by Greg Dragon
The bathroom was cramped, but at least it had a mirror and a few things that might be useful. And clothes, there were clothes! Dry ones.
Bodies too, just a few. He stepped over the decaying corpses and down a short corridor away from the foyer where a secretary had obviously shown up for work as she didn’t know what else to do — she had succumbed right by the photocopier and eventually died sat leaning against the machine. Further on there was a man dressed smartly in shirt and tie who had probably just faded away where he stood, then finally crumpled unknowingly to the floor. Maybe they had both carried on showing up simply to act normal?
He’d seen it a lot, would have done the same thing himself if he’d ever had a job to go to. By the time he was old enough to work there was no such thing as a job any longer. He’d still been going to school until the teachers stopped showing up, the students too. Finally it was just him — sat alone at a desk, not knowing what else to do.
Back through the foyer there was a small canteen and a few other rooms for offices and a boardroom, then the warehouse itself. Nothing much of use was stacked on the rows of racking, just a load of electrical components that were now worthless. But in the lockers and in offices he’d managed to scrounge together some better clothes and footwear. Work clothes and a warm sweater.
All he’d had to do then was get his soaked and bloodied clothes off and try to think what to do, and how to cope with the life of being Inked and a wanted man by this Ward of The Eventuals.
What’s wrong with them?
Shaking his head, he’d carefully tried to remove his clothes without causing too much more damage to his burning body.
It made him feel sick just thinking about what he was going to see — again.
When they’d secured him to the ceremonial table — in reality a gurney, probably from some kind of mental institute judging by all the leather straps — for The Ink to begin, then wheeled over the tables full of equipment, he’d squirmed and screamed and sworn vengeance on them for what they were about to do. They’d just grimly begun, telling him that they knew deep down it was what he wanted, that he’d thank them for giving him such an honor.
He didn’t.
It hurt like he couldn’t believe, and then it just kept on getting worse. They’d told him it would continue for days, each hour The Ink seeping deeper, slow-releasing the poison in the special additive, part of the ritual, part of the sacrifice, part of the proof that to still be alive was a blasphemy — a just punishment for those still remaining. It was holy, they’d said, blessed by Varik himself, to be mixed with the red Ink so that it opened up nerves to accept the pain that must be endured — an offering for their pointless lives. After a few days it would subside, then it would be just a matter of healing from the assaulted skin.
Scabs had begun to form even before they’d finished with his lower body, and he’d endured it, hour after seemingly infinite hour.
It went on for lifetimes.
The worst thing was that he’d watched it all, he had no choice.
Large mirrors above him showed his pale scrawny body in all its nakedness. But gradually it was stained crimson, injected with a permanent dark red on every single millimeter of his skin, rising from his toes up his legs, his groin — which was painful beyond belief — and ever upward until eventually he would be red from his toes to the top of his head.
But he’d got away, hadn’t he? Only to be confronted with a pain more unbearable than anything he’d encountered so far — Kathy had been abused and taken from the world, sent to The Void.
In the bathroom, after gathering up the clothes, he pulled the sweatshirt off as carefully as he could, the rips to his stomach from the glass thankfully clean of shards. His forearms were a mess of criss-crossing cuts but the pain faded into the background. He pulled the ripped sock off his foot, undid the Converse on the other, then that sock came off as well.
Next was the jeans — he wasn’t looking forward to that at all.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it. Just do it. That’s it, button first, then the zip.
There was a thick scab-line all the way around his body where the top of the jeans had rubbed his abused flesh raw. Just looking as he unzipped the jeans made him sick. His groin was disgusting: penis like a mangled hot dog, scabbed, swollen, so abraded it was like having cat litter in your pants. He peeled the jeans down slowly, revealing more of his hairless body, more damaged skin, but finally at least they were off.
What do I do now? What’s going to help this all heal?
Searching through the small bathroom he came up with nothing, so went out to the lockers, padding about naked, the cold welcome — better than the fabric chafing his ruined body. There was nothing, no magic lotion that would soothe his skin, not that he really expected to find much of any use.
Back in the bathroom he patted carefully at his skin to dry it, rubbed a towel over his face and head — the only part of him that didn’t hurt — then stared in the mirror.
What greeted him was hard to accept as real. The creature that stared back at him was ruined. His blue eyes were sunken, dark bags underneath like he’d cried tears of coal, and he could tell he was so exhausted he would collapse soon. He hadn’t slept in days — they’d kept him awake while they marked him, and he hadn’t rested since his escape. They were always just behind him, like a pack of hungry dogs.
His body was stripped of excess flesh as there was never enough food these days, but he was fairly athletic looking, if scrawny. His red body mocked him, a permanent reminder that life had become so far removed from what it once was.
It was all too strange. The world he lived in didn’t seem real, didn’t feel like it could be possible. Reality was such an insult to normality that he wondered if his life growing up had actually been anything but a dream. Did he really just go to school and play with his mates? Go to stores, watch TV in his room and surf the Web or play on his Xbox? Gone, all gone. No point thinking about it now, it wouldn’t bring back the happy times. Now there was nothing, just death, Eventuals, and the struggle to survive.
Shit, stop it. Stop thinking about it. Focus.
The man in the mirror frightened him, so Edsel turned away and carefully patted under his arms. He looked.
Shouldn’t have done that.
There were crusty bits, oozing bits, and things he didn’t want to even think about. It would take ages to heal, and then what? Just red, like the Devil himself, mocking the things he took for granted, the simple comfort of having your own skin color. Now everything was stripped from him.
Edsel got dressed.
All that was missing was underwear, so he tore strips off clean cloths from the canteen and made some makeshift protection for his groin. Then he dragged on thankfully loose black cargo pants and thick socks, two pairs, before putting on some sturdy work boots, then a simple dark blue sweater. The less clothes the better, but he didn’t want to freeze either. It was summer but the days were often still cold, and the rain was coming down sporadically.
***
The carpet smelled funny, synthetic, full of chemicals.
Carpet? Uh-oh.
Edsel got up carefully. How long had he been asleep? He looked around nervously but there was nobody else in the room; the clock on the wall was no help — batteries had probably given up the ghost years ago. Through dusty blinds he could see the sun was still fairly high.
Probably about six then.
He’d only been out for a couple of hours, but that was a couple of hours too long. They could be coming to get him any second now.
What’s the plan? Where’s the poker? Ah, there, where I was sleeping.
With the cold metal in his hand he at least felt ready — well, as ready as he’d ever be anyway. He went to the window again, looking out into the parking area. It was clear, so maybe he had time to come up with something.
Think. Come on, they will be here for you soon.
Nothing. He was empty. It was all too mu
ch. Kathy was gone, what should he do? Vengeance? Yes. No. How? Run? Yes, run. Get away, before there were more of them — a lot more. He needed to think, he needed time to gather himself, to come up with a plan. He couldn’t go back, not for the punishment they would dole out, not for anything. He had to come up with something, anything.
The tears fell.
Kathy had been his everything, bringing him back to life even after he thought he had been dead to the world, ready to just give it all up and take away the emptiness he felt by just finishing it all. Not that he ever would really, he always knew that; he just felt like it would be a release. But life was too precious, any life was better than none. He had a duty, he had to stay alive.
He’d met Kathy on one of his darker days, when such thoughts came and went in a loop of misery and depression. Then he saw her, and he was never the same again.
She’d brought him back to reality, back to life, giving of herself, offering him hope and a chance to look to the future for the first time in years. He thought she was probably one of The Awoken, those that had been effected by The Lethargy but in the opposite way: slowly opening up, becoming something more than Whole, a form of enlightenment but different. There were rumors, more than that, there were reports on the news for a short while, stories of people suddenly having the ability to see things, see data streams running around the world, understand the way things worked, look into your mind, talk to the trees and enter the minds of animals, even human beings.
And The Commorancy, just about the only bit of hope there was left.
Marcus. Marcus Wolfe — the name had become legend in an instant, then the hype faded along with the reports. All that remained was static.
Edsel had tried for a while to gain entry to The Commorancy, to get an invitation, but had given up when his life suddenly took on real meaning at last. But it was as legendary as The Eventuals, just harder to become a part of. Now it was too late. Or was it?
Maybe he could gain entry, get an invitation, finish what Kathy had begun when he’d been brought back to life by her and started to understand the beauty of the world they found themselves so alone in. He could get one of the seven Rooms, where it was said people would become Awoken, have the ability to see things ordinary people couldn’t. Awaken, be useful. Do something with his life, for her. So she would be proud of him, smile if she saw him, her eyes twinkling like they always did when she was happy, or even just staring off into the distance, lost in dreams and entering The Noise, slowly learning about what was awakening inside of her.
Yes, he’d do that. He had a plan.
FOOD
He had to eat, he had to drink, and he really, really, needed a pee.
Oh boy, this is not going to be pretty.
At the mere thought of it his testicles shriveled up so much he wondered if they’d ever drop back down again or would forever be lost, just like his heart.
Man up, how bad can it be?
It was bad.
Edsel was on the floor, curled up, almost, but not quite cupping his groin, knowing it would only make things worse. Sweat covered his body. He was hot. Cold. Hot again. Shivering and sick. And the sweat? The musty sick smell of sweat that hurt so much. What kind of body design was this? As each bead popped to the surface through his ravaged pores a tiny geyser of agony erupted, like pins were being forced out from inside, rather than the other way around.
And he was thirsty too!
But if he drank then he’d need a pee again at some point, and there was no way he was ever doing that again. Never.
Ugh.
He waited it out, unable to move, his penis screaming in agony, his whole middle on fire, making everything else pale into insignificance in comparison.
Some things are just too damn private and personal.
He lay there for what felt like hours but knew was only minutes.
Time to go. Where?
It was impossible to think straight — there was too much hurt, too much exhaustion. Too much loss.
Try to find a way into The Commorancy, right? Get safe, secure, away from the nightmare?
That was a plan, that was something to aim for.
To hell with that. I’m going to kill the bastards.
He felt better already.
Time to turn the tables and make them pay.
Sorry Kathy, I know you won’t approve. I know you’d say I should look after myself, try to become a better man. Awaken, stay safe. But I can’t, not after what they did to you, what they did to me. They have to pay for what they have done.
A terrible noise startled him; it was his stomach. He needed food, and he needed water. The canteen didn’t have anything, the water cooler was empty — nobody had bothered to get it refilled.
But maybe in the other warehouses he would have more luck. Surely some of them would have a vending machine or a simple cup of water for him?
Time to find out.
***
The Pepsi was sheer bliss. It was warm, probably out of date, although he didn’t bother to check, and it roiled in his guts as the fizzy liquid met nothing but stomach acid — it was glorious. His first drink in more than a day and the caffeine and sugar buzz felt like nothing on this earth.
“Aah.”
Leaning against the broken glass of the vending machine, Edsel tried to formulate some kind of a plan. His head began to buzz a little and it gave him some kind of clarity, for a few seconds anyway.
Oh no, here it comes, here it comes.
His head began to spin, his eyes lost focus, and there was something rising from within — his body moving away from him, like it no longer belonged to him at all. Edsel hit the floor but was already unconscious. The sugar load after so long without food had crashed his system. The final adrenaline come-down had caught up with him — he’d been running on a high for days now, the adrenaline from getting The Ink, his escape, and Kathy’s death all kept him going at a ramped up speed, the rest and the drink had been the final straw.
As he lay there the strange milky fluid called lymph, that was a result of the tattoos, slowly turned his skin a milky pink. Scabs continued to form, his skin bubbled in places where excess moisture was trapped and searched for release, and his body just kept on burning and burning.
For just a few minutes he was free of it all.
He came back to himself soon enough and finished off the rest of the drink, not caring what would happen, only that he had to get hydrated. Wandering around the huge warehouse he now found himself in, his joy could hardly be contained when he found a water cooler.
Half full.
He drank until he felt like he would pop, then searched around until he found what he was looking for — there was a half full milk carton in the canteen, the only vessel he could find. He emptied it best he could, then poured a can of Fanta — he hated Fanta — into it and put the cap back on. It fizzed satisfactorily, then he emptied it back out and rinsed it with water from the water cooler. A few sniffs and a few rinses later he at least had some portable water.
He took a backpack from a peg at the entrance and after emptying it of a container of very moldy sandwiches and a yogurt he definitely knew no longer contained any good bacteria, Edsel filled it with cans of drink and his water bottle.
With no better solution coming to mind he tied a towel around the backpack so it wouldn’t chafe so much on his back. It hurt like hell to get it on, but at least it was a pain with a purpose this time.
Right, time for food.
As he headed for the door Edsel stopped; he was sure he heard something. He listened, trying to hear over the hammering of his heart.
They’re here. Damn.
Then he felt it, and knew it was definitely time to go. It was that Bishop, he somehow just knew it, and here he was trying to get into his head. He would too, if Edsel didn’t get away from him, and fast. He felt, rather than heard, Bishop talk to the acolytes, and knew they would be right beside him in seconds now. His only hope was to run once mor
e.
Out through the broken entrance and into the evening. It was still light, which was something: running through the littered streets in the dark wouldn’t be fun at all.
Yeah, like this is fun.
Edsel winced as the backpack began to bounce around on his back. He needed to tighten the straps but it was too late now. He felt the intrusion into his mind weaken as he got some distance, but they knew where he was now and once they picked him up they wouldn’t lose him so easily. His chase through the city had taught him that if he didn’t get maybe half a mile, even a mile, away from them then they could pick up his presence. It was The Noise. Those that were Awoken, or Whole and on the cusp of becoming something more, had a serious set of skills. They included entering the minds of creatures and even people if they were close enough. Mostly it had seemed, during the early days when reports still came on TV and the Web, that it was easiest done on those with The Lethargy — less resistance, basically an empty space to occupy.
But if you were powerful enough in The Noise then you could occupy human minds, even Whole ones, and for some Awoken it was a very strong skill. The acolytes that had tattooed and chased him were obviously not all capable of such things, but one of them was, and Bishop certainly was. They could search for him in The Noise now they knew what he would look like, although he had no clue how it actually worked, and if they were close enough they would find him. If they were very close then they could enter his mind, maybe even take it over and he would be helpless.
So he ran.
***
Edsel was lost. He didn’t know this part of the city so well — away from the commercial center and heading out into the suburbs. Row after row of houses, mostly now unoccupied or home to those slowly fading to nothing or hiding from the madness, waiting for everything to be all right again, trying not to admit to themselves what they knew to be true: it never would be.
