Of Metal and Wishes

by Sarah Fine

  “The net,” Bo says as he runs ahead of me. “He’s caught in the net. They’re almost on him.”

  The spiders are coming, then. The big ones, with bodies the size of tomcats, with legs as long as my arms. Everything in me screams to run the other way, but I know it’s no safer behind me. One wrong step and I’ll be sliced to bits.

  Bo shoves me into the shallow alcove where he saved me the night I stumbled into the same trap Ugur’s in right now. “Stay here, and I’ll get him.”

  A few seconds later a squirming body is pressed against me. It’s not Bo. This one’s covered in a net and has two human arms. He stinks of urine and sweat, of animal fear, and is shaking and struggling hard, like a fish on a hook. He must have seen what was coming for him. And it probably reminded him of the war machines that destroyed his village, erasing the years between now and then, dragging him back to relive whatever happened to him when the Itanyai crushed the Noor rebellion.

  “After they pass, you can go,” Bo says. “I have to stop the Noor coming down through the administrative hallway before they get themselves into trouble. Remember your promise.” He pulls at the net, and it falls away from Ugur’s body.

  I put my arms around Ugur’s waist and try to lean around him so I can see Bo, but it’s no use. I can already hear the soft clanking of Bo’s machine arm as he sprints down the hall, away from the advancing spiders.

  Ugur is crying, trembling. He is not a man in this moment; he is a child who has lost his way in a dark forest. I pull his face to mine and whisper soothing words, partly in an attempt to drown out the metal clicking of spider feet that must sound like bomb blasts in his ears. I shrink back against the damp walls and try to bring him with me. The Noor are still calling for him, closer now than before. They must have gone down the other hallways, the ones that are safer because they don’t lead directly to Bo’s home. Ugur was the unlucky one today.

  Or maybe not. I have his face in my hands, and I won’t let him go. He is quieting, and his struggling is slowing. “Wen?” he whispers.

  “It’s me, Ugur,” I say, even though I have no idea who this man is, only that he is Noor. I try to tell him to press himself closer to me, deeper into the nook, but I don’t think he understands me, because he moves away from me a little, like he’s trying to keep a respectful distance.

  He starts talking to me in that throat-catching language of theirs, and I shush him because I want to hear if the spiders have passed, and also because I don’t understand him anyway. Finally I put my hand over his mouth, and that seems to be a signal he comprehends, because he shuts up.

  And so have the spiders. They are silent. Have they passed already? I sag in relief.

  That’s when Ugur starts to scream. He reels back into the hallway, arching and writhing. He’s a dark windstorm in this tunnel, a patch of shrieking blackness. There’s a metal crunch, and I think he might have stepped on one of the spiders, but his shrieks go on and on and on—and then fall silent, suddenly, utterly. I hear a slide and a thud—and a muffled, wet clicking. I peek out of my alcove as three Noor round the corner and hold up their lanterns. I search their forms and faces. Melik is not among them. Their identical looks of horror freeze me to the bone. I slowly turn my head.

  There is blood everywhere.

  The Noor run toward us, shouting Ugur’s name. When their lantern light reaches him, my stomach heaves. He is on his back, a few feet from our alcove. One of the spiders is on his belly, and it has shredded him. The pink and purple coils of his intestines are wrapped around the spider’s body and legs as it burrows deeper inside of him.

  One of the Noor throws up against the wall. The others stand silently, staring at Ugur, who is unmistakably dead. His eyes are wide and his mouth is open, and now I can see that he is caught in a spider’s embrace. One of his legs must have been within a spider’s reach as it stalked down the hall, enough to give it a foothold and allow it to scuttle up his back. Its legs are wrapped around his head and neck. The tips of its feet are on his cheeks. I do not want to see the back of his head, but I know this is why his screams fell silent so suddenly.

  I sink to the floor, clutching my stomach. One of the Noor grabs for the spider that has buried itself in Ugur’s guts, and I practically tackle him. If he pulls it out, the thing might attack him. I wrap one of my arms around his hands and reach for the spider myself, for that kill switch on its back. Its head is deep inside Ugur, but its back is exposed and vulnerable. My fingers slide through blood and tissue, scrabbling over the smooth metal of the spider’s body, prodding and pressing. And then I find it. The spider starts to vibrate, sending warm droplets of Ugur misting into the air. I lean back as it falls apart, leaving only glinting silver and red bits.

  My hands are covered in blood. My face, too, I have no doubt. The Noor are speaking among themselves, but it is nothing but noise as I stare at Ugur’s wide, glazed eyes. He has a mole on his face. He was the boy standing next to Melik that day in the furnace room. Now Melik has another of his friends to mourn. Because of me.

  One of the Noor crouches next to me and I look up into his pale face. His sorrow and horror are deeper than the shadows around us. “Wen,” he says. “Come.”

  He takes my arm, tugs me up, and says something to the others in a low voice. Then he leads me away from Ugur, away from the carnage, toward the stairs. He does not let go of me as we walk, but I don’t sense anger from him, or suspicion. Or anything, really, except the exhaustion that comes with something so terrible that you can’t even fight against it.

  He pulls me to a stop right in front of the door to the open area by the cafeteria. He takes my hands and rubs them against his shirt, then swipes his sleeve over my face. The rough fabric reeks of meat and death, and I try to squirm away, but he holds me steady and keeps wiping.

  “Melik,” he says by way of explanation, and I understand. He’s worried what Melik will think if I am brought back to him covered in blood. It is strangely tender, the way this Noor cares about that kind of thing.

  When he is finished, he’s a bloody mess, but I am slightly cleaner. There is still blood between my fingers, under my fingernails, on my bodice and skirt, but this Noor seems to think I look better, because he nods and opens the door that leads to the main floor. I am suddenly hesitant. Everything that has happened is because of me, and I’m not sure I can bear it. With leaden feet I trudge down the hall. My bloody Noor companion heads back down the stairs to his friends.

  At the end of the hallway there are men, some Noor and some not, milling about, their brows furrowed. They are probably waiting for those in the cafeteria, the ones who couldn’t simply walk away from the blast. I look for my father among the crowd, but he must be in the cafeteria too, seeing to the wounded. I wonder if he believes I am dead, if he worries, or if he suspects the truth. For a moment I stand among these men, who barely seem to notice my presence. I am another casualty of today’s accident, no more and no less. I am not particularly important to anyone here.

  But then . . . old Hazzi catches sight of me, and he shouts to someone in the administrative hallway. Melik comes around the corner a moment later, his eyes wild and searching. He spots me easily, the flash of ruined pink among the mass of brown overalls and work shirts, and he comes straight for me like there is no one else here. I am suddenly aware of my beating heart, of the tears in my eyes, of the blood in my veins as it calls to him.

  Perhaps it is his size, or maybe the heat in his eyes, but the men move out of the way for him. He still has blood on his left temple, and some of it is smeared on his work shirt. There are patches of black and gray on his clothes and face from the explosion and its aftermath. But he is here and he is whole, and when he gets to me, he doesn’t stop to assess, and he obviously doesn’t think about what is proper. Neither do I. As he reaches for me, I raise my arms, and then my feet aren’t touching the ground. He scoops me up, bowing his head into the crook of my
neck. He squeezes me so tightly I can barely breathe. Soft, desperate words are whispered against my skin, and even though I don’t understand them, I think I can translate. You are alive. You are here. You are mine.

  I am dimly aware that there are others around us, but I cannot force myself to care. “I was afraid for you,” I whisper, and hold on tight as a wrenching sound comes from deep in his chest at the sound of my voice.

  “I knew you were alive. I knew it. I knew it.” His hand is in my hair, and his forehead is against mine, and—

  The touch of his lips is shocking to me. Not because it is completely inappropriate, although it is, and not because I am afraid people are watching, although I should be. What shocks me is how much I want it, after all these hours of worry and all these days of wishing. What shocks me is my hunger for him. Melik’s mouth is on mine, and it is soft and warm and overwhelming and delicious. He is everywhere, all around me, holding me against his lean, hard-muscled body. He smells of ashes and sweat and it’s him and I need it. We breathe together, eyes wide open, unwilling to allow the other to disappear again.

  Then he freezes for a moment and puts me down abruptly, clearing his throat and jamming his hands in his pockets. It’s like he’s come back to himself, remembered everything I’ve forgotten—this kind of thing is not allowed here, and it puts us both in danger. He glances around us, then down at me. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

  I can do nothing but smooth my trembling hands over my bloody, torn skirt. “It’s all right,” I manage to say, even though it’s not, for so many reasons. Because I have ruined what was left of my reputation. Because everyone in this room saw a Noor completely forget his place. Because Ugur is dead and Melik doesn’t even know yet. Because Bo might have been watching. My heart is beating so hard that I have to put my hand over it, just to keep it where it is.

  “Wen?”

  At the sound of my father’s voice I whirl around. Sweat rings his armpits and sorrow shadows his face. “I was so worried,” he says hoarsely, and welcomes me into his arms.

  He hugs me tight, his wiry arms shaking. “Melik told me he thought he saw someone grab you, and then you disappeared,” he mutters.

  I lean back so he can see my face, and nod. His answering look is all understanding. He knows I was with Bo. “A lot of people were hurt in the explosion,” he tells me, “but no one died.”

  I sag in his arms, thankful for small mercies. Then I remember he’s wrong. Someone did die. I want to look at Melik, to talk to him, to warn him about what is coming up from the basement. But when I try to turn, my father’s grip tightens, and he shakes his head as he watches the people around us. I bow my head. The men in this room are no doubt staring, their gazes full of cold disapproval.

  My father speaks to the top of my head. “The Noor sent a search party. Down below. They would not listen when Hazzi told them it was dangerous—” His head jerks up at the commotion coming from the hallway behind us.

  That is when the Noor carry Ugur into the open. Several of the men gasp, and a few make deep retching noises that turn my stomach. Hazzi stares at the dead Noor boy with genuine sadness, then turns away. The Noor have closed Ugur’s eyes and his mouth. One of them has donated his work shirt to cover the gaping hole in Ugur’s belly where the other spider tore him open. Still, it doesn’t matter. Despite their efforts, it is immediately clear that Ugur died a horrific, painful death.

  My father holds me firmly as I watch the blood drain from Melik’s face while his friends make their explanations over the body of their dead companion. The men around me are talking too, about the Ghost and the dangers that lurk in the bowels of the factory, about how the Noor have clearly stirred something deadly, how they are bad luck for the rest of us.

  Melik raises his head and looks at me, and his expression is no longer one of relief and joy. All that lies there is torment and confusion. His gaze slides down the front of my dress, landing on every bloody patch and smear, on the torn mess of my skirt, like he’s noticing it for the first time. He takes a step toward me, and my father pulls me back.

  “I need your help in the cafeteria,” Father says to me.

  I glance up at him and see him glaring at Melik. Stay back, he’s saying. Take care of your own.

  Melik must heed his silent warning, because when I gather the courage to look, all I see is his back as he and the Noor carry Ugur’s body away.

  MY FATHER ESCORTS the Noor to the furnace room that night, but he does not allow me to go. I keep expecting him to talk to me about what happened with Melik, to scold me or comfort me or anything in between, but instead he avoids the topic completely, like he wants to pretend it never happened.

  After another scalding bath, I lie on my pallet and listen to the keening sounds of the elevator. Bo does not try to speak to me. Strangely, I wish he would. But no one is speaking to me right now, so why would he?

  Suddenly I need the sky. I need the moon. I need to be away from here because I feel like I’m being buried alive, eaten by a monster of metal and brick. This factory feels like a grave, and I need to rise from the dead. I pull on my dressing gown and shoes and flee.

  The first gulp of night air stings and burns my fragile lungs. The frost will come in a few hours, and woe to anyone who must spend the night on the streets. The abandoned, the homeless, the ones who have been used up by the Gochan factories and discarded like trash, the ones too weak or unskilled to transfer to that other factory, wherever it is. There are many out there, like Jima, like Tercan might have been, had he lived. The winter always cuts them down, culls their numbers, but there are always more to take their places on the street corners, in the alleys.

  I walk to the compound’s fence and stroke my fingers over the links, poking them through the little holes in the thick mesh. This fence is the thin boundary between me and them, between nestling warm in the belly of this beast and getting spit out of its mouth. I peer through the metal links, out to the pink-light salon on the corner. There is a small crowd of men outside of it, speaking in loud voices, looking back at Gochan One with hard, angry expressions.

  Snatches of their conversations reach me, piercing this metal bubble and making me press my face to the fence. They are not talking about the whores or the frost or the holidays.

  “. . . had enough . . .”

  “. . . last straw . . .”

  “. . . can’t go on like this . . .”

  “. . . it’s not right . . .”

  On and on they talk, speaking words of outrage. The explosion today was more than a distraction. It has lit a fuse. More men are coming out of the pink-light salon now, pulling their collars up against the chill in the air. Hazzi is among them, his swollen hands wrapped in a scarf. One of them is slightly taller than the rest, and when he steps into the light of a streetlamp, his hair gleams like copper. Melik speaks in our language, enunciating the words in his hard-edged accent, agreeing with these men, adding his own rage to the roiling pot. He talks of a strike, of demands, of rights. His power is clear tonight. He is not trying to hide it. He is using it, the weight of his words, the strength that vibrates from him like a current. They slap him on the back, and he returns the gesture. I am shocked. These men, several of whom I recognize as slaughterhouse workers, are not looking at Melik with hatred or suspicion or condescension. Tonight they are his allies. He is one of them.

  It is suddenly very clear to me that all these men are not going to the salon to visit the whores.

  They have found themselves a meeting place to start a revolution.

  “What are you doing out here so late?”

  I spin around with a startled shriek. Foreman Ebian is standing in the compound’s square with his hands on his hips. The fleshy swell under his chin makes him look like a toad. His cold amphibian eyes are on me, and in them I read exactly what he thinks of me. This must be how men look at whores, with an ugly mixture of hunger
and disgust.

  “I was taking a walk,” I say. “I needed some air.” I clutch my dressing gown tight around me.

  “What were you looking at?” he asks, striding toward me on his thick, stumpy legs.

  I step away from the fence quickly. I am so stupid. If he looks through the thick wire mesh, he’s going to see the men outside the pink-light salon, and they’re going to be in trouble. He might even lock the fence early to keep them out. “I was just watching the . . . I wanted to see if the apothecary was open.”

  Not good enough, not even by half. Ebian shoulders me out of the way and puts his face to the fence. Every muscle in my body tenses. Then Ebian starts to laugh, a huffing ugh-ugh-ugh sound that carries no joy, only cruelty. “Of course you would be looking at them.”

  I gape at him. He doesn’t seem mad at all. He’s smiling and leering at me. His meaty hand wraps around the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, close enough to smell the cheap rice wine on his breath. He jams my face against the fence.

  “Your next place of employment, eh?” he chortles.

  I don’t bother to struggle because he will only hurt me. I stare in horror through the hole and am hit with a tidal wave of relief.

  The only people standing outside the pink-light salon are women. Three of them, their voluptuous bodies casting curvy shadows on the cobblestone streets. They laugh and wave at a passing horseless carriage. The men, Melik included, are nowhere in sight.

  “I . . . I was curious,” I stammer, my eyes raking the streets for any sign of the workers. I don’t know how they disappeared so quickly.

  Ebian laughs, and his hand falls away from my neck. For a moment I believe I am free, but then I hear the tinkle of metal and realize he’s fumbling with his belt. I backtrack but step on the hem of my dressing gown. My bottom hits the concrete ground, hard, knocking the wind out of me. Ebian shuffles forward, working at the zipper on his pants.

  “Come here, little Wen. I’m going to satisfy your curiosity,” he says.