A new world

This is a short story, nearly half complete. I finished the confrontation with the man with the rifle today.

A New World
DavidDown

A bitter wind numbed my lips and ears as I sat on the stump. I’d have put up my hood to protect my face from its bite if it wasn’t for the damn handcuffs. The posse that had dragged me out of my home into the cold stood staring at me, as if they expected me to shoot myself and haul my own ass up onto the cross at the center of the village, just so they could get out of the awful wind.

“Don’t you move, Jackie. You stay right there, all silent-like on that stump. It’ll be over soon enough,” one of the men said, his name might have been Frank.

Maybe-Frank stood in a group of six men, all with rifles and shotguns. I’d seen them all before: One was a traveling trinket salesman. Another man, standing down on one of the ends, closely resembled the pastor who preached the day’s ninth sermon. It was the holy man’s son, probably. The men were obviously waiting on at least one more person.

It’s strange what you think about when your life is so obviously about to end. If I had considered my last thoughts before that moment I would have assumed that they would be profound; but I was thinking about sex, mostly. I was thinking about a stirring succession of large breasted prostitutes, and I was thinking about those lithe women in college and high school, and I was thinking about Jane. Mostly I thought about Jane: she had loved me.

It felt like I had been waiting for ten minutes or so before the man they were waiting for came stalking up to the tree stump. He approached muttering something under his breath, and his head was slightly bowed. He was gaunt, almost sickly looking, and looked much like a man from my childhood: the man who had inspired such fear of God into my young form. His shoulders were slumped like a man who had carried a literal burden his whole life, like Atlas might on holiday. He wore the collar and dark robes of a priest and had a large, extravagant bible tucked tightly under his left arm. In his right hand he carried a large, ugly revolver. At least that’s my perception of it now: Your mind plays funny tricks on you, sometimes. My mind knew that the gun he carried would mostly likely spit my death, and it was ugly and revolting to me for that reason.

On any other day it would have been beautiful. It was engraved with dizzying spirals and waves of black forest gold and there was a dark steel crucifix hanging from a chain that led from the end of the barrel to the bottom of the grip.

It hung loosely around his wrist from the chain as he put a hand on Maybe-Frank's shoulder and whispered something to him. Then he strode up to me with fire in his eyes.

“This the one who committed fornication with your daughter?” he asked, each word rumbling from him.

Maybe-Frank spoke up, “Yes, father.”

“Keep better track of Jane next time, child. This man is filthy,” he prodded me with his foot to accentuate his point.

“Yes, father.”

The priest let the gun hang by its chain as he opened his bible and read a verse out of the Old Testament. (I can’t be bothered to remember the verse, and I haven’t seen a bible since then that I wanted to flip through.) As he read his voice came at an even lower rumble like fire hidden by the walls of a furnace. When he finished the verse he extracted a bullet from the margin of the book, which had been cut to accommodate it, and placed it into the revolver.

He moved on, reading five other verses and placing five other bullets in the chamber. He clicked the chamber into place and closed the bible at the same moment, handing the book to his son.

“How do you answer, child? Did you commit fornication with Frank’s daughter, Jane?”

It finally occurred to me why I was out there. I guess I had known, because I couldn’t get my mind off of Jane: The feel of her breasts, the scent of her sex. I answered truthfully.

“Yeah, I fucked her,” I said, laughing, “a number of times, actually.” I couldn’t believe where I was, and my disbelief had left me stunned and brainless.

“Frank has brought this charge upon you for using his property against his own will, and breaking his daughter's purity vows,” the priest said, his voice cracking.

“You ruined her, you worthless-” Frank started, but the priest cut him off.

“Language, Frank. Let the heathen use the words of the heathen,” the priest turned back to me.

“The penalty for this sin is death.”

As the preacher's cracking voice sentenced me to death, my thoughts turned to my last day in England. The hope and promise I felt on that day were so silly. So God-damned silly.

“I commend your spirit to the Lord.”

I still had my plan for the trip written on a scrap of paper in my back pocket, "Write book about America. Me=Shakespeare"

“I pray that he recieveth you.”

My friends and family thought I was crazy. The American media blackout was in it's twentieth year, and there was speculation of the wildest sort about what was going on. They didn't understand; that was why I had to be there.

“I pray that he has the mercy that we do not.”

I joined the crew of a fishing ship heading to Nunavut Territory, in Canada. Nunavut was the only territory the Americans hadn't bothered quickly conquering in the first months of isolationism. Free Radicals fleeing United North America gathered in Nunavut with frightening speed, and I was sure they could get me into the country. They could.

The preacher cocked the hammer of his intricate weapon and pointed it at me.

It had all been going so well.

He crossed himself awkwardly with the weapon and closed one eye, looking down the length of the ugly gun. I heard a crunch, like the bombs at parliament when I was a kid, then I was in the air and the tree came at me so so fast, then nothing.

The next thing I remember is the roof of a pup tent and a man with a flashlight. He was talking but I couldn’t hear him.

Dreams

I had the worst dreams. I saw myself in a suit and tie, with a prospective law crumpled in my fist as I waved it in the air and booed and hissed. The prime minister was trying to calm us down but this new security measure was ridiculous. It was offensive! We let him know as a group and it felt damn good doing it. A muscled, grave man ran to the Prime Minister’s side and whispered in his ear. The larger man was sweating, and his lip trembled as he spoke. The prime minister turned and ran full speed from the room, and we laughed as he did. Than I heard the crunch again, like I had when I was a kid when they bombed parlia-.

Oh God.

The first crunch blew a hole the size of my limousine in the ceiling. We started to panic as bombs poured in through the opening. Before I could move everyone anywhere near the floor was dead. My seat was far from the carnage, and this provided me with exactly seven extra seconds of life. I had a view that almost no one else in the room could have had: I saw the last bomb crack the stone floor, sit still for almost a second, like a dud, then I saw white.

The first nuclear mortar round. I remember hearing about them on the news for years afterward. After the first one annihilated our government they started popping up in war-zones all over the world, in use by unscrupulous warlords and unaffiliated men with even less scruples. It seems silly that it was such a small weapon that brought the world to its knees. But that is often the way the world works- small things enact the greatest changes. America quickly closed its borders, and other countries started to fold to terrorist demands. My mind swam with these memories, and then I lived again.

I saw myself wearing a fine black suit and a blue tie, then. I had an American flag pin on my lapel and I was stepping out of a limousine. My breast swelled with pride at what America had accomplished after 4-7 and the border closing. Self-sufficient, proud, and enclosed while the world rotted away in darkness. I was happy to step up to my podium and open America back up to the world, increasing opportunities for trade and prosperity. It was time for a new era, I was sure.

I tried not to think of the Christians boycotting the elections, citing a lack of Christian values in all of the candidates.

“My fellow Americans,” I could hear myself saying, “I bring good news: It is finally time to open our borders to-” the rest of my speech would be forever lost to history as the cries of angry non-voters drowned me out. They rushed the stage and I stepped back, my confidence gone. I looked to my secret service agents and was terrified by the sight: They fell to their knees and called out to their god to cleanse… me. I turned to run but the mob caught me. They carried me to the ground and someone kicked me in the temple and I blacked out.

The death of a president. Some groups of Christians had mutated under the strange new way of life of UNA, thriving in the darkness that absolute security provided. Many grew violently supportive of the establishment, leading their followers down dark paths. The men that are produced by the strictest security conditions are not men you want leading your churches. Cults of personality soon sprang up, centered on the most deviant, manipulative men that American religion could produce. Those men killed the president of UNA with their frothing hate. This was the first thing I learned upon sneaking into the UNA. I wrote the first four chapters of my book on this very topic before I met Jane, and all of this started.

Then I was me but I was still dreaming. I was with Jane and we were moving into our apartment. I carried the printed pages of my manuscript carefully up the stairs, and I could hear her unpacking boxes. Being in that place and in love was intoxicating, and we made love. My dreams lost their order then, speeding up to a feverish pace as I dreamt of Jane and dreamt of each time we had made love. My dreams ended in that overwhelming revelry as I felt the bitter wind.

Unforeseen Consequences

I woke with a deafening ringing in my ears and pain emanating from my temple. I didn't mind either in the slightest, both being evidence that I was alive. I opened my eyes, expecting the tent roof I saw when I last blacked out, but instead I saw open sky. I sat up, giving myself a headache. I was alone in the same clearing as last time, sitting at the base of the tree I had rammed into, cracking the young birch clean in half.

Well, I was mostly alone. The explosive seemed to have struck my attackers from around ten feet behind, placing me within the blast radius, but outside of the bombs deadliest effects. Those were reserved for the men who intended to kill me, and they were strewn about the clearing in various states of disarray and dismemberment. Maybe-Frank and the priest took the brunt of the destruction, I assumed, because they were nowhere to be found. The other men's presence's were more evident. I was still dazed, maybe from the impact, or maybe because I was still alive and I didn't understand why. Either way, I wandered out of the clearing, having the presence of mind to walk away from town. I didn't get far.

"Hold it! You hold it right there, partner," the voice came loud and surprised from behind me. I turned, but couldn't see anyone.
"I'm willing to shoot you, friend. By which I mean to say, I have a gun. Turn your back, so I can get out of my hiding place and get decent. Yeah, just like that," I cursed my luck; one of those bastards must have survived. I turned around quickly and put my hands up, even though he hadn't asked.
The next thing I heard was the sound of a zipper closing, and I felt cold steel against the back of my neck not too many moments later. He was quiet.
The man gasped.
"Turn around, slow," he said, poking me lightly with the weapon. I did it, and sighed with relief. I didn't know the man that stood before me.
His eyes went wide. Obviously, he recognized me.
"You're supposed to be dead. You died! We tried to save you, then you died." I stared at him dumbly; I hadn't been conscious long enough to deal with what he was telling me. He met my stare, then lowered his weapon. I could see tears welling up in his eyes.
"Oh, no. You woke up in the woods, alone... I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry..." he trailed off, mumbling the words over and over again.
I didn't wait for him to regain his composure. "I'm cold, I'm hurt, and I'm starving. Make it up to me," I said. He was hurt, and I hadn't consoled him. That was fine with me. Right then, the headache floored me.
My new friend let me hit the ground before helping me up. He was vindictive. I had to keep that in mind. Through the deafening pain of the headache, I started to think like a writer again. Remember the way he walks, remember his ticks. I hadn't entertained the novel since Jane. He took my arm across his shoulder, and started to help me off the path. He was talking, and I had missed a good portion of what he was saying.
"... generally successful. We took some supplies and food. Best thing was that mortar hit. Killed more than half the warriors in town. Damn near killed you too," He stopped talking and looked at me. He was unsettled by what he saw. "They- ahem -they retaliated, but we took minimum casualties. Ow," He stopped and looked down at his feet. I stopped too, and looked over at him. He had stubbed his toe on something metal, glinting half buried in the dirt. I recognized it, and immediately endeavored to pull it out of the ground. I dug with my fingers until I cracked my nails, and pulled the revolver out of the dirt. I landed on the ground with a thud, and cradled it in my hands.
"It must have gotten buried by the mortar strike!" I said, triumphantly, "But now it's mine." I regarded my trophy fondly; it represented my survival. If I had the gun, it couldn't kill me. And that made it beautiful to my mind.
"Hey!" my companion said, who until then had been holding his rifle at ready and scanning the trees, "That's the old priest's gun. That gun has seen a lotta death around this place. Spat most of the death its seen itself. It's a potent symbol." The man was rambling, and after he stopped talking he stared at the gun for a moment. He turned quickly and pointed his rifle at me. "Give it to me," he said. I raised my head slowly, and looked into his eyes.
"I am keeping this pistol. I survived its wrath. It belongs to me now," I spoke very deliberately, because I wanted the stupid bastard to clearly understand my words, "You have no right to claim ownership." I noticed a lip curl then, just a quick twitch, and it showed me I was on the right track.
"My right to claim is this rifle, which I will shoot you dead with. Give me the pistol," he said in a deliberate tone, mocking my own. I sat up straighter.
"You left me in the woods to die. You owe me something, and I want this," I said, hoping that the tone in my voice betrayed my hurt feelings.
"You want it, but we need it. It will be a powerful symbol to attract others away from his church," he said. This was the first he had heard about rival religious factions. I probed a little, becoming more and more the writer I had been when I left England.
"Attract them away to what? What organization are you a part of?" I asked, hoping to get a long explanation from the simple thug.

"We are the Divine Order of the White Eagle, and we are the true church on this earth, here to raise United North America out of these dark times. Dark times caused by men like Father Peterson," he pointed the barrel of his gun at mine as he spoke, "With that, we could prove to the locals that they need to act and throw off his yoke."

I glared hard at the stupid man before me, willing him to yield. I had no more words to say, no more silver tongued petitions. I stood, making him nervous. He backed up a little, looking nervous and tightening his grip on his gun.

"Now that's enough. Give me the gun - don't make me take it."

There was only one thing in the universe I could hold to at that moment, one aspect of the situation I was in that made me alive, and it was that gun. He had given me one last chance to give him the weapon. I believe now that he should have shot me.

I shot him instead.

Steampunk

This is also the very beginning of a longer story. This section constitues the part of the story where the main character is a child. I wrote the final scene in the Shaman's office today.

Steampunk.

David Down

Lucy ran down the street at full tilt, the concrete slapping against her worn shoes as she cried. She had been running at full speed for almost thirty minutes, crossing Kiowa city in what felt like a heartbeat. She soon reached her destination, the Public Office of Shaman John Gilbert Slowbull. Slowbull performed public works, brought local issues to the city council, and handled many other tasks. In Kiowa city, the government was very active in the lives of the public, and John Slowbull was the face of that activity in this district. Lucy, eyes red from crying, desired the most important service that Slowbull provided. She stopped suddenly outside his door, leaned herself up against the wall, and took three deep breaths. She tried her hardest to calm herself and look adult.
Lucy wiped the tears from her eyes and stepped inside. A wooden chime clinked as she opened the door. Slowbull's building was a long rectangle, with one long wall filled with slots containing a hundred different forms and applications. Across from them there were wooden tables and aluminum stools - places to sit while you filled out the forms. On the short end of the rectangle, through a half moon window, she could see Slowbull, talking to someone on the phone. She tried to stay quiet, so he wouldn't hear her. She walked along the wall, checking each form. The last form, at the corner of the room, was special, and it was exactly what Lucy was looking for. It was longer than the other forms, written on a larger sheet of paper. The text was handwritten, and the ink smelled of woodsmoke and something else she couldn't identify. The paper itself was pulpy, and rough. The application was handmade, every aspect of it. There were only three in the pile. She grabbed one, and took a quill, and walked over to one of the aluminum stools to fill it out. Just as she was about to ink the paper, she heard a voice from behind her.
"No! Put down that application. You don't have to fill it out. You can't go," Slowbull said, half out of his seat and leaning toward the window. He was a younger man, for a Shaman. He had soft features, and small eyes that were too close together. Like all Shamans Lucy had seen, his head was shaved, and he bore intricate tattoos across his scalp. He wore a dress shirt and slacks, his sleeves rolled up, but no tie.
She was startled, but she didn't care much about what Slowbull said. Determined, she turned back to her paper, and started to write her name. She spoke the letters aloud, "L - U - C - Y. Next line. M - I - N - E - R." She could hear Slowbull ending his phone conversation politely - must have been someone important - and heading for the door that separated them. She spoke louder, "Tribe name. F - A - W - N - comma - R - U - N - N - I - N - G."
Slowbull threw the door open, and walked stiffly towards her. He reached her, and held his hand out. "Give it to me. You are too young," his words were deliberate, each one holding emphasis, as if no part of the sentence was more important than any other. Lucy was nearly hysterical, and she snapped towards him.
She said, "My parents just died in the street, you bastard. I'm filing as a..." she struggled to remember the term, "...an independent. I qualify." Her words were shrieking, but she couldn't help it. Slowbull felt himself calm down.
"I'm sorry, Lucy. I..." he struggled to find the right words, "...your mother would not like for me to let you go."
"That may be true," she responded as she filled out the long application. "And if she were here, she'd stop me. But you have no right." Slowbull stood by and watched as Lucy filled out the Spirit Journey application.

~

Her eyes still red from crying, Lucy clutched the pouch close to her heart. As she left Kiowa city through a large, iron gate, she shuddered. She found the terrific size of the gate and its opening mechanism disturbing, and she always had. It whistled and shook as it expelled steam, the thick gate swinging open slowly, the gears alongside it grinding... It made an awful racket. She held her hands over her ears as the opening gate screeched to a halt, and walked forward. A guard moved to intercept her, his blastube relaxed in his grip. He wore heavy canvas robes, and a heavy hood obscured his face. It gave him a malevolent appearance, but she hadn't minded it for years - the guards were very kind to her. She presented the pass that Slowbull had created for her, and the guard stepped aside, puzzled.
He called after her, "Good luck young lady! I wish you a safe return!" The stock farewell was a comfort to Lucy, who had watched many young people pass through the gates as she had grown up. She walked slowly through the three tiered metal gate, which created a tunnel that stretched ten paces before she could leave the city. The exposed machinery of its underside loomed over her, instilling her with a sense of dread she just couldn't shake, even hours after she had left the city behind her.
Outside the city the world was consumed by wilderness, and it was dangerous for any person to be out alone. Usually children weren't allowed to leave the city, by order of the city council, but for one exception: the Spirit Journey undertaken by some adolescents at the age of thirteen.
When they left, they were awarded certain objects that many cherished for the rest of their lives. Lucy was given these:
A knife. The knife that Slowbull gave Lucy was amazing. It's hilt was oak, and the wood was intricately carved with Kiowa city's skyline, and other patterns. The hand guard was small, a simple metal plate. The blade gleamed like silver, and had a phrase engraved into it: "Lucy Running-Fawn, Citizen." A knife has much utility in the wilderness, and Lucy received it for it's usefulness, and for what it represents: The wars of Kiowa's past and future.
A lens. The lens that Slowbull gave Lucy was an honor. Lenses were expensive in this part of the world, and the one that Lucy received was very nice. It was about two inches across, and was perfectly clear. A lens was able to help start fire in the wilderness, and Lucy was given it for this reason, and for what it represents: Kiowa's interest in the stars above.
A boiler. Traditions had changed little, but the inclusion of the boiler was certainly new. Made of iron and weighing over fifty pounds, the backpack sized boiler was fitted with straps for easy carrying. It was engraved with the stories of Kiowa city's great inventors, written beautifully in rings around the boiler's girth. It had a port on one side for applying power to a machine, and crank for power generation on the other. Its top was covered in numerous wheels and switches that controlled its various functions. It also had a bottom loading elevator where a heat source was placed. Slowbull had to explain each function in detail, because Lucy had never used one of the machines before. A boiler provides power and heat, and Lucy was given it for this reason, and for what it represents: The power generation of Kiowa city, which was famous amongst the cities of Native America.
A medicine bag. While all spirit journeyers received the same Knife, lens, and, in more recent times, boiler, each citizen's medicine bag was packed differently, based on the information provided in the application, and the shaman's personal knowledge of the Journeyer. Lucy did not know what her bag contained, as she was instructed not to open it until a specific moment in her journey. It was a satchel sized leather pouch, but it was very light. Most pouches contained herbs and medicines.

~

It had been almost an hour since Lucy could see the skyline of Kiowa city, and she was starting to get worried. The wilderness that surrounded her now was much scarier than she thought it would be, and she was starting to get spooked. Lucy had lived in the city her whole life, and was not used to the... organic noises that surrounded her. She heard many noises that she couldn't identify, and she started to slow down. She heard a howl play across the evening sky, and she stopped entirely... For the first time, she thought that she maybe wasn't cut out for this. She panicked.
"I was too young, Slowbull was right," she whispered to herself. It seemed as if the forest was closing in around her, and each noise and rustle made her jump. She started to breathe heavily and sweat. Suddenly the weight of her boiler seemed unbearable and she fell to the ground. When she landed on her hands and knees, her knife clinked against a stone. The sound reminded her of what she was supposed to do. With tears rolling down her cheeks she unslung the boiler and stood, defiant of the forest.
"I need to light a fire. I need to gather brush," she said to herself, suddenly determined. Then, she walked in a circle around it, keeping it in view, and gathered small sticks and leaves. Soon she had plenty, and moved back to the boiler. With only a few moments left before the earth consumed the sun, she piled the brush and attempted to light it with the lens. She tried desperately to get the fire going before nightfall, first by trying to reflect the waning light in the lens. The angle was wrong and no fire came. Next she tried to find a rock to strike her knife across, but was again unable. She watched, powerless, as the sun left her alone in the dark with no fire. She only had one option left, and she hated it.
The only thing that would keep her warm and safe through the night was the boiler she carried, and she had hoped not to use it. She didn't want to bring it at all, but Slowbull insisted it was a necessary part of the Journey. Lucy didn't share her people's love of steam power, and she did her best to avoid it. She had determined to complete the Spirit Journey without it, but she certainly appreciated Slowbull's insistent suggestion now. Sitting alone in the cold forest night, surrounded by trees, she began to turn the crank affixed to the side of the boiler, sparking the flint inside and heating up its contents. After a short time the boiler started to vibrate and heat up. She turned the second of the three tiny wheels attached to the top of the machine. It started to leak hot air from a vent on its side. She curled up next to this vent, and it kept her warm as she tried to sleep. She was still awake hours later, when the heat ran out and she needed to turn the crank again.
When the sun finally came up in the morning, she was already ready to move. She had the slowly cooling machine already on her back, and she had gathered up her other things. As soon as the sun was fully overhead, she started to wander. While the first day of the spirit journey is spent moving out of view of home, the second day is devoted to following your heart through the forest. She did, stepping lightly through the undergrowth and moving randomly. She started to reflect, thinking about her life so far. This was also customary for the second day.
She thought about growing up in Kiowa city- she thought about the war that her people fought when she was very young. During the war the streets were nearly empty, as all able bodies had gone to war. Her parents had gone. When the parents left, the children were given to the care of the elders who weren't fit to fight. She remembered being gathered with all the other children in the capitol, where she spent two years. Every child was raised by every elder, and they lived there, in the great hall. Lucy remembered very clearly the news of victory, and the return of her parents. It was terrifying to see the adults file into the hall, each wearing the heavy robes and hood of a soldier. It was the first time she had seen the uniform, though the sight of it became commonplace after the war. She wasn't sure what was happening. But soon every adult threw back their hoods and the children were filled with joy. Many adults had not returned, and their children continued to be raised by the elders.
She thought about that period of time as she got herself lost. She thought about the happiness of having her parents return, and for the first time she mourned for those that had not returned, and the loneliness of their children. She felt this fresh mourning deep in her chest, and it hurt. Was this how it felt to be an adult? Her memories advanced, and she remembered school. She started to jog, moving quickly through the dense wood.
She attended a different school every year, throughout her childhood. This was customary: the Kiowa felt that it was important to learn in blocks - learning math and numbers from a visiting Napolese scholar for months, then learning to write and speak from an emissary of the Cheyenne state. Her favorite had been when she had learned tradition from an Anasazi woman. The Anasazi had rejected steam power, and were very backward technologically. A friend who's father was a merchant had once told her that Anasazi City's wall was made of rough stone, and it's buildings were logs. Her friend had said that they could afford to do so, because Kiowa city stood between them and the Napolese colonies to the east. She had always understood this to be true. At the present she was learning to make war from an Apache man, and she wasn't enjoying it. But she was learning- she found it easy to move through the trees quickly, even with the machine strapped to her back. Thinking about her current schooling was a mistake- she remembered what she had been avoiding thinking about. Her parents.
As she thought of the present she started to run, sprinting and jumping over fallen logs and undergrowth. Evening was starting to approach again, and she hadn't eaten. That was okay; she had heard of many that didn't eat while lost in thought on the second day. But it was getting dark, and she was definitely tired. The boiler was weighing her down, and her legs started to feel heavy. As she was struck by fatigue, her memories flooded into her.
Lucy's parents had started to act strangely months ago, leaving the house before she woke up and staying out for days. They would talk in hushed tones, and restrict her to her room most nights. They hosted regular gatherings in their home, but she never got to leave her room and see what was happening. She tried once, on the first day, but her father was watching and waiting for her to try. He had yelled at her, shook her, and thrown her onto her bed. The next day they put a lock on her door.
She had been so angry, but couldn't do anything about it. After school they would lock her up, and leave her in her room. This went on for four days. On the fifth day, as she walked home from school, her muscles tired and aching, there was a commotion outside her house. She pushed her way through the crowd, and saw that her parents were tied in the center of it. Two guards stood over them. She had screamed and cried but they didn't listen; her parents were 'traitors' they told her. The guard raised their wicked blades, and she saw her parents killed, then and there, in the street outside her house. She ran straight from there to Shaman Slowbull's office.
Tears now rolled freely down her cheeks as she was forced to slow down by the dragging weight on her back. Overcome by fatigue and hunger, she started to collapse forward. She put a foot forward to keep her balance, but succeeded only in falling sideways instead. She cried out, hysterical with grief and unable to move or stand back up with the boiler on her back. She sobbed loudly for almost an hour as dusk covered the land.
Laying there, through tear soaked eyes, she caught a glimpse of something strange through the trees: The furthest trees were obscured, and as she looked more closely, she realized that it almost looked like smoke, lit red from beneath. Through great effort she unstrapped the boiler from her back and crawled forward. She was sobbing, and even without the heavy machine she could not stand. She could feel now more than ever how deep in the forest she was, and it was making her claustrophobic.
She struggled to crawl over the twisting and gnarled roots of a large tree, and she was blasted by heat as she did. Ahead of her, she was faced with an impossible sight: An immense thermal vent, a hole in the earth 20 yards across, with a small river pouring into it from the north. It glowed a warm red, and she welcomed it- there was no moon tonight, and the darkness had been complete. The constant steam pouring from it would be an incredible source of power. The first thing Lucy thought of was something she learned in school.
Kiowa city had been founded skirting a very large steam vent that had provided its power for almost fifty years. The vent was famous across the continent. A rock slide deep underground closed the vent at its source, and for two years the people attempted to compensate with other forms of energy. Their infrastructure, however, was deeply rooted in steam energy, and the people fell into poverty and starvation. In desperation, a council of shamans was called together to perform a ceremony that would bring back the steam. During this ceremony an earthquake that opened new vents all over the city occurred, dropping more than a dozen buildings into the earth. For the people of Kiowa city the devastation was worth it, and these new vents were quickly capped and exploited. The vents had been working for years. But even they had started to weaken...
She laughed, her voice cracking. She had set out in search of a spirit animal, something to inspire her. She had always expected a fawn, as her name suggested. She stared, bleary eyed, at the pit before her, and she saw much life in the steam that broiled from it. Here was her animal. She fumbled at the pouch at her waist and held it in front of her. She carefully untied its rope, and looked inside, the red glow from the vent providing illumination. The pouch contained dry, scented leaves and something metal that she couldn't exactly identify. She trembled with anticipation and delirium as she approached the vital moment of her journey. She was meant to present the medicine bag to her spirit animal, and it would give her instruction. That revelation would guide her life. She coughed lightly and rose to her knees slowly.
Then she let the bag tumble into the pit.

~

As the story goes, a retired explorer by the name of John T. Blott called a conference of influential people together in 1642. At this conference, he showed diagrams and schematics that would revolutionize the entire world, bringing about enormous change: A series of machines that would allow the countries of Old Europe to harness and make use of steam energy. He was quoted as saying, "These plans are for sale, to everyone. You can leave here today with the power to change your countries for the better." As the story goes, most of the cultured, royal men in the room were not willing to pay the man's asking price. Famously, he led them out of his home toward his back yard, where he had a working prototype. Every man present paid for a set of plans.
As the story goes.

~

"Would you listen to me, you thick skulled son of a Nepol? I turned in my application weeks ago, and I still haven't received a response. I'm ready to move my equipment in. What is the issue?" The woman's face was turning quite red as she vented her frustration at the shaman that stood before her.
Slowbull blinked slowly, took a deep breath, and spoke, "Ma' am, the building you are attempting to move into is not zoned for extreme heat steam equipment. You may not use your machines there," He wasn't interested in this conversation, and it came out in his voice. He was not a subtle man.
"Why? Why can't I use my machines there? The building is correctly reinforced, and the building materials are sufficiently heat proofed," she wasn't giving up easily. He entertained the thought of throwing her out to finish his paperwork before responding.
"It is a residential district, and the extreme heat is a danger to the residents," he said, glancing down at her application.
She balked, letting her jaw hang open for a split second. "I do laundry. Of course I'm opening in a residential district! This is ludicrous!" She said. He took in this information, and looked down at her application again.
"I see that it is a laundry. And, as you can see," he gestured toward the rack of different applications on the far wall, "there is a separate application for residential service businesses." The woman slowly turned red, a brighter red than Slowbull would have thought possible with her skin tone and already ruddy face. A bemused expression crossed his face, entirely caused by the color in her cheeks and forehead, as she tore her application to shreds, storming from the shaman's building into the street outside. He looked on, amused, as she stood outside, hands on her hips, and breathed heavily. She would be back in to fill out the correct application very soon, he was sure. What happened next he was not sure of, however. His heart had bet heavily against it, in fact.

Lucy Miner walked slowly into his building, her face red and sunburned, her clothes torn and filthy. She smiled a little at him, and kept approaching his desk at that same slow pace. He was shocked - shocked that she had survived, shocked that she had returned to see him. She had seemed to hate him, the last time he had seen her, and he was fine with that. It had helped him cope with losing her in the wilderness. But here she was and Slowbull's shock kept him in his seat.

Finally Lucy reached his desk. She leaned forward, took one of his shoulders in each hand, and kissed him on the forehead. Each movement was slow and deliberate. She said "Thank you," and left.

127

This is the first 3500 words of this work. I wrote the final scene today - the rest I wrote before founding this blog. The story up to today appears below.

127

David Down

The hallway between maintenance section Seven-dash-Four and Viewing station Three-hundred forty-seven had stood, just the same, for eons. It had seen billions of faces. Men, women, and children lived their lives and strode through the hallway, appreciating its solidarity in the face of the roiling ocean beneath them. It had even seen plenty of deaths: Men and women, nearing the age of their end, collapsing on their way to the viewing station. But it had never once, never in all its many years, been a party to murder. Yet there the body was.

A group of ten or twenty men and women in slate grey and royal purple jumpsuits were gathered around, looking at their feet and occasionally glancing furtively at the gruesome display before them. Most of them had stopped here on their way to work in the maintenance tunnels. The older, retired gawkers had spent their morning watching Blackjaw birds streak by, moving almost too fast to see, towards some faraway land. They had joined the gathering when the murmuring and commotion had started. After a few very long moments someone said something.

“What… What do you think he’s doing?” a woman with a small voice said.

“He looks like he’s… taking a nap,” a much older woman said.

“She’s right. But its early morning, and he needs to get to work. Someone do him a favor and shake him awake,” a man said.

An older man moved forward, squatting down in front of everyone. He grabbed the cold shoulder and gave it a hard shake. He started to say, “Now son, we need to get moving.” but didn’t finish. He stopped and backed away slowly when the young man’s head rolled back, showing empty eye sockets and a missing tongue. He looked at the others, confusion masking his face.

They looked back, keeping their eyes locked on his. Then the first woman spoke up, “Let’s let him sleep a while longer. Maybe until 1:27, like he painted on the wall.”

The others had liked that idea. They all shuffled away, not looking back. The scene repeated itself thirty-two times that day before 1:27. Thirty-two groups of people ignoring the splashed blood, the dozens of deep wounds, the missing organs. Thirty-two groups of people ignoring that the message on the wall was written in the ‘napping’ man’s blood.

~

Two weeks before the body was discovered, that is, two weeks before the man was killed, a sealed titanium capsule made an audible click as its internal timer finally reached zero. A whoosh of ancient air issued from the bottom of it as it popped open. The capsule was attached to the inner workings of the vitamin fountain, welded tight against the cog that served the residential section seventy-five conveyor. A blue gelcap tumbled from the capsule onto the conveyor, settling in amongst the Young Adult Male Four-A-Day Scurvy and Cabin Fever Prevention Capsules (For adult males 19-35). Its color matched exactly. The vitamins tumbled along, the conveyor pulling them on the very long journey from distribution to residential section seventy-five.

~

The morning before the murder, two weeks later, a man woke up late. This had never happened to him before. He hadn’t forgotten to set his alarm- doing so had never been his responsibility. He hadn’t missed his alarm- it was specially designed to end REM sleep and wake you refreshed. It just hadn’t gone off. He didn’t question why. He sat up and put his feet on the heated metal of the floor beneath him. He glanced at the news ticker, and noticed little change in the output.

Sunny. In-ship temperature a steady seventy degrees. Ship speeding along at forty knots. Leagues traveled: Eight-hundred eighty-four million. Leagues remaining before Calmona: One-hundred fifty-six thousand. Captain Ron says: Almost there, folks!

The man knew as a fact that Captain Ron had been saying “Almost there, folks!” since his great-grandfather learned to read. But they really were almost there, now. His generation would see Calmona. He would see Calmona. By now he had forgotten about his alarm clock. Calmona – Untamed continent of the man Columbus’ dreams. He had learned about Columbus and Calmona in school, and remembered the story well.

Columbus had dreamed of visiting Calmona. But to his despair, he knew it was too far. Even on the fastest ship he would die before nearing his destination. But he knew that his fate was to tame Calmona. What was he to do? One morning he had a brilliant idea: He would send others in his place. Enough to tame the land and send word back to his children’s children. He would send not a hundred, or a thousand, but a million, on the greatest vessel Parabone had ever seen.

Columbus and his friends built the ship, then Columbus died. There was much sorrow among the people of Parabone, but they gathered the million and pushed the vessel into the sea at a great celebration. As soon as the vessel reached open water a strong wind filled its sails, sending to straight towards Calmona. The people named it the Columbus wind, because it never faltered or turned away: It was determined to reach Calmona, just like Columbus was. He smiled, wishing as he often did that he had been at the great celebration that launched the Haerl Al Keen on its quest to see the other side of the world. Being able to see the other side of the world would be better, he thought.

He remembered his science lessons, too. His teacher had asked, “And why has it taken so much longer than Columbus assumed?” and they would answer, in unison, “Because he had no idea the world was seventy-hundred light years in diameter!”

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts. He put on his jumpsuit, and moved over to the Vitaminstant dispenser. He held out his hand and a motion sensor lit, depositing seventeen gelcaps into his hand. He withdrew a glass of cold water from another slot on the machine and methodically swallowed each vitamin, one by one. He took his Young Adult Male Twice-Daily Calcium Bone Builder Capsule (For adult males 19-35) first, and finished with his Young Artistic Adult Male Once-Daily Creativity Booster (For adult male artists 19-35). He always got a kick out of the last one: he never felt creative at all. Mostly painted what everyone else painted at work: Columbus and Calmona, and the great celebration. Once a week he would paint the Haerl Al Keen, but it didn’t sell as well as the others.

He realized then that he was definitely late for work. He’d never been late before, but he didn’t think it would be a problem: he’d never heard a late policy mentioned. He decided to take his time, like normal. He moved into the bathroom and stepped into the shower. A small electronic voice spoke to him, “Good morning Nicholas. Water temperature will be 82 degrees. Water pressure will be average. Radio station will be 75, Residential Seventy-Five. Shower time: eleven minutes. Good luck with your art today.”

The water started to cascade down towards him, and he appreciated the almost-hot soaking. He washed and listened to the radio, which had started to play through the speaker mounted above the shower head. A song featuring horns and vocals was playing, and the vocalist was crooning.

“Columbus wanted dearly/

to sail the great sea/

he knew it was far to wide/

so he sent chaps like you and me.”

The song ended abruptly and a DJ cut in, sounding amused, “Alright everybody, that was Residential seventy-five’s very own Seventy-Fives. They are live in the studio with us this morning. Good morning ladies and gents.”

A quartet of voices answered, “Good Morning, Daren.” The radio cut out as his shower ended. The robotic voice replaced it, “Remember, Nicholas. It will be time to shave your head in five days.”

Nicholas stepped out of the shower and toweled off, smiling at the thought of head-shave day. He always got an extra cookie at lunch on head shave day. A small electronic bell dinged that his jumpsuit was back from drying station 2, and he grabbed it out of the plastic carton they used to return it to him. he closed the door on the carton and it fired up the tube back to drying station 2 with a woosh. He pulled the simple slate grey and purple jumpsuit on over his pale skinned form and headed back into the main room where the Vitaminstant machine resided.

He blinked, his eyes feeling dry. He could hear a minute rasping sound as his lids moved over his eyes, and back. There was a voice in that rasp, asking “Where do the Blackjaw birds roost?”

“They don’t roost,” he responded to the voice, his own voice steady. Blink. Rasp.

“Wouldn’t they get tired?” it asked.

“No. They have four sets of wings, and they only use two at a time.” His eyes were feeling quite dry now, but he showed no sign of being upset by the strange probing questions that voice was posing to him. Blink. Raaasp.

“But their brains would be tired. They need to sleep sometime, and their wings are too short to soar. You can’t flap while your asleep, can you?” it said, seeming to lecture him.

A small smile crept across his face. “We could check, I think. Why don’t we find out if they can?” he asked, his vocal cords aching immediately from his life’s first curious question. Blink. Raaaaaaaasp.

“A strange proposition, Nicholas. To test that we would have to be a Blackjaw, and we would have to be outside of the Haerl Al Keen. And we would have to be sleepy. It’s mid-morning, still. By the way, Nicholas, have you noticed yet that you are having a conversation with that itching noise that dry eyes make?” the voice added with concern, “Green Bleeeenoot. Abracadabra. Franklin Delano Roosevelt.”

By this point Nicholas had stopped listening. He wasn’t feeling well. For one thing, his feet had melted into the metal floor, and he felt something plastic against his leg. He stripped off his jump suit (He was feeling warm anyway) and looked down. A large gelcap was attached to his pelvis where his penis had been moments before. It was labeled as a Young Adult Female Once-Yearly Pregnancy Inducer (For young adult females 19-35. To be taken vaginally. Take more often orally if necessary) he giggled at this, then succumbed completely to the Young Adult Male Four-A-Day Scurvy and Cabin Fever Prevention Capsules (For adult males 19-35) capsule that had waited so long to be ingested. He saw bright points of light above his head and all around him, he saw brittle stones and snowballs and all of it was in water.

~

He woke up suddenly, naked on the floor and incredibly thirsty. He grabbed another glass of water from the Vitaminstant and drank it down, hoping that his throat would open. His eyes were so dry! He kept them closed, remembering the rasping, prying questions vividly. He was feeling better by the minute and knew it was time to get to work. He opened his eyes, hearing the rasp but no question.

“Where do the Blackjaw birds roost?” was all that it asked. It was a simple question that he desperately wanted to know the answer to. He would seek the answer to that question. He would seek the answer to that question and the Haerl Al Keen would quake in response.

~

Nicholas Shane left his quarters in a daze, his mind working furiously. It felt like boulders were rolling back and forth in his head as he wandered towards the Residential Seventy-Five breakfast dispenser. He passed several other people, but they didn’t notice the dreaming look in his eye, or the rolling shamble of his gait. He reached the dispenser and raised a quaking hand to press the ‘dispense’ button. The machine’s voice responded, “I apologize Nicholas Shane, but breakfast is over. If you are still hungry please head over to the Residential Seventy-Five mid-morning snack dispenser.”

Nicholas did, and he ate his midmorning snack with his back against the wall next to the machine, staring at the overhead lights. Thoughts came forward from his subconscious one by one as he wrestled with the concepts a disembodied voice had inserted into his head. Where did the Blackjaw birds roost? How could they fly forever? If there is land between Parabone and Calmona shouldn’t they have stopped there, at least for a little while? The lessons he had learned as a child tried to answer these questions, and he could do little more than try to walk.

Eventually he ended up at work, though there was little time to paint before lunch. He wandered into the little well lit room and saw that there was only one chair and easel left in the back. There were fifteen artists in Residential Seventy-Five, and they were all hard at work. Sarah was painting a portrait of Columbus sleeping, with scenes of a Calmona jungle running through the air over his head. Nicholas sat down next to her.

“It’s beautiful,” he said, indicating her work.

“Oh, Nicholas. That is very kind,” she said, shyly, then added, “Where is your painting?” He looked at her dumbly, then understanding crossed his face.

“Yes, my painting. It’s still in my locker. I forgot to get it when I came in,” he said, pressing his thumb into his eye.

“What have you been working on all morning, then?” Sarah said, looking at the blank canvas on his easel again. Nothing had changed.

“I’m just now getting started,” he said slowly, measuring each word as it left his lips. “I am starting on a new painting,” he said, grateful that the half-formed excuse sounded reasonable. To his own ears, at least.

“Wonderful. I can’t wait to see it. I love your paintings of the Calmona colony. Can you imagine that we will see it with our own eyes?” she said, eyes bright.

Nicholas smiled absently at her and turned towards the canvas. He let his hands paint as his mind twisted itself into knots. An hour later it was lunchtime, and he walked slowly out of the room. His troubled mind only spared one thought for the finished painting that sat on his easel: no one was going to buy a painting of Blackjaw Bird nests nestled on high, jutting rock islands. Everyone knows that Blackjaw Birds don’t roost.

He walked out of the Residential Seventy-Five art room and turned left, away from the lunch dispenser. He thought that he might head towards viewing station Three-hundred forty-seven and look at the passing Blackjaw Birds.

~

Nicholas was the only one heading away from lunch, and the press of bodies made progress slow. The last of the maintenance workers heading towards the lunch dispenser passed him long before he reached the viewing station, and he was glad to be along with his thoughts. This was his first chance since this morning to look at the birds as they go by, and he was excited about it. He was curious.

He reached the window and stared, waiting for one of the birds to streak across the station with a woosh of air. From viewing station Three-hundred forty-seven he could just barely see the curve of the ships hull as it headed down to the water far below. He stared out into the blue sky of the middle of the day and waited. He didn't want to blink out of fear of missing them, and he saw the first one as his eyes started to water. It shot past, flapping manically with it's head low and its eyes closed. It went by in a perfectly straight line, crossing his vision in about two seconds. More followed, moving by in a random pattern but always in the very same direction, towards the front of the ship. He watched them all afternoon, thinking about how hard they would have to flap their wings to go so fast, thinking about how tired they must get, thinking about why they always go in the same direction. He stared, thoughtful for the first time in his life, through his entire lunch. He was broken from his inward thinking as he heard a small crowd of people walking through the viewing station toward maintenence section Seven-dash-Four. Curious, he followed.

~

    The hallway between maintenance section Seven-dash-Four and Viewing station Three-hundred forty-seven was the same now as it had been this morning, the only change displayed through the clock on the wall - it was 1:25 PM, and various people who had encountered the silent scene in the hall were returning, despite their work schedules, to make sure that the young man awoke and went about his business.

"It isn't right, for him to sleep in the middle of the day..."

"We all have work to do. I've never seen anything like it"

"It's almost time. Quiet everyone!" 

The group in the hall this time was a massive crowd, spilling out toward the veiwing station and deep into maintenence section Seven-dash-Four. None of these people are at work, was the first thought that sprang to Nicholas' mind. He had never seen so many people off schedule in his whole life. Never even heard of it. He couldn't see what everyone was so interested in, the crowd was too thick.

"Well... Go on Harold. Wake him up," a woman with a small voice said. Wake him up? Who could sleep through all this noise, was his second thought. His curiousity grew, and he started to slide along the wall, around the edge of the crowd, toward the center of attention. There was a noise, a soft, wet wump, and the crowd grew silent. A teenage girl Nicholas was sliding past at that moment didn't even notice him, staring forward, her eyes seeming dull and empty, like they weren't connected to any concious being. Nicholas stared, too long, too curious, at this young woman's strange dead eyes before following her vision. He saw blood, he saw death, he saw gore. Then he saw nothing, blackness enclosing him. 

~

“Green Bleeeenoot. Abracadabra. Franklin Delano Roosevelt,” the voice had said to him, with concern. He had passed out then too. Now, as the blackness swirled around him and he felt his cheekbone break against the hard steel floor, he remembered.

The brittle stones and snowballs had been there, at first, but had soon been replaced by brittle bones and dead eyes. He felt a sickening lurch as his vision grew sharper, the water disappeared and he was on no ship. Stone ground, with rooms lining the hallway where he stood. He felt his neck stretch and look up, no ceiling there, only stars. He was outdoors and on land - had he slept through the rest of the voyage? Then icy fear gripped him as he felt his body start to move, paying him no heed, darting between shadows. He felt the blade in his hand, felt the sick thrill as the blade was plunged, again and again, deftly, into the woman he had killed. 

No! His brain strained for release. It wanted to be anywhere else, but he had no control. He had no choice but to watch himself kill two more times before the sickening lurch came, and he was underwater. 

~

"How could I how could I how could I how could I..." Nicholas felt the words jumble and twist, coming out as nonsense. His cheek hurt incredibly - eventually the pain in his body overcame the horrified desire to mumble, and he fell silent. Soon after he opened his eyes. Before him the scene was different - there were no people. The crowd had dispersed, the straitforward concept of 127 being a time of day being proven wrong, they ambled had off to work. At this intimate moment the empty sockets before him were his to see, his to comprehend, alone. He saw reflections of his fevered dream in the body before him - the cuts, the blood, the torn and slashed arteries, the organs that had been released when the unthinking man shook the peaceful corpse's shoulder. He stared - he stared and could not shake the feeling that he had been on land just this morning, caused all that pain only hours ago. He could not shake the sick pleasure he had felt. 

Nicholas vomited, retching as his mind realed. He had discovered curiousity only this morning - reveling in murder had come too quickly for his body to take. But curiousity was still novel, and it returned. This morning he had imagined something happening, that was all. But last night someone had killed this man. Murdered him. Nicholas' mind was working hard, trying to comprehend what had happened when his vocabulary contained no words to describe this agressive act - this life ending. Dead making. Someone made this man dead and no one cares.

Nicholas knew at that moment that HE cared. He cared very much.