Noble Lies

by Lyneal Jenkins

  I spied my homemade Tin-Cleas, still sat in front of the car chair, the black eyes more knowing than any painted-on features had a right to be.

  ‘What are you staring at?’ I glared at him, dropping the fresh wire I had collected on my travels. My camp was now surrounded by the scrap metal rooms I had started so long ago, so many rooms that I no longer tried to find uses for them. Building them often helped calm me, so my fortress had been created.

  Ignoring Tin-Cleas’s knowing gaze, I set to work on stripping the wire. Once done, it would help secure the erected walls together.

  The dark eyes continued to watch me, mocking me with their knowledge of the crippling isolation that had long ago torn me apart.

  I threw the wire to the ground, rage shattering through the loneliness, tearing apart the filmy wall my anger had long ago retreated behind. ‘Stop staring at me!’ I clenched my fists as I glared at Tin-Cleas. The dark eyes continued to mock me, filled with laughter for the solitary fate that had befallen me.

  I scooped up the tyre iron used to pry difficult pieces of metal apart and charged at Tin-Cleas. I brought my weapon down on him with a resounding crash. ‘I told you’—I knocked his head across the road—‘not to’—I followed the rolling drum until it stopped against my makeshift wall—‘look at me like that!’ I brought the tyre iron down again, tearing through the metal drum that had been a head. I screamed with a rage I could have sworn had faded away and kicked the drum hard. Pain flared in my foot, enraging me further. I screamed until my voice cracked and I kicked out, missing the drum. My foot struck metal. The wall groaned and shuddered. I arched the tyre iron above my head and brought it down on the wall so hard, the shock vibrated through my entire body.

  It enraged me further, a rage that didn’t dwindle until a heap of twisted metal remained in place of the wall. My chest heaved as I fought for breath and wiped the sweat from my eyes, the rage spent, for now, leaving lifeless resignation in place. Nothing had changed. I was still in The Wastelands.

  Time continued to pass, with only my breathing to measure its voyage. I set to work rebuilding my sanctuary; what else did I have to do?

  I didn’t replace Tin-Cleas, though I did create a rough gravestone to mark his passing. ‘Here lies Tin-Man-Cleas.’ I scratched his name onto the metal. ‘Not one for conversation, he was invaluable for target practice.’ I laughed, a manic sound that should only exist in a mental institute. ‘We will meet again when I rip your head from your body.’ I tipped an imaginary cap to the marker and laughed. We both knew that I wasn’t getting out of The Wastelands.

  I didn’t bother recreating the star room, but I repaired the wall and one room for me to escape the unchanging sky. I had long ago found every animal I could in the unmoving clouds and had given them names. Now they were a reminder of how stuck I was.

  ***

  I was on my way back with a fresh sheet of tarnished metal, salvaged from the back of a DIY store. The journey back to camp went in fits and starts; I couldn’t get a good grip on the sheet and my makeshift sledge was too small to carry it.

  I shifted my hands along the metal and the edge sliced into my hand. I dropped it to the ground, hissing with pain as blood welled up. I kicked it. ‘God damn stupid thing!’ It took me a moment to settle my harsh breathing before I tried to lift the sheet again. It wobbled as I lifted it higher, getting ready to drag it. I growled in frustration as fresh pain lit up my hand. I glared at the sheet. I refused to be beaten by an inanimate object.

  I tried to pick it up again, but I couldn’t get the angle right, and once it reached my waist, it slipped to the left. Why did the metal have to be so far from camp? Why couldn’t I merely will it there. I threw my hands out and screamed with frustration.

  The sheet flew across the road and hit the wall. I watched it, stunned, as it fell to the ground, its clang echoing through the street.

  I stared, unable to move, waiting to see if it would shift again. ‘Well, that’s new.’

  I looked around as if I would find some explanation for how the heavy item had flown through the air. The surrounding rubble gave me no answers and my gaze returned to the sheet. Had I done that? It seemed impossible, but I remained alone.

  I plodded towards the metal sheet, not convinced that it wouldn’t come alive on its own. When I reached where it lay at a curved angle against the wall, I studied it for a moment, fingers hovering before it. I cursed myself—it wasn’t like it would bite—and forced my hand down. It felt like it should, a cool sheet of metal, parts of it smooth, others rusted to a burnt orange.

  ‘How are you even rusted?’ I glared down at the unmoving metal. ‘There is no God damn water here.’ I stared at the metal as if waiting for it to answer me back. It didn’t—thank God!—else I would’ve had a heart attack.

  It must have been me who moved it, unless I considered that inanimate objects could now move at will. My muscles stiffened as I stared at it, trying to figure out how I’d achieved it. I held my hand out, trying to recreate how my feelings at the time.

  ‘You know’—I glanced at the sky—‘if I find out that all this time I could have been levitating stuff, I will be pissed.’ I frowned at the metal, willing it to move. No such luck. ‘Do you know how many broken doors, car roofs and other crap I have dragged back to base?’ I closed my eyes in the hope that when I opened them, the metal would somehow be elevated before me. It hadn’t moved an inch. ‘Too god damn many.’ I frowned at the stationary sheet.

  I spent many hours, or what felt like hours, staring at the metal, wondering how I moved it in the first place. My patience soon wore thin. I had no need to eat, drink or sleep in The Wastelands, but I missed my camp.

  I slipped off the car and approached the metal with renewed determination, hoping that this would be the one, that this time, I could move it. I even lifted one edge off the ground, making sure that the sheet hadn’t gotten wedge against anything. When nothing happened, I screamed with frustration and dropped the sheet, screaming once again as it scraped my leg. I hopped up and down with my fists clenched, the sheet of metal a target for every scrap of rage that had built in me since I’d gotten stuck in The Wastelands. I thumped, kicked and even jumped on the sheet until a film of sweat layered my body. ‘Screw you!’ My throat cracked from all the hysterical screaming.

  Once the rage simmered down, I wiped the sweat from my brow. I turned my back on it and flapped my arms out, imagining what should have happened, how the metal should have sailed through the air.

  I yelped in surprise as the sheet flew across the road. I stared at it in stunned silence as it clanged to the ground, waiting for another move that never came. I approached. ‘How the hell did I do that?’

  Once sure it wouldn’t jump into the air on its own accord, I touched the edge of the sheet, expecting it to feel hot. My fingers touched cool metal, how it should be. I rubbed my hands together, preparing to recreate what I had done and move the heavy item again. ‘Okay then, let’s do this thing.’

  I closed my eyes, keeping the image of the metal on the ground fixed in my mind, and willed it to move.

  I jumped as something reverberated far down the road. I blinked at the now empty road before me before trying to spot where the metal had landed. I couldn’t see it, so traipsed towards camp, in the direction of the twanging metal.

  I found it over a hundred metres from its initial location. I looked down at my hands as if they weren’t mine, smiling in amazement and wonder. Could I really move things with my mind? It made sense considering that everything I saw was a construct of my thoughts, but still, I hadn’t managed it before, and not for a lack of trying.

  I looked around again, sure someone would step out from between the buildings. As it had been since my arrival years ago, the place remained deserted.

  I grinned. Of course I had done it. I raised my hand and closed my eyes, willing the sheet to move again. it landed closer this time, but it still took me a minute to climb over the rubble to reach it. I laughed
, filled with childlike wonder. This time I kept my eyes open as I willed the sheet to move. It flew across the road as before, and I clapped with joy before jumping off the car roof to follow.

  Throwing was easy. Could I control it, though?

  I tried to levitate the sheet off the ground, but it flew to the left, landing a couple of metres from me. I tried again yet got the same results. After several fail attempts, I sat down on a car to think. Why could I fling it but not hold it still in the air?

  After hundreds of failed attempts and nearly losing my head as it sailed above me, I sat down, my happy feeling thwarted. Maybe I found it easier because flinging it involved fast movement which carried it through the motion. I needed to practise with something more manageable, at the very least, something that couldn’t decapitate me when I failed to control it.

  I left the sheet on the ground and hurried back to camp, eager to try something smaller, but wanting the perceived protectiveness my growing wall gave me.

  Using a small piece of wood, I practised hundreds of times, until my head pounded with effort and my arm ached from holding it out. It seemed flinging the item was a piece of cake compared to controlling it. I took a break, allowing my thoughts to drift to other things, thinking about anything and everything except my inability to control things with my mind.

  Days passed, maybe weeks. Hell, for all I knew, it could be months and years. It was hard to tell when the sky never changed. I was about to admit defeat when it happened. I managed to lift a charred stick into the air and hold it for a few seconds.

  As soon as I realised what I had done, the stick dropped to the ground. Throughout it all, I’d focused on concentration, figuring the more the better. How wrong I had been. I needed focus, but not intense concentration. After that, my control increased in leaps and bounds.

  The day finally came, and I managed to move a car door to me, pinning it in the air, motionless, before I lowered it to the ground. I thrust my fist into the air and hooted with excitement. I had done it. I had finally achieved the target I had set myself. I was no longer useless.

  As a reward, I ventured out of the camp in need of a change of scenery. I hadn’t worked on the high wall surrounding my camp for some time now, and I was eager to try it with my new skills. It would definitely make the job a lot easier.

  I smiled at the sky—even the unchanging clouds couldn’t ruin my good mood—and hummed a made-up tune as I climbed up a large pile of wrecked cars. I stopped at the top, seeing what I looked for; a car wedged in the wreckage, nose down.

  I climbed down and pulled on the passenger door. It didn’t budge so I reached inside to make sure it was unlocked. As far as I could tell, it was. The door had sealed closed with time. I dropped my bag to the ground and leaned through the window. I hated having to do this as I often felt the pile of wreckage would collapse on me, but I wanted this door for the wall. And if I died, well, at least it would be escape.

  A skeleton corpse lay on the cracked windscreen, its body twisted at an unnatural angle. It stared at me with empty eye sockets, tattered clothes scantily covering its wasted body, with one arm reaching towards me as of beckoning me in.

  ‘Sorry, dude.’ I slipped headfirst into the car until the window edge cut into my waist. ‘Your vehicle has been repossessed and you need to vacate it immediately.’

  The vehicle groaned and the corpse shifted, turning towards me as if accusing me with the unseeing eyes. It wasn’t the first corpse I’d shared a car with, and it wouldn’t be the last. I often paid them no attention, having long ago stopped seeing them as people. This one was in the way, though.

  I reached forwards and gripped the corpse’s shoulders. This was the tricky part; I needed to move with care else I risked the skeleton breaking apart. Once I pulled the bones from the car, I dropped them to the ground and slid headfirst into the vehicle.

  Rotating my body was always the hardest part as I risked crashing through the windscreen, and I needed to use the steering wheel for support. I was careful to keep it as still as possible as I had done every time since a pile of wreckage had collapsed on me. That had been a long period, stuck under a pile of cars with no idea if I would ever get out.

  Once in position, I brought both legs up and kicked the door. I paused, listening until the metallic groans settled. I kicked it three more times before the door squealed and flung open. I held my breath as the car shifted. It shuddered but stopped. I wiped a hand over my sweating brow and took a deep breath before inching my way feet first through the door.

  I climbed back up onto the pile of cars, stopping every time it shuddered. I studied the door, not sure how easy it would be to remove. If it was as difficult to remove as it had been to open, I would need to abandon it as the unsteady pile would bury me under metal. Not on my bucket list of things to do.

  I sprang down, hitting the open door with both feet. The metal screeched as I landed on it and the hinges snapped. I jumped straight off, landing with my knees bent, and moved back, sure the pile would come tumbling down. After a few clunks and shudders, the pile settled.

  The door rested at an angle to the car, the rusted hinges broken. I freed my homemade knife and set about breaking the wires that still connected it to the vehicle.

  I stood back with my hands on my hips, studying my work. ‘Now, time to get you home.’

  I returned my dagger to its sheath on my leg and collected my bag from the ground. With a flick of my hand, the door rose into the air. It hovered before me as I travelled the few miles back to base, taking a break when my mind wandered too much.

  When near camp, I dropped the door to the ground once again. It twanged as the corner bounced off something, a long strip of black metal, the curved, flat shape similar to a pirate’s sword.

  I wiggled it free from under a large chunk of concrete. It even had a slim handle. My mind came alive with stories from my childhood, and I dug into satchel hanging against my hip, hoping that I hadn’t forgotten the scrap of leather used to help move sharper items. After a minute of rummaging, my fingers brushed against it. ‘Now we are in business.’

  I wrapped the leather around the steel rod acting as a handle and glanced at the door. It could wait until later; I was bored of propelling it along.

  I sprang onto a clear patch on the road and swung the curved item up, my eyes seeing a sword rather than rusted scrap. ‘On guard!’ I adopted a fencing position. ‘Give me all your money!’ I jumped to the left and, with the sword held at my side, I brought my other hand to my mouth adopting the persona of a frightened woman. ‘Oh, please sir, don’t hurt me,’

  I jumped forwards and backwards, alternating between brandishing the weapon and playing a damsel in distress. I demanded money and offered to rescue those in need. My construction was disjointed, and I interchanged being the good and bad guy. On occasion, I gave a few lines to the victims.

  I sometimes spun and sometimes charged as I jumped over the wreckage, always moving a little closer to camp as I fought off my invisible opponent, often shouting insults as I swung the sword. The battle continued all the way to the camp wall. I bypassed the door and climbed to the highest point. I held the sword above my head and, screaming a war cry, jumped into camp, slashing the blade before me.

  I stopped with the sword gripped in both hands, blinking in surprise, my battle forgotten.

  She stood looking down at Cleas’s grave marker, her expression curious. Long blonde hair brushed against her lower back as she moved. Her white shapeless dress hung from her petite frame.

  I remained frozen, my legs still bent from the impact of my jump, unable to tear my gaze away, convinced that if I even dare breathe, she would vanish from sight.

  The figure failed to notice me, and I relaxed my pose, the sword hanging loose at my side. ‘It’s happened, I have finally gone bat-shit crazy.’

  The figure looked up as I dropped the make-shift sword to the ground. Maybe she was a ghost. There were still so many charred bodies in my world, and I had
long ago stopped seeing them as people. I cleared the immediate area of bodies, but there were millions left in the rubble that had become my home. Was it such a stretch to find one of their spirits haunting me?

  We continued to stare at each other, neither one moving, until the stranger said, ‘Hello, Ana.’

  So that’s what someone’s voice sounds like. I had all but forgotten. Though I couldn’t remember anyone else holding such authority in such a mild tone. It felt like forever before I retrieved the sword from the ground. ‘Visiting times aren’t until nine AM.’ I cackled with laughter. I found myself my funnier since I’d been stuck in The Wastelands.

  The woman studied me, her head tilted to the side as if trying to figure out what I was. ‘We need to talk.’

  I nodded, my head swinging up and down like it had a will of its own, an inane grin spreading my lips back over my teeth. I felt almost delirious with the knowledge that my insanity had moved up a notch.

  If it means company, bring it on.

  ‘We will.’ I scooped up my makeshift weapon and tossed it in the pile of other toys I’d created. I chortled, unable to control the laughter that threatened to strip away the last of my sanity. I could finally hear someone speak. The catch was, they weren’t real. ‘Though’—I held out my hand and moved an unused car roof to the hole where the last section of wall would be, continuing to create the barrier as if a strange woman wasn’t staring at me—‘as much as the visits could be nice, if the ghosts from every dead body here starts popping up, we might get a little crowded.’

  Her eyes never left my face, scrutinising me as if I were a monkey at the zoo. ‘I'm not a spirit of the dead.’

  I shrugged and emptied my bag, putting my supplies away. Isolation was a great cure for messiness. When there was nothing to do, cleaning was a pleasure.

  I lined the tools upon the makeshift table near the single room I had recreated, the one now housing the long car seat. ‘Whatever you say.’ I continued to move scraps across the square yard inside the walls. The ghost’s eyes followed my every move.