamed as they came close. Callen saw the tunnel above. It was his last hope. He never gave a thought to the murderous teenage boy waiting for him. He dug into the shale and pulled himself up the slope until his breathing became one elongated wheeze. The effort was too much. His head went light. His balance left him. Everything went dark.

  Callen hit the loose stones hard before tumbling like a rag doll down the hill. He slid until he reached level ground. He lay unconscious at the feet of his attackers. He was bleeding heavily. His breath was the only sign he was still alive. The Outlocked gathered around and stared at his motionless body.