by Rich Hayden
The remnants of a broken Spirit burst through the door with a rage that made a volcanic eruption seem calm by contrast. It wailed and spit, gnashed its teeth, and perversely tore at its own flesh, as though readying itself for combat. No amount of preparation could have steadied Amil’s mind against this vision, but, thanks to extensive training drills, the monster was quickly quelled. Greg snapped the neck of the charging Waste by means of a thick forearm to the head, and, as the soulless fiend crumpled to the ground, the three men thrashed it without any vapor of compassion. It was kicked, stabbed, and hammered with the corners of the crates, until only a pained tremble moved its form. Once the Waste shivered into unconsciousness, its assailants, all slicked in sweat and surged with adrenaline, bound the creature with rope and chain. The Waste was tossed into the back of the Jeep like old luggage, and before Amil slammed the gate shut, he spun a few wraps of duct tape around its mouth. The oily black discharge would loosen the adhesive eventually, and once the beast returned from unconsciousness, it would fight like all the devils in all the hells to undo its tethers. Without a thought to collect their things, the couriers piled into the Jeep and sped away.
The truck bounced fervently over the rough terrain, while a cloud of dust and stone was put behind its flight. The siren on the roof screamed at full volume, and once they reached the semi-smooth touch of the highway, Seamus pegged the speedometer needle. Although the Jeep pleaded frantically for a reprieve, its whipping continued at this pace for another hour, until the sight of a deleterious place that Amil had been only quietly briefed about came into view.
Far from any inhabited region, and with only the sight of a brittle mountain range for a backdrop, the couriers crossed into the limits of the Waste District. It was a simple and barren place, for the nightmares that festered there had no need for complexity or aesthetic construction. A road of buckled asphalt, flush with weeds, carried them in, and all along the borders of this broken stretch sat the asylums.
The first buildings that Amil saw looked quite familiar and unthreatening. Some amount of artistry was put into their design, and a generous collection of bushy trees lent a comforting blanket of shade to the many courtyards. Much akin to the mental institutions of modern society, many boasted fresh coats of paint, and sat upon lawns of a modest green. Though fenced in, many of the patients were free to roam the yards, but their continued safety depended mightily on the aid and goodwill of their caretakers. This was where the most helpless of the Nothings were held. They were fed, bathed, and, though it was painfully arduous, this was where they received an education and the ability to perform the simplest of tasks.
It felt cruelly inhuman to separate them from the rest of society, but it was necessary. During the earliest days of The Eternal City, the Nothings were cared for in private residences and boarding houses. This process went on smoothly for a time, but it soon became clear that Nothings are quite unpredictable. Some take to education well and systematically relearn things forgotten, while others, for reasons unknown, take to violence. Maybe it is fear that twists their Spirits, maybe it is simply random chance that causes them to behave in such a way. Or could it be something else? Something trickier, of a morbidity too tangled to be unraveled. The toxic influence of Aphelianna perhaps? The true face of mankind?
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Long before Amil arrived in the city, a riot had broken out at one of the boarding houses. A group of Nothings attacked the small staff and wrenched the Spirits from the mutilated bodies of three orderlies before the authorities could arrive. The Nothings were detained and bound. Hastily, they were rushed to the nearest door that bore Aphelianna’s influence, and, without discussion or compassion, they were cast out of The Eternal City. But the damage had been done, and the transformation of a human Spirit into a Waste had been put on display.
The survivors of this attack wailed in agony and despair. Their cries swam out through the open door at the front of the boarding house, and the din pulled a crowd close. A group of spectators gathered around the wounded, as the imposter sun began to dull its glare. An elderly man who had survived three separate wars during his earthly life before giving in to old age held one of the staff members close within his bony embrace. She was barely a woman when syphilis ate her brain to pieces. A selfish harlot when she had walked the earth during the 19th Century, Elizabeth found meaning in her existence in The Eternal City, as she cared for those viewed as throwaways.
As an ever-thickening fog had rolled into her vision, Elizabeth had seen the writhing bodies of her friends, and the puddles of gelled blood that seeped out from their wounds. She heard the old man whisper comforting words to her in a language that she couldn’t comprehend, as she watched her patients being hauled away like garbage. In the last moments of her un-life, Elizabeth revisited the sight of the Nothings as they were beaten into rubble. This occupation was her path to atonement, and, as she lay in the arms of a stranger, she felt failure settle over her. As this sensation soaked into her mind, Elizabeth had felt as her Spirit unfettered itself from her earthly representation. Like loosed balloon strings as they unwind themselves from each other, her Spirit uncoiled itself from true existence, and floated off into the nevermore.
The frail war veteran had felt as the body of Elizabeth fell limp and colder than before. Fatefully bound to her by fatal compassion, the old man continued to hold the doubly dead girl, unaware of how quickly the turn would come.
All across her skin, small creases had formed like lines on a page that has been improperly fed into a printer. The slices widened slowly, but not from the influence of something underneath, instead, it seemed as if the skin was separating from itself. Out from these slim tears came the flames, burning low and black. The heat inside her body had risen rapidly, and, as the instincts of the old man told him that it was time to let go, the body of Elizabeth erupted.
Like shadows cast from the whole of hades, the flames had burst from her with such intensity that they dissolved the old man, and the wall behind him, into one ashen pile. In a flash of infernal darkness, Elizabeth was erased, and in her place stood a newborn Waste. It stood rigid and tall, powerful, and wreathed in coils of smoke that stunk of obscenities far more foul than scorched flesh. As the telltale acidic discharge of a Waste began to escape from its orifices, the nails of the beast dropped off and the eyes dissolved like butter into a hot pan.
The onlookers before her were frozen with fear. It was a fear of the creature that Elizabeth had become, and it was a fear of the stilled bodies of her slain coworkers. The reality was clear. More of her kind would be quick to come. As the gallery absorbed this terror, they all knew that it was already too late for them.
That night had been bloody and filled with the presence of absolute death. From Elizabeth and the two others with her who were killed by the rogue Nothings an epidemic was born. In just over an hour, more than a dozen Wastes had been unleashed upon The Eternal City, and before the mock sun would again open its infernal eye, their numbers were legion.
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Amil knew this story well. It was a poisoned legend, a warning that every resident of the city knew to heed. He knew what just one Waste let loose inside The Eternal City could mean. It was a cautionary tale that justified the unflinching class system of the city, and it instilled in him the sentiment that Wastes carry not a shred of Humana. They were indeed something else, something virulent that warranted only the attention needed for disposal. As the creature in the storage compartment behind him mildly stirred, Amil voiced his fevered request for Seamus to drive faster.
Further on down the rocky stretch, the buildings continued to rise, and as they did, corpulent shadows were cast over the grounds. Looking much like the Nothing houses, albeit with skins of chipped paint and patchy lawns of unkempt growth, were the infirmaries. Though some attention was paid to the appearance of each building, aesthetic pleasantries were an afterthought. Those who can no longer think no
longer care for cosmetics, or most anything at all.
The infirmaries were mercy centers to some, barbaric gulags to others. But, undeniably, they were places of an ominous silence that kept the most brutalized dead in a state of sedated ignorance. People who were little more than shredded hunks of humanity were kept there, as where those who had been stripped of every defining feature of a living person. Under the influence of a monstrous amount of sedatives and anesthetics, the patients slept beneath waves of low light and layers of fire-proof sheets. They were chained to the stainless steel framework of the beds, a measure taken in the event of a Spiritual expiration. Abandoned and forsaken, the patients were sealed away behind doors that remained locked at all times.
The narrow and dimly lit hallways were nearly devoid of activity. The presence of a nursing staff was all but nonexistent, as there was nothing to be done for those that slept. A small contingent of guards patrolled the halls and inspected each cell on a weekly basis. They peered in through barred windows, apathetic to the plight of the shackled as they checked for the emergence of Wastes. It was a rare occurrence, as the Spirit endured almost interminably, but once a Waste was detected, they were dealt with quickly. Armored in riot gear, the guards removed the deleterious beings from the infirmary and prepared them for the burn pits.
Understandably, these buildings were few, as those who resided in the infirmaries had no other means to reach The Eternal City than to be escorted there by loved ones or the kindness of strangers. This spoke of the unwillingness to shed the past, and it made Amil contemplate the wicked nature of each fate that he was presented. Those in the infirmaries were nothing more than glorified Wastes. They would never recover, and, seemingly until the end of all time, there they would slumber under the weight of treated polymer and drugs. It made Amil wonder as to why these beings weren’t euthanized and spared the anguish that they were made to endure. Of course they would become Wastes, but a Waste was a sick being that would eventually and truly die, freed to finally evaporate into oblivion. And that’s when it occurred to him, that this is precisely, and mercifully, what should be permitted to happen to those who could never care for themselves. It was the families of the incapacitated that had intervened, who crafted this torturous version of purgatory in the name of life. It was a realization that called acidic fluid up from his gut and into his throat. But for as sick as he may have felt, the pure revulsion that the Waste District inspired was yet to come.
The row of Nothing houses and infirmaries had ended, and only empty space was again in view through the dirty windows of the Jeep. According to the clock, which strained to relay its message through the cracked lens of the stereo deck, they carried on for another half an hour. Amil grew nervous as the Waste tied up behind him turned its stir into a slight thrash, but before he could turn to inspect the beast, a wide swathe of ugliness was cut into his vision.
The road underneath the vehicle disappeared, as only the beaten vision of tire tracks coursed over the land. An iron gate lay ahead, chained shut and decorated with a myriad of faded signs that aggressively advised a wayward traveler to turn away. A line of soldiers stood at the ready, all covered in layers of armor that made them appear like warriors from another, more feral, plane of existence. They held thick shields and brandished long spears that sprouted coiled barbs at the tips. Each guard donned a helmet, a blanket of anonymity that obscured every detail of the face. The lenses of the masks were smoked-out black, and from the lower portions of this protective gear, a breathing apparatus grew. Like the tentacles of a beast long lost to the bottom of the sea, the large coils swayed with the persuasion of the wind.
Seamus rocketed dangerously close to the gate. He spiked the brakes in time to avoid a collision with the guards, none of whom so much as flinched at the sight of the speeding Jeep. Amil knew the drill. He and the others were to remain inside the car. Their role in this woeful task had reached its end. The time had come to hand over the garbage to the incinerators.
The soldiers surrounded the Jeep and tore open the back gate without care or a thought to its future use. The catch was dragged to the ground and another layer of rusty chain was wrapped tightly around it. The restraint was secured with a bolt, and the beast was dragged away. Two guards had remained by the gate, and, as their brethren dragged forth the condemned, they undid the locks and jarred the barrier open. The heavy iron parted enough to permit the Waste to be escorted beyond its threshold, while inside the car, Amil and his companions tensed noticeably. On the other side of the fortification, the guards worked to lift the beast above their heads, and, with nary a moment spared for prayer or compassionate thought, the Waste was hurled from the bluff. It tumbled hundreds of feet to the pit below, partially freed of its chains during the descent, but before it could escape, the burn was upon it.
Against every good sense inside him, Amil exited the vehicle amid loud protests from his friends. He walked to the mouth of the gate and directed his vision down into the guts of an insatiable abyss. Far below him, an expansive chasm had been carved out of the land. It resembled a massive landfill, but its only aggregate were the bodies of entrapped Wastes, bodies of those once alive and filled with the human spirit. Most had been burned to piles of ash that shifted with the will of toxic breeze, but there were those that crawled under the embers, yet to meet their final extinction. Up from the ash, and the partially immolated corpses of their kind, the surviving Wastes shifted. Helpless, in an agony greater than their affliction was capable of dealing out, the entombed remnants of humanity screamed.
From behind the dilapidated fence, Amil sunk his eyes into the mass grave and its chaotic arrangement of the last vestiges of human disfigurement. As he looked on into that soulless mass of erasure and insatiable genocide, panic spread over him. He noticed the thin corpse of a female. Only partially burnt, she retained shreds of the human being she used to be. In a way, this condition made her appear all the more hideous. Exhausted and broken, she lay draped over the charred bodies of a few others. They were smaller than she, at least they appeared to be, and, as her spindly arms flowed over those beneath, Amil saw a true embrace hidden among all the decomposition.
The forsaken family was intertwined by a common disintegration, as the bones of one swam among the bones of another. Hollow faces rested in pained expressions, and dried flesh rolled out of the vacant mouths to become one with the skin of so many others. Into the mother’s eyeless face Amil did stare, until he found himself lost, immersed in the horror of the deathly leftovers. He was drowned in a sea of mutilated faces and an entanglement of body parts, stitched together by rot and exhausted flame. The stink that rose from the pile clung to him like a filth destined to refuse any soap or scrubbing. Sweat pushed its way out of his pores and his vision failed him. His body took to the suffering of tremors, and nausea strangled his gut.
In this state of extreme fragility, Amil head the roar of a rickety pump truck as it shook to life, and, before he could discern its purpose, the metallic beast purged a thick fluid down to the pit below. Some manner of sticky accelerant was sprayed down upon the pit and its filth, and with one shot from a flare gun, the mass was lit ablaze. A wall of fire rose from the pile and it added further ruin to the tapestry of decay held under its infernal assault. The newest Waste to this collection of gore was trampled by the combustion, and Amil watched as it sank under a swamp of flammable liquid and runny bodily remains.
Brighter than the sun overhead, the flames soared from the pit, as they seemed destined to lick at the ceiling of this strange room that Amil and the others had the audacity to call a city. Rank stench and a deafening chorus of wails filled the air as the blinding nature of the fire swept before Amil’s sight. He was stunned into rigidity, like a statue frozen by the punishment of the harshest winter. All he could do was stare in horror and utter disbelief as he witnessed The Eternal City’s solution for ridding itself of the unwanted.
The Eternal City was a lie. This place was neither sanitized nor safe. Ami
l learned that as stone truth. It was barely civilized. As his eyes absorbed the disintegration below, he heard screams and the sounds of flesh as it bubbles from bone, but there was something more. In the sky, and through the smoke, he heard the cries of those that had been reduced to ash long ago. It was a ghostly song, a swirl of spectral agony. Not even the insatiable hunger of fire could free the Wastes from their persecution. After the burn, whatever remained of their Spirits became somehow trapped within the aether above the pit. They were invisible, but undeniable, harmless, and horrible. Countless souls had been launched into the sky, and there they would wail laments to the uncaring and unnatural sun above. Amil had heard stories about the poisoned air over the pit, but he never believed them. How could he?
Like a madman pushed by forces he cannot see nor control, Amil beat his fists into the side of his head in a futile attempt at knocking the visions and all the noise back out. He desperately needed to be free of this place. His very sanity, or what remained of his already flayed mind, depended upon his flight from the Waste District. He never could have imagined a region so vile. Perhaps this room was the worst that Aphelianna’s house had to offer. Was it all nothing more than the most massive of curses? The entire room, a vexation designed to further needle out the last goodness in man. In a gesture of divine mercy, as Seamus and Greg rushed to the side of their overcome companion, Amil fell to the dirt, and passed from consciousness.
As was customary, he was given a week off after his little journey into the Waste District. He was assured that Waste runs were infrequent, but all the same, Amil put in his resignation, and applied for any other job that he was qualified to perform. No amount of incentives could dissuade him from quitting, and for nearly the entire duration of his forced time off, he stayed in bed with the lights on, and thought heavily of Ali. The fate that she suffered began to look less and less malignant to him as the days passed. As long as she hung from that tree and stared wearily down at the image of the Spirit Ripper, she might never come to experience the condition of a Waste. She was a Nothing, and, as much as it hurt him to admit, Amil came to terms with her classification. In a way, it made things better. She didn’t have her memories, her sense of joy or sadness, or even her name. As he counted all the things that Ali was made to go without, he resolved that to leave her there, forever, was better than to cast her into a future that would assuredly be more barbarous than her present sets of sorrows.
