Underneath the Draconian Sky

by Chatwin, Dale M.

  Reptiles dressed as masochistic surgeons gathered around his vessel, they smelt him with their thick, clammy tongues.

  “The satisfying stench of a future Rift Walker,” said the one to the left of his head.

  “Make the preparations for Ser Holness here,” said the one to his right, its voice sounded like a crack running through a brick wall.

  Patrick’s head began to swim and slosh like a fishing boat trapped in open waters in a storm. The bacteria he once saw floating in his field of vision had been obscured by green polka dots.

  Tumours, he thought, there are tumours in my brain. I am the victim of some malevolent disease and will die in this dream.

  Before Patrick Holness passed out he could hear the whirring of some machine.

  All too real.

  10

  The Guy supped on a warm beverage that tasted of cranberries and red grapes. He looked at the towering lizard Ganeibyus, a look that was urging the alien creature on.

  “That is all I can tell you. The rest, no doubt, you will hear from the High Occultist himself as I know not the events that transpired after his operation.”

  “Why would he bother to regale me in such tales?” The Guy felt like he was being toyed with, perhaps he was being toyed with, but there was nothing he could do about it now. The cogs had begun to turn and the gears had been shifted into auto-drive.

  “He loves the sound of his own voice and loves to fill his victim’s heads with depraved tales before he slaughters them,” said the reptile. His shape had begun to shift momentarily into a figure,

  Patrick Holness?

  The Guy felt slightly nauseous,

  Or maybe it’s this strange brew they have given me.

  It did taste strange, maybe it had passed its sell by date. He couldn’t actually remember the specific point in which he had accepted the beverage. The Guy placed the golden cup, which had the odd texture of soft rubber, down on the floor between his feet. Ganeibyus laid his cool, scaly paw on the Guy’s cheek and caressed. Neither one made a move to pull back, for a brief moment both were locked in a mutual agreement, something that existed on a cosmic level. When the paw was retracted, the Guy spoke.

  “ ‘A future Rift Walker’ you mentioned.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why were you trying to transform Patrick Holness into a Rift Walker?”

  “We wanted to see if the Human species was capable of inter-dimensional travel that didn’t involve portals or wisps of smoke.

  Was a Human capable of simply walking into another realm of existence at will?”

  “What did your results yield?”

  “You can see what it yielded, the High Occultist. As I said, he was the only member of the Halo Experiments.”

  “Halo, I have heard this word. Why Halo?”

  “The only way to create a Rift Walker, we found, was to equip the subject with a Halo. It is a glass tube that is embedded into their skull and emits an amaranth glow. When the subject wishes to enter another dimension, they think with their mind thus making the Halo burn bright. Transporting them in the process.”

  “I thought you wanted no portals or wisps of smoke?”

  “Alas, a species has to ‘Move On’ to a higher plain of existence in order to freely pass into dimensions. The Halo is designed to reprogram the brain the more the subject uses it, so eventually he/she will not need it anymore.”

  “You’re playing the Cosmic Forces for fools,” the Guy looked on with contempt.

  “One day you shall discover that we are the Cosmic Forces. I do not expect you to take my word for it though. I wonder about you, however, 1107. You are a Rift Walker, I have been able to smell it on you since you arrived here. Where do you come from El Vagabundo Misterioso?”

  The Guy looked down at his hand and saw he was holding the golden cup again. He could taste the forbidden fruits in his mouth and dropped the cup in shock.

  “What are you doing to me?”

  “Will you not answer my question first? Where do you come from?” Ganeibyus’ tongue flickered in anticipation.

  “You’ll get no answer from me, dragon! Are you trying to poison me? Lull me into a false sense of security, then execute me in some cowardly fashion?” The Guy tripped over his own feet as he tried to shuffle backwards.

  “No, I have not. I’m merely preparing you for the transition. I’d hoped I could get to know you better before it happened, but I see that our time has run out.”

  His vision began to oscillate between the art gallery room and city streets. The Guy felt heavy, like he had been wrapped in a lead cloak. His brain felt like it was going to melt out of every orifice. Reality was being liquefied right before his eyes. The building that served as the headquarters of the Cult of Aakmanu had dissolved, and was replaced by the pavements of the City. He ambled through the streets feeling the moist warmth of the steam that expelled from drains in the pavement. The Guy knew he had to see this to the end, a part of him detested the job and another part was just too curious to give up. He had to find his way to the train station. All around him the Guy could feel the Hyper Intelligent Bacteria working away at the world.

  From the Journal of 1107:

  Being here amongst cacti I burn and swim

  in a melodic almost fashionable heat.

  Mincing through rock and minuscule insects

  I try not to sting, to step, to destroy.

  The sun is beating now I can hear its dull drum tap, tap, tap

  ever producing more bass

  less snare more crash less ride,

  with the occasional clang of a bell.

  My head aches.

  Body wet, dripping oh so wet, and sticky

  from the salty sweat I can taste on my lips.

  With cracked skin they bleed.

  I need rest

  I need feed

  I need water forever.

  I need transport home.

  With the endless miles and endless walking

  one feels like one’s trapped under a dome of

  impenetrable transparent steel.

  Metallic after taste breeds only like a virus

  if one lets one’s mind become vulnerable

  in these harsh climates.

  Where down the line did my life come to this?

  Did it boil down to the factual events

  of my complacent habitual style of living?

  Or did I just happen to let fate seep its tendrils

  softly spasmodically under my crotch?

  Either way I'm here.

  No escape.

  Just keep trodding to take the bait.

  Act III

  The Industry of Sexual Integrity

  1

  The Guy turned his ticket in his fingers; Moffatt Fields was imprinted on the amaranth cardboard stub, which he gave a curious look. Bruce Wozniak still clutched to his memories. As he stared out of the window, he looked over towards Lament’s Corner and briefly thought of Nancy, the Guy cast his mind back to the aftermath of Bruce’s death. His mind felt like a dense pail of sand. Harshly weighted.

  Out of his window he saw the small town disappear and transform into desert. The unalterable landscape was discomfiting, how scenery changed so suddenly. The steam locomotive travelled fast and the Guy felt restless, his shifting of position caused the leather seat to creak and moan. Not many people were on the train and the ones who were, were most likely heading beyond the Moffatt Fields and to the coast. The Guy allowed his emerald eyes to close, and slept.

  2

  The zephyr was cool and refreshing against the warm evening. The stars winked and the Moon surveyed the world. He was lying in bed with her, the young Egyptian refugee. Nancy Mooring was her name. The Guy felt her nuzzle against his chest and heard her exhale a sigh of pleasure and comfort. He observed his surroundings and saw he was back in the Rift Inn Time, his room looking the same as the day he departed. Somewhere inside he felt happy, something he rarely felt in terms of affection and lov
e. Although he did not love Nancy, he had come to respect her and admire her.

  Something in the air changed, the tranquillity of the moment had been filtered and he grew cold. When the Guy looked to Nancy he saw blood, her beauty had been obliterated by congealed blood, dead eyes and peeling flesh. In panic he shoved the corpse off the bed and scrambled to his feet naked. Slow laughter, gruff and full of malice echoed through the walls. In the darkest corner of the room there came a glow. A ring of amaranth floated in the darkness, then the voice followed.

  “See what they do 1107? The almighty Aakmanu, the ones who led us out of our primitive beliefs of Gods and into the arms of the Cosmic Forces. They murdered your beloved whore and you seek vengeance on me?” The High Occultist hacked and spluttered, the Guy could not make out any figure, only that sickly glow.

  “It’s not about vengeance Patrick…”

  “Do not call me that name El Vagabundo! I can molest your mind in ways you cannot comprehend, what you’re experiencing is more than just a dream,” spat the High Occultist.

  “What happened to you Occultist? What did the Aakmanu do to twist a man into something as barbaric as Dream Walking?”

  “All in good time 1107. All in good time. The horrors of sexual integrity are created by miscreants, breathed into existence by bulls charging at blankets stained with the menstrual blood of 77 dames.

  It keeps delaying people, engorging their final prayers while they kneel like beggars believing the judgemental stares. Posthumous text, they read and weep. It’s all sin, a sacrifice to woe. Woe is the story and woe is his heart as it cries maroon tears. Gargantuan dramas bursting from their dismay but they’ll never realise it was just the Will O’ the Wisp drawing them into its embrace. A network of notes trailing like cancerous veins as he sleeps the voices grow loud leading him into a delirious void. It is a realm where silent statues tell him to shush with stony gestures and organic eyes sprout from the walls and squint as he walks by. It would be demeaning to solicit sexual favours from a Rabbi while he spanks teenage girls with a paddle made from armadillo skin.”

  A cold sweat poured from the Guy’s forehead and he fondled his hair in agitation. Intestines writhing like worms and bowels tied in sickening knots. The old feeling was back with a vengeance. Like a hurricane it would eventually pass, he just needed to hold steady, stay the course and persevere through this perverted sickness. Nerves, a weakness, he didn’t have the luxury to be weak at such a time. His nihilistic approach to the situation would burn all bridges to his rational thought. There were too many imps in the woodwork, chipping splinters into his cognition. A purple faced pug dog wearing spectacles stared at him stupidly.

  The room began to shake violently as if the world had been struck by an earthquake of apocalyptic proportions. He heard a distant voice but could not make out the words or who was speaking them. Abruptly the quake stopped, for a moment the room was like a jaw that had been knocked askew, then it jolted back into place. Outside the window the first filaments of dawn begun to show and the streets were paved with bodies. The clouds were entwined with streaks of crimson.

  “The elements are at war,” he said aloud.

  3

  “The elements are at war,” the Guy heard himself say as he woke up from his slumber. He saw the train conductor towering above him. A man who looked to be in his mid-forties, with black and grey hair slicked back with pomade, and a thick grey moustache.

  “Son, the locomotives gotta make a stop ‘ere,” he said with a thick accent.

  “Where is here?” The Guy could taste cranberries on his tongue.

  “The Industrial Complex.”

  “That wasn’t on the map.”

  “I know, tis an unscheduled stop whilst the engineer fixes the steam funnels. Shouldn’t take more an a few hours. The place is pretty quiet.”

  “What is this place?”

  “Used ter be factories and coal mines as far as the eye could see. Now they is all abandoned and derelict. Complex 17 is the only section that still functions. Go take a look, you’ll have plenty ‘o time,” the conductor turned and left. The Guy saw him casually spit a globule of mucus onto the floor and rub it away with his leather shoe.

  The morning was warm and the sky was awash with amber and maroon. He stepped off the steam train and stretched his arms out, yawning wide. When he stared out at the landscape, the Guy saw many red brick factories that all had towering cement chimneys. They were all disused, relics of the old days when the Industrial Revolution changed the course of evolution. In the near distance he could see twin towers of smoke ascending into the clouds, Complex 17, the conductor had told him it was the only functioning area in the Industrial Complex. Something resonated within his consciousness, a name: Gerald Danmouth. The Guy began to make his way to the smoky beacon, he could hear his leather boots crunching in the desert sand. Occasionally there would be a breeze, refreshing him but also spiting him by kicking sand in his face; stinging his lips. From the outside, the neglected factories appeared preserved, the Guy took a peek inside one of the buildings and what he saw stung his heart. Inside the factory were mammoth machines made of bronze and copper, years of time and sand had caused these mechanisms to fade.

  Vultures made their nests in the manager’s office, Desert Rats resided within the walls and beneath the floors and strange species of scorpions scuttled hither and thither with pompous swagger informing trespassers that they were sheriffs in this neighbourhood. The Guy left that morose, barren and decaying world and ventured forth.

  A man in blue, tattered floral shorts and a blue fading, weather beaten chequered shirt frolicked in the sand. He was raw with sunburn and spoke inane words:

  “The Mage of life brought fruits to me cradled in a basket! It forged me rings of purest iron and told me to procreate in the deserts bosom. I saw a fire wrought with silver and dusk created from potassium mixed in a cocktail of cosmic delight. ‘Consume me! Consume me,’ I said when all the God’s toys were dead! Intoxicated on beverages brewed from the finest potions, I sailed in sand and broken dreams of contagious drugs! ‘What was it all for?’ I questioned in jest, milk from my maiden’s breast. Sup, I tells you! Sup on the fruits of linguistic approaches then bury me 11 feet underground where roaches breed and the maggots feed!”

  A tragic waste of cells, thought the Guy, maybe he will be consumed by this industrial graveyard.

  He could see slag heaps reaching for the heavens. Mutated hounds scavenged for food amidst the waste, and vultures circled waiting for the mutts to drop dead from starvation, or poisoning. The aromas were offensive to the senses.

  The Guy approached Complex 17 at a steady stroll, kicking rocks with his boots and savouring the (almost) quiet of the area.

  4

  There they stood; twin factories. One was made from ebony and the other from ivory of the finest metamorphic stone, crafted by proficient and dexterous stone masons from some long ago time. Complex 17 had been the centre of the Industrial Complex; the identical factories had once marked the beginning of a prosperous era for the Island. They were seen as Holy Houses for the God of industry and were therefore never recreated; instead the Red Brick Disciples were constructed.

  It was no surprise to the Guy that the yin and yang foundries were the last men standing. They were the first to enter the stage, and they shall be the last to take a bow and exit.

  The pillars of smog made the atmosphere feel dense, he could already hear the sound of machines clunking and whirring. A murder of crows flew overhead, announcing to the world in cringing squawks that it was their turn to feast on the slag heaps.

  A wind picked up the sand and began to scatter the microscopic grains all around. A ferocious sand storm began to boil; the Guy took flight towards the ivory factory, fighting nature as he went.

  5

  The Sun rose eagerly over the eastern horizon, impregnating the Earth with light. Shadows blossomed from inanimate structures and the morning’s vultures stirred above the landfills.
Gerald Danmouth awoke with a hazy mind; he remembered the last thing he dreamed :

  He was 23 years old and in the countryside, somewhere near the Moffatt Fields, in a building that was somewhere between a barn and a mansion. He was with his 16 year sister (Kallisto) and their 9 year old cousin (Glykeria). Both he and Kallisto were molesting their cousin, bodies entwined in abominable harmony. He could feel both their sweat and mucus as he heaved and plunged into forbidden depths.

  When the act was done, he took a device shaped like a toy Komodo dragon. Gerald left the building after he had gotten dressed, telling his nymph maids to wait as he supped from the well. Outside he splashed cool water on his face and tossed a copper coin into the depths wishing for eternal euphoria. From the left pocket in his semen smeared jeans, he withdrew another device, an imposing scarlet button with the number 33 engraved into its face. He pushed the button. A dampened explosion caused the building to shake; he saw ravens flee the nearby trees. At that moment he knew what he had done. Gerald entered the building slowly, observing his surroundings, making sure nothing will collapse. There was no door to the room, he felt too sick to enter. Instead, Gerald took a peek inside and all he saw was a dark red smear on the grey concrete wall. Vomit passed out of his mouth and tasted bitter. He fled the building and stood across the road staring, on the inside he panicked and screamed.

  Authorities arrived and surveyed the scene; Gerald was still standing across the road. He was invisible to everyone. Always invisible.

  He felt on the brink of tears as he woke, the desert sun penetrating his window. The sound of machinery in the main hall comforted him, gave him his bearings. The dream manifested in his sleep regularly; a cruel reminder of what he had done and why he found himself in the situation he was in. The reality had been much different, however. After he murdered his sister and cousin for no reason he could think of, the Folk of Bachman Gardens had found him bent over the well performing loathsome sexual acts on himself using parts of the girls’ mutilated bodies.