by L. Brown
“Back!” Garth railed, now hefting the axe. But just as fast, the Manager drew a blade, a roughed-out shiv hewn from slag.
Quivered and taut, Garth wanted to fight, just finally hit back. But as he eyed the Manager’s face, he noticed the single-lens spectacles were upside-down; flipped, it seemed, to match the man’s one good eye. And though Garth still seethed, still wanted to strike, the Manager now seemed less a villain and more just absurd.
Or maybe Garth was simply too spent, but regardless, he lowered his axe. And though the Manager snarled a bit, he responded in kind, just stowed his knife and left into the fog.
Battle averted, at least for now, Garth turned back to the J’kel. Would I have done it, swung for his head? Afraid of himself, what fear and rage had nearly pushed him to do, Garth now flinched, jumped from something impacting his back.
But twisting around, he wondered why the source of the toss failed to stay, why the Manager ducked back into steam. Then he saw it, the thing just thrown; and though expecting the shiv, Garth instead saw junk, ice cleats blackened and scorched.
A clatter of metal rose fast behind, a G’mach on a platform sped his way. Assuming appearances mattered, that exhausted or not, he should at least imitate work, Garth swung up his axe. But swinging too fast, he lost his footing and crashed.
About to rise, roll back up, he pondered, instead, the inches-away cleats. Had the Manager actually come to help, did uncleated soles tempt the green fire?
Garth grabbed the cleats by their ashy, greasy straps and yanked them on. But as the platform rattled in, the G’mach’s weapon sleeve lit, started to sputter its hideous green hiss.
Glancing at the fire, Garth next saw the goggles. It looked like Firefly, had to be, but something about him had changed, and that’s when it clicked: formerly just a standard-issue gray, Firefly’s weapon sleeve now sported art, a caricature of the Mottled Fur Man melting like wax.
Feeling the ash on his fingers, also some residue of tallow or fat, Garth guessed the source of the Manager’s gift; and immediately started to gag.
Which made Firefly chuckle. Gargle? Hard to tell, because just like Shark, his grate of glottis and phlegm could pass for both. But when he pointed to Garth, then to the spot on his sleeve just below the Mottled Fur Man, there was no ambiguity, the next space was his.
Just maybe not now, maybe not yet, so shaking with gargle, possibly a laugh, Firefly clattered off.
The shift wore on.
A grapple with death masquerading as work, the trench mauled the body and deadened the mind. The routine never changed, Garth’s stagger and grunt started and ended with the axe, with struggling to lift without suffering collapse. But even if he did shoulder the tool, he still had to swing, still had to smash some scab of slag on the J’kel’s glowing skin. And though the cleats helped, thwarted the slip, his blows did nothing but sting his hands and shuffle his bones because the math was brutal, the sum of no food and zero rest had left him a shell.
Yet worse was the time. Unaware of what hours had passed or how many remained, Garth lived in the worst kind of ignorance, the torture imposed without foreseeable end. A perpetual slog with no hope on the way, his grip on both axe and reality ebbed with every swing. And though he groped for focus, some heroic inspiration from his forever-ago past, he recalled only the most unhuman of men, those with powers either super or dark, guys in tights or kids with wands. But under the Machine and down in this trench, ravaged and bent with his mind going dim, Garth found no power or spell, nothing remained but his bloody, callused hands.
And worse, he was alone.
But you’re not, asserted some inexplicable whisper, and for a moment, Garth swore it came from the J’kel. Fatigue, he reasoned, just a trick of the mind.
I’m your friend, David, persisted the whisper. Or should I call you Garth.
Entranced by the J’kel, its unfathomable inside, Garth wondered if it was finally happening, if after so many insanities, he was losing his mind.
A shock of noise shook Garth awake, the klaxon was back. The same alarm previously heard, it sprang the shadows out of the trench.
Are we done?
Slaggers replied with shouts, haulers abandoned their carts, and as Garth looked on, he abruptly realized he stood quite alone.
Over the top and out of the trench, Garth followed the herd to the racks. T-bars clanged in, Garth flung his axe, and as the masses made their pivot, fevered exclamations of yohg! and g’yohg! greeted the manna from above, the hoses and troughs now coming down.
Utterly spent just moments before, Garth found himself running on steel-cleated boots. Clumsy, they slowed his stride, yet if all that mattered was beating the rest, he had no complaint, and after passing the sick, he raced the aged and lame. But as hoses started their sputter, he slipped, nearly fell from the smell of wet dog and bad eggs. The same foul odor effused by the swill, it gave him pause; was that all they ate?
Not likely, even school lunches offered a choice, entrees either deep-fried or not, so resuming his sprint, Garth hunted for the upscale troughs, for the alien chicken or frozen-ocean fish. But with slaggers and haulers so tightly packed in, he had to wedge and weave, struggle to the very first trough. Gripping its edge, he pulled himself close, then he just stared at the same brown swill.
Garth pushed back from the trough and plowed for the next. Which, by the sound of the slurp, rated five stars. Picking his spot and plowing ahead, he finally broke through to just what he’d left, to the scoop and suck of the lumpy brown bog.
Yet regardless of its stench, they fed. And when need exceeds revulsion, you do what you must. At least that was the cliché, and at the moment, that was enough.
Spying two women, Garth wedged in between, staked his claim to a place at the trough. Or so he tried, but the women stood firm.
“Excuse me,” he grunted.
Neither woman spoke, but the taller answered quick, an elbow to his chin.
“Hey!” Rubbing his jaw, Garth wondered if they misunderstood. “I’m hungry, too, can’t we just share?” But though he used all strength and squirm, the women not only held, they never missed a slurp.
“Fine!” snapped Garth. Then pulling back, he spied another spot, a scant few inches between a woman and her son, a boy maybe eight. So betting on nature, hoping this bringer of babies retained some post-partum warmth, Garth bulled in between.
“Coming through!” he shouted. “I’m starving, ’you mind?”
Perhaps they did, for when the mother cleated Garth’s shin, the boy bit his hand. An unexpected assault, Garth replied with a shriek, but his cry got lost, was overpowered by the horn.
Sounding once more, the klaxon stabbed with two blasts. But as Garth hobbled about, it wasn’t his shin or ears that mattered, it was the ascent, the rise of the hoses and troughs.
“Wait!” he shouted, and charging the nearest trough, he crashed between two beefy men, one reminding of an ox and the other, more wooly, of a yak. “It’s not fair, can’t I just eat?”
Ox answered with a slap, Yak slapped him again, and as Garth hit the ice, he rolled into a ball and awaited their stomp. But no kick or fist came, so slowly, he lifted his head.
Gone?
Ox had left, so had Yak, and by the deserted look of the tool racks, so had everyone else. Anxiety rising, wondering how you vanish a herd, he finally looked behind.
Oddly content, just licking their lips and sucking their teeth, the masses migrated toward a zone of shadows, a cavernous gloom under a cloud… of nets? Descending nets, and as they slowly unfolded, the ropey weaves seemed more suited to trawlers, traps for tuna or shrimp. Yet these, apparently, were built for a more submissive catch, and as the lowest net stopped just over the ice, the herd climbed in, scaled the tangle hand-over-cleat. For what purpose, Garth held no guess, but as each claimed their niche in the multi-level mess — by the look of it, five webs stacked like floors — they did nothing else, just simply curled up.
To rest?
So it seemed. And they weren’t alone, for though a skeleton crew of laborers filed toward the tool racks, even the Machine seemed to slow, idle to a sleepwalking creep.
Too good to be true, Garth staggered to the nets. Snores had started, every niche seemed filled, so he climbed, picked his way around heads and limbs until finding a vacancy, a spot near the peak. And after dodging G’mach and scraping the J’kel, after ten-thousand swings with his bloody-callused hands, Garth collapsed into a patch of coarse, bristled rope.
Expecting protest, some scold or cry for stealing someone’s spot, he heard only breathing, the racket of repose. Then strangely, something more.
Whispers barely heard, they stirred deep below. He tried to catch a few words, but the odd blend of consonant and vowel first reminded of French, then simply food, nonsensical thoughts now floating off. Then no thought remained, but one.
Is this where I die?
No answer wanted, no answer heard, Garth slipped off with the herd.
And never felt it, the shiver in his rope. Too stealthy to awaken, too steady and slow, a patient quiver inched his way.
A moment later, seemingly less, his velvety rest ripped clean away in a thunder of klaxon and gusts of sway. A wretched resurrection into anxiety and ache, Garth lurched from his deepest-ever sleep into a world of haulers and slaggers departing the nets; and down on the ice, the J’kel in a trench.
No!
Wishing it had been delusion, some feverish night of the mind, Garth instead woke to the truth, this under-Machine world was real. He rubbed his muscles, grimaced from uncounted bruises and aches, and though desperate for more rest, he finally left his nest. But when a cleat snagged a rope and his descent became a dive, he pitched down one sleep net, then four more.
Garth hit the ice hard. Lying there a moment, waiting for the fractured results, he then perceived something else, a sound so unexpected, it made him sit up.
Shaking under a cap, a lump of fur with two striped tails, it looked like a little girl.
Who laughed?
Pointing at Garth, at the boy in the vest who fell like a clown, she chortled and shook until retrieved by her mother. An old woman at thirty, she neither looked at Garth nor said a word; and with an expression as warm as the ice, just tugged her daughter after the herd.
Garth groaned. But as he rose, he found something odd, a slab the size of his palm. Round and brown, it shared the same shade as the slime in the troughs. But they shared little else, for not only did snow white flecks permeate throughout, it smelled of neither dog nor bad egg.
Not thinking, just watching his hand move, he shoved it into his mouth. Couldn’t help it, the reflex to eat trumped every rule of germ and restraint, yet as he steeled himself for the taste, the offal expectation gave way to not just ‘good,’ but refined, to baffling hints of vanilla and lime.
A clatter of ceiling platforms snapped him back, various G’mach sped toward the nets, racks, and trench. Roused by thoughts of Firefly and Shark, by others of their great-coated ilk, Garth chewed his way toward the tool racks, then broke into a run. Reanimated with energy, by a sensation other than pain — it was good? — Garth wondered how he happened upon such life-saving stuff; had his luck finally changed?
Of course not, his reflexive reply. But if he found one slab, there might be more, so swallowing his cynicism on a last bit of chew, he grabbed his axe and dashed to the trench.
His place in the smog reclaimed, Garth renewed his acquaintance with the J’kel and the slag, the mineral blighting its skin. But with his opening swing and for the very first time, he not only hit the crust head-on, he broke it to bits.
Ordinary, the act, perhaps as common as the slag itself. But to Garth, this was victory, the stuff of a win, and combined with the slab just consumed, his first food since that cold slice of bear, he felt invigorated, realized he might yet survive. Reason enough to rejoice, so without further thought, he hoisted his axe with a joyful yell.
Nobody cared. True to their nature, the herd kept to themselves, none noticed or paused. Or so Garth assumed, but as he prepared his next swing, he felt an odd unease. A few quick turns detected no Manager or G’mach, but up on a footbridge, a shadow lingered, seemed to look.
Seemed to, but now he couldn’t tell, for when the fog briefly cleared, no looker was there.
Aching hours later, Garth jumped at the klaxon, another blast from above. He had to think a moment, reclaim his wits, but when the connection lit between klaxon and food, he hauled his axe from the trench. First to the tool racks, then came the race, the mad sprint to the troughs.
Slabs, his only goal, his raw mouth watered for vanilla and lime. But where to find them, which trough? Did the Machine have a bakery as well?
Skidding into the feed zone, he watched the herd separate with purpose, veer toward spots apparently reserved. Yet it wasn’t a spot at a trough he craved, so accompanied by the sputter of hoses and lapping of mouths, Garth hunted for slabs. But as more of the herd arrived, more places were taken, you had to act fast in this Malthusian cafe.
Feeling a panic, the feed-clock ticking down, Garth decided to roll the dice, just pick a trough and hope for the best.
“Move!” Garth shouted, and lunging between two willowy girls in matching coats, he bent into the trough. But he found only the special, the same old swill. Though now without warning, he also found pain, a wiry thumb gouged his eye while an elbow speared his groin. Tag-teamed by the Willows, he buckled fast, and as he sprawled on his back, he knew it wasn’t just a spot at a trough he’d lost, but chivalrous restraint as well. This was survival, life or death, and societal norms or not, he had to feed. But before he rose, he wondered at the tubes, two sewn leather pipelines snaking under their bony wrists and hanging into the trough.
Siphons?
The klaxon blared.
“No!” Garth wailed, and springing back up, he scooped a handful of swill. Hoping for vanilla and lime, he swallowed instead some soylent of mutt and egg; and though famished, his body rejected the swill with esophageal hurl, an unaimed splatter pelting a pair of willowy coats.
Howling like monkeys flying through Oz, the Willows railed against the boy coughing and hacking, doubled-over with heaves.
Garth swung again. But the axe felt heavy and his strike glanced off, power needs fuel and he was out. Yet the J’kel had no lack, and as its lingering fever boiled sweat through his pores, he stared, more and more, into its enchantment of glow. You’re going to die, David, the deep whisper said. But I can help you live.
Delirium, Garth told himself, the whisper was simply the voice — of exhaustion, the madness of flesh starved of food and rest. So regardless of taste, come the next klaxon, he would feed, claim his place at a trough.
Which meant, quite likely, he’d have to fight. But who? Should he imitate nature and choose the weak, wasn’t natural safest and best? But if so, had it now come to this, would he really displace some woman or child?
Garth shook it off, his thinking hurt worse than the swings. But those Willows at the trough, what were their thoughts; did they really siphon food? Meaningless, by itself, but like the whispers in the sleep nets, did it not suggest spirit, a willingness to subvert? And if some were willing, why not more; did this herd have a heart after all?
A blast of klaxon blew thoughts into thrill. Horn meant food, and with axe in tow, he vacated the trench and raced to the racks. But desperate to save time, he skipped the line and just threw.
The axe missed, of course, just slid on the ice. A flagrant violation, it drew strong jeers, but Garth had turned, was already sprinting for the troughs. He lagged the herd’s first wave, but arriving with the next, he picked a wide-open spot. Living in the moment and breathing through his mouth, he scooped into swill and scuppered it down.
Gulping and gasping and blocking the scent, he told his stomach it wasn’t so bad. In fact, he lied, the swill was good, the gulp coming down was just like gravy, a Thanksgiving gruel. Inane, but it worked, a
nd as Garth kept feeding, he imagined a savannah, a great grazing herd.
I’m in.
Or so he imagined, but by the feel of it, the kicks to his rump, someone wanted him out. A woman, by her high octave screed, but more than that, Garth couldn’t tell. All he glimpsed was her coat, a menagerie of feral pelts and taxidermied heads stitched in the fashion of fierce.
But with a mouth full of muck, Garth could only grunt. A response, apparently, just making things worse, because now she leaned in and yanked his ear.
Too attached to his flesh, Garth lurched from his spot and cocked his fist. But when he wheeled to strike — perhaps from habit, chivalry’s last gasp, he hesitated, just held his punch while trying not to stare at her porcupine hair.
“Fine,” Garth sputtered. “We’ll share!”
But when he turned to the gap and gestured ‘take half,’ her great cleated foot gouged his shin.
Garth buckled, and just as fast, she claimed his spot.
“It’s mine!” Garth roared. “Get your own!”
But before he could push her aside, a meaty hand grabbed him, spun Garth around toward a head of remarkably similar hair. And if his genetic guess was correct, this quarrel wasn’t limited to just a furry woman with quills, it now included her larger, furrier, sharper-quilled son.
“You don’t understand!” Garth raged. “I was here first!”
Son of Quills squinted at this, looked confused. But when his mother overruled — “Tufitz!” she growled — her son tossed Garth high and away, a caber-worthy heave lacking only a kilt.
Garth slammed the ice just as the klaxon blew. Not just one blast, he heard two, but perhaps it was only ringing, latent shrieks of a twisted ear. But as the troughs rose and sleep nets fell, he knew it was over, the grazing was done.
And yet, Garth knew he’d tasted success. He’d fed at the troughs of the herd, and therefore, now sated with swill, the boy from beyond was finally them.
But that wasn’t true, he knew deep down, so hating the lie and also the swill, he threw it all back up.
