The Wind City

by Summer Wigmore

  “Maybe I could look up guns on Trade Me,” he muttered as he went through drawers, shaking cutlery out onto the table. They didn’t have much cutlery, and for some reason it all seemed to be either bent spoons or a rather baffling variety of rusty knives. Generally Saint just ate whatever food the Flatmate had bought for him – he hated that dependence, but, well, it was better than dying. Anyway, bent spoons didn’t strike Saint as quite the weapons he was looking for, and most of the knives were far too blunt to do anything worse to the maero than sort of poke at him. “Or just whack him over the head with that damned Xbox. No, that’s stupid. Ah!” He pulled out a bread knife, long and serrated and not blunt in the least. He tested its edge on the table, and grinned a cheerful grin, and went to the window and waited.

  He waited confidently, and with aplomb.

  After a while he went and got changed into proper clothes, and then came back to his post by the window. And waited.

  And waited.

  “… Aw, hell.” He sighed and reached up, then blinked and let the bread knife clatter to the floor before he reached up again to rub his aching forehead, this time without being at risk of accidentally gouging out an eye. “I can’t do this. I can’t, this isn’t… ”

  A coward he was, maybe, but he wasn’t a killer. Let those flashy hero-types make the big decisions: he’d be happy to be their amusing sidekick, and to stand beside them and snap a grim catchphrase and be there, sure, but they would have to be the ones to get blood on their hands, because he sure couldn’t.

  Regretfully, he let go of the notion he’d somehow gotten as a teenager and never quite managed to get rid of. Having a nifty coat really wasn’t enough to make you a dashing action hero.

  He got out his phone and texted something vague to Steff – he forgot what it was as soon as he’d sent it, but the point was to feel in contact with his fellow human beings and not quite so insane. He felt a little shaky, a little unreal. Like he was the one who was a ghost.

  This was so stupid.

  He leaned back against the kitchen bench and ran both hands through his hair.

  This was so stupid, he was so stupid, what the hell was he playing at? Sure, yeah, do let’s make up an elaborate fantasy world so you can play the hero, Saint, that is a totally emotionally stable thing to do. Christ.

  It even made sense that his subconscious would direct his aggression towards his flatmate. Of bloody course it would. His flatmate who was kind, even if he made Saint uneasy – who made Saint uneasy because he was kind, more likely. Who definitely wasn’t the type of person who made up handsome ghost-men just so he could have someone willing to talk –

  Hahahaha aaaaaanyway. Man was he hungry.

  He went to the fridge hopefully, and fished one of his bobby pins out of his pocket. He was a bit rusty; it took him a couple of minutes to bust the lock open, which was fine, gave him something to do with his hands.

  He’d always refrained from breaking into the fridge before, despite how the lock riled him, because he didn’t want to screw this up, didn’t want to prove himself undeserving of the basic trust that was implicit in being allowed in someone’s flat. It had been hard. People thinking the worst of him made him want to live down to their expectations. He paused before opening the fridge door, but hell, he was hungry. They’d had KFC a few days ago – maybe there was some chicken left.

  There was one piece of chicken left in the crumpled red and white box, but it wasn’t exactly recognisable as chicken, not any more. He looked at it doubtfully, then withdrew his hand without picking it up. Maybe it wouldn’t get provoked if he left it undisturbed in its natural habitat.

  His flatmate’s food was sealed in neat little Tupperware containers, all stacked up in rows. The moral quandary lasted about three seconds. Sure, stealing was wrong – “But so is hunger,” Saint assured himself seriously, as he lifted one of the containers and pried open the lid and was faced with blood, lots of blood, entirely too much blood. He wrinkled his nose and scowled at the stench of it. What was this, mince? There was – wait.

  Maybe his Flatmate didn’t keep the fridge locked to keep him from stealing, maybe it –

  He was holding the container at a slight angle and so the blood was trickling thickly out one corner and onto the floor and splashing almost on his shoes, and beneath it was raw meat, shredded and stinking, unrecognisable as anything that it could ever have been and he dropped the container which splattered blood everywhere and he walked away but there was nowhere to go because there was blood and it scared him, the obscene redness of it, red red blood and it was on him it was getting on his hands get it off get it off get it off get away get away get away – he stumbled back into the corner but he couldn’t keep his eyes off it, the meat, the thick coagulated blood staining the lino staining the carpet staining him staining everything.

  “… Could’ve at least kept it in the freezer,” he said, after a while, in a very small voice. “It doesn’t seem to have… kept very well.”

  He swallowed, and decided not to check the freezer.

  He found himself thinking about the way the Flatmate had eaten the KFC, a week ago, skewering the bits of meat on its fingernails and swallowing it in greasy chunks. When it ate people did it do the same thing…?

  He forced himself to think about something else, and started thinking about how it was funny that there was so much blood contained in a human body – his body, say, just for example – and how very much he would prefer it stay in there, nice and safe where it belonged, instead of getting silly ideas and going off to do exciting bloodish things like stain the carpet and attract flies just because some claws as jagged and sharp as rusted nails were kind enough to liberate it from his skin.

  Who knew how long the maero would stay away? Who even knew why? This thing climbed out windows and ate humanmeat, it didn’t think like people did, it – it could do anything –

  “Lovably fearless,” he reminded himself. He went back to the window, and he picked up the knife. Looked like he’d have blood on his hands whether he wanted it or not.

  He wished Noah was here.

  Barely a minute later there came a heavy thump, like something had dropped onto the ledge outside the window in the lounge. Saint swore and leapt for the window and snapped it shut. Yellow claws scraped at the glass. A deep voice roared.

  Saint waited.

  A human hand knocked at the window, quite politely.

  “Kia ora,” Saint said, loudly enough to be heard.

  His – its face appeared at the window, such a human face, with a smallish pimple near its hairline and hollows under its eyes from staying up late. It seemed so very human. “Saint? Let me in!” it called.

  “Shan’t. You’re mythical. Not even that! I’ve never heard tales told of the great mystical building-clambering weirdo freakgiants.”

  “Let me in, Saint,” the maero said, and it sounded human. Saint remembered the moment when he’d seen the maero as both things at once, its human disguise and its terrifying reality; he could look again, probably, see that again, but he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to at all. Part of him still thought that all this must be a mistake.

  “Let me in,” the maero said again.

  “Ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Are you all right?” it said, voice dripping with concern. “You were acting strange. I thought you might not be all right.”

  “Well, I saw a giant who also happened to be ugly as fuck, so yeah, I probably acted strange. And I mean seriously ugly, by the way. Like, damn, have you ever even gone to a hairdresser? Or would you just eat them? ‘Hello sir would you like a free lollipop, no, oh you’d rather eat me, all right then.’ Because that’s not very polite.”

  “Let me in, Saint. Freaking out’s natural but come on, think what you owe me. Let me in. Let me in.”

  Saint wished he’d heard about maero at any point ever, so that he’d have stories to draw on – know what their weaknesses were, or their habits, or how to placate them. A
s it was he just had to go with what he knew. “Hell no, you’re gross,” he said. “You look like an ape or something, what’s up with that? New Zealand never even had apes.” Maybe that was what the whole climbing around thing was about! Maybe it missed trees. Trees and slaughtering people.

  It said something else, but it was too muffled for Saint to hear it, an edge of growl in its voice. Saint put his back to the window and braced himself against it. The maero pushed at the window, rather feebly. It was weak, probably because it was pretending to be human, and Saint could set his legs against the floor. There was no way a pane of glass would keep it out if it went full giant, though.

  “Could you just, could you please just go away?” Saint said, which he knew was idiotic as soon as he heard himself say it. “You don’t make sense! None of this makes any damn sense… ” It felt horrible to be facing away from the thing. The back of his neck itched, and he wanted, very badly, to turn around.

  “Ha,” said the maero, and its face must have been very close to the window for Saint to be able to hear it this well. “Hahaha. You’re the stupid one. To never notice. Prey is so plump and stupid on this soft island. In this soft city. You let me keep you in reserve in case the women ran out, fatten you up – it was easy, with no whānau to look after you. No one who wanted you. Nowhere to go. No one and nowhere.” Its voice was sing-song, mocking. Harsh and… alien, beneath that, its intonation strange and inhuman.

  “Sorry,” Saint said, strangled, “I make it a point not to take constructive feedback from murderous ape guys –”

  “No one and nowhere,” the maero sang, like a prayer or a chant. Its words were devolving, getting thicker and slower and deeper. “No one and nowhere.”

  “I don’t have to have friends to put an end to you!”

  The song turned into a roar, and something thudded against the window, shuddering him. Saint dived to the side and hit the ground hard and awkward; it drove the breath out of him in a pained gasp. There was another thud, louder, and broken glass rained down around him. Saint drew a ragged breath as he gripped the knife and stood. The jagged bits of broken glass lining the window’s frame must’ve stung, but that didn’t stop the maero clambering through. It stood, glass crunching beneath its feet. It had to stand half hunched-over to even fit into the room.

  Then for a second there was a human guy standing there, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Saint, you’re raving, you’re mad,” he said, voice soothing, like he was talking to an animal. “You need help. Let me get you help.”

  Saint shut his eyes against that. And oh, it was so tempting to believe him, oh so tempting, but there was no way his mind could come up with this on its own, not really. He thought of the bus, of gentle rain falling and wide black eyes and the salty taste of blood in his mouth. He hadn’t imagined that.

  He opened his eyes. There was the image of a human standing there, unreal. Underneath that thin unconvincing layer, there was a giant.

  “Not gonna fool me there,” Saint said, and he grinned broad and panicked. “I’ve got this whole seeing thing basically sorted! No more fooling me.”

  The maero snorted. “This’d be easier,” it said, slow and careful, like it was having difficulty shaping the words. “If. You just ignored us. And went on as normal.”

  “Ignored you killing and eating people right up until you killed and ate me? Leaving no one who knew what you were or could do a damn thing about it? I’d rather –” Carry on as normal, just leave, maybe, go seek sanctuary with Steff or at a shelter and pretend nothing had happened. But it wasn’t just him in danger here. Saint swallowed his fear and said, “I would rather die.” It came out flat, toneless.

  The maero’s eyes narrowed, horrible beady pits in the furred mass of its face. It grinned, a terrible thing to see, lips peeling back from its yellowed teeth. Then it growled, and then it lost the ability to form words or play human at all, apparently, lost everything but its rage. It faced him, and raised its yellow-clawed hand, and growled. It was scraping the ceiling with its back, now; it was gigantic. It didn’t even move to attack him yet, like it was arrogant enough to think he’d just stand there while it carved him up. Its head was tilted to one side, measuring him up, figuring out the choice cuts or something.

  Arrogance was one thing Saint was pretty good at, though. He had the advantage there at least.

  Fearless, fearless, fearless. “Just call me David,” Saint panted, and slashed at it with the knife.

  The metal didn’t penetrate the thick fur any better than the window’s glass had, and the maero batted away his hand with ease. For a second it just stared at him, like a farmer caught unexpected by a cow fighting back. Then it swung.

  It didn’t even put all of its weight into the blow, just batted at Saint, but its fist hit him on the side of his head and sent him reeling, staggering to the floor. His vision swam.

  It loomed above him and he stumbled to his feet, trying to look dazed and stunned – it wasn’t hard – and when it swung at him again, slow and easy, he ducked under its hand and came up close and slashed at its torso. The maero just laughed and let him, and the knife just – didn’t even break the skin –

  It had less fur around its neck, though.

  Saint stood as tall as he could and pushed the knife against the maero’s neck, leaning into it with one hand tight around the handle and the other pressed against the back of the blade so it wouldn’t just bounce off.

  It was easier than he’d been expecting. The knife dug into the maero’s throat. Blood started to well up, wetting the blade. Saint’s sweaty hands slipped, and he lost his grip. Panic froze him for an instant.

  Maybe that was how to kill a maero, maybe slitting its throat was enough, it was unlikely but he turned to run all the same. The maero grabbed his shoulder and lifted him up, feet dangling a few centimetres above the carpet, its claws digging into his skin even through his coat. The maero held him there, swinging in midair. It felt at the gash in its throat with the other hand, a look of genuine surprise on its face.

  “Well, you’re plucky,” it said, and the words made the blood coming from its throat bubble.

  Saint swung back and then forward again, and kicked it in the junk.

  The maero didn’t keel over or anything, not like he’d hoped. It did drop him, but even as it crouched it was raising its long-clawed hand and it could just slash right through Saint, couldn’t it, slash a hole right down the middle of him so his insides slithered out while he was still breathing. No. He dived straight at it, desperate, ducked close enough so the monster might have difficulty slicing at him but it just grabbed him instead, crushing him, and oh, God, it was so hard to breathe, but Saint’s arm was close enough, and he sawed. The flesh gave way and burst like rotten fruit, stinking, and he gagged while the maero moved its arm to wrap vicelike around Saint’s neck, pressing his face into the hair and blood and stink of it. He couldn’t breathe, but he kept on grimly cutting as his vision flared black.

  The knife caught against something, and then cut through, and then there was hardly any resistance at all. The maero’s crushing grip loosened. Its head fell from its shoulders to the ground, and even bounced, though the maero itself remained standing; after a second or two Saint realised that it was him who was supporting it. When he stepped away the heavy weight of the headless body fell to the ground and lay there dead.

  Saint dropped the knife. He stood there. It was hard to breathe. The whole thing had taken – fifteen seconds, fifteen minutes, a lifetime? He didn’t know.

  “Well that was surprisingly simple,” he said brightly, and he went to the bathroom to retch.

  He splashed his face with water, then again, then again; blood was beading on his forehead, but it was just a shallow cut. He hoped it was just a shallow cut. He squirted soap onto his hands and rubbed that on his face as well, and it stung, but he wanted to be clean. It was hard to breathe. He had a few cuts he didn’t remember getting. They were shallow but nasty to look at, and wha
t if one of those had happened to nick an artery or skewer some important organ? He could’ve bled out then and there. He had never felt more acutely aware of how his body was a bag of skin stretched over meat, a strange and precious and vulnerable thing. Though maero had oddly weak bones, apparently, and thank the gods for that.

  Not much he could do about most of the cuts or bruises at the moment, so he splashed more water on his face and neck, and dried himself, and once he’d done all that he found that there was nothing to do but lean against the towel rail until he stopped this embarrassing business of hyperventilation, until his legs decided to support his weight again. He looked at the spiderwebs over the window, the streaks of discolouration on the basin still there from the last time he’d dyed his hair, the bottles scattered in the grungy shower. He breathed.

  Once his knees had stopped wobbling he went back into the lounge, all glass-littered and bloodstained as it was. He stopped.

  The maero was standing up, fitting its head back onto its shoulders. The bones were clicking together, the muscles knitting, the skin sliding up to cover the cut. It turned to look at him.

  The monster said, in its voice as deep as thunder, “Hungry. Oh so hungry. I will –”

  Saint said nothing, didn’t even wait to let it finish, just ran, out the door and down the stairs, ran as fast as his body would let him. But he was weak and drained and tired, so very tired. Gods knew when he’d last eaten, when he’d last slept without nightmares. He couldn’t run particularly fast, or particularly far.

  This time, it would get him.

  Five flights down Saint stopped to lean against the wall. He felt weak – when he’d attacked the maero he’d had adrenaline burning through his veins, but it had gone now and left him empty. Mostly he just felt sick.