Songs for a Deviant Earth

by Luka Petrov

  10. The City of Lights

  The town of Thurso came clearer and clearer into view until they were parked up beside dark wooden sheds on either side of the road. Up ahead of them was a huge gate of barbed wire illuminated by tall watchtower-like buildings with oil lamps in each. Men stood there, protected by recycled leathers and improvised padding, welding helmets armored with tin and other metal. Their car’s lights shone onto the closed heavy closed gates of the settlement, big rusted garage doors cobbled together with wire. “COME FORWARD,” shouted one of the guards. The Driver continued on, his heart beating louder. He could tell that these guards were armed as a masked man approached the smashed windows of the car. Every moment, it felt, could be their last. Everyone in the car felt it, the fragility of having something of worth, a moving vehicle. The guard flipped up his welding mask to reveal a pale, bearded face, strange acne covering it.

  “Whit’s yer purpose in Thurso,” asked the Guard, his voice breathing heavily. He held an LED flashlight that he shone into the car, the blue light glimmering onto the wounds of the occupants, illuminating the glass on the floor. The Guard saw the pale faces of the people in the back, of Siobhan and Hamish, and was suddenly alarmed by their bloodless complexions. “They infected?!” he asked, taking a step back from the car. “No, no,” insisted the Driver, urging Siobhan to lean forward. “They got some kinda, how’d you call it, pigmentation thing,” he joked, a burst of short laughter beneath his breath. “They’re totally harmless.” The flashlight shone into his eyes. He cleared his throat. “We’re here to trade, eat some fresh food, maybe find some work,” he nodded, trying to smile, his lips quivering.

  The Guard approached one more time, the moon now visible over his shoulder like a huge yellowed egg in the deep green of night. “You selling the girl?” asked the Guard, his voice like gravel. Suddenly his flashlight was shining across her body, over the bumps and grooves of her chest and legs. She had grown into a very desirable young woman. Hamish began to shake with rage, his eyes following the spotlight of the torch. “No sir,” replied the Driver, grinning with a hand over his forehead. “That lady is my wife.” The Guard opened his helmet once again and leaned very close to the Driver. “I could offer ye a great price,” he whispered. The Driver simply smiled, shaking his head. At any moment, he felt, a bullet was about to enter his skull.

  But instead the Guard waved a hand holding some kind of white rag. Each of them in the car exhaled, Siobhan holding onto the arm of Hamish. The exchange had made her feel surer of their Driver and his intentions. The gates were opened and inside they went, the car traveling slowly over the cobblestone bumps in the road. Thurso was an ancient town filled with some of the oldest buildings still standing on the islands. Now there were many watchtowers, rooftop buildings, and sheds lining the roads, both living quarters and businesses. Huge washing lines were hung from the windows of each building, clothes hanging down from them. Crowds of people heaved through the night, lit up by passing street lamps.

  As they drove on, they eventually got into a crowd they could pass. It was a market of sorts, stalls lit by flaming torches, LED lanterns, and oil lamps. Everything had a fizzing, atmospheric intensity to it. The Driver drove slowly forward, honking his horn. The crowds turned, cooing and shouting in excitement at the vehicle. Some ran their hands across it, while others hopped onto the roof like apes exploring the car of a safari. Finally, they made it out from across the stalls by turning into a cobblestone alleyway. A loud thud could be heard as people scuttled away. Suddenly, they slowed down, unsure of where to go next. A dark-skinned figure emerged at the window, swinging his arms high in urgency. He wore a green high vis jacket and had a bandana around his mouth, a flaming torch in his hand, “Be canny, travelers. Ye cannae lea this motor just anywhere, otherwise it wull be nicked,” he exclaimed, warning them away from a dark path.

  The Driver stuck his head out of the window, seeing that up ahead a group of rather thuggish, masked men stood at one end. “Lay me in, I’ll show ye the way,” the man said.

  The Driver, seeing no other option, accepted the proposal. “How can we trust him?” asked Siobhan, desperately worried by the addition of another unknown being.

  “We can’t,” said the Driver, “but we can’t lose the car either. And we’ll need more fuel to get any further, so he’s our best bet, right?” They watched from the window as the green jacketed-man passed his flaming torch to a stranger as a gift before hopping into the front passenger seat.

  “Just to let you know,” the Driver said with the shotgun in his lap, “You shouldn’t try to attack us.” Hamish took his gun from the shadows, illustrating the added firepower.

  Their guide made no sudden moves, instead directing them toward the dark shadows of a multistory car park, one side of it collapsed in at the bottom. “It looks dangerous, but ‘tis safe,” said the man, seeing a series of similarly dressed men in high vis jackets, some with cricket bats and other hand-to-hand.

  “How much?” asked the Driver with a cautious expression, his grin fading. “How much to watch the vehicle?”

  The bandana-mouthed man shook his head from side to side. “Depends what you’re offerin,’”

  Soon they had parked in a vacant lot, though the car park was filled with vehicles, a guard waiting with each. Together they bartered with the bullets and clock they’d found, taking cans of food from a trunk. Eventually, they settled on a deal, rather steep by all estimations, but one that allowed Siobhan, Hamish, and the Driver to the enter the city without the certainty of their vehicle disappearing. The excitement in the air was thick, each of them simultaneously frightened and bewildered by the prospect of entering the city.

  The guide who would now become the protector of their car had words of advice for the group. “Don’t look nobody in town in the eye too long,” he whispered, pulling down his bandana to reveal a mouth full of scar tissue, “and don’t pull a weapon unless yer lookin’ fer a fight.” He drew a map in a biro on a small piece of paper, crude enough that it was barely helpful. They walked out from the concrete walls of the car park, crossing the cobblestone streets, peering into the old houses of white stone. Inside they saw fireplaces lit, piles of books being used as fodder, iron bars protecting windows, strange wooden sculptures and figures looming on mantelpieces. It was a world still clinging on to the threads of society, a town trying to reclaim the old ways. Smoke plumed from chimneys, rising high into the ashen gloom of night.

  By the time they had arrived in town, strange celebrations seemed to be taking place. Masked men danced about the narrow alleyways, many of them seemingly intoxicated. Every part of their carnival outfits was recycled in some way—armor made of the old tops of tin cans, bin bags, and bones. Siobhan and Hamish watched in awe, arm in arm, as the fire-lit torches illuminated their performance. There were huge crowds of market-goers stumbling about to form a circle, congregating in the square. They had come to see a play of some kind, a form of street theatre, the practitioners playing out their version of the apocalypse. The entire audience chanted for them to begin, men and women clad in cloaks of fur, hiking equipment, and blankets.

  “Hear ye, hear ye,” yelled out the leader of the performers, standing tall in the center of the marketplace, “for I am th’ sun and ah wull destroy yer lights, yer crops ‘n’ yer livelihood,” exclaimed the man, his face covered by a paper mache mask of rags and LED sunlight. Another entered from the back of the crowd, a man covered in dark cloth from head to toe, his body dressed in a cloak that hid his face.

  He yelled with, “And I am the dark ghost of the wood. I will fill your ears with sound and will make the cargo hidden from your eyes.” The two danced together until another joined, this time a man dressed in white robes with large welding goggles covering his eyes.

  “Here enters I, the man who owns the power. I wull contaminate all around me, and the flares of the sun will break down my tech,” he screeched, hollering with a voice of theatrical intensity.

  They a
ll watched the folk play for some time, a strange reenactment of the Nine Days of Lights. They showed how at first there had been spontaneous lightning that had filled the night with daylight, flashes that continued for years, how most technologies had been rendered useless, and how areas of the Earth been cut off by the ‘ghosts.’ The play continued to show how scavengers entered such areas, usually using others as scapegoats, to find the food and equipment that was still held in the houses. But by that point, though Hamish was still enthused by the strange dancing and beating of sticks, the Driver had grown tired.

  “Come on, guys,” the Driver said, pointing toward the dark of the night. “We gotta go in case people are sizing us up for robbery.”

  And so they walked into the market, Siobhan pointing out the stalls to Hamish. The market units had a blue plastic tarpaulin covering each stall, hung over the rafters to protect them from the harsh rain. Beneath the curtains of plastic were long tables of assorted bric-a-brac—coats, flashlights, knives, and socks. Some were more specific, with one large stall selling the meat of dogs, the barking hounds still held in cages. That stall was particularly busy, as it offered one of the few sources of live food that remained, domesticated animals being the easiest to keep without living crops. The Driver traded cans of his food and their surplus bullets for a few meals and water, though he remarked that it tasted as contaminated as the stuff you’d find in ponds.

  Eventually, they found a medicine tent, trading some of their goods for stitches and bandages. This reminded her of the only father she knew, the doctor who took care of her. She suddenly remembered the medical kit that he packed for her before her and Hamish were sent away to the monastery. Tears filled her eyes at the notion of this.

  Siobhan had a patch of cloth taped to her back, thin thread sewn through the larger gashes. The Driver’s face was covered in patches of plasters, his one eye now blackened by the gash of a nail. The doctor, a cold woman with no hair and a Germanic voice, attempted to sell them painkillers of mysterious origin, but the group declined and departed, heading off across the dark streets with limps and bandaged faces. Wherever they went, the thick accents of passersby followed them, the conspiring whispers of an entire populous.

  Winding through the many lanes of the town, they encountered the strangest and most dangerous of people. Prostitutes exhibited their wares through windows, many covered in mysterious lumps and mutations. Gangsters loomed over every alley, attempting to sell shanks, dried jerky, and fake radiation pills. Down some alleys, they found nostalgia museums to the old world, covered in relics and photographs, their owners fragile and elderly. It was a town alive with trade, with con men and monsters hiding around every corner. Siobhan attempted to explain these things to Hamish, who was pleased with a new raincoat now covering his head. Suddenly, all around them, in every ancient crevice and stone pathway, white snow covered the landscape. In times past, people would have basked in the glory of the elements, but now they ran, bustling and screaming, to safety.

  This place was much different from where the twins had grown up. The hustle and bustle of the city was invigorating. The twins yearned for the simpler life that they were used to, being on a small town with a small population island was comforting to them. This city was practically overwhelming. There was too much to take in, yet all of the busyness appealed to all of the senses.

  They could smell the bakery of fresh baked goods, but on the other side, they could smell the stench of urine in on the curb of the street and the decomposing trash that littered the walkways. Siobhan felt herself excited by the swarms of people who lived in the city. Despite its over-sensation, it was vibrant and alive. Something the twins had never experienced being in the small island and then to the monastery.

  The Driver placed his arm around Siobhan in the writhing mass of the crowd with Hamish following close behind. He easily pushed those running out of the way, his muscular arms extending in a blanket of protection. As they ran into the safety of a large building, they saw its exterior was half covered in scaffolding and metal. It appeared to be a temple of sorts, a corn exchange turned into a giant hall of commerce. They ran down a long stone hallway of vendors, desperate to escape the falling radiation. Many followed them en masse, a throng of hysterics, running and gasping. This ritual of escape was clearly rehearsed and infrequent. The rain fell enough to make all the men cower. Finally, they arrived in the mess of the hall, their eyes suddenly opened to a chamber of activity.

  Before them stood a plethora of tables, people yelling and singing, women dancing on tops of tables. Hamish walked over to a ditch some men were cowering around, a pit nestled between tables. There, in a hole dug specifically for the purpose, small dogs fought on leashes. Blood spilled onto the mud below, the crumbled floorboards caving in around the designated arena. “Don’t watch,” Siobhan urged, pulling her large brother away into the hall. Hamish followed as if on a leash himself, his sister not wanting him to revel in violence. The Driver walked ahead of the rest of them, eyeing up the dancing ladies and the drunken folk beneath. This was a bar of some kind, and in some ways a casino—a place where the trade was in flesh and chance. The siblings followed their Driver to a bar top where an old white-haired gentleman sat on a stool, grooming a wheezing greyhound.

  “What’ll it be,” the old man asked, pointing to the cabinets of strange poisons behind him. Much of them were whiskey, others completely bootleg and bizarre, random chemicals of no easy description in unlabeled bottles. The Driver was an aged alcoholic and knew well what he was looking for. The final cans in his backpack were reserved for it. “Your finest and strongest gin, or the closest approximation,” he said, taking out the contents of his backpack. The old man eyed him strangely, plucking a few of the cans and placing them beneath the counter. Soon, before them were three shots of strong moonshine, cloudy enough to suggest an unfiltered and dangerous substance. Siobhan looked down into the glass of misty whiteness, remembering the hazy clouds of her youth. “Drink up,” said the Driver, handing a glass to the giant Hamish. “I have a feeling our fortunes are changing.”

  They drank several of these, Siobhan and her brother choking from the sheer power of the drinks, but after they began to settle, a pleasant buzz ran through them with laughter returning to their hearts. One of the many patrons of the bar began to play the violin, the crowd cheering and singing along. Arm in arm, Siobhan and Hamish watched, the siblings tearing up with the sound of real music. Across the bar sat a strange individual, his face wrinkled to the utmost degree. His wild greying hair seemed to jut out of his head in all directions, thick with the white powder of the skies above. He was covered in dog pelts, fur stitched around his chest and shoulders. The Driver could tell he was watching them through every drink, and the drunker he got, the more curious he became.

  Finally, as Hamish had begun to feel nauseous, vomiting up the foul liquids of the night, the Driver took it upon himself to walk over. “Give me a moment, babe,” he uttered. Siobhan, tending to the throws of her brother, called, “Please, don’t go too far,” as she was feeling quite alone in the strange intensity of the place. The Driver walked away as she held her brother in her arms, wiping the sweat from his forehead. “Soon we’ll be gone of this place,” she said, “back to the countryside. To the woods and the forests and the sound of the birds.” Her brother smiled and nodded, his head hanging heavily. But she did not know if it was true.

  The Driver stumbled as he walked among the tables, his legs brushing those of body-armored guards and gaunt looking smugglers. He walked towards the gentleman in the corner, the fur-covered fellow with his wrinkled hand extended. The man wore aviator sunglasses, a golden Euro flipping between his fingers. Once the Driver had arrived at his table, he ignored the angered faces of the man’s associates and lurched over with his own grey cowlick sweeping over his eyes. “Just what is it you’re looking at, buddy!?” the Driver called out, the stiff drink rendering his bones floppy and lucid. In several seconds, he was restrained by a series
of oily goons, these men placing a large blade against his throat. “How come dinnae ye sit doon, laddie,” grumbled the strange leader.

  Realizing just how close to death he had found himself, the Driver’s brain suddenly kicked into gear. Slowly he lowered his legs, knees quivering, to the bench below. The knife stayed where it was, the serrated edge threatening to cut his skin at any point. “They call me Uncle Black,” whispered the shaggy-haired man, his face covered in the healed wounds of knife fights. “Ah think tis best if no fightin’ goes oan. Dinnae ye?” The Driver barely understood through the thickness of his accent but nodded none the less. Soon the knife was removed, the Driver sighing and slicking the sweat from his forehead.

  Uncle Black smiled with a toothy sort of sneer, allowing the coin to spin on the table. “‘Reason I was lookin’ at ya,” he said, a voice full of glass and cigarettes, “Was on account a’ya companions.” The Driver looked up from the table, already regretting putting himself on the table; the alcohol had controlled him, sending his mind into complete disarray. “Yes, of course,” he replied, “what do you want to know?” Black laughed a gravelly laugh, looking over to the dirt-covered men who held the Driver. “‘Ee thinks I want information,” he grumbled. The knife was placed back against the Driver’s neck.