by Luke Webster
Damian shrugged. “The nobles say that Asis was never a true king. That he was of bastard blood.”
“Convenient,” Fredrick noted, picking his way to the end of the tunnel. It opened up into a small alcove, once the bottom of a latrine pit. Light filtered through from above. A cannonball hung half-buried into one shattered wall as evidence of the destruction. The boys struggled in vain to extract the spent bullet, hoping to drag it away. After the siege the nobles had removed much of the rubble for the foundation of the new citadel – Greenstone.
Having mapped out the tunnel, the boys returned to the main hall. Damian unsheathed his wooden sword and pointed it at his friend.
“This time I will kill you,” he declared, waiting for Fredrick to take out his own blade.
The cracks echoed through rubble littered passages, lit by gaping holes patched in the brickwork as Fredrick once again dominated the duel. Swordplay was considered more important in the Imperial Capital, a way to show one’s respect and knowledge of the histories and as the son of an Imperial senator it was Fredrick’s duty to master the art. His family was part of a traditionalist flow in high society, giving preference to ancient arts rather than the mass-produced accomplishments of the expanded world. Swordplay was not an option for Fredrick Themmond, rather an instilled part of his heritage practiced every day since he could remember.
Damian’s skill was less grand. His father saw it as nothing more than a social dialect practiced among the noble elite of modern society. As a result, Damian found short time spent honing the ancient skill, he was clumsy and lacked speed. Few children dared challenge a regent’s son and he found enjoyment in his battles with the foreigner.
“My hands are bleeding,” Damian complained.
“Your throat will bleed if you cannot keep your weapon up, Sir. Perhaps if we made specially quilted gloves for your tender hands?”
The jibe hurt more than his hands. In a second of anger Damian’s sword swung in an uncontrolled overhead arc. Fredrick pivoted, diverting the force of the strike to his right side, toppling Damian across the ruined slate floor.
The heir’s face raked through settled ash as he sprawled out. Tears rolled over bloody blisters rising to the surface of his cheeks. He looked up through hazy eyes, Fredrick’s terrified face challenged into focus.
“I’m… sorry,” Fredrick peeped. Damian dragged himself upright, lip bloody, cheeks and palms raw.
“That’s alright,” he spluttered between red teeth, “I overcompensated.” His expensive tunic was ruined, the family crest torn. “You would have killed me in a real battle.”
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked, offering a trembling hand. “You’re father won’t be happy.”
“I’ll tell him I fell while climbing,” Damian said, allaying the boy’s fear. “We’d better get back.”
Fredrick was hesitant but conceded to the heir’s wish.
A watchman’s trumpet, stationed on the courtyard parapets, signaled the end of the hour. The two girls shuffled their books and loose papers into their leather satchels, hanging them on the hook at the side wall next to a third, untouched bag. They bid a good day to their teacher, Master Goldstring, and half skipped down the winding stairs of Greenstone’s east tower. After a long morning of boring lectures on the political makeup of Ironwood they wanted some excitement and fresh air.
Haylee, a girl of thirteen with blonde hair that touched the nape of her back, contorted her innocent face into shock when she saw Damian strutting towards them. A huge welt smeared his face and he was covered in filthy ash. A grin hung from his weary face. He approached the girls alone. His partner in crime had refused to return to Greenstone’s courtyard whilst Damian carried such a fresh wound.
“Damian, what happened to you?” Haylee cried. Being a year older she saw him as the baby of the group, even though he received privileges that the girls did not.
“Just exploring,” he brushed off.
“Father will be angry,” Ammba mumbled, looking elsewhere.
“I doubt father will notice,” Damian replied. Ammba was not listening, a boy training across the yard distracted her. At fifteen she cared little that her brother might be injured. Most of her spare time was spent socializing with her cousins and others of high social rank. The last year in particular she had focused a lot of energy towards attracting male attention.
“The Crone should check it out, she can fix something to stop the swelling.” Ammba stated in a fixated tone.
“It’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt and I can feel it going down already,” Damian lied. His face looked like it would puff up to twice its size but he wasn’t going to let some old woman smear him in stinking herbs and dirt. He felt proud of the scratches on his face, despite what the girls might think.
“Whatever… If father decides to spread your body parts across Greenstone don’t pretend like I didn’t want to help.” Ammba stormed off.
“I’ll be alright,” he told Haylee, ignoring his moody big sister. “I’ll stay out of father’s way for a few days so he doesn’t know.”
Haylee smiled at her brother, it sounded like an adventure.
“Where will you hide?”
“In the citadel. There are hundreds of dark corners that I can get into. Besides I doubt father will come looking for me anyway.”
“He is busy,” admitted Haylee.
“So he won’t find me. I’ll spend a few nights in the high tower.”
“That’s dangerous Damian, you could get hurt again.”
“It’s the best place to hide. No one goes up there besides Freddy and myself. I’ll show you how if you want. It’s not hard and you can bring me some food.”
“Why don’t you just say you fell over?” She asked. “I’m sure he won’t be that angry.”
“And risk Freddy’s life?” Damian cried in over exaggerated mockery. The excuse was a mere pretense for the chance to experience some excitement. Despite Fredrick’s real fear of the ruler, the Steward children knew that the ruler of Greenstone would never hurt a child, especially over an accident. Damian loved the idea of camping in the old citadel though, mixing danger with adventure and the excuse gave him cause to see through his fantasies and spend the night there.
Haylee smiled. Although she set out to be the good daughter, the hint of adventure stirred her blood. The idea of exploring the high tower and abandoned rooms was too much to resist. Together they set out on their mission to hide Damian from their father and his agents.
3
The cold hallway lay in a state of disrepair. A mouldy render covered once proud brickwork, the original furnishings visible in areas underneath where the render had rotted completely and come away. An unclean dampness clung to the air mixed with the smell of long dead bodies filled with a basic variation of formaldehyde. If the two inhabitants had not already been deceased one might worry to the state of their health having spent time in that room. A bulb hummed from an overhead recess, sputtering out a dim light.
An occasional trolley rested unorganised against the walls, grey sheets silhouetting the decaying bodies beneath, feet protruding from the end. On each right foot was scribed the name and death date of the corpse, written in an ordered and consistent fashion out of touch with the general sense that the hallway of horror provided.
“Hold up,” Ghost called, noticing the information. “Your name should be on your foot.”
Dead’s eyes surprised Ghost, a splash of colour momentarily caught in their otherwise grey stare. Hopping on his left foot, Dead removed the stolen right shoe. Ghost squatted, squinting at the foot’s base, struggling to make out the scribble caked by filth.
“I need more light,” Ghost complained, pointing out the single dying bulb recessed into the ceiling.
The colour died from Dead’s eyes as he struggled to fit the shoe back onto his swollen foot. “Come on then,” he grunted, staggering left then right. Ghost overtook him with ease.
Many rooms were locked or long abandoned.
One door had black chains crisscrossed across it with the words, ‘DANGER, KEEP OUT’ scrawled loudly on its metal base. Other rooms acted as waste storage. There were broken pieces of furniture and medical equipment scattered in random spots and a large coal depository stationed near a crematorium. All throughout the wet air was consistent, a constant dampness clinging to every wall and item and invading the lungs of the living, if there were any.
The pair found one room in better shape than the others. Light filtered from a sputtering coal lamp set above a desk while a bulb blinked on and off in a random beat. A rusty coil element heater sat in one corner, its glow drawing Dead’s gaze. Various medical books hinted at a study. Ghost scanned the desk.
“Open these drawers for me, please.” Ghost felt vulnerable without touch, a grievous disability.
Dead dragged his eyes away from the glow, breaking his trance to obey the order. They found a personal journal in the lowest drawer, leather-bound and scraggy eared. Dead flipped the pages on prompt while Ghost read.
“It seems our doctor’s a prisoner,” murmured Ghost.
“Why?” a monotone reply.
“I don’t know. Apparently he performed autopsies for the city. Why have a criminal do it though? It says something about the city not appreciating his art….” Ghost gave a derisive snort. Dead flipped through more pages on command, his eyes half shut. The entries became shorter and more absurd as the dates pressed on. Some entries detailed parties with the corpses, of conversations that the doctor would hold with them and how the different corpses related to one another.
“The man’s insane,” Ghost summarized. “He was supposed to burn the corpses after final examination but it sounds like he chose to horde them, keeping them around for his own entertainment.”
“So there are others like us around here?” asked Dead, reverting to a semi-conscious state. Ghost stared at him, about to admonish him for the ridiculous statement, then he remembered their predicament and began to doubt himself.
“No. I don’t think so,” he decided. “If so we would have seen them by now.”
The duo continued their search, always Ghost in front, calling out for Dead to follow. The zombie’s trundling pace frustrated the spirit, eager to find a way out of the decrepit morgue.
“Hurry up,” Ghost finally called, anxious that they had searched each room without finding an exit.
“I’m trying,” Dead growled back. “You’re too fast, I can’t keep up.”
“I noticed that. It would help if you walked in a straight line for once.”
“I can’t help it,” the zombie’s voice rose. “My legs are stiff. My whole body feels numb.”
Ghost led the way back to the chained room, staring at the grim warning.
“I think we should look in here,” he declared, turning to his companion. He waited a moment, expecting a reply. “I haven’t seen a key anywhere though.”
Dead shuffled past the ghost and looked at the door. While it wasn’t locked it was held tight by two chains running across its width, anchored to both the door and its surrounding wall and preventing the door from opening inwards. Although the chains were a heavy cast, the constant exposure to moisture had made them rust. Dead gripped hold of one chain with two fists and braced himself against the door.
“I don’t think that will work,” Ghost admonished.
“It will work,” spat Dead through a clenched jaw. The muscles in his neck stood tight, showing off the patchwork of scars running across his neck and throat.
“Are you that stupid?” Ghost bit back. “Those are heavy chains. There’s no way you can break them.”
“Shut up,” Dead barked, his voice ringing along the hallway.
Ghost opened his mouth to respond, the sound of twisting metal interrupting him. While the chain had not snapped, the anchor points on the door had torn off, causing the chain to sag and lay limp on the floor.
They opened the door and let the weak light of the hallway filter through. A rancid odor peeled through, making Ghost retch. Even Dead seemed sensitive to this, hesitant to take a step into the room.
“I don’t like this,” Ghost whispered to him.
“Why not?” Dead challenged. “You’re a ghost. You can’t get hurt. Step inside and have a look.”
“What?” Ghost baulked at the order. “You’re meant to be the brave one. You do it.”
Dead turned and smirked at his cowardly companion. The spirit’s reluctance steeled him and he faced the room, striding into its shadow.
Before he could react, Dead was struck from the front, thrusting him back into the hallway. On top of him clawed a savage creature, human in shape only. The attacking beast sought to bite and tear at Dead’s face. Dead fought back and the two rolled across the hallway, bodies locked in the combat of two undead creatures.
“He’s strong,” Dead gasped out. “Stronger than me.”
“He’s a zombie,” Ghost shouted, realizing at once his mistake in opening the door.
Dead’s leather like skin stopped the creature from tearing him apart and in some savage reasoning of the beast’s instinct it stood in order to find a new avenue of attack. It wailed down with fists as Dead tried to stand himself, catching the blows across his face and chest. The strikes ignited a spark and within Dead grew the same rage that had seen him attack the doctor. His vision clouded over as he charged into his enemy, throwing it backwards.
As the zombie lost its balance and fell, Dead surged ahead and pounced on its chest, his rage now complete. Without understanding of events, the maddened pair struggled together, neither now aware of their actions. Dead’s fists fell hard and fast, a continuous hammering that first cracked the creature’s skull, then pulverized it. Dead continued to thrash long after the other zombie had fallen still, not content even after the skull itself had come away and the brain had been crushed and spread across the tiled floor.
It wasn’t until Ghost called him back that Dead regained control over his body, sagging in numb exhaustion.
“You certainly killed him,” Ghost reviled.
“What was he?” Dead asked.
“A zombie. Just like you.”
Each door that suggested an exit was immovable, the use of force proving futile. Dead ripped one door off its hinges only to be confronted by a mass of rubble.
“Is there no escape from this place?” he growled, blood pounding in his ear.
“Whatever crime the doctor must have committed, it seems they were desperate to keep him locked in here.”
“Who’s they?”
Ghost was silent for a minute as he considered the question, “I’m not really sure. Maybe some type of town watch or mob.”
A bell rang from down the hall, followed by a dull thud. Ghost and Dead followed the sound to a previously explored room. Dead peered inside. The room acted as a depository of unsorted corpses, sprawled into naked piles, some long dead and decayed, others still weeping fresh fluids. All this was how they had found it the first time. What the pair had failed to miss on first inspection was that the far wall opened to a chute large enough for bodies to slide down into a waiting cloth basket. Ghost and Dead looked inside to see a naked body, a young, plump woman with dark hair. Her skin looked tan-warm, as if she had only just died. Ghost noticed markings on her foot:
Anje Reinfield
21/2/90
Exec., arson.
NAR
“’Exec., arson’? I wonder what that means?” he pondered. Dead tipped the basket over and dragged it out of the way, its contents spilling out onto the floor.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“There’s a way out,” he pointed up the chute with a calloused finger.
Ghost looked at Anje’s corpse, spread out on the floor, eyes staring upwards. Her neck was long, raw and limp - a hangman’s mark. He wondered if his body had looked quite so pathetic.
“Show some respect,” he spat.
Dead smirked. “You’re serious?” He managed, not
ing Ghost’s scowl.
“Of course I am. Just because you’ve crossed over doesn’t mean you can treat other people’s bodies with no care.” Dead felt his mind twitch, as if a spark of humour had caught in there and was looking for a way to break out.
“Calm down, Ghost. It’s not like she matters.”
“Of course she matters. People matter. Don’t you understand that?”
“Maybe if you’re alive. I don’t think I am.”
“You need to understand though, you once were. You weren’t always Dead. You were something more, a person, with dreams and memories.”
Dead shrugged. “She’s dead, she won’t mind… I wouldn’t.”
He didn’t wait for a response, looking inside the chute. No light at the end hinted that it was closed off. Placing a hand on each side Dead was able to trundle up the steep gradient, working his body up in a slow process. Without any sensation in his limbs Dead failed to recognise the usual signs of muscle fatigue. Half way up his arms buckled. Dead fell the half-length and cracked hard on the tile floor, jarring his skull.
“Are you all right?” Ghost asked.
“Yeah, I think. It doesn’t hurt. Nothing hurts.”
Dead tried again, and a third time. Each attempt ending in the same result, Dead’s arms giving way without warning, resulting in a violent plummet.
“You need to rest at some point,” Ghost suggested as Dead stood for a fourth attempt. “Otherwise you’ll end up busting your skull. If I tell you to rest then do it.”
The final climb took a long time. Ghost periodically ordered Dead to rest, the corpse bracing himself with his legs pressed to the sides of the chute, relaxing his arms. They felt heavy but not tired, as if he might slip if he wasn’t careful. After a final exertion he reached the top. Ghost waited behind. The spirit had no problem making it up the chute, his weightlessness an advantage in the climb.
The chute was locked, resisting the force of a push when it came.
“Now what?” he derided. Dead looked down between his legs at Ghost, then up at the iron plate that covered the chute. With a meaty hand he gave three heavy raps on the door.
