Full Vessels

by Brian Blose

  He pushed his electric lamp onto its back so that it shone at the gray ceiling and settled the beaker into place on its flat surface. As the heat of the bulbs warmed the solution, bubbles began to form. Mel reclined back into a classic funeral pose; hands folded peacefully atop his abdomen, eyes closed as if in sleep.

  No thoughts troubled Mel as he breathed in the carbon monoxide vapors. He had situated his mausoleum far from civilization. No one should be able to locate him before this world ended. Each inhalation brought poisonous gas into his lungs, where the hemoglobin of his blood bonded tightly to the deadly carbon monoxide.

  Once formed, that bond endured. Each blood cell poisoned with carbon monoxide was forever prevented from carrying oxygen. The scientists of this world claimed one percent concentrations of the gas were sufficient to kill a man within minutes. Mel had mixed enough solution to make much more gas than one percent concentration. He had not actually done any of the calculations, instead relying upon an editorial written in layman's terms about the dangers of the substance. To be certain of its efficacy, he had tripled the amount of acid and halved the size of the room.

  As planned, Mel slipped into a slumber which deepened into death.

  Mel woke in the dark, dull and weak. He awaited a return to sleep that did not come. Instead, his memory grew clearer, bringing with it clarity that burned cold. With steely determination, Mel fumbled his way free of his crypt. Outside, he stumbled his way to where his truck waited at the end of a long trail used only by animals prior to his arrival.

  When he yanked the door to his vehicle open, the glare of the dome light struck him. Mel stared at the glowing bulb, a snarl rising to his face. There should be no light. Car batteries lasted weeks or months at most. There should be no light! He seized extra glass bottles of acid and extra lamp batteries, then returned to his mausoleum.

  Mel mixed chemicals and died.

  He woke. Outside again, the truck's overhead light came on when the door opened. Mel swore. He beat his fists against the hard metal of the truck. He pulled the final bottles of acid free and hurled them at the useless block wall before him. Their crash brought no satisfaction.

  “Why?” He raised both arms to the sky, shouted at it like a melodramatic stage actor. “Why can't I have this? Why? Damn you, Creator, tell me why!”

  Last Iteration, he had anchored his clothing with rocks and stepped into a deep cistern. The water had vanished after only days, leaving him to crawl back to civilization and resume his duties.

  The one before that, he had stayed behind when the world ended, daring the Creator to destroy him. Days passed before Mel accepted that entire worlds lingered past their expirations to prevent his freedom.

  No escape existed. There would never be an end. Not even a temporary respite. Mel's breath bubbled oddly within him, not quite laughter, not quite sobbing, not quite rage. Some of each, but not firmly enough in any category to afford him relief.

  Mel climbed onto the bed of the truck and began to dig through his tools. “Every day is too much,” he said calmly, rationally. “Day upon day. It stretches into eternity. How many days have I lived? How many more must I face?”

  His hands closed on the metal gasoline canister. “You know what I want.” He twisted free the cap. “But you won't let me have it.” Mel hefted the can above his head. “So I must assume that this is what you want.”

  With vigorous motions, Mel emptied the entire canister onto himself, soaking hair and clothing and flesh in liquid that stung eyes and offended nose and mouth. He threw the can aside and raised his face to the sky once more. “Is this is what you want from me? Is it?”

  Mel lifted the matchbook.

  Chapter 8 – Hess

  Following Greg's lecture, they scattered from the conference room.

  Hess didn't get three paces before Erik appeared at his side. “You think you're hot shit. I gotta admit you've got some marksmanship skill, but when it comes to killing, I'm the fucking king. Whaddaya say?”

  “I couldn't care less, Erik.”

  “I'm sorry, I didn't hear anything after 'I'm scared of Erik'.”

  Hess continued walking. “Go bother someone else.”

  “Come on, Hess, you don't want me causing trouble. Your give-a-shit ain't gonna let you stand by while I do hi-jinx. So how 'bout you humor me a little? I got a competition in mind. We can finally see who's top man of our dysfunctional tribe.”

  At the door, Hess paused. “What do you want and how long will it take?”

  “Not long. I acquired two sabers last night. Figured a game of swords might be called for. Three rounds to the death. Winner gets the title of hombre de hombres.” Erik spread his hands. “Or you can forfeit the title. No biggie. Though I will have to find something else to occupy my time. Probably something associated with my hobby.”

  “You want to sword fight?”

  “Fuck yeah. I love me some swashbuckling.”

  Hess smiled. “Sure, Erik. I would love to.”

  “Oh ho, you're getting cocky! This will be an edu-mi-cation for ya. Everything is set up downstairs. The hotel's got a huge coal room just going to waste.”

  With all the eagerness of a child, Erik preceded him down the servant's stair and into the basement. They passed the boiler room and entered a space littered with black grit and the odd lump of coal. Erik retrieved two sabers from a corner and passed one off to Hess.

  Then Erik assumed a classic fencing pose and launched into a flurry of vicious swipes. Bouncing on the soles of his feet, he raised his brows. “Ready for this, fuck face?”

  Without speaking, Hess hefted the saber, assumed a rudimentary two-handed position, and waited. Erik attacked in a rush; stab, stab, slash, stab, slash, slash, slash. Hess responded without thought, parrying and side-stepping and retreating to keep Erik's blade out of reach.

  Erik fell back, breathing hard. He feinted a face strike, then lunged, driving his sword for Hess's abdomen. Hess bound their blades, sending Erik's strike to one side and sliding his own saber into position to deftly pierce Erik's sword arm at the bicep. In a blink, he closed the distance, elbowed Erik's nose, seized his opponent's sword hand in his, then twisted the tip of his blade to destroy the pierced muscle.

  Hess fell back, maintaining proper form. Erik swore under his breath, switched sword hands, and came in hacking. Hess circled back from the strikes, refusing to engage until Erik spun about. In an instant, Hess ducked beneath the blade and drove his own home in Erik's gut.

  As Erik stumbled back, Hess took the fight to him. He showered his opponent with blows, most of which drew shallow lines across exposed flesh due to deft last-minute flicks of his wrist. When Erik flinched back with a fresh gash on his cheekbone, Hess lunged, driving his saber into the upper chest. Then he stepped back.

  His opponent collapsed to his knees, blood foaming from his mortal wound. Hess studied his work. It looked too high to have pierced the heart, but, judging by the effect, he had sliced through the aorta, which finished the job as thoroughly as his intended strike.

  Hess stood back while Erik died and resurrected. “Erik, what was that spin? Did you learn how to use a sword from television shows? Rule number one is you never turn your back on an opponent.”

  “Go ahead and run your mouth.” Erik stood and brushed soot from his clothes. “I underestimated you and it cost me that time.”

  Erik lunged in an instant, driving his saber deep into Hess's stomach.

  Hess used his fist to plug the hole as Erik danced back, chortling gleefully. Thinking quickly, Hess sank to his knees, placing one hand on a crunchy pile of coal-dust to support himself. The other hand held his saber up and outward, point held towards his opponent.

  Erik smacked his blade hard enough to knock it from Hess's hands and stepped forward for the killing stroke. Hess swept his hand on the floor up and out, flinging grit into Erik's face. He followed that up by sweeping Erik's legs. Knowing he didn't have much time before his injury robbed him of mobility, Hess
pressed his momentary advantage.

  Ignoring the slashes coming at his side, hoping the leverage wasn't there to do serious damage, Hess scraped his fingers across his opponent's eyes. That triggered the instinctual flinch Hess desired, giving him the opportunity to wrest the sword from Erik's hands.

  He sawed the blade across the only critical target he could reach given his awkward position, the front and inner side of Erik's thighs. Before Hess could ascertain the success of his cut, Erik drove his forehead into Hess's nose. Hess collapsed onto his back, eyes reflexively shutting and hands involuntarily cradling his face.

  When Hess forced his eyes open, he saw Erik above him. The exultation on Erik's face faded as he noticed the blood spurting from his severed femoral artery. Erik shrugged. “Guess this one's a tie.” He drove the sword into each side of Hess's chest, then stepped back to watch Hess drown to death from the blood pooling in his lungs.

  Hess resurrected thirty seconds before Erik, who giggled as he stood. “Aw, Hessie, you do fight dirty. I'm so proud.” And another lunge.

  He accepted it into his body while swinging a counter across Erik's throat. When they separated, Erik scowled at the twin trails of red weeping from either side of his trachea: proof that his carotid arteries had been severed. Hess glanced down at his punctured abdomen. “It won't kill me in five minutes, so I guess I win two and tie once.”

  Erik's voice did no more than gurgle, so he flashed his middle finger in defiance before dropping to the ground. Five minutes later, a filthy Erik confronted him. “We got one more bout. Ties don't count.”

  “Well, I wouldn't want there to be any doubt that I am the man of men,” Hess said.

  They faced each other a final time, this time in solemn stillness. Hess moved first, a feinted lunge that sent Erik into retreat. Then Erik swung his saber in a series of slashes that Hess avoided without ever bringing their blades into contact.

  As Erik broke off his attack, Hess dipped past Erik, scoring first blood with a slash across the shoulder that Erik blocked a moment late. They fell into circling each other, watching one another for attacks that failed to materialize.

  The cement floor shifted beneath them. Erik startled at the unexpected development and Hess used that distraction to lunge deep, placing his saber into Erik's side. Too slow, Erik attempted to parry with a harsh swing. The blades collided at an odd angle and Hess's saber snapped, leaving the top third of its blade inside Erik.

  Around them, soot rained from every surface as the room continued to rumble. Erik sliced Hess's wrist hard enough that he lost the remnant of his blade. They stared at one another as the earthquake subsided. Then Hess stood up straight and presented his neck. “You won that exchange.”

  “I did,” Erik said. “But much as I like stabbing, right now I wanna know what the fuck is going on.”

  Hess tossed his saber to the ground. “Let's go see.”

  Chapter 9 – Hess

  They emerged from the servant's stair back into the main hall of the hotel to find the staff glued to the windows. Hess squeezed between them to scan the courtyard for whatever held their interest. He saw nothing unusual. The circular drive sat empty, the unpaved road radiated rustic charm, trees luxuriated in the sunlight.

  “What are we looking at?”

  One of the desk staff noticed Hess and pulled away from his soot-stained clothing. “The mountain.”

  Hess stared at the distant peaks. “Why?”

  “To make sure it's still dormant.”

  Behind him, Erik grunted. “Well, ain't this a fucking pickle.”

  Hess ignored him. “Is the ship that brought us here still in port?”

  The man nodded. “Not that it does you any good. It snagged the reef pretty good on the way into harbor. They're going to scuttle it soon as they strip everything of value.”

  Hess and Erik stepped away from the windows by unspoken agreement. “I give it ten to one odds that fucking mountain blows at the end of our week. Creator's sending the Observers out with a bang.”

  “Seems likely,” Hess said. “Which means we need a ship.”

  Erik nudged him in the ribs. “Look at us conspiratin' together. We're totally BFF's. Wanna go ship shopping together, buddy?”

  “Let's clean up first.” Hess didn't wait for a reply before marching to the baths, stopping only to grab a change of clothing from his room. He scrubbed for ten minutes with cold water before judging himself presentable, then dressed and hurried outside to where Erik waited.

  They rented horses from the stable and set out for the main port along the harbor road. An hour at a canter brought them from the town on the scenic ridge hosting their resort down to the sea level harbor. The winding road, adhering to a religious observation of the path of least resistance, caused their travel time to be thrice what it should have been. Hess suspected the trip could be made on foot in the same time if one were to go off road.

  Of the several available piers, only one held anything larger than a catamaran. A two-masted schooner, a steamship tug, and a yacht docked to that pier. “Not much of a selection,” Erik mumbled.

  “Not really. Unless you fancy crossing an ocean in a dinghy or a rowboat.” Hess noticed a guard post at the entry to the pier. His eyes scanned the line of buildings facing the water. “Looks like there is a fish market. We can start asking questions there.”

  They proceeded to the market building, secured their horses, and separated to mingle with the locals. Hess chose a direct approach. He asked the proprietors of individual booths if they knew of any boats departing for the mainland. Time and again, the answer was no.

  Apparently, the incompetent governor of the island had ignored complaints from shipping companies and locals alike that the channel markers had drifted and needed re-positioned. After a number of ships had dragged their bellies across the barrier reef, the flow of visitors had slowed to a trickle. The island's economy had stagnated. And in the wake of the governor refusing to pay for the loss of the last coal barge, they couldn't even hire out a vessel for supply runs.

  The arrival of a passenger ship full of tourists would have been cause for hope if it hadn't snagged the reef on its way in. As it was, the port was all but empty. The only ocean-worthy vessels were the governor's private ship and the schooner that a local corporation used to trawl beyond the harbor. Neither ship rented passenger space.

  Each person dismissed his mention of the tug with the same objection: “out of coal.” The saltpeter refinery's insatiable appetite had driven the price of fuel too high to waste it on a mere steamship tug.

  Finally, Hess asked several people if they were concerned about the earthquake. The responses were all negative, but Hess detected a hint of concern beneath the gruff bravado. The mountain had been inactive for hundreds of years, they told him. Once every few decades it snored in its sleep – no big deal, their husband or wife did the same thing.

  When he met Erik back at the entrance, Hess shrugged. “The owners don't rent out their ships.”

  “Guess we got to steal one.”

  “The yacht would be more manageable for the two of us,” Hess said.

  “Always liked yachts. This one time, I went shark fishing with human bait. Too hard to reel them in before they bled to death, so I only did it the one time. Fun, though.”

  Hess fixed Erik with a level look. “Enough of that. We need to decide when we leave.”

  “Right, we got business.” Erik scrunched up his face in thought. Finally, he clucked his tongue. “Volcano's gonna behave for a few more days. We give the Creator a full week of conferencing and sail out of here at the last minute. Everyone wins.”

  Hess nodded. “I agree. Give me a night to think. Tomorrow we'll figure out our plan for stealing the yacht.”

  Chapter 10 – Hess

  The next morning, he arrived early to the conference room. He sat with Greg in the empty room until nine o'clock, when the others converged from various directions to take their seats. Greg waited until eve
ryone settled before beginning. “By popular vote, we have decided to enact a courtesy rule. No one should interrupt our speaker. Further, insults and personal attacks are forbidden. We're here to serve the Creator, not our egos.”

  A near-unanimous rolling of eyes was the only response to his declaration. Greg cleared his throat. “You're up, Drake.”

  Drake reclined back in his seat, the hint of a smile evident by a tightness in his cheeks. “Fear. That's what's behind everything the people do. I been around a lot of different types. Some of them pretty hairy, y'know? But they're all afraid of something.

  “Fear is the source of all emotion. Think you love something? No, you're just afraid it won't be there some day. Think you hate something? You actually fear its potential. Think you are curious? You're just afraid that everything's going to stay the same. Everything comes back to fear.

  “Ever watch a baby? They only got two modes: afraid and not-afraid. People like to call not-afraid 'happy'. It makes them feel better about life to think that fear is the exception, because they're afraid of fear. Kinda funny, right? The people get confused as they get smarter, start believing their different emotions are distinct. Makes them feel better about themselves.

  “Adult emotions are all twisted up on themselves. Too much repressing and controlling and thinking. They can't untangle the mess to figure out what they're feeling. You have to start by observing babies, then toddlers, then kids, then teens, then adults. When you finally get to the elderly, dementia cuts down on the thinking part and, all of a sudden, the fear's front and center again. Fear is biology. All the other emotions are abstract. Think of them as fancier ways to interpret fear.”