Everyday is Exactly the Same

The elevator I take feels haunted, it makes its actions slowly, to close the doors, to rise or descend. Sometimes it gets stuck. Its as if it is doing this deliberately to build tension inside of me. Like at any given moment, it will drop into freefall, giving me an all-expenses-paid trip to hell.But it never does. It descends gently with the least amount of g-force compared to its brothers that service this building. The doors open on the ground floor and as I leave I can hear the elevator shaft sing, like some muted ghostly children are trapped inside. Out in the street the acid of the rain has long since passed, but the streets are still empty. Corrosive pools still remain collecting in the smoothed stone of pavement. The bus, black ironclad of the streets, thunders towards. The only thing that stops it is a fare. I hop on board, feed my ticket into the machine, which acknowledges that I am worthy enough not to get stomped by the driver. The lights inside are a bright blue. This stops the riders from finding a vein if they are in for a long ride. Too many have been crashing and burning when they finally hit the terminal. The bus company doesn’t like lawsuits I guess. The twilight at the end of the day is setting in. The storm clouds are breaking up and moving to the tidal winds of the sky, like sick, black jellyfish. There is so much forest around, you hardly think there was a war on.

I press the button to queue the next stop. I step out onto soil made toxic from the rain. And I make every effort to not slip over. You can always tell the people who have good balance and excellent skills for telling when it’s going to rain. They don’t have scars on their faces. They’re probably pretty good in a fight too. When the war started, they picked out all the kids that thought they had some self-diagnosed mental illness. That’s exactly how they recruited them. You be surprised how many people seem to cure themselves of their problem when faced with the possibility of death or dismemberment. In the end, they either: fly-right and become a human being, they snap and go on a spree or they get shipped back in a box after a short career in the first wave.

I walk through the empty park in the dying light. It’s nine and the sun is just going down. It’s still light enough to see the possibly psychotic addict amble down the path in front of you. Or the girl taking her slamhound out for a walk. That Frankenstein of a dog is twice as big as her. It’s got a jaw like a steel bear trap and probably kills to the slightest command syllable. I pass by all these people like ships in the night. No words, just wary glances are exchanged. Glances that just say, “So is it you? Are you the one that kills me? Come on, I’m ready”

I’m not worried. In my pocket, I can feel the only weapon I ever need. Fear-In-A-Can™. One spray sends the most crazed individual into a rampant assortment of their worst terrors, paralysing faster than UltraMace. I don’t carry a gun, too much noise and normally pulling stuff like that causes all kinds of Mexican Standoffs and often end up in a purchase order for a dozen body bags. Has our world become more violent? I don’t think so.

Sure there was that artificial intelligence that kicked off another world war. Some entire countries look more like a prison than a place to live. Panopticons dominate entire landscapes. Some places are just toxic wastelands. But things still find a way to live there.

I pass by a downed spacecraft. Its fresh - I can still feel the warmth of their mysterious engines. The entire crew is dead. A handful look like they survived the impact, but took their own lives, the neon insides of their skulls are splashed against the mangled hull of their ship and smeared on the ground. Crows, black as death, are already on the scene to pick at the remains. They caw at me as I get close, warning me that this is their meal. H.G. Wells was a prophet. Our world, so isolated in its own arm of the galaxy, has become a breeding ground of some of the most dangerous things in existence. Well, at least to life not of this world. Our bacteria, animals, plant life, pollution, music and entertainment are poison to extraterrestrial life. Most of it is lethal, and it’s not quick, nor is it comfortable. That is why the crew is dead, they’d rather face their own weapons, rather than the bowel-churning, nerve-twisting, skin boiling agony that awaited them just by touching terra firma.

I don’t think the aliens see us with envious eyes. I can only imagine it’s fear. The human race encounters violence on a daily basis. And not just survival-violence. Thrill kills, murders, riots, mass graves, and chemical weapons programs. Every person on this planet has witnessed such things at least once within their lifetime. Since day dot, we have carried this violence in our genes and culture. The human race really hasn’t changed, just the way we break each others skulls open just to see what’s inside.

And it’s this that the aliens fear. All of humanity has the clue that there are other worlds out there. They just have no means of arriving on these distant and strange vistas. Yet. The aliens fear that a single boot-tread mark their sacred planets will mean the apocalypse. Because soon after that boot-tread, is a Zoo Burger franchise, or a billboard sporting an ad for Afghan Opium Cigarettes, or one of those video zeppelins, spouting the latest viral media. In the end, the downed spacecraft and dead spacemen tell one good thing: the batteries of the defense network is doing it’s job.

I arrive home, unlock the deadlocks and step through the threshold. I find my place a mess. My housemate, after several days in a self-induced coma, has returned to life and turned over anything that wasn’t bolted to the floor. He’s sitting on the floor, his hand hovering over an old coin. He’s swearing and cursing at it. I can’t help but notice the tourniquet around his arm.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I ask.

“I got a good deal on some positron,” he says, totally fixated on the coin, “I was moving all kinds of shit with my mind. I think it’s run out now.”

“Well great, clean up this mess, you retard.”

The guy gives me a baleful stare, as if he would be thinking that there was enough of whatever he poisoned his body with, to explode my head. I raise my hand and threaten to smack him with the back of it. He gets into gear and starts turning over the couch and righting the television back into its hutch. I open the fridge and reach inside. I withdraw a beer, then reach for a pack of Afghans on the counter. I open the back door and step out onto the patio. I slump on an old bison-hide couch, crack open the beer and light my cigarette. Soon I exhale the malt-scented stream of cloud that wafts in the even breeze like a Chinois dragon. I look up at the few stars emerging in the clearing dusk sky.

Someday, I will step onto foreign soil and see things no other human has seen. I will visit strange and unique and ancient places. I will see dawns made by the rising of alien suns and then watch them drop beneath the horizon. I will be greeted by, talk to and kill many people that are not like me at all. But until then, everyday will be exactly the same.

Read more...

No Company to keep but my own

Long nights, considering the choices I have made. When your only company are roaches, porn stars and the four walls, you eventually snap from the opium-haze and begin to reflect. You stare into a black mirror. Torn is the past. Familiarity breeds contempt. I destroy things, its part of my nature. That’s why I go to great lengths to take care of the things that I have. But all of my care and attention can mean nothing. And in the end, there’s nothing but shattered headlight plastic, paint chips, twisted metal and blinking hazard lights. You should never drive away from accidents, but I did. And now I guess some people hate me. I need to keep running. It’s in my blood now. I had to lock away the nesting instinct. I cannot stay in one place any more. I need to be elsewhere. To see things. Do things. And be somebody else. I have spent too long asleep, dreaming of a future that doesn’t come. Drifting nowhere.

My manager has quit his job, making him the 5th person to run the Help Desk. The Desk of Doom rolls on. This is the same manager that announced three people on the Desk that they no longer had a position. And they all left. Now that he’s gone, another guy has replaced him. Micromanagement seems to be his thing. He gets down with the floor with the need to guide and steer the ship at every possible opportunity. I’m not sure whether this is a good thing yet. I haven’t talked to him. I seem to be invisible sometimes. Am I haunting the place that I work? Am I too busy? Sometimes I’m not sure, only because all of the new people we took on ask me questions about every minute or so. It’s hard to maintain a train of thought.

Hot summer days are setting in, turning everything, everywhere, into saunas. Photos and posters peel from the walls. Insects seem to be everywhere. Cool and clear summer nights are the only respite. I have never been a fan of this season. You can only get naked in order to cool down. Beyond that you either need a fan, air conditioning or scantily clad slaves with large fans made of the finest peacock feathers. I grew with distaste for the beach, only because it was pretty much the only place my parents would take my brother and I on holidays. In the end, I hated the whole affair. The sand, the sun and the surf. The family arguments, the long endless drives past white concrete condos, the bitter silences that we shared. Each member of my family does his or her own thing. It’s how they worked it out and how I was raised. So in the end, we get selfish and do our own thing. We spend time together, but only really when it matters. We work well, after a fashion, because we have our space.

Sometimes, I’m happier when I am alone. When I’m around people too often, I just begin to hate them. Or at least the parts that annoy me. I can only take most people in small doses, if at all. That doesn’t mean I am incapable of love, which I feel for a small select group.

However, every night I am reminded that I sleep in an empty bed. And that ultimately, my only company is myself. I’m not sure if I should ever consider a relationship and even bother to try. Would someone understand me? Or would my touch destroy them? I don’t know. I guess right now the only certainty is that I am merely passing through your lives. To some I will just be a footnote. Others may keep me as a chapter. But I know no one has me as the whole book. Not Yet. And that’s the only wisdom I can scrounge from the macadam, looking into stunned and shocked faces as I jump back in my car speeding off to the sound of sirens.

Read more...

Dreaming

Dreams are funny things. I woke up from a dream where I was being pissed on by an over-sized Rhesus Macaque. This is not something I like dreaming about and it really is a nightmare. And this is not the worst dream I have ever had. The worst continuing dreams I have had are the one where I am falling. At any given moment, in either a very vivid, realistic dream or absolute non-sense, I suddenly find myself falling. The people that have also shared such experiences tell me that they wake up before hitting the ground. Not for me. I kiss pavement, collide with terra firma and make crater babies. I feel the shock of what feels like hitting the immovable object at a hundred miles an hour. I feel the force and then I wake up. I then spend these moments wondering if I’m alive, dead or trapped in a Twilight Zone plot. Then because it’s three in the morning I try to get back to sleep.

One time I had this damned thing twice in one night, right after the other. Falling, I hit the ground like a crash test dummy. I wake up thinking my organs are going to burst from impact. Fall asleep. Hit the ground at terminal velocity. The second time is much worse. I could feel the shockwave coursing through my head and the skin of my face, like it was jelly. I scrambled in bed for the next few short, yet infinite, moments wondering if I was having a stroke. Trying not the fight it, because that might make turn things into some kind of aneurysm, which is instant vegetation, or death.

Some people have described the so-called flying dream. But I have never had one of these. My night visions are always about something bad. Fucked up shit. One time I was dying from a plague that was consuming the whole world. Another involved being chased by a large, clunky robot that had riveted its victims to its chassis in an effort to be more human. Yet another dream had me witnessing something that was like a documentary about the mating habits of shoggoths, meeting a carnival of the flesh set in the Cenobites Underworld. Very few of my dreams are not like this, when I’m not having a bad dream, I’m having a banal dream. I can’t even remember them. Except one. Where I spend time exploring a city that seems like every place I have ever seen. And much more. There the streets bend and turn in strange ways, transforming into algae choked canals. Where there are stone and concrete walls, they are darkened by age and spotted by lichen. The houses feel empty, but something prevents me from entering them. I may have met somebody, but I can’t remember her face.

I honestly don’t know what to make of my dreams. I’m not sure if there is any meaning, or it’s just simply my subconscious that has decided to screw with me, even before my day starts. Almost none of my dreams have any semblance of being insightful, or prophetic. And those that are, are nothing more than short clips, that leave me with a sense of déjà vu.

I asked my 8-Ball about whether I would continue getting screwed up dreams. WITHOUT A DOUBT. The lousy thing hates me. I can only imagine, as life and all its excesses continue to pollute and poison my mind, my dreams will only become more screwed up. I will continue to be brought the very edge of death, at least as far as you can go in a dream. Which is why I intend to live my life to the fullest degree.

Read more...

Madam Guillotine's Scream

The cunning is gone. The Committee has decided to do away with the unnecessary rabble, thin the numbers and spook the herd into submission. Everyone is silent as Madame Guillotine’s blade drops from it’s poise, screaming as it rides the rail to the stock. Another head rolls, another place nullified by bureaucracy.
Three of my friends are victims of Madame Guillotine. Right now my body is in the Phoenix, a bar that more of an ancient hole in the wall, in the heart of the city. This is a good place to take shelter from the ash outside. My mind is somewhere else. I’m trying to calculate what will happen tomorrow. And it doesn’t seem to get better no matter how I try to form it in my skull.

Tomorrow we will be down, four, maybe five people depending on the drinking happening in this place. The people, who lost their heads at work, are about to party in commiseration. Misery loves company and right now there is a lot of love to go around. They will attempt to drown their worries and wash them away in rivers of beer, tequila, vodka, gin, more beer and more tequila. They will all talk about how much shit is going around and agree with each other.

These people were selected on the basis that their performance was down, yet somehow these are the people that would appear to be the “troublemakers” of the help desk. Those that may cause the most problems from management’s perspective, who were the loudest and who appeared to lack the confidence to continue. They were written off. Cast aside.

The problem here is that these people are among those with the tribal knowledge of the technicalities and background of the system and it’s many, many mysteries. Normally this would be passed down to the next generation through word of mouth and apprenticeship. They had experience. Now delicate balance is tilted and everything will be tested by the fire below. Only three, maybe four will be on the desk have any clue on what is going on. Between these people they will have to reign in about 30 – 40 people that will need constant assistance. And these people must service two agencies, one that consists of roughly 30,000 clients and another with 7,000. Each of these people has at one of either a laptop, desktop workstation or sometimes both. There are several system environments with around 200 applications. Just so you have a picture of what a few others and I have to face tomorrow.

They have cut one team in half, leaving one person to process what is hard for two people to do. Another team will be left with one person for two, maybe three weeks. Normally, four people have trouble keeping up. Only one team leader is left to manage these people and keep an eye on them. By removing people, they have only compounded issues. It feels like the ship is sinking.

It’s finally decided to rain, it’s relaxing sound coming from behind the Six Organs of Admittance piped through my headphones, like lo-fi natural white noise. It’s time to reflect on the changes that we face. Soon I will be looking for new work. My hands are over-full, holding up the sky. And my fellow titans will agree. This place looks more and more like the Tartarus. I would rather be paid less and have less responsibility and less stress. If someone offered me a ticket to another country, I would take it without a moment’s hesitation. I would be on that jet as humanly possible, in the pursuit of pleasure, adventure and something better. I would be out.

I return to the office the next and everything is quiet, not just at the help desk, but in other sections of the building. The Committees reach is long and deep and Madam Guillotine is very hungry. Across the board, more positions are turned redundant. From the highest level to the low. The Terror knows no difference between them.

I feel gutted. My will to continue has evaporated. I no longer want to be a part of this. Only weeks ago I was excited at a new role and the potential to leave a legacy, to make a difference, albeit a small one. But now that is gone. There is only a void. I’m tired. And I know they’ll make me do the work I spent long enough in and fought hard to get out.

Time to shake the 8-Ball again. I ask it my question. It’s reply:

REPLY HAZY
TRY AGAIN

I shake it again, give me an answer:

CANNOT
PREDICT
NOW

You bastard. Fuck this. Fuck you 8-Ball. Fuck you Ra. I’m looking for a new job.

Read more...

The Magic 8-Ball and Madame Guillotine

I once asked a Magic 8-Ball™ whether I should shoot up the whole office. It’s reply:

ASK
AGAIN
LATER

The 8-Ball is wise beyond it’s years and manufacture. Now was not the right time. No-one was in the office. It was late, and everybody but a few spare souls left grinding out the late shift.



Terrible news comes to the Human Wreckage of the Helpdesk. A merger means redundancies across the board as position are written off as irrelevant. People are being headhunted by the corporate versions of the vicious Dayak tribes of Borneo. This could not come at a worse time. With a work load that would make Atlas blush, it’s been a wonder why we all haven’t found better jobs, something more towards our calling. The threat of losing work may mean the end of the Desk of Doom. Is this ironic. No. Like Ouroboros, it folds back to doom itself. It will live again, albeit at another cube if necessary.

The Basement is a bar that lies, sunken and low, underneath a sports store and next to a Chinese Restaurant that is mostly empty. Here at the bar, half the lights are gone from the hanging fixtures. An old cobweb hangs from the recent Halloween. I’m sure it won’t be until march next year, before someone has the wherewithal to bring it down. The only patrons here are regulars and fixtures. It’s Tuesday and the pool tables are free. It is a vicious night that won’t rain or clear. Clouds hanging overhead like the redundancy. Like Madam Guillotine, locked in her pose, ready for that razor-sharp blow: Quick, painless and entertainment for those not in her stock.

Plots of Revenge are brewed as quickly as they are discarded. The gnashing of teeth, the slugging of drinks down the hatch to wash away the bitter aftertaste. The quiet brooding. That is the nature of the Help Desk. It is a cruel one. We receive flack on both sides: from customers that only hear us as some disembodied, alien voice, and management, who only see the numbers at the end of the day.

These are times that I remember of the time I was fired from the Fire Rescues Service. That was a job with stress, with lives literally on the phone line. I had trouble sleeping then. But no more now. The only time I don’t sleep, is when I cannot wait to face what happens on the next day. Sometimes, I’m tempted just to stay awake. to exercise, jog, lift waits and get the adrenals running. It’s more potent than caffeine and cheaper than speed. I want to one day see the sun rise on the day of greatness. I want to see it roll, majestically over the horizon and light this miserable world. Then, while drunk on my own excitement, stand in this brand new world and say, “Fuck You Ra.”

I swore I would never bring my work home. But I broke that promise a couple of days ago. Then again, it was writing and as Doctor Thompson once said that writing was better than any drug that he had encountered. I am an addict to this. This is like running through the opium fields of Shambhala. You lock yourself in for the ride and let it take you there. It’s the purest therapy for me.

If the barely budding blossom of the documentation job dries up, I want to fall into something where writing, how I want to write, is not only allowed, but grossly encouraged. “Fuck Yeah,” someone behind me yells. I think they’re talking about something else. There’s no way they can read my inner monologue (or can they?).

Some cunning is required here. I need to tap that wellspring again and slide through the cracks like a snake. I need to be a blur like a fox. And I need to claim my territory like a bear. Absolute pure cunning dug from the centre of my mind. If you can’t get that, sink some spare cash into a Magic 8-Ball™ and let the random chance of the Quantum Universe be your guide.

Read more...

Guy Fawkes Day

Hope you all had a great Guy Fawkes day.

Read more...

Halloween/Day of the Dead/Apologies

I hope you have all enjoyed your Halloween and Day of the Dead festiviites, for those who took part in them.

Apologies also for hte lack of coverage during the Red Bull Air Race, internet issues with the wireless internet have caused some delays in this story in being properly covered.

Read more...

City in Exile

Thursday
Our adventure begins in the VIP Lounge of some southern airport. While Phile and I are engaged in our electronic devices, an ageing consultant makes his observations known about the changing technological world and how we are slowly imprisoning ourselves in cells of 3G gadgets. And like, I don’t know who maybe Prospero, he has found himself trapped by his own admissions. He does have some kind of gilded cage, with a home-away-from-home on some island that he can work outside of the workplace.

Lucky Bastard. Phile and I are between interconnecting flights from the Glowing Octopus and the City of Exiles, isolated and alone across a vast desert. We are knocking back various drinks, Pure Blonde Beers, Heineken, assorted wines that are served around the local region, or selected by the airlines prestigious purchasing team. The VIP lounge is interesting. It took a while to get used to the marble toilets, the gold and silver fountain and the sound of a gong before announcements for the flights. The peacocks roaming the lounge were overkill though. Our flight is delayed allowing us another “one for the road” and then maybe one more.

The flight was relatively uneventful. Most flights I’m always reminded of those scenes from Fight Club. The airline safety brochure, the way the plane banks and shakes from turbulence, the expectation that when I look out of the window and see the wing peel away or the engine just jettison itself from the craft. Sometimes, I think that this flight will be my last, but this only happens whenever I am a passenger. And it’s much more serious in aircraft. On land the most you will ever be doing (legally) is around 120. Planes can easily do triple that and nearly a mile up in the sky. One thing goes wrong and that’s it, a 1 in a 1,000,000 chance of survival. Knowing my luck, it’s more likely going to be the shrewd business man who needs enlightenment, or the child that has done nothing but cry all through the flight, that will survive such a tragedy. Though realistically, I’m more likely to die in a car accident, or something else involved with four wheels. And maybe fireball-laced explosions.

We land in Exile and I immediately find a familiarity with it. The setting sun and, something undefinable in the air that makes it feel like Brisbane. Maybe it’s the rolling hills, or the old deco homes. This entire state was built on the wealth of iron. And this is seen everywhere in the deep red and ruddy bricks.

Our shuttle bus from the airport churns through the streets at a blinding pace. Here the Masonic Lodges are blue, and the oldest parts of the city are decorated with the Black Swan, the name of the river that courses through this distant metropolis. There are relics of old buildings where the façade only stands, like from a rejected Hollywood set piece. Other parts feel like Sydney (Leviathan) shipped here brick-by-brick. Maybe this is just nostalgia, the various trips and travel I have made to other cities in my short life.

Our first stay is at Miss Maud’s, a Swedish-style hotel, restaurant and, as I discovered, bakery. For the relatively reasonable price we paid, Phile and I were treated to excellent lodgings and food. I was so filled with seafood, roast beef and apple crumble I thought I might burst.

After a brief trip to the Belgian Beer Café, I returned to the Hotel to lie down, expecting one of the creatures from Aliens to explode from my stomach. Mind you, I felt conflicted. I was uncomfortable, but that food was really tasty.

Friday
I woke up to an alarm clock that just would not quit. Though I did keep just hitting the snooze button and not find a more permanent way of stopping the alarm. Unsure about how I might react to the dinner before, I dropped by the Miss Maud bakery, picked up a couple of croissants, a coffee and a bottle of water. Then I went for a breakfast walk. I went south towards the river, past the Supreme Court and through parks towards the shore of the river. The roads are busy with the morning rush. Cyclists and joggers, swerve to avoid each other and me. Crazy people stare, fixated at the oddest things like blades of grass or discarded plastic bags. Finishing my breakfast I survey the area of the river where this race will be fought out, on the opposite bank, the stadium has already been prepared. I walk the entire length of the temporary landing/take-off area. There are individual mini-hangars for each team that is competing.

I return to the hotel and meet up with Phile while he is enjoying a plate of bacon and eggs. I joined him, not realising that with the room that we booked, we also received a free breakfast, along with the free dinner we had last night. Phile told me about one other person in the restaurant who seemed to have some difficulty choosing food from the smorgasbord. He would look at the selection of fried eggs, all arranged neatly in rows. He would see an egg, and then use the spatula to pick it up. Just as he was about to take the egg for himself he would see another egg and then go to pick that. Each time he would pause for what seemed to be an age as if deeply considered his approach to the mechanics of manipulating the food onto his plate. Now repeat this process three to five times and then again when he went to get pancakes, bacon, hash browns, juice, toast or even additives to go with any of these foods. I dread how long it takes for that guy to go through a morning routine. People would have to dress him, otherwise, how else would he possibly get ready for work as living doorstop.

Did that sound a little cruel? Well I guess that’s what happens when I’m low on sugar and I’m hankering for pancakes.

Then Phile and I went our separate ways. I went to explore some of the shops that happened to be closed during morning walk. First on the list was a record store called Dada Records. The entry part was all T-shirts and vinyl reocrds. Then I went downstairs. There was a huge collection of CDs, especially hard to find releases like from Venetian Snares. I was blown away by this fact. If you happen to be visiting in Exile, drop by this store, you will not be disappointed. I wandered through streets to the State Art Gallery, bought a bracelet from an Italian backpacker, and ate a chicken bento while I watched the grand finals of another race occurring in this city, as local high schools competed for the fastest solar powered car. I checked out another record store called Next Level and then returned to my new hotel, which finally had a room ready for me.

The Criterion Hotel that lies in the heart of the city had a huge selection of mixed reviews that left me with zero expectations on how the whole place would be like. The building is decorated inside and out in an old style art deco. The rooms themselves are minimal, but are clean. The sheets don’t have weird stains and the room doesn’t smell funky and there is hot water in the bathroom and this water is not a dark brown. So far so good. There is no minibar, but this is great, because I don’t need the temptation for a fifteen-dollar packet of peanuts that contains around six salted stale chickpeas.

Phile and I went to the Northbridge area of the city, looking for a place to eat and this apparently was a prime district for restaurants and getting some descent eats. After much wandering, checking out the various places, we decided to eat at a place called The Greek. It was a pretty straightforward restaurant, simple, good Greek Cuisine. Though the seating arrangement inside was admirable, Phile and I could not resist sitting outside in the cool, clear evening to enjoy grilled snapper and Corfu lamb shanks. I didn’t taste the snapper, but the lamb shanks were perfect, with the meat falling away from the bone and practically dissolving in my mouth. It was sublime.

Phile and I then went hunting for a place that served up a nice Long Island Iced Tea. Unfortunately mine was not to be had as a collection of hired security apes prevented me from entering Tiger Lil’s on account of my shoes. I didn’t get it either. I really do hope those that fate spins the wheel of unusual deaths for them.

Moving on. I went home and relaxed and returned to write. I passed out somewhere at this point.

Saturday
The Qualifying rounds of the race day began. I am beginning to wonder why I am here. There is a race on, but last night was Halloween and this weekend is covers that Days of the Dead. This is the official opening (or is it close) of the harvest, the beginnings of the long sleep through winter. The dread of Christmas time, and considering the current “economic climate change”, this season will be a very frugal one. In a couple of days, the new President, be he a junior senator or ageing war veteran. All of this was considered on my way down to the pits. They were temporarily open to the public, allowing every man-jack and his dog to see the planes and their pilots up close and maybe get some autographs. Getting autographs has always been kind of a sticky subject with me. I only place myself in their shoes, random yahoos off the street asking to sign something that will end up being bid on eBay. I can’t do that to them.

I spend most of the day wandering around the city. In the distance, I can hear the roar of engines. Speeding, buzzing and roaring over the river. I look for stores and places that I saw were closed during the previous night. Empire Toys, Quality Comics, Joynt Venture, all fine stores but have simply become a blur in my memory. I need to get something to eat and then make it back to the Phil’s hotel in order to see the Qualifying round of the race. One by one, the pilots took off from the runway, entered into a holding pattern on the other side of the race. Before running the gauntlet of oversized traffic cones, they perform two loops to display themselves to the crowd and then at full throttle, at 400kmph, they catapult themselves through the first gate, shooting and churning through the chicanes and then performing something like a half Cuban eight, pushing up to 12G, coming back down through a level gate and then having to knife through the three remaining gates, the last two involving another high-G 270° turn then back through the start gate again for one more lap. Each plane repeats this course, again and again attempting to push themselves and their craft to their limits. There are twelve entrants in this race with only one being declared the winner.

Now there were some problems that I will address right now about covering this race. Firstly, the hotel room, as booked by Phile, was not as expected at the Crowne Plaza. Granted when the room was booked it was under the expectation that it was the highest room available at the time. Maybe all that was available at the time was at the first floor. Maybe there was a large collection of accurate psychics who knew when the race would be exactly on and booked all of the other rooms in advance. So this resulted in another problem, not being able to cover the entire race live in any sense. Not being able to watch the race from a hotel balcony with wi-fi and all of the other cutting-edge technology at my fingertips has left me to cover it in a more conventional way. After watching a couple of the pilots first qualifying rounds from the pool deck, we decided to go down to the river edge to see if it was a better vista. It was easier to watch the race. It was but it was like watching the race in two dimensions. Shortly afterwards, we were back at the hotel watching what was left of the qualifying rounds for the day. It was at this point of the day that we learned that Hannes Arch had enough points to be world champion and winner of the World Series, even if he were to lose the current race.

Phile and I ended up rounding up our day at a Jaw Kaiten Sushi bar that was All-You-Can-Eat. There was a 45-minute time limit to this. However, the first thing I ate had a suspicious texture and taste and I wasn’t quite sure from this point if I might survive the night. The fact that nobody else had pick the same kind of sushi only reinforced my paranoia about whether my meal would give me a rough night or bad morning. Neither of which really happened.

Sunday
The finals were on. After some wandering around in the city, it was time to meet Phile at our secret location, perched 39 levels above the City in Exile, with a near-perfect view of the entire race. From there we watched the finals for the race. There the pilots all tried to out-time each other again. Running the same laps, pulling G’s and pushing themselves and their flying machines to their limits.

At the end of the day, Hannes Arch had won the series, but only came third in the race. The day belonged to Paul Bonhomme and Nigel Lamb who got first and second respectively. Even without listening to the radio, the moment Bonhomme knew the result, you could see the joy in his flying as he performed stunts high in the blue.

Looking back, this is one of the things you look for as a spectator for an event like this. Stunts. The other thing is for the plane to have a collision with one of the many pylon gates that the planes push themselves through. The pylons are made out of material that basically destroys itself when any part of the plane comes into contact with it. Instantly the entire pylon deflates. When the plane finishes it laps, repair crews scurry out to the damages pylon and within a minute and a half, they have replaced the damaged section of the pylon and it’s reinflated ready for another flyer. The reasons behind this are simple, fast reinflation, means the race only has a short delay and more importantly, the pilots don’t have to refuel.

While one pilot is running his laps through the circuit, two others fly around in holding patterns over the city. These light aircraft burn around 80 litres of fuel in an hour. And they only carry 50 litres. So time is of the essence to keep this race running. There is only a small team of maintenance guys who flood the barge to reinflate the pylon. However, there is another boat and two guys on jet skis that are all dressed in day-glo yellow jackets. I figure they are just security.

Last night in Perth, we eat at the Sorrento Restaurant, ordering a fettuccine with chicken. Phile orders oysters and margharita pizza. The oysters weren’t on the pizza. That’s sick. The meal was good, but not totally memorable. Normal Italian cuisine.

Monday

The foul stench of a Kuwaiti livestock transport drifts through the town of Freo. The coastal breeze brings in this smell while the boat waits in port to be loaded with sheep destined to be slaughtered in the Middle East. The Red Bull Race is over and so as the last leg of our journey, Phile and I have decided to stay at Rosy O’Grady’s, an Irish Pub that is fairly close to the centre of Freo, giving us relatively easy access throughout the town and it’s tourist traps.

We took a tour of the Freo Gaol, built by the convicts themselves in the 1850’s, the place served as a way of storing society’s monsters until it was closed in the 70’s or 80’s. It was interesting to see a prison that has served well for more than a century, but I understand why they closed it down. The entire sructure is crumbling and ageing. There are new prisons of steel reinforced concrete, razor wire and panopticons.

I’m not sure what to make of Freo. It’s a port town, and I imagine it has own mix of characters, but right now I’m not sure it doesn’t have it’s own share of pirates and castaways. Parts of this town seem that way. Like the livestock ship, there is a smell of desperation in the air. That some people cannot get away even though freedom is a breath and a hasty decision away by boarding some container freighter and disappearing from these shores. Sounds tempting even to me.

Despite this, there were some surprises here. There was a record store that supplied only old vinyl. It was a refreshing twist to see everything in 12-inch format. The New Edition bookstore, a beautifully laid-out independent bookstore, I would have felt guilty not buying something there. So I ended up with the Little Red Writing Book.

We end up going to the Esplanade, there, seafood restaurants cling to the water’s edge, like large shellfish. They all try to push their own gimmick, to lure unsuspecting prey – customers. The Kailis restaurant offers the “Ultimate Seafood Experience.” However, what you will find inside is a market café where you can buy fresh seafood, or something that was deep-fried. I felt a little cheated by the sign, when I learned it was also self-service. It looked like a fast-food restaurant or just a larger version of every other seafood place I have seen on the coasts in my life. That and the cannibalistic lobsters had me a little worried. There they were on the tank, the hollow abdomen shell lay at the bottom of the tank. It’s eye sockets empty. The tail was being fought over by two other lobsters as the clung and clumsily tugged at it while trying to scrap the meat from the chitin. Joe’s Fish Shack offered a wide variety of seafood, but had an interior of some American chain restaurant, where all manner of knick-knacks and memorabilia crowded the walls. I don’t trust a place that spells the fact they serve drinks, as a “Bah”. It’s not cute, or funny.

Our choice became the Mussel Bar. This place was shaped like two pyramids glued together by their bases, with windows that hung over the window, allowing a full view of the waters of the Esplanade. The place was a little dark, maybe because it had been threatening to rain all day. I had ordered a duck confit with chicken breast stuffed with Swiss cheese and spinach. Phile ordered mussels in white wine with braised onions. A short time passed and our food arrived. The duck confit was great the fat rendered into the duck meat for perfect flavour. Phil received his mussels, in a white bowl as big as a toilet. He really enjoyed the meal, licking and supping the juices of the wine sauce from each emptied shell.

We returned to the hotel we were staying at to play a game of Hive. The Hotel was a place called Rosie O’Grady’s and we ended up with rooms that were huge, except for the bathroom. You could have shot porn here with ample space to spare. The meals weren’t half bad either.

Tuesday

Our final day. I spent some time wondering around the town, seeing the shipwreck museum and taking photos of graffiti. Last days are tense exercises for me. I spend the entire time mentally preparing myself for the whole trip back and the prospect that I will need to return to my job. At the end of the day, Phile and I spend our last moments at the Little Creatures Brewery Bar, taking in the final sites. We went to a trivia night at our hotel (coming fifth in the end) and then spending a little time at the Sail and Anchor for a game of Hive, only ending in a draw.

Wednesday
Our flight is early, with the shuttle bus slowly churning us through the streets in the midst of the morning gridlock. Traffic easily bottlenecks in Perth and large construction jobs that seem to be everywhere in this city, do not make things easier.

We hit the airport running as our flight is about to leave and then it’s five hours of single-serving meals and in-flight movies to get to Melbourne. The movie in particular was WALL-E. I didn’t listen to most of it, only deciding I was bored enough to plug my headphones in near the end. Most of the dialog consisted of two characters EVE and WALL-E saying the following lines in conversations

EVE: WALL-E!

WALL-E: EVE!

Repeat this a thousand times until I feel I should just blow my brains out.

We – finally – landed in Melbourne. While waiting in the same decked-out VIP lounge we learnt that Barack Obama had become the newly elected president of the United States. I was impressed, though I could not hear his entire victory speech over the howling of the peacocks.

Soon enough we hopped aboard another plane that soon landed in the Glowing Octopus. A taxi speeding us home, the driver gave us news about the calamities of the race that occurred only days before. Mostly involving the price of beer and the line to take a piss.

Arriving back home, I learned the best news a weary traveller can learn upon arrival: I didn’t get robbed. This time.

Looking back, getting away was probably the best thing to happen in quite some time. The City of Exiles, though strange, was inviting. Freo began to grow on me. Some day I look forward to returning. To see the sun set across the ocean, to watch a storm swell on the Indian and to smell the Desperation of the Port again.

Read more...

Excerpt - Speed Limit

We were told, when we were kids, that Heaven were nothing more than a vast, endless meadow of lush white fairy-floss. Of course, when you are old, you just have to smoke, swallow, toke, inhale, inject, imbed, squirt, snort, crush, imbibe, grind, chew and rub the right thing into your body in order to come close to visiting this Paradise.

There is a great difference between children and adults in this World that We Live in. As a child, you have nothing but escape at your fingertips. No responsibilities, no consequences, no worries, no problems. As adults, even as teenagers, something is robbed from us when the hormones kick in and then it’s gone for good. We try to fill this void with something else, booze, pills, ploughed rows of white power, homegrown crystals or plantlife. For those with less interesting lives, we shovel in hours of worthless television, pointless hobbies, meaningless choirs and boring sex. There are only two fates on this sad world. You can live fast, die young and leave a lot of wreckage behind, or survive, grow old until the cynicism, vitriol and fast food condense into a tumour and choke the life from you in a very undignified way.

They say the universe has a speed limit and that is the Speed of Light. Human Beings also possess such a limit. But it’s only four days. Because when you go beyond that you will crash and leave a very interesting photo opportunity.

Right now, the closest I’m getting to heaven is Rich’s lush carpet. Pure cocaine white, cottony-soft and full, like cumulus. Nested everywhere in the ripples and folds of this cloudy pile are pills, of all shapes and colours, flavours and effects. And at this very moment, I am learning, that like people, not all pills go well with each other.

Read more...

Excerpt - Racers of the Apocalypse

Dawn. The abandoned gas station. This well has run dry. Tyson watches as Joel’s car rolls into view down the highway. The sound is engine darkly purrs, dopplered as it approaches Tyson. The Red Beast comes to a stop, right near Tyson’s White Archangel. Joel steps out of the beast, his eyes on Tyson. There is only silence, except the hollow sound of the wind. A storm is on its way. Its ozone smell is in the air.

-So your tank is full? Joel asks.
-Yeah. Are you ready for this? Tyson counters. Knowing between them, all they had left to gamble were their cars and their reputation.
-Man. I was born with a knife between my teeth. Joel grins like the Devil.

Some where in the distance, there is a low rumble. And then the Flash. Duck and Cover. A new star is born on the earth. It has begun. This well has run dry and they will fight over another. Joel and Tyson cover their eyes from the flash. In front of them they see the silhouette of the city as the glow of the new and brief star dimmed. Time has slowed, and the rivals watch the shadow of the city shatter like black glass. The shockwave will be felt soon. The wind picks up. There is no Tomorrow. Only the few moments of Today remains.

Joel and Tyson look at each other. Quietly absorbing what has happened to the world around them and between them. They race to their car. Slamming doors. Starting engines to a roar. A lane to each of them, no one is leaving the city anyway. A cloud of storming debris is absorbing its ruined shape. Engines gunning in neutral, Tyson and Joel give each other one last eye. The world has become too small for the both of them now. Better dead than alone together. Kick it into Gear. Pedal to the Metal. Punch it. Tyres screech and scream, Rubber burns and tarmac flies. En-Too-Oh burns bright blue. Engines roar to life. The Archangel and Beast buck and kick and speed down the road. Faster and faster, Tyson and Joel head towards the shockwave. Gears are upped as both Beast and Archangel are pushed their limits they were engineered for. It is crystal clear to them now. They raced for the money. They raced for the glory. They raced for the same woman. Now they race towards their own annihilation. First one to the Apocalypse wins.

Read more...

My Work

I have finished Echoes, and am currently working on a new project. So right now this site will be used to track the progress of this new project and to talk about other things namely small stories about things that I have encountered in my life. Which isn’t much, I haven’t lived a very exciting life. Well, not exciting by my standards. Maybe other people, who get out less than I do and spend their moments reading this as opposed to say, playing a MMORPG or surfing for porn. Maybe you collect stamps and you stumbled across a site that referenced me.

So lets start with the jobs I have done since it since the law stated that I work and no longer be a parasite to the state.

One time I worked at a drycleaners. My sole purpose at being at the drycleaners was watch the shop on a Saturday and hand over garments that people were picking up or dropping off. It was easy. Ludicriously easy. I would do a good deal of drawing to pass the time. This job was pretty cool. But also weird. I was the tallest person there. The thing is dry-cleaning places have a series of rails for running the clothes along to keep everything mobile. Unfortunately, everything is quite low and for some strange reason all of these people shorter than me (I’m about 5’9”) were hired. They breeze throughout the entire building without a care. However, I have to duck. Otherwise I would hit anything hanging from the rails, including the rails themselves. It was weird to feel tall, considering the late bloomer that I am.

For the better part of a month I attempted to work for a media production company. It was a small one, mostly devoted to the local business and surrounding farmers. It’s principle customers were a series of cattle sales companies, who wanted everything from videotape of bulls, to brochures, websites, and Flash-based interactive catalogues. I wanted to sign on as a Flash-developer, because that’s what I heard they needed. However, they assigned me to build this database, to be used for tracking employee times.

Now having come out of university, with some software development experience (this I use very loosely) they assumed I could develop a functioning piece of software for cheap. They were wrong. I sat around part-time for a month (I was working a retail job as well) trying to build this database. However, assistance was minimal and eventually I walked out, gaining more hours at the store I was actually employed at. By my calculations, they owed me four hundred lucre. I was never paid.

I worked in a super market for several years through high school and mostly university. It was mind-numbing work. I didn’t advance very far, because I was still under the Malaise of Being Educated. And while I know how truly disgusting a supermarket is in the backroom, I can still stomach shopping there. This happened to be my first job, only because my parents, despite the fact they said they loved me, stopped giving me money solely for this reason. If you do possess a mind that goes a mile a minute and slips into a world of it’s own. Do not get this job, because you’ll get plenty of time to think. Think about how you came to be here. And think about how you may escape.

After getting fired from an Emergency Communication Centre job, I worked at two electronics retail stores. It started as something to get me through Christmas and because I was such an “earnest worker” it carried on for another two years. In this time, I learned the fun of the stock take and that I could be a wrangler of people. That it’s hilarious when the acting manager rocks up to work with a hangover after waking in his car from the previous night festivities. That you can get a front seat to the Managers Life and the terrible soap-opera style downward spiral that it became. And you with the carefully placed words to Area Managers you can help get a certain manager fired and return to work within two months.

I worked at an Emergency Communication Centre for the Fire Department. It was intense work, you had to sit poised ready for the red phone to ring. This didn’t always happen, so you may have spent hours drawing, writing, what have you. But when It Did Ring, you had to be ready. You had to approach it with an Apocalyptic Zen. Sometimes it would just be smoke, other times it would be a chemical spill. Most of the time it was a car accident, or a smoking power pole. Sometimes the person on the other end would be calm and collected, others would be screaming down the line panicking that everything that was their world was going up in smoke. I could pretty much do it all. I could turn out (yes that was the term for dispatching) the vehicles, I knew all of the vehicle code names, the radio protocol, the highways, the stations, the procedures and SOPs for almost every known incident. But they fired me. I boned an oral exam on the support procedures. Things like whom a member of the public could talk to about smoke alarms or complaints. After that, and some office politics, I found myself without a job and with a looming depression.

Although I was screwed, the work didn’t really suit me. The rotating roster didn’t allow you to become familiar with anyone and this also facilitated others to take advantage of the staff. You would work 4 days, two 10 hour day shifts, two 14 hour night shifts and then four days off, but you were practically a zombie for one and a half of those days anyway. Though I enjoyed parts of it. It was no help to my social life.

The sweetest job I ever received was delivery job that a pharmacy offered me. All I had to do was send packaged drugs to the elderly. These people couldn’t make it to the store, I sent them their weekly meds. They gave me a car that I almost had several accidents in. Most of the people were friendly, only because you were one of a handful of people that decided to drop by and pay them some attention. The best part was the ability to crank up the radio and cruise around town. I learnt more about my hometown and where things were in that two months than I had in previous years. If I ever end up in a position where I live very comfortably without working, then I would happily take up this job again.

I am currently working at an IT Help Desk, which in turn works for a large collection of public servants scattered all across the Antipodes. Their muck ranges from simple problems such as not being able to open a file, or lost passwords, to servers being down and or a web-based application decides to refuse to work. Usually when this happens, hundreds of clients call us about the problem just to let us know that it’s not working. It’s up to us to tell them that a) we already know about the problem (from the 50 previous calls), b) there’s nothing that we can do until second level support manage to fix it and lastly, c) despite this, to have a nice day.

Not everyone appreciates the ‘nice day’ part. My particular role is one part quality control and 30 parts of babysitter of Adults. The people that make up the Help Desk is a bit like a pirate crew. Not like the Disney franchise, but a collection of criminals, misfits, outcasts, lost souls, the psychologically unsound and the manically depressed. We all work like drudges, with somewhat nebulous support and training, with a system that should have been upgraded around two years ago. While I make this sound negative, most of these people are really fun to get along with and I consider them good friends.

I managed to get this job through several phone calls from a contract employment agency, which seemed to like what I had to offer. One phone interview later, I found myself packing my bag and saying goodbye to everything that was my life in the Old Town and then driving down to the Glowing Octopus.

At the end of the day, you don’t know what you will be doing next. Because next week anything can happen. An opportunity that’s too good to miss. Too many bridges burnt or too many too far away. Your company may be bought up by ruthless competitors, or find itself engaged in Chapter Eleven proceedings. Or you might strike big and all of that work, all of the drudgery, ass-kissing, late nights and early morning would pay off. But most of it is just pure unadulterated cunning that will see you through.

Read more...

Echoes - Epilogue

A gold-tipped cigarette sat in an old black Bakelite ashtray. The trail of smoke gentle rose to the ceiling. Fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. The room had no windows, with cinder block walls painted a dull military grey. A man, dressed in black sat at the table at the centre of the room, with his seat facing the door opposite the table. Across the table were reports of various natures. Test results from the lab. Supply stock takes. Reconnaissance updates. Without looking away from the reports, he reached across to the ashtray, picking the cigarette with his gloved hand and placed it between his lips.

There was a light knock at the door. “Enter,“ the man said blandly, his concentration remaining at the current report, the health and status of a particular prisoner. He exhaled, coming out on a thin cloud. A man in military dress entered the room and stood near the table.

“You know, I thought all soldiers saluted their superiors, Colonel,” the man in black said without looking from the page.

The Colonel, squinted his eye, resisting to fully speaking his mind, “You’re not military.”

“Ah, but I have been given authority over this operation. Carte Blanche was the term that was used, I believe.” The man in black smirked, eyeing the Colonel. Then his attention returned to the report. “I take it you have come to air a grievance or some such.”

It’s him again, the soldier we found. He’s hospitalised another two. Looked as if he didn’t try. I have another sixteen going through psychiatric evaluation. The prisoners can do things to them. At this rate, I doubt there will be enough men to adequately guard this facility. Even with the measures we have taken. One of them,” the Colonel paused, not sure how much information he should relay to the man in black, “knew things about me. Things I have told no one.”

“Really?” The man in black looked up at the Colonel, “Well that is interesting. Add that man to the list.” The man in black put down his report, and then steeped his fingers, “Now any news from the city?

“We managed to round up another two dozen. Sweeps throughout the city show evidence of heavy fighting. Explosives were planted beneath the most important structures. While it appears two groups of citizenry were involved in the fighting, all of the survivors belong to neither of those groups. Once we establish a more permanent presence in the city, we will begin cataloguing the dead and disposing the bodies. However, we believe that some managed to slip through the containment line that we established around the city. It cannot be many, but we don’t have the numbers yet.”

“We’ll have to expand the net then. To a 300 km radius. I will call in for additional forces along with a rotation for the deployment here. Including your replacement.”

The Colonel nodded and left solemnly, closing the door behind him. The man in black drew on the cigarette again and returned to the reports. He opened a file that just came from telemetry and imaging. Opening the folder, he flipped over the cover sheet and looked at the first photo. The shot was made early in the morning shortly after the interference over the city began to dissipate. The first photo is an open field near a forest there is a figure in the middle. The next photo is an enhancement, showing a man running from the city.

Yes, we’ll get them, the man in black thought, we’ll get them all.

Read more...

The Slip

The hospital walls are bleached white, so much so it almost hurts the eyes. The chessboard-tiled floor is slick with dark blood. From around the corner a guard flies through the air, slowly, as if time has been turned down. Blood pours out from the guards wounds as he pinwheels through air. Crashing into the solid wall, bones snap to the sound of dry tinder, leaving a crumpled mess on the floor. The Doctor comes around the corner, and he’s fast. I raise my weapon to fire, the gun discharging round after round, with empty shells peeling from the weapon. The Doctor dodges each, always advancing until he is range. Scalpel in hand, he cuts across me and through the gas mask I can see a fountain of black spilling from me. My heart does the rest to bleed me dry. Everything swirls, darkness floods in, as the last thing I see is the razor-smile of the Doctor.

I wake with a start on a metal floor. Turning over I find myself beneath the twisted wreckage of the metal staircase. By some miracle I haven’t been crushed. Crawling free, I see the damage that I have wrought. The incinerator is in ruins, nothing more than a smoking shell of steel. The metal dome is gone, so I can see the sky. It’s pulsating and heaving as if attempting to keep together. But it’s dying, I can feel it. I’m still high enough to see parts of the city. Most of is in flames, and the distant noises of explosions and fighting can still be heard.

I climb the stairs carefully, hoping the now fragile construction does not give way beneath me. I reach the ground and immediately notice the black car parked nearby. I hear steps in the loose gravel behind me. Turning to see who it is, but I am too late as a solid punch sends me to the ground. “You had to do it,” A voice says coldly.

Hands reach down and pick me up and I look up to see who it is. Mandlebrot. “You killed Ina.” Behind dark shades burns a rage I have never seen before in anyone. Black streaks run down his face. “You destroyed everything we built.” With one arm he lifts me up and reels back his other, readying another punch. His fist catapults into me, so hard I fly through the air. I hit a tree, feeling ribs crack as I land on the ground. The black water that had settled on it now showers onto me. “You killed our God.” Mandlebrot steps over as I try to get up. His fists come at me. I try to block where I can, but he still lands blows upon me. His last one sends me closer to the river shore. Trying to remain conscious, I get to my feet again. I can taste blood. Mandlebrot grabs me drags me to the river. I struggle, weakly trying to fight him off, but he is far stronger than I ever imagined. “You may think you have killed the Echo. But it will live on in me. And in you.” His hands come around my throat and then he sends my head into the dark waters of the river. I cannot breath. All of Mandlebrot’s strength and will are focused on my death here and now. My vision goes as I begin to drown. With my last ounce of strength, hand is searching for something, anything, in the soft riverbed. Somehow I feel a hard lump of stone move into my hand, pull it free of the water and strike Mandlebrot in the head. It’s hard enough to make him release his grip and stagger backwards. I rise out of the water. Mandlebrot looks at me, with black blood pouring down his face. This time with both hands, I hit him with the river stone again. He goes down. I don’t stop. He tries to get up so I strike. He raises his arms. I strike. Each time he moves I hammer down the stone. Again and again and again. Bludgeoning his skull, crushing it more and more with each hit until I realise that I’m not hitting him any more, but the stone is landing to the soft soil of the river shore. With heaving pants, I cast the stone aside. I stand, wiping Mandlebrot’s blood from my face with my sleeves. Searching his pockets, I find the keys to his car. I weakly get to my feet and begin to stagger towards the vehicle. I cough and my whole chest hurts. I look at my hand. My blood is a dark crimson. I make it to the car, open the door and fall inside. I pull my legs in and put my head back on the headrest, closing my eyes. I need to pull it together. I cough again, tasting the iron tang of blood. I open my eyes, close the door and turn the ignition.

Mandlebrot’s vehicle is a well-tuned machine that is a blur on the empty smoking streets of the city. Good parts of the city are destroyed. Her buildings and monuments are still ablaze from the fighting. Bodies, rubble and the empty shells of vehicles are strewn through the streets. The canals are filled black water and the dead. Naked, leafless trees line the roads. Everything has been touched by fire. I constantly find bridges that have been destroyed and have to rethink my course. The heavy smoke makes it difficult to see. I pass by the empty shells of what used to be homes. Now this place is the Netherworld. I wonder how many have escaped. I drive by a cemetery, which strangely looks untouched. There near the edge of the road is a statue of an angel. The recent storm makes it appear as if she is weeping black tears. I cannot be the only one left alive.

I stop at an intersection trying to decide where to go next. I hear another vehicle approach me, its loud engine growling through the thick smoke, like some jungle predator. A red convertible pulls up beside me. It’s top is down and I see a young blonde woman, her long hair waving in the wind. Another figure leans forward to see me. Behind a mask of splattered black-blood is the razor smile of the Doctor. I stare back in horror. The girl smiles and the convertible speeds off into the gloom. I attempt to match their speed to keep up, but their lights have disappeared. Soon another light appears. As I get closer I can make out a pillar of fire beneath a mound of some description. I soon realise what it is.

A giant pile-up of cars burns before me. Just beyond the mound is a great gap in the wall to freedom. The pile-up must have been made by the last desperate attempts of survivors. For one reason or another they crashed into each other and burned, a final punishment from the thing above. The mound of burning wrecks is like a singularity. I can feel the pull towards it. I can feel the thing above. It’s does not want to let me go. It needs me to stay and die here. I speed towards the fire and the broken cars. My body has turned to stone, my vision swims, becoming hazy. Everything is a blur. Suddenly, as if I’m going to slam head on, my white-knuckled hands jolt at the wheel, my foot mixes brake and accelerator, causing me to slingshot around the burning cars. Flames lick the side of my car. I can smell the burning petrol. Free from the gravity of the wreckage, my car speeds through the hole in the wall
and plummets down an embankment. Landing hard on the rain soaked ground, the car crashes through young trees and low branches. I lose count on the times it rolls. Glass shatters, tyres burst and car is shedding parts. I see a large oak in my path, I cover my face with my arms as I slam into it. Everything becomes black.

Regaining consciousness I see the windshield shattered, branches and green foliage poke through the cracked holes. I stumble from the car. My legs, my entire body wanting to get away, I try to run yet something feels heavy in my chest. I begin to cough. Something won’t leave me. My fit causes me to fall by a creek, my knees landing in the water. Finally, my heaving dislodges something, as I vomit it into the waters. I open my eyes and find a black oily mass flowing downstream as the creek takes it away.

It takes a while for the realisation that I am finally beyond the city walls to sink in. All around me the verdant green of the forest blooms around me. I wash my face in the clear waters. It’s cold but I don’t care. I feel alive again. I hear a noise, a rustling from the nearby woods. A deer, a young buck, his antlers have just started fanning out, steps clear of the tree near the creek. It gets closer to me, so close in fact I could almost reach out and touch it. I remain still as it sniffs the air around me. Then, as if losing interest, it bounds back into the forest.

Crossing the creek, I step into a clearing and look back at the city. It’s once formidable skyline is cracked and broken. Smoke fills the air, but the clouds that once enshrouded the city begin to break up showing the dawn blue sky. I look to the east and, for the first time in what feels like years, I see the sun rising. Tears run down my face.

Read more...

Moloch

The storm had finally stopped when I left the tunnels. The black clouds remained overhead and all around me. The water below, all of it was oily and slick. I sat in the small boat as the looming dark shape of the Incinerator towered over me. The entire place was once used to power the city, and help eliminate waste. Now it is a relic, still used to burn refuse. I trace its outline with my eye, following the lines of pipes and supports, up to a great tall series of smoke stacks. Each of the stacks billows great plumes of black smoke into the sky. The smoke leaves slowly, twisting, warping and coiling to form into the dark clouds that enshroud the entire city. The clouds look sicklier every time I look at them. The feeling in the back of my head tells me my time is running out and that all of my answers are here. Cover from the canals has run out. I pull the boat to the edge of the river among some long grass and move to find something to hide behind.

The rain has stained everything. I can smell it in the air. The ground is slick like ice. I take cover behind some trees and notice it looks sprayed in sludge. It’s still dark, and it’s difficult to see, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone here. Odd.

In the distance, there is the pop and bang of an explosion. I can see flames erupt on the far edge of the city. I need to move. Advancing on the building, I spot an old doorway. Metal and rusted, but I can see the padlock is brand new, almost glittering against the aged door. Pressed for time, I need to sacrifice my cover. Pulling out the gun, I take a few steps back and fire. The lock shatters from the bullet. I kick the door open. The whole place appears empty. There are no alarms, no inquisitive guard. For a moment there is silence. Suddenly, there are sounds of pressurised gases, steam and smoke.

I work my way towards the centre. Drawing closer towards the sound that goes every two minutes or so and then silence, except for the sounds made by myself, walking across pressed metal floors and opening rusted doors. Some doors are unusable, locked, jammed or welded shut. I find myself climbing stairs that creak with age. I wonder why this site is empty and my thoughts are interrupted by a popping sound of another distant explosion. Then comes the sound of the incinerator. The closers I get the more detailed the sound becomes, the clanking of ancient machinery, the hydraulics pressurising, and the gas like hissing and the roar of the fire and then the clanking of machinery again.

I finally reach a door that gives, but still makes its protests known, creaking so loudly, the noises fills the cavernous room beyond. Ahead of me I see a narrow gangway. This gangway runs above the main incinerator, on top is a large metal dome, made of blackened metal, the same colour as the sky. To my right are the twisted and burnt out pipes that lead to the smoke stack. Walking out onto the gangway I look down below. There are six or so conveyor belts all leading to a centre trap-door that look like the jaws of a great monster made of steel and fire. Smoke rises from between the teeth of the twin doors. I survey the conveyors. They are filled with what I first make out as refuse, and then realise there are patches of red amongst them. Red books. Hundreds, possibly thousands of them piled onto the conveyor belts. Everything is fed into the incinerator. I step back and look over the other side of the gangway. In amongst the red books are other items, photo albums, photos, jewellery, furniture, entire music collections, paperback novels, portraits, the flotsam and jetsam of human existence, prized possessions and heirlooms. I soon begin to see the odd hand, foot or face surface among the refuse. Everything we have held dear has been cast into the fire and this becomes the smoke that blankets our city. It is the black rain that has poisoned our water and choked the life from everything it falls upon. Has the virus done all of this? Our method of control had only caused the situation to become much worse. How did I not see this? How long has it been between the days, when I saw the suicides and the murders to when I was here? Time has lost meaning here. I hear the clanking of machinery, the conveyors begin to shunt, their cargo quivers and shudders into motion. The hissing and pumping sounds of the hydraulics begin and then the Maw parts it’s black steel teeth, revealing a great mouth of fire. Tongues of flame lick the sides of the maw and the conveyors feed it once again. The pictures, keepsakes, treasures, prizes, books and bodies cascade in, melting into the white-hot centre of the mouth. The heat is unbearable, even from my height. I cover my face with my arm, my eyes searching into the very white hot whirlpool, as if I am poised on falling into it myself. Soon the clanking of the steel jaws shields the maw once again. Silence.

Stepping back, I felt my hand reach across my chest to my heart, but only feeling the hard lump that the madman Emmersen had given me. I reach inside my coat and pull out the parcel. Wrapped in dirty brown paper, I feel the square shape of the “weapon” Emmersen had given, apart from the pistol. I tear the paper away. It’s a black book. Roughly the same shape or size, but it appears as if it was handmade. The pages are uneven and made of different qualities. I flip through the book, reading what there is

Day 14
Containment has been breached. While we have isolated ourselves in the western quarter of the hospital, time is running out for all of us. With half of us already gone, we are not hoping for an outcome that is favourable. Emmersen seems to be coping well, despite what he has done to himself. Julian has been working around the clock towards find someway to contain the virus before it plagues the rest of the city, though I don’t trust his methods. I remember there was a time when performing experiments of his nature was illegal. Van Beck and his team have not woken since yesterday, no matter what we try. Even adrenaline doesn’t work. I sent Kramar to look for Dean, but he hasn’t returned -

I skip the rest and flick through the pages to another entry:

This city has taken everything I have loved. My daughter. My wife. I have nothing. I have heard of people that have lived beneath the city. With everyone around practically infected, I figure why not. I have nothing else to life for.

Flicking the pages by it lands on two pages. In huge black letters is scrawled:

YOU.

I turn the page

WILL

And turn the page

NOT

And turn the page

HAVE

And turn the page

US

I close the book. Emmersen was right. Everything had become clear. I knew exactly what to do.

I look over the side, judging where I could get the book to land. I know in the back of my mind, I should get it on a conveyor belt. It might give me enough time to get away. Just as I prepare to drop the book, I hear a voice from behind me.

“I thought I would find you here.” It’s Ina. She is wearing dark shades that are covering her eyes.

I draw the book close to me, and at the same time, reach slowly around for the pistol tucked into my belt.

“I need to stop this, Ina,” I say, “I can do this and we can leave together.”

“You were always a terrible liar. I never thanked you for saving my life, but I guess I always knew I wouldn’t be leaving this place”.

I slowly draw the gun, pulling it to my side, feeling for the safety catch.

“You see I didn’t have a choice. They have –“ she seems to fumble for a word, “They have a machine. It is the only way I can describe it. It takes everything from you. Makes you empty. You become with it.”

“With what?” I ask.

“With It. The Echo.” She nods her head upwards to the sky. She reaches up for her glasses and removes them and then she looks at me. I find myself staring at her. At her eyes, or where her eyes used to be, now replaced by obsidian orbs that feel they stare in all directions, unblinking and unflinching. Eyes are as dark as the depths of space, inescapable.

“Ina don’t” I try to reason with what’s left of her and my arms tenses, ready to fire.

“I don’t have a choice. You will meet the machine and join the echo. Or. You will burn with the rest of them and join the echo.” She stiffens upon saying this.

There is a moment of stillness, like the calm before the storm. And then Ina charges. I raise my pistol and fire, but in haste, only grazing her shoulder. Ignoring the wound, she crashed into me at full speed. I fall on the metal floor of the gangway. The gun and book both slide out of reach. Ina is clawing at my face. Hands manage to catch them both, using everything I have, I push her off of me, hard enough she lands heavily against metal floor. I manage to get up in time, as Ina is quickly on her feet charging back into me. I have some hesitation about hitting her, but the feeling in the back of my head, tells me she is no longer the woman I knew. I block her hands with one forearm and let fly with a fist. It hits home, forcing her back. I take one step back, closer to the gun and book. She comes in again, I anticipate her charge, and counter her, forcing her back even further. The clanking of the conveyors has begun again. She is on the floor again and as she gets up I make for my weapons. Snatching up the book and the gun, I turn as she slams into me again. I can hear the hissing pressure of the hydraulics. The gun discharges into her chest. Metal scrapes on metal as maw begin to open. Ina with the last of her strength grabs for the book, I try to pull her away, but she has it. I push and she goes over the rail, tearing the book from my hands. I look over the edge into the light of the flames below and for seconds she her descend into the white. The maw closes.

Realising what has happened, I begin to run. I barely make it to the end of the gangway when the incinerator begins to rumble like thunder. There is no explosion, but instead, it feels like an implosion. Everything feels torn towards the collapsing incinerator. The floor quakes. Metal is bent and twisted so fast and fiercely it screams. I hit a metal staircase and fall down it, as the floor gives way and the world turns sideways

Read more...

Weekend in Leviathan

After several hours of driving, Philé Stein and I had arrived in the City of Leviathan. Our purpose was to see and hear a band called Sigur Ros. The drive was largely uneventful, I blacked out on occasions, from a lack of sleep. The steady rhythm of a well-tuned car will do that. Unless I’m the one who’s driving, then I’m alert for any danger, real or invisible.

The lodgings were known as the Albert Park, in a suburb that consisted of buildings that looked like visibly ancient. Stacked together in long rows, each place was an iteration of the last. Except with minor differences that made them idiosyncratic. Some had bars on the windows, and others did not. One had a metal door. Another, security cameras. One place had the bright-red workings of a fire suppression system, the tangled pipes taking decent space of the front landing. There was the garbage that was cleaned out during a threat of eviction, but never collected by sanitation. The Cherry-Red Piaggio scooter parked just off the street. Boxes of recyclables labelled in different languages. The curtains, made from old patterned sheets. The plastic sheet hanging over the electric meter in case of rain. The abandoned bed clothes, an entire set of pillows, sheets and duvet left to rot in the mid-winter cold. The signs. “Attention Pizza Delivery Drivers and Post Contractors. Please do not leave any parcels for HOOSAUD at the front door. They will be picked up at the rear gate.” Then there was a mobile number. “This building is under extensive repairs and builders will be present during business hours.”

Philé and I still had some time to kill between now and the restaurant, so we decided to go to the Quay. I have only visited Leviathan a handful of times in my life. I like to think of this as a good thing, because while right now I can stare at the tall dominating skyscrapers and towers like a slack-jawed tourist, I know that I would become to hate this place if I lived here. I knew this from my last holiday back in the Old Town and I spent a couple of nights at a friend’s in nearby Boom City. The traffic was a nightmare, and the humidity, even in the middle of autumn, was choking.

We had lunch in the Quay, at a bar called the Orient, which served pretty descent grub. We spent the afternoon wandering to other nearby joints, the Argyle with a massive bathroom that looked taken out of the Matrix and a DJ Booth, set in glass that was suspended by cables above us. (Not in the bathroom though, in the main bar area.) The entire Argyle was built inside what appeared to be a colonial era brick building that I’m sure was either used to house convicts or sheep. Not sure.

We then went to the Lowenbrau (or did the Argyle come last?), a photo of the Pope holding the house beer still adorned the windows of the entrance. It had only been a week since World Youth Day, and Papal-fever remained in a few Caths. Inside it looked subterranean, like it was straight out of a Tolkien novel. Long wooden tables, warm amber lighting, and the strains of appropriate ethnic music played in the background. Large porcelain steins filled an ornate cabinet, though I’m sure they were not for sale.

Then came the Lord Nelson, a stately English bar eponymously named after a famous Admiral. Philé knew they brewed their own beer, but I didn’t have any. Behind us a Hen’s Night, or at least one third of a Hen’s Night was under way. Soon two members of the party walked over to us and asked a few questions. The challenge of each team for the Bridal shower was a scavenger hunt of sorts and they asked us two questions. One had to do with a pickup line. Philé, ever the gentleman, suggested his: “When you approach the young lady, ask her if she would enjoy returning to your domicile and partake in a pizza and a fuck. When the young lass would react shocked and mortified, simply and naïvely ask, ‘What? You don’t like pizza?’” The second question related to the sexiest Antipodean women we could think of, and why. Philé named a famous pole vaulter (get name later), notably because “she was hot and could handle poles” I named Sara Murdoch. Only because she seemed the most level-headed blonde around. (Though on reflection I should have mentioned the girl from Killing Heidi. She was cute)

With that the Hen’s Night partiers were gone and soon so were we. I felt a headache coming on. We eventually returned to the Hotel and I passed out on my bed. A short while later, I woke, realising I was about twenty minutes late for the restaurant. Philé had already called twice on my phone. Then there was a knock on my door. It was Philé and we sped out of the hotel. I was still weirded by the passing out. Everything was hazy, with the sense of dread more intense. We walked to the restaurant. All I could do was to try to keep up with my partner in crime. But, boy, did he move fast. Homes and closed stores whirred by. We passed one called Mao and More, having giant red lanterns. Further we walked. By scornful warped faces of the lost sitting outside the bar, watching the world leave them. By young couples headed out for a night on the town. Another shop, its only name I can guess as the “Smiling Sparrow” judging by the picture on the sign. It was some kind of boutique, featuring red lamps and dresses. The restaurant was still further. Philé drove on, he liked this restaurant and soon I knew why.

The Red Lantern is Vietnamese restaurant, built in and through an old home. It’s not very big and it’s almost surreal they way that they have managed to fit so much into something so small. All of the staff were aware of the schedule we were keeping and the fact that we were twenty minutes late, only caused tensions. However, the staff of the Red Lantern were very accommodating. In a record time they brought out our orders, roughly fifteen minutes. It was like they stepped into the kitchen, the chef’s already preordaining what we had ordered, had it cooked and prepared. All the waiter had to do was to bring it to our table. I chose a Roast Duck dish with Asian greens and plum sauce, while Philé ordered Angus Black Sirloin Beef with red rice. Each was perfect. The Duck was tender and moist, while the skin was crisp. I’ve known duck to be fatty. Cooked incorrectly, it is partly untenable and chewy. But this duck you could eat every tiny morsel. The fat was rendered away into the meat the dish so that you’d barely notice it. The Beef was delicious, cooked roughly medium, so it kept most of it natural flavour. The red rice was seasoned with something I could not place. By the end of the meal my haze had cleared, I could perceive fully once again.

Soon enough, we had to go. The concert was awaiting us. Philé was almost at his flying pace again, but with a full stomach he decided to walk a little more casually. Once again he knew where he was going and I was lost. Along the way, we joined others headed to the concert. The Pavilion loomed in the night horizon. It was a mass of building, silver and steel in colour. Security let us through without incident and we joined the throng. I think we all wanted the same thing at the same point: to see a particular Icelandic group play. Philé moved among the main floor and joined an already assembling crowd in front of the stage. After a short while, three men descending into the stage, taking up a laptop, guitar and keyboard and a set of drums. They began to hammer at the drums, press and pound keys, and spasm and contort at the instruments. This trio were Pivot. And they were an excellent opening act of fast complex rhythms, tonal ambience, crying howls, cuts, clips and bips, and rolling guitar. Personally, they were awesome, and provided enough energy to the crowd to prepare themselves for the spectacle that was and still is Sigur Ros. Imagine a full drum kit, a xylophone, three keyboards, at least eight guitars of various tunings and curves, a marching band drum, confetti poppers (extra-extra large size), several cello bows (all of which would be destroyed by the end of the evening), a marching band quartet complete with their own brass, a piccolo and one small wooden organ. All of this combined, with six giant lighted balls and the co-ordinated stage lights, provided a live show, the kind I have not seen in some time. It’s a little hard to classify Sigur Ros’ music. They are ethereal and emotionally powerful, stark and beautiful like their Iceland, of verdant green valleys and dark, imposing volcanic structures. I cannot say I am as big a fan as my friend Philé, but I do enjoy the tracks that have feature more beating of the drums. Needlessly to say their powerful concert blew me away. Philé, you can stop preaching to the converted.

After the concert, I purchased a Pivot album, and then Philé and I returned to the night. Soon afterwards we found ourselves in the Cleveland Bar taking in long island ice teas discussing our plans for the next day.

Morning came, and my belly made disturbing, restless noises. I called Philé who was on the other end of the hotel to check if he was still awake. He was and we packed the car and headed to our next destination the East Ocean Restaurant for a Yum Cha brunch. Deep in the heart of Leviathan’s China Town district, this grand restaurant is at the end of a tall staircase of red carpet. You arrive to a sign that states that none of the staff will seat you, despite your booking, until the whole of your party has arrived. We just enter the dining area and see tanks filled with massive sea creatures. Crabs as big as my torso and Abalone as big as my head. We pick a table behind four older men. Right now the whole restaurant is practically empty. The trick with Yum Cha involves several things. Traditionally, according to Philé, yum cha is to “drink tea” particularly on a Sunday. Today it’s associated with eating small servings of rich dim sums, along with drinking tea and in our case Tsingtaos, a Chinese beer. Throughout the restaurant, girls with carts manoeuvre their way around the main dining area. Some of the carts are fitted with gas bottles and elements so food prep can be performed practically in front of you. Each cart has different food. Steamed dim sums filled with prawn, crab, chives, garlic, and sharks fin. Pork buns, fried rice noodles with a peanut and hoi sin sauce, chickens feet, spring rolls, scallops, oysters, deep fried calamari, custard tarts, chicken pies, thousand year eggs crisps and the list goes on. We wait for a cart trundle by and then if we see something we like, we bogart it, the girl stamps our menu, over what we have taken and then she on her way, while we scarf down the food and then like predator fish, wait and hide in the reef for another girl with a cart to cross our open maws. In the meantime you can watch the chaos of the entire establishment unfold. We arrived at 10, as I said earlier, and the restaurant was practically empty, however, every 15 minutes, you would look around and find more tables that were occupied. The more patrons the more carts travel their various circuits and the more chaos there is. As there is no set plan, there are numerous traffic jams and cart-related clusterfucks added only to the entire nature and air of the restaurant.

Leaving the restaurant satisfied, past the tanks of gargantuan sea creatures and the line of potential patrons that extends all the way down the massive stair case. We walk by the stern and hungry faces with cheesy grins.

After wandering around some more in the markets and streets of the China Town, we return to the hotel, and then hit the road, back to the Glowing Octopus and out of here and into the sunset.

Read more...

The River Lethe

The tunnels are still filled with black and ichorous water that churns constantly. Using the torch strapped to the shotgun for light, I move through the maze of tunnels trying to find the marks I painted on the wall to help me find my way out of this place. Was it left or right? The last time I was down here, I was being chased by – something – and I only by chance managed to find an escape route. I can’t afford to stop either. Considering the amount of force used to take down the Doctor, I can only imagine what is happening on the surface.

I feel a progrom is underway. I choose left. That feeling in the back of my head tells me something isn’t right. I slow my movements, trying to match the sound of the sloshing waters. I can hear a hissing sound. I turn the corner and find a teenager. He wearing a hooded jumper, spraying paint on the wall, over the orientation mark I made earlier. I immediately recognise that the bag he is carrying belongs to me. He stops spraying, and is still for a second, almost contemplative and then he turns.

His eyes have been removed. There are scars as if his hands have clawed them out. He glares at me with empty sockets. Then suddenly he throws the spray can and snarls. His hands direct towards the water and a wave of darkness rises up in front of me. The wave hits me hard causing me to stagger and fall back. The teen readies another wave. I ready myself for the blow, but instead it suddenly dissipates. The empty-eyed teenager is just as surprised as me. “Shit,” he says before running down the tunnel. I scramble back to my feet and chase him down the tunnel. Despite the fact that I am bigger than him, I find it hard to match his speed in this water. I notice that he doesn’t seem to be running. His movements are fluid, like he’s skating.

Completely focused on my quarry, I fail to pay attention to my surroundings. Something hits my legs while I’m running at full speed. I fly through the air and land in ankle deep sludge. The teen disappears into the darkness. I turn to see what had tripped me. A large man steps into the available light. He isn’t tall, but heavy with muscle. He looks kind of square. As he approaches me, I notice the empty sockets and familiar scars of the teenager I was chasing. I scramble to my feet and level the shotgun at him. He moves in fast, very fast. I barely dodge a right-hook that he throws. I feel it graze my chin. It would have shattered my jaw. I try to counter, using the butt of the shotgun, but his left hand comes up catching it inches away from his face. He’s strong, his arm pushes me back, causing me to stumble. He throws a gesture with his hands and some unseen force throws me against the tunnel wall like a toy. I’m out of my league. I grab at my shotgun, get to my feet and run down the tunnel. As I make a corner, the light of my torch picks up the shapes of more people down here, a dozen maybe more.

“Shit,” I utter as I turn to run. But I don’t get very far, before they are on top of me. Grabbing at my arms and legs, they pull me down into the water, pinning me there. I look at all of their faces. None of them have eyes, only empty, unblinking sockets stare back at me. The large square man has caught up. He approaches slowly towards me, something glints in his hand.

“Let’s make this quick,” he says in a flat voice. The glint of the blade inches slowly towards my neck. Regardless how much I protest, or struggle, the blade is inexorable. As the point of the knife touches my skin, I hear another voice

“Wait!”

All of the eyeless people look down the tunnel where the protest came from. A middle-aged man approaches the group holding me. His voice calmer, “Come on. Let him go. Are you blind? Can’t you see he’s not one of them.”

The people release me. The large man picks me up to my feet. “What the hell is going on here?”

The old man smirks, “My name is Emmersen, I lead the people down here.”
The group of eyeless people part as he leads me down the tunnel. Despite being completely blinded each of these people seemed to know their way around in the tunnels. The group followed us quietly while Emmersen continued to talk. “This city has undergone a radical change. I never thought a city could be a creature. Not until the Echo. That was a terrible day, you see. We thought we could bring order, bring control, bring peace.”

He paused and looked at me for a moment with empty sockets, “Imagine a city where there was no crime. No murder, no theft, no torment. That everyone had empathy for his or her fellow citizen. That was the dream.”

“Now you’ve seen that nightmare unfold up there. But now things are much more complex. Than any of us originally expected. Aurelius didn’t seem affected all. Infact, he thrived. Niebling died beating his head against a wall. And Dean. She was an engineer, she was working on something else… I don’t know what happened to her…

“What are you talking about?” I had to ask, before I lost him

Emmersen’s tone dropped. “They were my friends. We were trying to build a better future. The Echo broke containment. It made us all mad. Insane. And some. Better. Faster. And Stronger.”

He then pointed to where his eyes had once been. “I did this to myself in the first fifteen minutes of the containment breach. Niebling was already dead. And despite what I had done, I could still see Aurelius and his smile, but he could see into me…”

That brought back the last of what I saw of the Doctor taken down by at least a dozen armed men. I wondered if he survived and shuddered for thinking if he did.

“You should fear him,” Emmersen said at me as if looking directly into my eyes, and then suddenly he turned away, “Look. We are here. Welcome to Hades.”
But there was nothing in front of me, just a vast dark void. As the other men fearlessly step into it, I stare at disbelief at Emmersen. “You don’t expect me to walk in there. I can barely see in here.”

Emmersen smiled, “Yes! I forgot. Here.” He reaches up with both hands and lightly touches my temples. Then suddenly everything changes, the darkness is burnt away as everything around me glows with a strange, electric phosphorous. I can see every ripple in the thick oil-water that flows beneath me. I see every inch of the tunnel covered in paint, strange sigils and markings that look organic and old. I looked at a smiling Emmersen, who now possess spectral eyes that burnt with a glowing blue flame. I turn and gaze upon their Hades. The massive underground structure was remodelled as a base of operations and home to possibly hundreds. The painted sigils touched everything. The entire place glowed with an ethereal beauty.

“Colour in Darkness,” Emmersen whispered behind me, as if living in my experience.

“I can hear something, like – my mother – singing to me”

“Yes,” Emmersen replies sounding less and less mad, “That is the sound of the city. The Sound of Minerva.”

I listen for a moment attempting to take in the impossible tune.

“Come on,” he said as he moved by me, “We don’t have much time. And you have a mission.”

“Mission?”

He moves down towards the shantytown as the others begin to gather around him. Emmersen climbs on top of one of the makeshift structures. With this luminescent sight, each of their eyes are aflame, staring up at their leader. Each of them are dressed in clothes that they seemed to have found. They have lived in desperation fighting an invisible battle that I had not seen before. As Emmersen prepared to speak, weapons are passed around. Handguns, rifles, shotguns, some weapons I recognise as of the former police.

“Our time has come,” Emmersen suddenly bellows, his voice echoing in the cavernous chamber. All of the burning eyes were upon him. “Our judgement has come. The Enemy has begun to move, against the people of this city. Against this city itself. They will not stop until there are no survivors. Only our enemy will remain. We must prevent this at all costs. Take your positions now. Fight well!”

As the people began to disband, Emmersen climbed down from the shanty and he approaches me. “Now it is time for your task, come with me.” Emmersen, a few others and myself walk down a tunnel away from the shanty town, which now lays deserted.

I need – we need you do something very important for us. There is a place we cannot go. It is the Incinerator. It is this place you must destroy and we will give you the means. If you do this you will save more than the city”

There was an undeniable truth in his voice. “Why can’t you do it?” I ask, “You seem to have the men.”

His words became bitter. “It is because we have been – touched – after a fashion. We cannot go to that place with out turning, without falling to the machine.”

I felt a shared memory among Emmersen’s men. Something they attempted some time ago…I felt sick from it.

He reached into his coat and produced an item in wrappings and a handgun. “This will be your weapons. You will know what to do when you reach the Incinerator. It will all become clear. Now take off your jacket.

“I’m sorry?”

“The enemy has seen you and will recognise you from the way you dressed.” Emmersen pointed to one of his aides, “You give him your coat.”

We swapped coats. The teen I saw earlier gave the aide my backpack and shotgun and he took them up with both hands.

“Go,” Emmersen said to his aide, “Delay them as much as you can.” The aide ran off down the tunnel to his destiny.

We continued down the tunnel until we entered a convergence of storm water system with canals. In front of us was a small landing and a tiny boat tied next to it.

“This is where we must leave you. This canal was once the great Minerva, all you need to do is follow it and it will take you directly to the Incinerator.” Emmersen said as the darkness grew in the tunnel. My luminescent vision began to leave me. The fire in their eyes dimmed, returning to empty sockets. The vibrant wall returned to a dull grey. Emmersen and his people moved back into the tunnel that we came, disappearing.

I hopped in the boat, started the engine and journeyed down the Canal.

Read more...