Earth Eaters

A former editor continues to send me material. Amongst usual flotsam of pornography and random photos and story snippets, I received an album from a group called Monster Zoku Onsomb!. The last time I heard anything from these people were at a live show at the Globe theatre, an underground cinema with retro feel, a bar of cheap beer and a minimal number of fire escapes. Back then it was the launch of their debut album, Attack!. I often wondered when another album would crop up. So I was surprised to find, buried beneath ransom notes and pre-Twentieth Century erotica, MZO’s latest album, Earth Eaters.

Monster Zoku Onsomb is one of those oddball things you find difficult to classify. And its defiance to be pigeonholed is its charm. I guess “bizarre” best describes them. I have a keen taste for the bizarre. After all, strange desert racers, go-go dancing killers in cat suits, communist aliens that desire the prettiest of the capitalist ivy-league virgins and Chambre d’Cauchmars are the things I look out for. So Earth Eaters is a ride of smooth electronics, keen beats, rolling bass and strange taste. This has a tighter feel than their previous album, but I do kind of miss the heavy mash-ups.

There are a few tracks that really stand out. Suicide Sine Wave starts out like surfing on a radioactive coastline, dotted with the Martian wreckage. Drag Stripper is a race across the salt-flats of a nuclear testing site. Earth Eaters has the base of a giant creature stamping its way across the metropolis. I don’t why I like Matterhorn Stab; maybe it’s the drums… Xylophobia is a soundtrack to some classic Halloween cartoon. Team Siouxsie is an excellent wrap up for the CD, like when the credits roll in some smoke-filled matinee and your finishing your last highball. So when you wrangle a copy, stick it in your player, mix up a cocktail, kick back and enjoy the ride.

I also recommend seeing their live shows as well. They’re all pretty lively events, with blood, confetti, lasers, smoke, trampolines, and tequila. My former editor claims now they are now performing 3D live shows, which tells me they finally escaped the perils of Flatland. And this is excellent news.

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Magpie - Part 2

Elsewhere. A homestead lies in ruin. The fences fallen apart and toppled over. Not that they were keeping in anything. The cattle were sold long ago, and they were barely worth anything. The ground was near barren, brown and rocky. What little grass remained was the same clay-brown as the earth that bore it. The building itself was slowly separating, even now the boards that made the shell, were loose and would rattle in wind. The house looked like a skull, decayed on the deserted ground. But none of this bothered the occupant. He was living on borrowed time.

A young woman approached the homestead. She looked back at the wagon that brought her here. The driver, turned elsewhere, so that his attention did not seem transfixed on her. She returned her attentions the house and moved up old stairs and onto a porch. Both groan and wheezed as though she stepped on the near dead.

She crossed the threshold into that house. Dust and dirt had come in through every available open and settled here. Everything was clay-coloured. The walls rooms were bare, only vast plains of boards could be seen. There was no furniture. A crate of food, salted meats and tinned sundries lay in the corner. The woman turned to a closed door. Pushed gently, it creaked loudly, protesting. Inside the room was a man kneeling as if in pray, but not quite so. He his hands were not clasped together and held under his chin, but instead lay relaxed on his lap. He did not seem bothered by her entrance, all announced by the house. Around in this room lay the bare few items: a simple mattress and worn blanket, a blackened chamber pot lay in the corner. Some books lay piled in the corner. Against the wall sat a large leather case, worn, dusty and locked.

- Cassandra, he said, what brings you out all this way?

She turned her head, to look around the house.

- I heard you sold all of your things. At least that’s what the people in town said. And that you were selling it all for pennies.

- That’s true. Some felt strange for taking it for free. They wanted to pay something.

-But –

-I didn’t need those things. They weren’t important. No one seems to make sense of that.

He smiled, trying to reassure her with this. But it did not. She was certain that her father had begun to lose his mind. A lifetime of guilt and regret had finally corrupted him.

- What if you come back to town with me? Set you up in the hotel -

She pleaded but was cut off again.

- No. Why don’t you understand what I want is right here? Those things, all of those things, were a burden. The table, I never ate at it. The chair, I spent too much time sitting on hardscrabble under the stars to get used to it. And the bed…

He paused, hiding his true feelings.

- The bed was too comfortable.

Cassandra knew the truth. All of these things were his wife’s, her mother. Every piece of furniture reminded him of her, and his failure. He had fought and survived and won so many battles that he lost the home front. She read it in him plain like an open book, just as he did for her. He made these excuses as if to pretend for her sake. As if everything were normal. Despite the mistakes of the past, he pretended to move on. But this house felt like it was dying. She wondered if her father reflected this house. She wondered if she would have to bury another parent. That’s why she came out here. She dreamt a shadow fell over this place. Something that strode across the desert. It moved slow and steady, but nothing would stop it. Not heat, or dust, or starvation, not storms and not fire. It was inexorable. And it would claim him. She wondered if her father was just waiting for Death to come knocking.

Her father turned his head towards the grimy window. Something was coming. Her father always felt it before she did. Before either of them heard it, or even the other senses registered. Then the thudding of hooves and grinding of cartwheel against the hard ground came. The wagon outside came to a stop. The horses whinnied restlessly. Cassandra felt the shadow of a man as it drew itself across the ground from the lazy afternoon sun. She felt darkness, but not the darkness in her dream.

- I think I better be going, Cassandra said.

Her father nodded in agreement. She quickly stepped outside. As she opened the door she recognised the man connected to the shadow. He was middle-aged, hair turned grey and silver. The body had become slightly rounder, but was once fit and strong. The clothes were expensive, too expensive for anywhere nearby or any honest career. He had one foot on the first step. It didn’t groan for him.

- Hello Colonel.

Cassandra spoke with feigning dignity.

The Colonel tipped his hat.

- Afternoon, my dear Cassandra. My you are looking lovely as ever.

Fake platitudes for fake platitudes. The Colonel continued:

- I take it your father is inside.

- Yes he is.

- Well, I wonder what brings such a lovely creature like yourself out to a depressing place like this? The Colonel gestured with his hand to the house and the empty, dead farm.

- Just visiting my father. Nothing more.

And wanting to say nothing more, Cassandra headed for her wagon. The Colonel wore a sidewinder smile.

- You be careful there. Dangerous days for a beautiful young woman like you.

Cassandra told the driver to go and the horses drew the wagon around in a slow circle and made their way back to town.

The Colonel watched them for a moment, before turning his attention to the house. He moved up the steps without a sound. And old trick he had kept in practice. It allowed him to sneak from unwanted guests that his wife had brought. It let him to move around the house at Christmas as a proxy for Saint Nick for his children. With this skill, he killed men in their own encampment, their throats cut like a second smile.

Despite his silent steps, he knew the man inside was expecting him. He entered the house and then stood at the bedroom door. He looked around the house as if admiring the place for its ability to continue standing.

- I like what you have done to the place, Shaman. The Colonel noted. – Nice décor.

Shaman still looked out the window towards the horizon that Cassandra disappeared on.

- Do you want a drink, Colonel?

- Sure.

Shaman moved out the bedroom, past his old comrade, towards the kitchen. He reached up into a cupboard with both hands and pulled out two small glasses and a clear glass bottle. There was a small amount of amber and gold liquid in the bottle. Shaman set these things on the stove.

Shaman immediately read the Colonel's intentions

- So you want insight?

- Yeah.

The Colonel replying as he looked around for somewhere to sit, but realising that there was none.

– Came here for advice. And to bring news.

- News?

Shaman looked up at the Colonel. He rarely asked questions.

- Yes. You hadn’t heard? Clara’s dead. Gunned down outside her own home. In front of her kids. Terrible thing for children to see. But this is the problem. We think the same fellow killed Ichi, and Clarke and Jackson. Hell, he’s even got to a card shark down the Mississippi and a few others.

Shaman uncorked the bottle slowly, the cork making a lengthy squeaking sound.

- What I want to know, the Colonel continued, is that if this guy is hunting us. And what I need to do to stop him.

Shaman poured the amber whiskey out into one of the small glasses.

- I can see a man dressed in the same colour of his shadow. He goes everywhere by foot, as no animal will carry him. He is moved by something that robs him of sleep and stays his need for food and drink and safety.

Shaman poured the other glass that perfectly emptied the bottle and at the same time, perfectly filled the glass.

- He is a hunter. Like you and more than you.

Shaman handed the Colonel the glass. The Colonel nodded his head.

-Salud.

They both drank.

Swallowing the last remnants of the burning whiskey, Shaman reminisced, picking up the empty bottle.

- Do you remember when I got this bottle?

The Colonel smiled, the memory coming back.

- Yeah. I remember, we picked it up after the whole valley thing. Your whole strategy about setting those fires paid off.

Shaman was holding up the bottle looking through the crystal clear glass

- Do you remember what I said when I got this bottle?

The Colonel shook his head slightly.

– No…

Shaman looked directly at the Colonel, as if looking down upon him.

- I said that the last time we would meet would be when this bottle was empty. It would be when I would give my last piece of advice to you.

- And that is?

Shaman looked back at the bottle, as if it were a prism that could separate the light.

- One day, we all find ourselves hunted. This man, who has killed our friends is a force of nature. He cannot be bought with coin or a lover’s warmth or a safe place. You will not be able to outrun him or hide from him. You will need to stand and fight.

The Colonel wiped his mouth. There was a bitter aftertaste in the face of this advice. His smile had gone. Taking this in, the Colonel nodded. Shaman had always told the truth. And it always came true.

- Well. Best of luck then. See you later.

Shaman did not draw his attention away from the bottle.

- There is no later. Goodbye Colonel.

The Colonel left. Shaman could hear the wagon pull away, the sound of the horses and wheels disappear into the dusk.

Shaman place the bottle on stove, returned to his room and sat down on the floor cross-legged. He closed his eyes. The sun had sunk lower and lower. Everything had become dark. Except behind Shaman’s eyelids. There was a light that only he could see. It was strange the way it rose, like sun setting in reverse, clouds traced across the sky like fingers. Shaman’s sight raced across the land, a wide barren desert of rock, stone and mesa. An empty wilderness that tested everyone who dared to cross it and claimed most. His vision raced across the landscape at an incredible speed. Shaman knew the thing that he was looking for. Suddenly from the edges of the horizons sprang a great mountain. Alone in the desert it was a behemoth standing over everything. This mountain was old as the sun it now blocked. Let shadow meet shadow, said words in Shaman’s voice, but not his. This would be his battleground. This would be the place to test who was the hunter and who was quarry.

Shaman opened his eyes. The sun had long left the day. Even in the darkness, Shaman moved over to the leather case and opened it. He knew where everything was. He picked up his guns, put in his coat, rolled his blanket, and picked some food out of the crate. Then he was out the door into the darkness. Speeding towards his final stand.

Preceded by: Part 1
Continued in Part 3

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Magpie - Part 1

The house stood on the hill overlooking the dry, golden fields of grain. A light wind had them swaying. In the right light, a late summer afternoon, dry and cooling, these fields would look like a shimmering sea of gold with waves rippling in the setting sun. The other side of the house was shielded from the weather and prying eyes by a small copse. It was made of trees that seemed hundreds of years old, tall and strong, unyielding to the elements. They stayed green for most of the year.

Two girls played on the porch. Dressed in pastel colours, long dresses and small black boots. One, with darker hair, read quietly on the long chair made of pine. She was the older sister, but still not big enough for her feet to reach the solid wooden floor of the porch. The younger girl, clinging to a doll made of soft cloth and filled with stuffing, skipped across the porch. Skipped and bounced to a tune that ran in her head and had no words.

Annoyed, the older sister closed her book. Mimicking maturity, she barked at her sister
- Will you stop that?
The younger seemed perplexed at the order.
- I’m just playing.
The older one sighed.
- You’re such a child.

There was movement in the copse below, a shape slipped between the shade of the trees. There was no sound to be heard, no even the rustling of leaves or the short, snapping sound of branches. Well-placed feet made their way through the copse.

A figure emerged, a young man, lean and tall. He walked with a strange gait. Oddly paced, yet deliberate steps. Moving towards the porch, where the girls stood. They froze, unsure what to make of this man. The older sister saw that the legs of his black trousers were too short, nearly rising up half his shins. In contrast, his jacket was too big, with the sleeves coming down over his hands. Both jacket and trouser were black. Beneath the jacket was a white shirt that had become stained will dirt and grime. His skin was pale and off-white, and dark rings surrounded his eyes and hair equally black, shortly cropped on his head and styled in no particular fashion. The older sister could also see three guns strapped to his waist. And something else, like a knife that sat in an ornate sheath decorated in what looked like flowers.

He stepped up to the bottom of the stairs and looked up at the girls.
The older sister stepped forward, in front of her younger, as if to protect her.
- Hi girls.
His voice seemed to sing a little, though he also seemed out of breath, like he walked halfway across the world to see this place.
- Is your mother at home?

The older sister backed towards the door of the house, while grabbing her sisters hand in reflex.
- Mom!

Inside, Clara looked out the window, the moment she heard her girls stop talking, even before they called out for her. She watched the man glide to the front porch. She stood there at the window the whole time and until her child had called for her, she was transfixed with a fear that this man had finally come to her door. When her eldest daughter, Helen, called out, she snapped out of it. She dashed out the front door and moved to the tops of the stairs, so that she was between this man and her girls.

She stared at him with a transfixed gaze. Half was in fear and the other half, like the evil eye.
- Helen, Kate. Go inside.
The girls followed their mother’s words without hesitation. Clara did not take her eyes away from the young man. The moment she heard the front door close, she spoke again:
- Why are you here?

The young man leaned in close, smiling gently.
- Oh…you know why. You have something that I want.

Clara had heard of him. She received the news from the wire and letters from an old acquaintance. Clara had known the people that this man had killed.

Already she had recognised the man’s clothes and his weapons. They belonged to her comrades – former comrades – from a time that was thought forgotten. Vicious times and brutal days, unforgivable things were done those years past. Now that she had daughters, she found a peace and left her violent ways. But there always was the dread that her past might come back to haunt her.

Originally she thought that it was someone out for vengeance. She had this notion when she heard the potter and poet were dead. They made a bad name for themselves and many enemies in those days. Further letters revealed that this same man tracked a conman on the Mississippi. And some ex-army fellow turned preacher. Two people who had no connection to Clara, her acquaintance or her former comrades.

This was not revenge.

The man spoke again
- So do you want to do this now? I can wait a while. Some like to say goodbye to others first.

- You’re not taking my daughters.

The young man seemed offended by this, as if she mistook his agenda.

- No…You…What I want is inside you. No harm will come their way.
He paused, as he looked at her. It didn’t seem that she believed him
- I promise. Nothing will happen

He seemed to speak the truth on this. He was only after her. Something within her, insubstantial to her, but worth enough for him to travel so far on foot to find her.

Clara went back inside, the young man didn’t move from his leaning on the stair post. She raced through the house into her room, got down on her knees and reached under her bed. Her hands felt something old, oily and leathery. They grabbed frantically at this and wrenched it out into the light. An old trunk made of dark brown hide, worn from years of use and neglect. This was Clara’s past. She opened the case and there lay the shooter, a revolver made of steel and iron. It had a handle fashioned from wood that came from the copse outside. Beneath it was the holster and belt that she had worn at her waist before it gave way to motherhood. It fit around her again. For the briefest of moments, she felt the reckless and dangerous joys of her youth. Somehow she wanted to return to those days, where there was death and beauty. She couldn’t. Her fate stood waiting outside in mismatched clothes. She slid the gun into its rightful place. Striding from her room, about leave out the front door, she heard the unmistakable sound of her youngest sobbing. She turned to her family, her husband and father of her two daughters, whose tears were streaming down their small faces.

Her husband knew of the life that she led, though he took no grievance of it. Until now. She took some steps towards them, but then abruptly stopped.

- Go. Leave this place. If I walk from this, I’ll find you.

She wanted to hold her daughters and dry their tears. She wanted to kiss her husband and make love to him. She wanted to run, away with them. But that would only seal their fate. She knew this dark man outside. This demon also took the lives of any who stood in his way. Men, women, even animals and children, he killed without remorse.

- Can I help? I can get the rifle…

Clara shook her head, her eyes told her husband everything, You are no match for him.

Clara turned and walked out the front door.

The man was still there, casually scratching the back of his neck. The afternoon was turning to sunset, and the insects were coming out. As she came down the stairs, her eyes never leaving his dark gaze, he spoke, almost warbling.
- Where do you want to do this? I imagine that around back has a fine view-

Clara had cut him off there.
- Here. Right here. Right now.

The man nodded, complying with her wish, while scratching the back of his head.

They both walked out onto the green grass into the cool shadow of the house, with the trees risen up on the other side. Between them was a distance of about twelve yards. The dark man had removed his coat as he got into his position. Clara saw all his weapons. The dark smoky wood of Jackson the poet’s six-shooter. The eagle embossing on Paris’ SAA. The cherry –blossom pattern on the tanto of Ichi the potter. She suddenly noticed the charms of bracelets, the rings of silver and gold and rosaries that adorned this man. He was the cause of death to many.

- Whenever you’re ready.

His voice was smooth, his dark eyes transfixed on her. Her eyes matched his.

An uncounted moment passed. The wind picked up and rustled through the trees and rushed through the grain. The peep and cry of birds could be heard in the distance. Then everything went quiet, the calm before the storm.

Clara’s hand, quick as lightning, whipped the revolver from her waist and at shoulder-level, delivered her final shot. The dark man was not as fast to draw, but instead dodged, falling, rolling to the ground, and drawing in the tumble. A second shot rang through the trees. Startled birds scattered from their perches.

Clara had her gun fixed on her target that crouched in the soft ground. But though she beared on it, she couldn’t squeeze the trigger. Her body was frozen and numb. The gun suddenly became so heavy that her arm fell. The weapon dropped from her hand. There was a burning sensation in her chest, like a coal had lodged itself in her chest and she was choking on it. She coughed and tasted the iron-tang of her blood. She felt the fabric of her dress become warm and wet. Clara fell to her knees, her gaze still as fixed as her adversary. Falling back, her head hit the soft ground. Clara could no longer move. She stared with abandon at the clear blue sky, with wisps of cloud slowly drifted across.

As she lay there dying, Clara heard steps approach her. A shadow fell over the dying woman. She choked back the blood that she was drowning her. Dark eyes met hers. He kneeled down so he could be closer to her.

- That courage. That’s what I was after.

The man’s face was only inches from hers.

- Is there one last thing that you want to say?

He like a holy man taking last rites.

All she could get out in a raspy, painful gurgle was:

- Your name - ?

- Name?
He paused.

- I don’t have one…but some call me a Magpie…

Clara heaved as she drew and exhaled her last breath and then she was gone. The man stared across his newly fallen quarry. He saw something shining at her wrist. A simple band of silver. He took it off and then put it on his own. Returning to his feet he stepped over to where Clara’s gun had fallen and picked it up, tucking it into his belt.

Magpie then looked up at the porch. He saw the oldest daughter and he knew the name now. Not just from when he had heard it earlier. It was now in his heart, as if he had reared that child for the last eight years. Helen. Her name was Helen and her favourite colour was blue because of the sky.

She was just staring at him. The tears that trailed down her cheeks were drying and her eyes were filled with a confused mixture of grief and anger.

Magpie, feeling no guilt or remorse, turned and walked back into the copse. Back the way he came.

Continued in Part 2

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Under

Construction is a constant part of this city. Like a living thing, this place is under constant renewal. From the office building I worked in, I would see half a dozen cranes dominate the skyline. They gracefully spin, slowly and surely heaving materials in and out of the sites. I was lucky enough to have a window seat at my desk. My colleagues who sit in a sea of cubicles have nothing but grey partitions as a vista. Some attempt to overcome this, but decorating it with knick-knacks and photos of happier times. But not me. At anytime I could just turn in my chair and see the blue sky painted with clouds above, and the grey stone and silver steel and dark blue glass of the city below. I enjoyed watching the construction. Seeing the workers move about like ants, carrying materials inside, talking to each other, having lunch on the newly set concrete floors. All of them seemed uniform with their yellow hardhats and orange vests. All of their work was in silence when I watched them from the window. Seriously I could do it for hours.

Near the building where I used to work, there was an old church. It seemed older than the city itself. It was an old limestone and granite building, with a steeped roof and decorated with some sculpture on the capstones that smoothed and worn away from the elements. For as long as I remembered, it was always abandoned. I never saw any services there. No long lines of patrons. The doors had always been chained shut. Metal grills bolted over the stained glass windows. Some windows were cracked or broken, but you couldn’t see inside. It was just so dark in there. It seemed odd to have such an old building in the heart of the city, where change seemed a daily occurrence. Old buildings were often quietly demolished and new buildings eventually took their place.

On Monday, I came to work and found the high temporary walls around were the church was. The standard signs adorned the wall: “Construction Site”, “All Visitors and Contractors Report to the Site Foreman” “Bill Posters Will Be Prosecuted”. As I walked past the wall, I looked up at the crane towering overhead. It was still and poised with it arm facing to the mountains. I beamed with excitement. This site was only a street away from my work. I could clearly see the whole construction from my window. I was only a couple of floors from the ground and my viewpoint initially did not give me a good idea of what was happening beyond the walls. I figured they demolished the entire church over the weekend. I was out of town on that weekend. I eagerly waited to finish work that day. I remember being exicted. Not that I get excited so much nowadays.

The next day I brought in my camera and tripod. I thought that during the day I could take a couple of photos of the construction site. I thought maybe I could keep the progress of the works; maybe compile it into a short film. So everyday I took one photo in the morning, one at midday and another before I left for home. The thing with new high-rise buildings is they first build the elevator shaft several stories and then build the rest of the building around it. If the building needs to be higher, the workers extend the shaft and then return to the building at large. Over the next couple of weeks I saw these towers of concrete rise above the temporary walls. They looked like mushrooms with the construction housing sitting on top, setting the latest layer of concrete. I took the first series of photos home on the weekend and figured I need to take more. So I set a timer for every hour and took a photo then. It was really just pressing a button as the camera was already focused on the site. After a while, the construction workers built a giant framework around the building. It was made of mesh and looked like it was stolen from the batting cages. Eventually it wrapped around the entire site, like a cage for some oversized creature. Inside you wouldn’t be able to see too well, but there was the steel pipes that made up the framework supporting the concrete floors above. As more floors were added the darker it became. But there I was, every hour taking photos of the progress. It was something to do, to break the monotony of work. I enjoyed it at first. Watching the clock, for the next reminder to show up and then “click” another shot made. Soon enough though, the construction site began to worry me.

It’s all about supply and demand. Weekend work is not an uncommon thing for construction workers. It’s extra money and God knows in those days, I guess they needed it. With the work going ahead seven days a week, it meant that I missed out on some of the progress. I began coming into work on the weekends for a couple of hours to even out the empty spaces in the progress. But everyday, when I started work and left to go home, the sound of construction was as constant as ever. It didn’t seem to stop. But I didn’t think much of it. I figured that there were two shifts running the site. Maybe more with the weekend work. I sometimes wondered at the cost of trying to get this building finished on time. Nothing seemed suspicious until one night. I had parked in the city. I left my car in a place where I knew it would be free. In the end I stayed longer than I expected, meeting with a few people in a bar for drinks. It got late and I thought I better get home. I had to walk past my work and the site. It was near midnight and I expected to see a silent skeleton, sitting still in the darkness, with the crane quietly keeping an eye on it. No. I heard the sound of impact drills, the buzz cutting of saws, the hammering of steel. I saw the flashes from welding or the sparks from the grinding of angles. How much was this building worth, I wondered. No sane person would work into the night. When I got home, I was tired, but I couldn’t sleep. All I could think about was the endless construction.

I began to get headaches. I woke up earlier than normal. My home seemed dull and grey, with nothing to do. I decided to go to work early, maybe take a cat nap before the day really started. The city seemed practically deserted. It was something like six. The sun had not really risen above the horizon and everything seemed stuck in a grey twilight. I walked past the site and found it quiet. I felt relieved, but then I was frozen by the noise. It was like a bell. But, at the same time, not like a bell. Like a hammer, violently meeting a long piece of steel tube in long even strokes: TONG TONG TONG TONG. There was something I felt behind it. Something I couldn’t hear. I shook. I didn’t know what came over me. Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, these construction workers appears and made their way toward the gates of the site. Most people on their way to work chat and smile, laugh and complain. But not these people, they quietly marched towards the gate, orderly and cowed. Some had sunken dark eyes. Some looked starved. They filed into the site, and I could see into it. I went to work. I didn’t get a nap. I watched construction throughout the day. I couldn’t focus on anything else. My headaches didn’t go away. I loaded myself with painkillers, but they just hummed through my skull. I took photos all day and did no work. The next day, I was told to work back. There were a few people sick today. I worked into the night. And I heard that terrible bell again. Even through the double paned glass of the building that silenced the city. I could hear it in my skull. TONG TONG TONG TONG. I still didn’t sleep, at least not in any consistent way. All I could dream about was an animal, I don’t know what it was, but I could feel its bones. They were moist and warm, the sinews and strings of muscle seemed to write and wriggle across it, like thousands of worms right in my hands, tightening and binding around the bone, decaying in reverse. The creature seemed to lash out at me. Then I would wake. And I could hear in the distance the strange bell. I lay in my bed eyes wide open, unable to move. I began to get nosebleeds.

I went to work, but I was told to go home. They said I was too sick to work, even with so many away. I saw a doctor and he prescribed some pills to help me sleep. They did not work. All I could think about was the construction. I looked through the photos, scrutinising every photo for a clue, or something to explain this madness. I eventually saw it. The people in the photos had changed. No longer the yellow hardhats and the safety orange-coloured jackets dominated the scene. I saw people in regular clothes, tracksuits, business wear all through the site, working and cutting and drilling and building. I had to get to work. I had been away for a several days and wanted to claim my camera. That would be my excuse. The traffic was quiet on the way in. There seemed to be no one on the road. It was peak hour. It didn’t click. Not at first. I was only concerned about the progress on the building. No one was on the street. No foot traffic. No students breaking away from class. No busy people. Or homeless. I went into work and found it deserted, an empty silent sea of grey. I went to my desk and looked at the construction. It was enormous now. The scale had bloated out, spilling over the temporary wall. The whole work now seemed erratic. Supports and girders jutted out the sides at all angles. The concrete formations seemed warped. The whole chaos seemed it shouldn’t have stood, but there it was, a monstrosity rising out of the ground.

I began to watch it over days, taking photos that were relevant. Swarms of people would come and go throughout the day. The entire structure was a hive under constant activity. Hammering and drilling and welding. Four times a day that terrible bell would ring. TONG TONG TONG TONG. I’d cover my ears, but I would feel it in my skull. By the time it stopped, I would be on floor, curled foetally. Workers would leave and be replaced by other drones. Each of them looked haggard, worn to the bone. I never saw them take out any fallen or sick. Each of them would walk, hobble or limp out. But they could move under their own strength. I dreaded what they did to those exhausted from the construction. The whole thing would only stop late at night, in the witching hour. But this respite was only mere moments before the bell sounded again and I picked myself of the floor to see people crawling all over the site.

I went home along vacant empty roads. I see other cars but we pass like ships in the night. Sometimes, I could see a fire and smoke rising from an abandoned suburb. There is no one to tend to it and it burns through dusk and dawn. I found myself breaking into supermarkets and shops for food. I carry a large kitchen knife to protect myself, hoping someone else didn’t have a gun. I avoided anything that made too much noise. Some days I could hear large groups of people moving, stripping a supermarket or convenience store of anything edible or buildable. Other times I would see the lone stranger, picking through what was left behind, be it the instant noodles or cans of dog food. We never talked, just show each other our improvised weapons and then go about our business at opposite ends of the building. This is what we have been reduced to.

I don’t know why the construction hasn’t claimed me yet. I don’t know how I haven’t been drawn to it like my friends or most of everyone in the city. It repulses to think of entering. It’s like an allergic reaction I guess. I can see the thing in my dreams and now from the horizon when I looked through my bedroom window. Time is doing strange things, days feel they stretch out for weeks, but the weeks roll by in moments. It’s become harder to find food and shelter, I’ve found whole neighbourhoods destroyed and dismantled.

I’ve decided to go there. I’m going to wait for that bell in the streets and try to stay standing. And when the gates open for the change, I’ll melt into the throng of people and go inside and find out what abomination has swallowed this city. I don’t know if I can stop it, but I guess I go through that door when they build it.

Don’t come for me. Leave while you can.

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Apologies

Hi. I apologise for the lack of updates for the last month or so. There were several projects I was involved in and it was material that would not be uploaded. Yet.

New content to come tomorrow.

Thank you for your patience.

Jack

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