A Rising Fall

by C. Sean McGee

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  As he walked back along the corridors the flux of people passing his sight seemed to melt into one another, creating a blur of an off white colour swirling in and out of the blacks of the soldiers marching up and down the halls.

  His head felt light and swimming, he couldn’t sustain his focus, trying to visualise the metallic sink so he could flush all of this distraction down his conscious drain, but it was no use.

  His mind was stained, dividing upon itself infinitely, never reaching zero, severing every inch of reason in half and in half again and in half again and in half again and all he could do was ride the wave of nausea that broke against the shore of his trembling gut, riding up through his centre and disgorging from his mouth and for a fractal of second, taking him with it, out in to the air, free of his corporal bind, free of his subconscious rebellion, free of being proven wrong and free of knowing it the whole time. The force in his stomach burst like a volcano and he vomited profusely.

  He listened to the reprise of laughter and Collective prose. Love as one, live as you love, love as one, live as you love. These words were his own, but now they echoed through his being and fell shy of definition. A feverish sweat billowed from his forehead. His eyes glazed, his mouth parched. His ears screamed the distortion of humans chanting. He couldn’t make out a word. As he tried to focus, another wave of sickness enveloped him, sending his heavy stomach to his mouth again. He could feel a thousand hands all over him trying to straighten him or move in in some direction.

  His mind floated above his body but still his sight fell on the black lines and the zeros and ones. He fell back against the wall dropping to his knees, holding his hands to his eyes and he threw himself into every breath wishing to spring from his mortal coil and evaporate; into the nothingness, into the cold air, into the dark expanding glue of the universe; into a dream. His sight spun in all directions, the sound killing time in his ears, just an audible blur; and then everything turned to black.

  When he woke, he stepped into his already open eyes. They had been open for some time; maybe they had never been closed. There was a blinding light coming from above, nothing natural and not something that could or should exist, not now, when for so long, night had been an ineludible acquaintance; the emotionally repulsive parent who kept coming home.

  The light burning his eyes was warm like the sun, but it was whiter than the white in The Woman’s eyes; it felt like a thousand bees were trenching their stingers inside his eyes. He tried to blink, to close his eyelids, but he couldn’t find the controls. He tried to scream and he did so, but nothing came out; he was couldn’t find his voice.

  No sound came from his mouth and no sound travelled through his conscious mind where he stayed, watching through the luminescence, listening more intently now to the sound of familiarity.

  “It’s worse than we thought,” said one voice.

  “What can be done?” asked another; it sounded like The Woman, she sounded almost honest in her care.

  “At this point, there is not much we can do. It’s acted extremely fast, as you can see; he is in a vegetable state. We haven’t seen The Famine this aggressive before and it’s worrying. We will try everything we can, but I think at a certain point you will need to accept that the Marcos you knew is no longer with us. We are looking at right now at the best case scenario” said the first voice.

  “So that’s it? He’s just going to lie there staring at the roof? How did this happen?” she screamed in a different direction.

  “You must have seen its commencement. Was he acting funny with you? At Distraction, dreaming, irrational?” spoke a third voice, hauntingly familiar, deep and booming; The Behemoth.

  “He was seeing people. Two girls. One he said was an adolescent. And he was talking strangely; really paranoid” she said.

  “When was this, the speaking in delusion?” asked the strange voice.

  “Today; before. I could have helped him. I knew something was wrong. He’d never spoken to me like that before. We hardly ever spoke. I should have known something was really wrong. I should have helped him” she said.

  “How could you have known? You share no empathy with this man; your love in theoretical. Now, you shared a bed with him, yes? At this point, we won’t need to quarantine you but we will ask that you remain under protection, at least until after the move; until we can assess better your situation. We still aren’t completely sure, the limits of infection but this type of Famine is completely new to The City and I can only imagine the ease in its wing. Had you engaged in sex recently with Marcos?” asked the strange voice.

  “Why? You think it’s transmittable?” asked The Woman frightened.

  “Now I know this will sound silly and repetitive but have you been enjoying the sensation? I mean afterwards, did you feel any likening to Marcos after the act; any pardoning of transgressions, any false appreciations, anything at all?” asked the strange voice.

  The Woman’s mind instantly filled with the closeness she had felt; the tenderness of Marcos’ firm hand on her breast, his spread fingers then running down her chest and the length of her body to her inner thigh while his delicate breath splashed across her bare skin, her hands outstretched; running through his hair.

  As she screamed in delight, a shudder of electricity parted from between her thighs to her heart which beat rapidly a warmth that rushed through her veins which then tingled at her toes and numbed them, leaving her conscious mind alive; exploding with colour and forgiveness.

  “Nothing,” she said, knowing too well what cruelty was dressed upon The Collective should anyone show the stresses or the psychological rash of The Famine.

  “To be sure, we will keep a White Heart with you at all times, to protect you from yourself,” said the strange voice consolingly.

  “We can’t leave him here, though. We have to take him with us” she said.

  “With us, where? Where are you going? Don’t trust him. You can’t go with him. What is going on here?” Marcos screamed; viscerally into his own conscious, but his body stayed still, his corporal voice; silent.

  “I’ll have The Engineer prepare a device to secure the travel of his body. I promise you, we will find a cure for this horrible affliction. For now, according to Marcos’ request, I will convene with the generals in the coming hour and we will make preparations for moving The Nest” said the Behemoth.

  “Moving, are you sure? Is it necessary? Marcos never mentioned anything about relocating. He was so confident, so assured at least, that’s what he had me believe” she said.

  “There was a lot you didn’t know about this man. For instance, did you know that he was thinking of leaving you behind with the greater part of The Children? He said they; and you, didn’t function in his grand design and that you were an anchor to something that he couldn’t transcend; something you both lived once before. He didn’t say in any detail. He didn’t have to. The passion in his voice spoke of treason, his words and his heart painted you as his Judas” said The Behemoth.

  The Woman looked over Marcos’ still body at first in shock and then with contempt and an expected want of surprise. They had been pulling apart for so long; like a universe from one event running farther from itself, until like their love, it was cold and distant; slowing and painfully drifting to its inevitable end.

  The Woman leaned in and stared him deep in the eye. Marcos was screaming, but she could not hear. She leaned close to his ear and a tear rolled from her eyes as she confessed.

  “You were right, I’m sorry. I wish I had of said it sooner. I wish I could take it all back. I’m sorry my love, I’m sorry, goodbye” she murmured.

  She kissed his cheek and her tear ran onto his face sliding down the length of his neck and pooling just near the tip of his spine. She composed herself and moved away from his body.

  “Do what you need to do. The man is dead, but his philosophy is king” she said giving permission to the scientists to dispose of his lifeless body.

  “
Organise your things. Organise your Children. We leave on the fifth new dawn, on a cold grey August morning” said The Behemoth to The Woman, resting both of his firm hands on her shoulders and directing his assuring sight to hers.

  Marcos was screaming and writhing, but his body wouldn’t move; he was trapped in the vacuum of his conscious mind; aware, awake, but unable to communicate.

  “Dump his body in the black river,” The Behemoth said to a White Heart guarding the door.

  The Behemoth looked over his still body and like The Woman, leaned down to his ear to whisper quietly.

  “It really is impressive tea, isn’t it?” he said, collecting in a small canister, a single tear that had run from The Woman’s courageous heart, down her lover’s cheek and pooled just below his shoulder; on the cold steel table.