Ways of the Doomed

by McPartlin, Moira;

  Where was Scud?

  The morning hush deafened. It was almost a relief when rain splattered the window and the wind rose to whip up the waves into their fury again.

  The goblin was back with lunch.

  ‘Where’s Scud?’ Even though Scud said the prisoners had messaging access, Beastie gave as many answers as this gobo. There was an even bigger catastrophe when I found the library closed during opening hours. I hammered and kicked on the door to no effect. I thumped it one last time just to let the corridor police see how this hurt before I dragged my beaten ass back to the cell and shut myself in a world of learning.

  Several listings of corncrake calls were available on FuB with links to articles about the shy wee creature. What else could I find? Not enough to keep me sane. The Count of Monte Cristo dug a tunnel into an abbé’s cell and learned everything the abbé had to teach him. This had taken aeons, but I didn’t want aeons. My brain would rot into madness before that.

  • • •

  The daytime was growing longer and the light was changing. Torrents of black rain gave way to the gusty squalls of the pre-equinox. Sudden portals of sky appeared between grudgingly parted clouds. Insipid daylight often crept across the floor before morning wakeup. My room faced south-east and caught most of the day’s sunlight, whenever it chose to shine that was.

  The changing daylight hours bothered me. If I was to get out of this prison and get a message to Ishbel it would need to be before second quarter. Darkness was used to bring me here. Darkness worked.

  After three days of silence from my grandfather, the non-

  appearance of Scud and a locked library door, I settled into a life of solitary captivity and began to tap the walls with a spoon, à la Monte Cristo. My nails were bleeding from the gnawing I inflicted on them. When I was about to start on my toenails Scud reappeared. His pale scabby face was not a pretty sight, but prettier than the silent gobo.

  ‘Where have you been?’ The urge to hug him passed the moment his putrid aroma followed him into the room.

  He held his finger up to his nose for silence and I obeyed. No way was he being zapped from me again.

  Scud was morphing. Hair normally falls out, or turns grey as humans move from prime to senior then oldie when the whole body starts to disintegrate to dust. Scud’s hair was fading as if all the pigment was being rinsed out. It was pointless asking him about this phenomenon. The only reply he could chance was a tap on his nose or a roll of his eyes in the direction of the dot.

  It had been over a week since I last saw Davie; not since he had left that propaganda pamphlet out for me to read. His reasoning for this mystified me and maybe he was regretting the whole thing. At least I might now have access to the library again. I would be seriously cooked if that privilege was taken. So corncrake project it was, but all the evidence stated it was extinct. Scud however rubbished that claim.

  ‘Just listen,’ he said. ‘It’s best heard at dusk.

  ‘What dusk? Dusk is linked with the sunshine and that’s practically an extinct species. Anyway I have been listening.’ The pillow I threw across the room settled on Beastie like a marshmallow fedora. ‘I’m sick of listening. I’ve nothing else to do but listen.’ Despite Scud looking like a biblical leper and the risk his arm might break off in my hand, I dared to grab him and drag him to the window.

  ‘Go on, you listen. That’s it, all it is, the overpowering noise of the sea. How could an inland bird-call penetrate that sound?’

  Scud pursed his lips like an old woman. ‘It might be your only way out,’ he whispered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ever since my arrival on this island my body mass reduced daily, despite the vitamin enriched food stuffs in my diet. I’d been unable to partake in physical exercise apart from my daily tutorial workout Scud programmed into the system, but that was worse than useless. A sprint up and down the corridor took milliseconds, sink press ups gave me white blindness and after I’d retrieved the pillow from Beastie’s crown the pillow thumps left me despondent. My legs grew scrawny and my muscle wasted. If my fitness instructor at the Base saw me she would banish me into the ‘weeny’ team.

  Some nights as I lay listening to the blood rushing through my brain, I’d hear alarm sounds in the distance, from the main block. Seconds later the searchlights punched the night. I knew what was coming next; a louder alarm blared, inside lights dimmed to energy saving mode and guns blasted. The first time this happened was a real shituation. I imagined a mass breakout: hundreds of angry men coming to spoil and riddle rap a minted young boy. Now it’s typical; the alarm sounds every few days. What puzzled me was why someone would attempt to escape this shit hole. There was nowhere to go. Even with an accomplice the odds of success must be pretty slim. The thought depressed me. Often on these breakout nights I’d count off the seconds of the beacon and dream of Ishbel flying to me in her Transport, coming to carry me to freedom. But that was childish fantasy land and the options left to me were to wise up or decay.

  • • •

  Routine – or was it rot? – set in. Scud and I worked on modern history most mornings because this was his FAV and gave him the opportunity of much head scratching and mumblings, like it was his duty to give me the gen on what was what. Pa had already debunked some myths; Davie’s library was rubbishing the rest. What more was there to spill? Message received – world history according to FuB was an elaborate fabrication devised by three corrupt global regimes and their arrogant media machines. Even though it was serious stuff it was also hilarious to watch Scud work himself into a tizz. A zapping was in the offing but like a drunk with a bottle he couldn’t help himself.

  We studied the media of fifty years ago and creased at the lies told then. Even the history books made fun of some of the ridiculous publications. There was a point in history when two media moguls had the world in their pockets but the great god of greed blinded and deluded them; their empires imploded and like some Greek tragedy they tore each other apart.

  ‘Serves them right,’ Scud said. ‘Only problem is aw we huv now is that duffer, FuB.’

  We were working on an example of mass media manipulation when apropos of nothing Scud asked, ‘Thought any more about your art project?’

  We both knew I didn’t have an art project. What was it with this native and his obsession with art? The art module was not due until third quarter. Maybe it was more than his skin that was faded; he should make up his mind – art or corncrakes.

  The ubiquitous dot on the wall glazed over like a fish eye. No doubt the surveillance trogs were ambivalent to my studies. Losers. Most of the recruits in the security services at the Base were burly blocks with necks thicker than heads and heads denser than a carnivore’s turd. Here the creeps behind the dot may even be natives who probably couldn’t even read. And yet Scud was a scholar, and he didn’t waste words. Art was important to him so I played along.

  ‘Art. Yes I need to start it,’ I said, ‘and I want to tie it into my nature project. Maps, illustrations, that sort of thing?’

  Scud nodded and smiled.

  • • •

  Routine; library PM. Opening the door was like breaking into a sealed tomb; air sucked in from the corridor and the overpowering perfume of vanilla and paper mix clawed and filled my mouth with spit. The wait for Davie would be painful but my resolve was firm even if I had to stew in this sickly smell for the rest of my life.

  Some of the shelves were arranged by style. Hard leather-bound tomes hogged one wall while another held a strange rainbow collection called Penguin Classics. The brand was legendary and forbidden. Some of the covers were gaudy; all had creamy paper that yellowed to a musty crust at the edges. Most of the books were medium in thickness and I calculated, even skim reading, it would take many years to devour them all. There was no point in beginning at A and working alphabetically through the titles, so I picked Brighton Rock at random
because the cover show a boy who looked like me. The sensational blurb declared the book as an underworld thriller, but the lives depicted in the olden days seemed drab. I curled into a foetal ball in my usual chair positioned behind a large table lamp. The surveillance in this room remained a mystery to me, but this chair seemed like a blind spot from any angle. The conclusion to the book happened quicker than I expected. The text ended with some pages spare before the back cover. Three blank pages. Paper was the most forbidden substance in the universe. Books had been banned in the first Purist Years and a paper ban followed years later when the Reclaimists took power. Yet here, hanging in their bindings at the end of this book, waiting for someone in trouble to claim them, were three unblemished blank pages. My foetal ball curled tighter with the book at its nucleus. I pincered the middle blank page and gently tore it out close to the binding. The sound of the ripping paper shuddered through the air like an approaching ground tank. I waited for an alarm to sound and then for the even greater catastrophe of the book falling apart – neither happened. The book survived, with hardly even a ragged edge to show where the atrocity had taken place. Greed egged me to take a second page but the worrywart gene won as usual.

  There must have been at least two hundred Penguin Classics lining the wall. It was incredible, if there were blank pages in one there might be in others. My fingers trembled as I folded the page into the smallest square imaginable and tucked it into the top of my overall. My stomach grumbled too but that might have been the dodgy-looking grain bar I ate after lunch. It was easy enough to check the other books. I sauntered back over to the classics wall, replaced Brighton Rock in its slot and ran my finger along the other titles. Random selection chose The Day of the Triffids by John Wyndham. I read the back blurb, I read the introduction, I flicked through the pages and had to stop myself tripping when I came to the back. Three blank sheets of paper. Madame Bovary, same format, four blank pages this time. Destruction.Com, the same. Here was a vast supply of blank paper right under Davie’s nose; all I had to figure out was how to use it. The plan to wait for Davie dissolved into the euphoria of the find; the prize must be stowed along with my passport.

  Everything remained the same in my quarters; no armed guard was waiting to cart me off to the paper police. As I suspected, there was nothing I could use as a writing implement. Everything was solid and made of bio-plastics or glass. The chairs were moulded from that sustainable organic material developed in another bid to save the planet. In the washroom all the washing implements were integrated; even the tooth cleaner dissolved into a biodegradable mush within two minutes of moisture contact. My search proved futile. I had only just begun to look at the material on the walls when the lights went out. An early evening power shutdown. From the window I saw that the large perimeter lights had even failed. The ventilation and heating system seemed dormant. The sky was partially overcast, the shadow of a full moon hinting at a curtain call took the edge off what could have been a total blackout. I groped my way to the slugbag, lay on top and listened. There was nothing but the sloshing of the sea. Somewhere on the other side of the penitentiary chaos was sure to reign with men being corralled into a holding hall. I felt sick.

  I fumbled my way to the door to check for the red emergency lights that ran along the corridor. There was nothing; it was a black hole. The door lock failed so I pulled the chair over to bar it.

  A volley of shots clattered in the air. Distant shouts, a single shot, a scream and then a primal baying that made my teeth grind. A sharp pain exploded in my mouth, I tasted blood, I’d bitten my tongue. The thrumming of an engine rose above the noise of the sea and I stumbled once more to the window. Two Transports jounced towards the island, dodging the heavy artillery that sparked fire into the dark like a medieval dragon. An explosion at close quarters lit up the sky. Flames erupted on a Transport’s wing; it veered off, dipping towards the sea and away from the island. As I watched it my heart plummeted. Even though I didn’t know who crewed the craft, I felt hope leave my soul. The Transport staggered and lifted momentarily.

  ‘Recover, recover,’ I whispered under my breath. At first it seemed to hear my plea, then it nosedived into the water leaving a trailing flare behind and a circle of burning debris glittering on the surface like a floating candle. Embers littered the sea, a carnival of dying fairy lights, snuffed out one by one until only a dread remained.

  ‘Ishbel?’ The question always rested on my lips.

  The perimeter lights found their power and the ack-ack fire continued. The whirl of the other Transport was only just detectable in-between the sporadic fire, its pitch roaring and shrieking, weaving as if it were manoeuvring around the compound crown, avoiding the weaponry burst.

  This situation raged for many minutes. I caught glimpses of the remaining Transport in the artillery light.

  ‘Come on, come on.’ I jumped up and down like a daftie. The bold insignia flashed by in a fleeting second, just before it turned and retreated back towards the mainland. My blood was racing. It had only been five minutes since the power shutdown. We had been under attack from a couple of Transports bearing the same insignia as Ishbel’s craft. When she brought me here Davie had permitted her to land, why not now? And if we were at war, who was our enemy and what side was I supposed to be on?

  Something woke me with a jolt. It might have been my brain, which was scouring every interior surface of my skull. Or it might have been the ten-ton slab on my chest. I hauled myself upright and filtered a puny breath into my burning lungs. What the snaf had happened? The ventilation system and the lights were still off in my quarters. Everything was quiet – no marauding of the hordes, no more gunfire or screaming. Why hadn’t the surveillance detected my lack of air? What if everyone had died? Was this my chance to escape? Was that Ishbel’s plan? No, snap out of fantasy land Sorlie, this was serious shit.

  The lack of air wiped me off my feet when I tried to stand. I crawled and used the chair to drag myself up before pulling it from the door. If possible, the air in the corridor felt thinner than in the room. My communicator pinlight shone only centimetres ahead as I made my way to the shutter door. All the other doors I tried along the way were locked. There was no sign of life. The shutter door was locked too; what did I expect, a free passage? Silence trembled like an angry god sucking at the ends of my nerves. Not even the sound of the sea penetrated this corridor. I edged towards the library door. A gunshot sounded nearby. I dropped to the ground, breathing hard, trying to slow the drumming of my heart and the whooshing of blood in my temples. Silence returned. The dark corridor was endless, pierced only by the pinprick of my inadequate torch. It took twice as long as usual to reach the library, or at least it seemed like that.

  I cracked the door a millimetre, not knowing what lay behind. The smell of vanilla was replaced by the choking stench of death like that of the burning carcasses that clung to the countryside after the last big Land Reclaimist domestic animal purge. It clawed at my throat and robbed me of my last few grams of O2. If the ventilation system remained dormant, suffocation was a real threat. The mainland search parties deployed to investigate the unresponsive Black Rock would soon be entering a tomb where all the inhabitants had suffocated. It would be just like the last magma eruption to consume part of the Northwest Territories in the Forties. When rescuers eventually entered the area, whole towns and cities were encapsulated for all time under a superhighway of ash.

  I half expected Davie to be in the library, cowering in terror from what could be raging in the prison, but that was an absurdity: Davie cowered from no one. The room was deserted and the heavy ornate door to the other side stood solid. Even as I walked towards it I knew the action was dumb; nothing could penetrate that locked door. I had to find air. There was no window in this room. The window in my sleeping quarters was thick; if only I could smash it I could at least get some air. I might even be able to escape, like the Count of Monte Cristo, if the drop into the sea didn’t kil
l me. A weighty brass lamp on one of the tables looked like it might do the job. The effort of lugging the thing was crippling. I fell to the floor, like in survival training during a fire drill, and crawled commando style dragging the lamp behind.

  When I reached the window I heaved the lamp to my chest and tried to batter the glass with it. The first strike ricocheted back at me. I staggered, lost my grip and the lamp clattered to the floor. I groped for it and tried again. There was a dull crack but no smash. The pinlight showed the only damage my efforts made was a starburst pattern on the glass. Each swing took more puff as the oxygen was wrung from my body. Sleep tried to overtake me but Academy training taught me that would be disastrous. I attempted one more swing but made no impact and this time the lamp dragged me with it to the floor. A rest – I only needed a rest. Only a minute then try again. Just one minute, I’ll rest here. The thumping in my head was deafening. My face touched the cool floor; I was floating in a pool. Just one minute more then I’ll move.

  • • •

  The buzz of the air-con drifted in from a far-off place. My head louped and my eyelids were glued tighter than a miser’s purse. Even so I could tell I was alive and it was daytime. There was a vague taste of stale garlic salt from lunch on my furred teeth. Under the buzz I sensed another being in the room. I prised my eyes open – right first, then left – and blinked. There he was, sitting in the chair by the door: Davie, my elusive grandfather.

  His eyes were closed. There was a pathetic tilt to his head, a dribble of saliva tracked from one side of his mouth into his beard like a glistening slug train. He needed a bib and a wipe. The skin on his face, on his cheeks and below his eyes, sagged like empty salt bags. The tyrant painted by Scud and Ishbel had been sucked out with the stale air and replaced with this fragile old man.

  What happened? The heavy lamp from the library now sat upright by the door, waiting to be returned to its rightful place. There was a dent on the side of the base. As quietly and delicately as I could I swivelled my head toward the window. My skull rattled like broken glass, each crunching movement stabbing me in a hundred different places. An opaque star the size of a dinner plate burst from the window’s epicentre where I had struck maybe three blows. Not bad considering I could hardly lift the brute. What a clunk I was; it had been pointless trying to break it, but I suppose panic had set in. But even if I dislodged one small piece it would have made a hole large enough to get some air.