by Raylan Kane
“Nooo! Trident!”
I’ve dropped the clone to tend to Trident and I can feel a cord pulled around my neck from behind – with great force, I’m being pulled upward as I choke. I’m gasping for air. The cord pulls so tight it feels like it's going to break through the skin. I’m trying with great force to push my hand upward to get between the cutting wire and my throat, but I just – cannot – I can feel – everything – going away – black.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The ceiling above me appears to be gray. As I rub my eyes to gain better focus I see the ceiling is actually metal. Wait, the ceiling is a metal circle that hooks to metal bars extending down on all sides. Trident and the clone are lying asleep beside me. We’re in a cage! The metal bottom is like a large circular saucer and we lay together on it, drenched in Trident’s blood as it pools. The cage is hanging from a wooden ceiling. Every move I make the cage jostles and swings.
A man is singing and his voice echoes from another room, it sounds like that fool Uggio. I’m standing at the bars looking down. This is a very high ceiling, the floor is a significant drop below. The bars are far enough apart to easily pass between. Confusing. It’s as though the world grew larger somehow. In the opposite corner of the room is a large steel kettle of boiling water – it is much larger than any of us. Uggio walks in through an archway close to the kettle, I’ve tried to duck from view, but he’s seen me.
“There he is, the brave little man. So little indeed.”
The cage shakes violently.
“Hey, little men. Come and speak with the exalted Uggio.”
I stand up once I’m able to gain my balance. I’m looking at Uggio and he is much larger than he was in the alleyway. Or do I remember that wrong? He is a giant now, he is many times larger than we are. He reaches his hand up to the cage. The palm of his hand is larger than my whole body.
“Hello, wee man. Bramen, is it? The brave talker, Bramen.”
“Bramen, that’s right, giant.”
“Giant? I am no giant. But maybe I will be once I’ve eaten a courageous heart such as yours, yes?”
He means to eat us. That kettle is meant to boil us. I will jump from this high place and break my legs if it means I can be free of this trouble. Trident was right about Squatter’s Row.
“You will eat nothing.”
“Oh no, my little friend. You are wrong. I will pick my teeth with your strong bones.”
“Trident, wake up. Trident!”
“Is your wounded friend still alive? Oh, I do hope so. Live human is always a more pleasing taste.”
“Trident!”
I’m hovering over Trident, slapping at his face, hoping to revive him.
“Let them sleep, brave little talker. Your time will come soon enough.” Uggio’s walked back into another room and gone back to his singing.
“Trident!”
“What? I’m here. Where are we?”
Curses. Thank the heavens.
“We’re in a cage.”
Trident’s eyes open wide. “A cage?” He sits up then winces, grabbing the stab wound near his stomach.
“We need to get you to a wellness center.”
“I can’t think of a worse place given our transgressions.”
“You have a better idea? You’re bleeding to death.”
“We’re in a cage!”
“I’m aware. It’s Uggio. He means to eat us.”
I help Trident up to see the roiling cauldron of water for himself.
“This is a strange cage. These bars don’t hold us.”
“All of this talking,” it’s Uggio – he’s returned from the other room. “Might I join in the conversation? My, my look who’s awake? But not your other friend, brave talker? He still sleeps?”
The clone hasn’t batted an eyelash since we’d shot him full of that sleep drug. I envy him. If you’re going to be boiled alive, I imagine it’s better when you’re asleep and unaware.
“Why does this room look so huge? Why does Uggio look hundreds of times larger than before?” Trident said.
“My thoughts exactly,” I said.
“Too many questions you two. Don’t be so worrisome,” Uggio said.
The giant has reached up and unhooked our cage from the ceiling. Trident and I fight to keep our balance as Uggio holds the cage about waist high, as he crosses the room headed for the massive pot.
“This isn’t real,” Trident said.
“I assure you it is.”
“No, the sizes I mean.”
“What?”
The door to the cage flings open and Uggio’s giant hand pulls both Trident and me out. We’re hanging in the man’s hand as he walks to the cauldron.
“Bramen, this is not what it seems. We are not this small!”
“What are you saying?”
“This is the effect of a drug. In real terms we are our normal size. We can stop this. You can stop this.”
“How?”
Uggio holds us up high as we near the lake of boiling water.
“Bramen! You can get us out of this – stop Uggio. You are your normal size. It’s the drug telling your mind something else. You are your normal size!”
I feel as though I’m squeezed in the palm of the giant’s hand but going by Trident’s words I thrust my knee forward. Uggio’s knee buckles and his grip loosens. I swing my right arm wildly in front of me and Uggio falls forward. I push with both arms hard and the stick lands heavily on the floor.
In flashes my vision changes from the world looking gigantic to the world looking normal as it always has. With one blink the cage is the size of the wall, in another the cage is much larger and the room is humongous again. My mind is doing circles trying to make sense of my surroundings.
“Let’s go!” Trident said.
“You’re not going anywhere,” Uggio stands back up and comes toward me. He is a thousand feet tall, he is ten feet tall. I crouch and sweep my right leg toward his giant foot. Uggio falls backward and his head smacks the edge of the pot causing it to turn on its side. Suddenly, I’m caught up in my greatest fear, a giant wave. The wall of boiling liquid heads my way, it towers overhead, it’s only knee high.
I feel a great push as Trident has the clone and he’s shoved me out the door and into the alleyway. Uggio’s screams echo throughout as the scalding cooks his flesh.
“He’ll make someone a nice meal,” Trident said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Trident has weakened considerably. The effects of the drug have worn off. I bear the weight of both men as we’ve descended the stairs Trident spoke of, and turned right where the alleys intersected four ways.
“There’s a place – not too far. Vile’s Swill. We can get a room there. You can leave us. Carry on,” Trident said.
“Leave you? I’m not going to leave you.”
“Please, Fold? Please?” A small boy hovers around us.
“Give the boy some Fold.” An elderly man steps forward from the wall. “Please help us.”
“We have no Fold. If I have Fold, why would I be here,” I said.
“You are here because you have done things. Grave things.”
“Bramen, keep moving. I need to lie down,” Trident said.
“Your friend is hurt. You did this,” the old man said.
“Please mister. Just a little Fold,” the boy said.
“I have no Fold! Get away! I have to carry on. Bother someone else.”
“You are in for a life of misfortune. Things you cannot imagine. People you love will die,” the old man said.
“Thank you, I will keep that in mind.”
The boy and the man stopped following us. Up ahead I can see a pink neon glow in the shadows.
“Vile’s Swill. There it is,” Trident said.
Inside the door is a dark corridor. To our right is a small tavern filled with patrons, hard-looking people groaning over their bottles of strong liquor
. To the left is a small barred window, and a crusty miss on the other side wearing a name badge that reads: “Yola”. The walls all around us are painted turquoise which seems to absorb all light, there are no windows, no room for daylight in here.
“Yes?”
“We need a room. Three cots,” Trident said, grimacing with every breath.
“Got one with four. Take it or leave it.”
“Need it on credit. On the tab of Quilden Hold.”
“No credit. No tab.”
“I’ve have rooms here before on my father’s credit.”
“No credit. No tab. Got a room with four. What’ll it be?”
“Give us a minute to confer.”
“Whatever.”
“We have no Fold. What do you suggest?” I said.
“We can barter. This is Squatter’s Row. Anything in your pockets?” Trident said.
“No. What about you?”
“Not that I can remember. Check for me? I don’t want to move really.”
I’m feeling around Trident’s jacket. The shirt he’s wearing is soaked through with blood, it’s stuck to his belly. I touch lightly on the insides of his jacket.
“You’re in bad shape.”
“I know. But we can’t risk a wellness center.”
“You could die.”
“I know. Check the clone.”
I’m feeling around the clone’s many pockets in his pants. You must be kidding. I feel a lump in the pocket near his left knee. I unbutton the pocket and pull out a wad of Fold.
“Curses and rhyme – how much is that?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“Count it.”
“There’s 200 Fold here. How did a clone wind up with this much Fold?”
“A better question would be why did we not think to check until now?”
“Because we’re fools,” I said.
“Yes, we’ll take the four,” Trident said to the crusty miss.
“418,” she said.
“Please don’t tell anyone we’re here?”
“Who? Your parents? You’re in room 418, take a hike, kid,” the crusty miss said.
“She won’t tell anyone,” Trident said. “Besides, no one will think to come here to find us.”
“Let's hope you're right."
One at a time I carry Trident and the clone to Room 418. Four cots are pushed to the center of the dim room. The painted windows allow just enough light to see the outlines of objects. I lay the men down on the cots and search for a light switch, no luck.
“You sure we didn’t give this guy too much of that stuff?” I say pointing to our sleeping friend.
Trident does not respond. His breaths sound labored.
“Trident?”
I lean over my friend. He grabs my forearm. “I think this may be the end,” he said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
“You need to get me a healer. Someone who will come here,” Trident said.
“A healer? I don’t know the first thing? How am I to find one here? You know Squatter’s Row better than anyone, but I assuredly do not.”
“You just need...” he is breathing in with every word now. “You just need to find – there’s one – there will be one – in the tavern.”
“In the tavern? Are you sure?”
“You find all kinds there. Go.”
I have only just met Trident but already I feel a kinship with him, we’ve been through a rough spell together. I don’t want it to end this way.
As I enter the tavern I survey the room, looking for anyone that appears at all educated, it’s a chore with this tired lot. An orange neon sign and a string of small red bulbs cast a gloomy glow across the room. A thin wisp of smoke hovers above the seated patrons, wordless drum and bass music blares from a speaker box hung above the doorway. I take a seat at the bar, a squat shirtless man sidles over.
“Yep.”
“Two things – what do you have for food? And is there anyone in here that you know of that can heal?”
“We got broil. And half the folks in here got some kind of ways about ‘em. Ways of healing? Sure.”
“Three broils please – in a bag.”
“Five Fold.”
“Can you point me in the direction of a healer you know personally?”
“Jarvin – over there in the corner. He does somethin’ like that.”
Broil is ground clone covered with congealed blood cooked in a bile broth. A miss with thick black hair emerges from a small door behind the bar and places a steaming paper bag on the bar. I take it and I’m walking to the booth in the corner along the same wall as the bar.
There’s a man seated with his head down, his left arm encircles an empty glass. I sink down to the padded seat across from him. He isn’t moving, maybe he’s dead. Most of this room could be mistaken for dead souls given the number of slouched bodies and filthy stench.
“Hello.”
No response. I tap the man’s feet with mine. I hit the table with my fists. The man snaps awake with a sputtering cough.
“What is it? Yes? Who are you?”
“My name’s Bramen. Are you a healer?”
“I have been accused.”
“Are you able to help me in this moment?”
“Fancy a drink first?”
“No.”
“I have the means to pay for yours as well as mine.”
“I am not interested. I need your help. I have a friend in need of urgent care.”
“Barkeep! One more, if you please.”
“I don’t have time for this.”
“If you want my help you do.”
The black-haired miss walks over to our table, places a tumbler of golden liquid down and takes two Fold from the old mister. He sniffs the glass and holds it out in front of me.
“No thank you,” I said.
“Keeping clean? Good for you.”
This is not ideal. This healer is drunk, but I have no options as clearly everyone else in the room is drunk too.
“Can you perform a healing, or not? My friend upstairs is bleeding to death. He does not have a lot of time left.”
The mister tosses back two gulps and grimaces. “The hard stuff. Harder to handle, the older I get.”
“Do you not eat properly?”
“Beg your pardon?”
“You’re aged body – are you not partaking in the proper diet? As a healer one would imagine you’d know better – that you would take care of yourself.”
“Young one, tell me more about how you’ve so cleverly managed to sort out the universe.”
“I am only saying,“
“You say too much.”
“Will you help me or not?”
The mister downs the last of his drink and slams the glass on the table. “Take me to your victim.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The mister is coated in a foul aroma that I’m forced to experience close-up as I help him up the stairs. We reach our hallway and his body tenses.
“Wait. Not here.”
“What do you mean, not here? This is where my friend is – our room is 418.”
“Yes, and my room is 623. I need my things.”
“Your things?”
“My supplies. You must take me there.”
Curses, my body aches. I need to eat and rest. I can feel the heat steaming from the three broils in the paper bag, my mouth is watering, but I must oblige for Trident’s sake. The old mister and I stumble our way up the stairs. Loud voices echo into the stairwell from the entrance-way to the fifth floor. I’d definitely like to have a look.
“What are you doing? My room’s on the next floor.”
“I know. I want to know what the commotion is about.”
“So young,” the mister said. “You don’t know yet to keep to yourself instead of looking in on the affairs of others. You must invite trouble wherever you go, am I right?�
�
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I prop the man up against the wall, and poke my head around so I can see where the voices are coming from. A group of uniformed constables are set up outside a room a fair distance away. The officers are shouting instructions to one another – or perhaps those are warnings to someone inside one of the rooms?
“Bramen Hold? This is the Hyll Constabulary! Give yourself up! You have one minute to comply!”
There’s someone yelling back at the police on the other side of the door.
“They’re looking for me? I’m right here. Who do they think is in that room? Trident said the police never come to Squatter’s Row.”
“Whoever told you that is a liar,” the mister said. “The police find escaped clones in this area all the time. They follow signals from the tracking beacons embedded inside of them – they have a harder time finding the rest of us, but hey, like anyone else, sometimes they get lucky. But none of this matters now, can we move? You said your friend is short on time.”
“Those constables named me.”
“Are you perhaps traveling with a clone?”
“Perhaps.”
“Oh dear.”
“But there’s no way they would know to associate me with a clone’s embedded signal.”
“Considering you’re not taking your friend to a wellness center and enlisting my drunken services, it’s apparent you’ve done something worthy of their attention. Lucky for you someone’s given them the wrong room information. Perhaps to buy you time. I would suggest we use it.”
The old man talks a lot of sense for a drunk. With renewed vigor I help the man to his room. Inside, the old man is searching through a pile of clothes. I have his door cracked, I’m keeping an eye on both ends of the hallway for signs of more officers.
“Here they are,” the man said. He’s holding a square metal case.
“Good. Let’s go.”
We scurry down the stairs. There’s more yelling coming from the fifth floor.
