He didn’t feel like getting wayfared today, as he did most days. Yet he always did, as much as he promised himself no. He always relinquished his grasp on his addiction, despite his true intentions. Yet he always brought a bottle out with him, no matter what his mood.
The quicker he got #323a fixed and up and dancing, the quicker he could get back to Sarah and Ambrose. The familiar routine of begging outside her abode to take him back was getting boring to everyone but him. He hoped every time that Sarah would open her door and let him back into her life. Failing that he could always rely on Madam Curnow’s to sate his urges. He was in the mood for a taste of the silken charms of Miss Vanessa Cardui tonight.
Leaving his tools to assess the situation, Loveday approached the Mistah, removed his vinoculars, resting them on his sweat-drench forehead, he stepped on the mud crusted track he pushed himself up of the floor, pried open the galmut panel, which gave way with that familiar awful squeak.
Sometimes the Mistah’s parts seize up after the clove oil reserve runs dry, effectively choking the engine of lubrication, slowly grinding them to a stop. Loveday checked the level on the glass reveal.
Everything fine. Half full.
He’d top it up anyway while he was out here with him.
It was definitely something internal, if it was just the tracks, then the clasping arms and chomping mouth would still be active, he would have seen him coming; detected him and assessed his being. The Magna-Patch on his jacket would have revealed him to be no threat and #323a would have allowed Loveday to work on his innards without fear of being ground up.
That’s how the Mistah’s worked. They lived off of the compost of living things. With there being not much of a source of nutrition out here in the outlands, their only source of calorific income was the Wildlings. Or other such beasts that happen to get in their way whilst they patrol their derelict circles.
Diviner switch.?
Fine.
Mercury balance?
Dandy.
The detent on the sorption mech?
Plenty of nutrients left.
It was an all too common problem. The Mistahs would clear an area of everything. Wildlings. Rats. Cats. Bats.
Everything.
Not a living molecule visible to their detectable eye would survive out here for long. That’s what they did.
Eat and hunt.
Hunt and eat.
Fortunate Wildlings were picked up, ground up and liquidised to a fine soup, of which the Mistahs extracted all the fuel they needed.
The peasants and proles within the safe, secure walls of New Acre looked upon the Mistahs with reverence and honour, respecting them, for the protection they offered against the carnivorous elements that sought them so.
Although thankful for their existence and continuation of his familial misery, Loveday was jaded with the glamour that the career originally entailed.
Great wages! -Everybody’s went up but his.
Fantastical pension! -Yet nobody to spend it with.
A varied and exciting series of opportunities! -If you counted popping a leaden drive into the thin skulls of a marauding Wildling, then yes, coming close to pant browning death was varied and exciting.
The Wildlings often hunted in two’s or three‘s. Maybe to keep incognito against the sparse landscape. So, if and when you were unfortunate enough to come into contact with the beasts, dispatching them was merely a matter of taking aim and firing with your New Acres assigned Geyser pistol. The thing was, the Wildlings made so much noise when approaching their prey it was often easy to get in a headshot before they managed to get within a hundred feet of you. But usually one shot in the air scared them away from causing any serious damage.
That noise again. Loveday pulled down his vinoculars over his eyes and scanned the horizon, blinking the unwanted influx of light away.
A head moved down from atop the ragged summit, he only saw the movement, no features. He knew who it was. No other damned soul would be out here. He hadn’t long. Either head back now and be safe or fix the Mistah and improve security. They only had four left on patrol anyway, it they lost any more Mistah’s then all four points of the compass might be compromised. New Acre would be at risk.
Another darting shape moved down the slope and behind a rock, too quick for him to be able to define certain features. It was naked, nothing but a browning flash. This was enough evidence for him. Wildlings wanted him. But the question was, how many.
Loveday pulled off the vinoculars and crammed his head inside the chest cavity of the Mistah, again doubled checking connections and flicking steam carriage pipes.
He looked up, skyward toward the throat of the metal beast. The great teeth were half open, letting in a bite of grey sunlight. He didn’t feel nervous being this close to those terrible jaws, thick chomping shapes that fit oh-so-perfectly together in unison. He trusted his Magna card. It allowed him this much freedom inside. Without it, any man was doomed. Loveday looked down, to the grinding gears locked up with grisliness. Congealed innards and rotting particles of what used to be human remains, now the last vestiges of fortunate Wildlings, happily caught in the roaming trap that was a Mistah, then ground up and chewed by the various gears, then pulped into a nutritious fuel that kept the Mistah running on. It was a beautiful system, one that he was proud of. He didn’t design everything, but he was elated (at the time) to be part of a project that enabled New Acre to protect itself from the outside world. Of course New Acre was a new place now. A place he dreaded, as it brought out the worst in him. The very worst.
He didn’t want to turn, he could hear their chattering voices up in the hills. They weren’t shy. They were more than three he surmised.
The Mistah hadn’t run out of sustenance, all level were adequate, everything seemed fine, he checked the gears that resided below the stomach chute, all fine . . .wait. Just wait he thought as he saw it plain as day.
Bone.
It shouldn’t have been there. There was no way it could have gotten there as the gears and the gullet were in separate compartments once you shut the galmut panel. But it was there. Half of a human femur, snapped before the knee, jammed in tight against the gears which allowed the Mistah his fluidity across the land. He had ceased up, the foreign bone grinding his gears to an abrupt halt. This had been deliberate, thought Loveday, the thigh bone had been placed there on purpose by outside hands, there was no way that could have found itself in that perfect position, jamming the entire mechanism shut.
The chattering got louder. He could hear rock fall behind him. It would take him too long to start up the Ion-Glider and build up sufficient speed. As the chattering got louder, he imagined dozens of them stampeding down the rocky hillside towards him.
Food.
His only chance was the Mistah; he’d have to put his faith in him.
Loveday grabbed hold of the femur and pulled.
It remained stuck fast.
He pulled again. A gear ground against the calcium obstruction, sooty white dust erupted into the stomach of the Mistah. Loveday pushed this time, bending the bone the other way. It gave and the gears whirred violently to life, Loveday pulled his head out, grasped hold of a dry tree branch above his head and pulled himself up to safety just as the first of the Wildlings reached the base of the white trunk.
Loveday looked down, about a dozen Wildlings were gallivanting around the base of the skeletal tree, whooping and chattering like feral apes. More were on the way. They all looked up at Loveday, sticky white saliva dribbled from lipless mouths arranged with a graveyard of broken teeth, the dark yellow sunken eyes all glared up through lidless sockets. Loveday hated getting up close to them; their skin had an unusual pallor like rotting mushroom, the odour they emitted was the stench of death, usually a mere whiff of a Wildling was enough to bring up the breakfast of anyone uninitiated in close combat with the vile creatures.
They started to climb.
The Mistah remained still.
T
he Wilding gnarled claws reached the lower branches.
Loveday steadied himself on the branch above and kicked out with his steel boot, colliding it with the flat bronze head of the Mistah, causing it to ring like a muffled bell.
Loveday pulled himself up further as did the Wildlings, in between the cacophony of commotion, his attuned ears managed to pick out a gentle whirring.
This soon became a clunk. And then a roar as the Mistah powered to life, rusty steam guzzled from vents on his back, shocking a few of the Wildlings, the rest kept climbing.
A ratchet like clinking sang as the Mistah’s arm rose up and plucked an unsuspecting Wildling from the tree. Loveday smiled grimly as its face exploded in horror at being picked off the tree, a piece of rotten fruit, certainly an acquired taste.
The Mistah however, loved eating Wildlings.
The great featureless head rolled back and the bronze jaw creaked open, the sound of the gears started. This was a sound that all Wildlings dreaded. They all stopped what they were doing, turning their sallow gaze to the great whirring machine that had suddenly come to life.
A nail-on-chalkboard shriek came from the caught Wildling; it twisted and turned, beating out a furious tattoo on the heavy claw of the Mistah. The whirring got louder as the jaws opened wider, the gears now operating a full speed, ready for the bag of screaming flesh that fed the engine.
The Mistah dropped the Wildling into his open mouth; the shriek was cut off, abruptly turning into a mechanical grinding of bones and dusty flesh. The Mistah picked another Wilding from the tree, repeating the process.
All the Wildlings jumped from the tree and started to run in every direction that their spindly little legs could carry them. The Mistah’s telescoping arms shot out in two directions, picking up two more fleeing Wildlings, popping them into his mouth, ceasing their shrieking opera with a satisfying meeting of rotting meat and hard metal, brittle bones and spinning gears.
An agreeable smiling spread out like red oil across Loveday’s face, as he enjoyed the show. The Wildlings deserved this. It served the infernal beasts right for setting up the trap. Ambush a Mistah and jam his gears to get some fresh meat out here. Well this fresh meat has a mind of his own and knowledge to boot. That’s why he was the best calibrator in all of New Acre. In fact he was the last one, unless Burleigh turned up someday soon.
The only place Burleigh would be turning up would be in a pile of Wildling droppings, Loveday reckoned grimly. Especially if he’d fallen foul of the same dastardly scheme. It seemed that the Wildlings were getting smarter, they weren’t just base beings out to eat and destroy. They had managed to organise this deception, what other plans had they drawn up against the good humans of New Acre?
The Mistah had them on the run now, his tracks tearing through the desert dust as he chased the scampering feral creatures, picking them up and flinging the twirling soon to be liquefied corpse into the depths of his churning throat.
Again, Loveday smiled.
Even though they used to be people, Loveday felt no sympathy for the beasts. They were soulless vessels, the mind of the previous occupant long since vanquished from their mottled brain. Their bodies would be retuning to earth soon enough, he was thankful for that at least.
The rapid sawing noise whirred down to a rumbling boil. The Wildlings had scattered too far for the Mistah to chase them all down successfully, so it stopped whilst it processed the fuel it had already accumulated; now it was back in full working order. Loveday breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a close one. He’d had closer shaves with the ragged teeth of the Wildlings, but never so many at once. Usually they stalked in a simple pack of three, sometimes four at the most. Covert and small, but this en masse was new, something to be reported as a worry to the chain of command. They were getting organised, working together for the final outcome of food. They’d become an Army.
Dear God . . .
Loveday need to get back.
Climbing down from the tree, he dropped the last three feet with a dusty thump, brushing off the fragments of bone white bark from his bat skin jacket and his heavy canvas trousers.
The Mistah’s tracks turned its body 90 degrees, so now it was facing Loveday.
He didn’t notice.
Loveday bent down next to his toolbox and began to replace his tools that the Wildlings had spilt out. Wrench, hammer, retronic screwdriver, sumption socket- all went back into the toolbox in their rightful places, shaking off the dust before they went back home to toolbox comfort.
The Mistah’s tracks carried him forward. Toward Loveday.
Loveday didn’t notice. He closed the lid on his toolbox, picked it up and idled over to the Ion-Glider, casually glancing round to ensure no Wildlings had returned.
He saw the Mistah approaching and took notice. It moved with speed and haste towards his position. The detector eye glared at him, zoning in from the hunk of brass it called a body. The eye glinted once, Loveday was being targeted.
Loveday removed his pistol and fired all seven shots in the direction of the advancing Mistah. Each and every bullet hit the approaching automaton’s brass shell. Each and every bullet ricocheted off in a mad spider’s leg of directions, causing nothing more than a dull graze upon the shining brass.
Loveday dropped his gun, left his tools and hopped onto the awaiting Ion-Glider, wishing and chiding himself that he should have left the machine on idle instead of turning it completely off.
Turning the dial up full, steam roared from the back of the Ion-Glider then shot forward. It would cost him some fuel in the long run, but it enabled him to make a quick get away. Loveday clung on, fighting the G-force as the acceleration wanted to drag and push him from the machine.
He guided the Ion-Glider up the mound of bones that the Mistah regularly jettisoned to empty his waste tank, plumes of dead dust cried up into the yellow sky, clouding the vision of the Mistah. Or so Loveday hoped.
Down the other side of the calcium hill, Loveday gained more speed with the influx of gravity on his shoulders, pushing him faster. The towering spires of New Acre appeared on the lonely horizon, a welcome mirage for any outlander.
The glider coughed out steam as it levelled out on to the floor of the next valley, Loveday sacrificed a few seconds to turn around now he was on the safe flats. The familiar hulking shape of the Mistah powered through the dust storm, it was still chasing him.
But why?
Loveday turned back to face forward, returning his concentration to the way home. Maybe the Mistah hadn’t detected his magna-patch? Maybe a sensor error, so now it saw him and everything else as an enemy? Dust in the lens? Loveday didn’t want to get too close to find out.
Gripping the dial, Loveday turned it up over the red. It would boil through his Ion supplies, but he was sure it would help out run the Mistah, he just had to get out of its range until it didn’t detect him anymore.
Again the Engine screamed louder, until all that Loveday could hear was a banshee whistle in his ears. He tightened his grip on the Gliders handles and steered over a shelf of rock, then immediately slowed as he descended into a small valley, having to make a tight turn, he lost some precious acceleration.
A dark shadow fell across his back, a different tone of whistling steam invaded his ears. Foolishly, Loveday turned.
The Mistah’s brass claws were outstretched, and reaching for him less than six foot away.
A violent jolt shot him forward, his fingers left their grip on the handles of the Ion-Glider, which was soon beneath him, then travelling off in another direction. Loveday felt the vague sensation of flying, an explosion of metal and steam behind him then he hit the floor.
Hard.
He rolled, his arms bent around the wrong way, shoulders snapping back to were they shouldn’t, his legs danced in a spasm, knees knocking together and grazing the floor, shredding the canvas of his trousers.
Tumbling to a stop, Loveday shifted onto his back, the pain darting through him like a thousand arrows.
All he could hear in his ears was a high-pitched whistle. Every part of his body screamed FIX ME FIX ME!
He wanted some Nettle Rye, his wife, his child, some sleep in a good bed.
He wanted the Mistah to leave him alone.
The Mistah stopped before him. The great mouth opened up and rolled back on greased hinges, yet still creaked menacingly.
Loveday felt for his gun, then felt disappointed that he’d dropped it when the first rise of fear had loosened it from his awe-struck fingers. He would have put the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger. Anything but this. Without him to repair the Mistahs, the Wildlings would soon overrun New Acre within the month, now they knew how to disable them. Maybe that was their plan all along.
The Mistah reached forward and plucked Loveday’s broken form from off of the rocky floor. He secretly wished that the Mistah had come to embrace him gently and nurse him back to health. It wasn’t to be.
It had him by the waist, the great brass arm lifted him high over the gaping, yawning pit of grinding gears.
Why?
This shouldn’t be happening. Something was rotten with this situation. It shouldn’t be happening to him.
Why?
The Mistah began to lower him closer to its mouth, just to be sure he fell in cleanly.
Had his Magna-Patch failed? Loveday felt for it on his shoulder. His fingers touched the roughness of the bat skin to where the patch should have been. A tear in his jacket and an empty space inside confirmed that the Magna-Patch was missing, presumed lost.
He should have got Sarah to sew that up for him. But she was gone. And so was he.
The Mistah released its grasp of Loveday and he fell into the mouth, his scream replaced by the grisly grinding of fateful gears. Within the hour he would be processed as fuel, his remains jettisoned on the bone pile with the rest of the waste.
The Mistah moved off on its tracks, programmed to investigate, its sensor had picked up a signature of Wildlings over the next ridge.
Lots of them.
Machina Mortis: Steampunk'd Tales of Terror Page 10
