Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  “Come on, come on,” the tall guard groaned, pushing Michael forward.

  They entered a vast chamber lit by hundreds of blue torches. Michael marveled at the sight. Meridium powder, he thought as he watched a group of soldiers sparring before a cross-armed trainer. And they’re burning it for light!

  In one corner, a group of cloaked figures looked on as two Garfaxmen wrestled atop a pile of broken glass. Behind them, armor-plated brutes grunted and wheezed as their blades clashed together in heated combat. Everywhere men stood head to head, grunting and drooling as fists and steel smacked into one another.

  “Looks like Ramus has his hands full today,” the short guard observed as dozens of muzzled wolves yelped at the bottom of a seven-foot-deep pit to their right.

  “Yeah. Well, it’ll only get worse when they come.”

  “W—what’s going on here?” Michael dared to ask.

  The tall guard’s grip tightened on his shoulder. “It seems you’ve drawn the interest of the Circle.”

  Michael cringed as the man’s fingers dug beneath his collarbone.

  “Two hundred Circle men are amassed just a mile from the city. Got themselves a tidy sum of blades and war hogs, too.”

  To their right, a short, foppish-looking man limped out of a darkened corridor. As he approached, a torch burst to life in his hand, revealing a cleft lip and a patchwork of oozing tumors on his face.

  “Very nice,” the fop crooned. “Very nice indeed.” His wispy, green eyes slid over Michael like a thirsty tongue. “Exactly what I was looking for. Perfect indeed.”

  The short guard shifted uncomfortably as the man stalked around them like a hungry vulture. “Natrane requested private quarters for the prisoner,” he said.

  “Very well,” the fop replied, his lurid grin widening.

  “And that means private, Slag.”

  “Oh yes,” Slag conceded. “Very private, very secluded.”

  The taller guard unlocked Michael’s tether and leaned in close to his ear. “You had better be worth it.”

  “Okay, now . . . off, off, oh off with you,” Slag shouted, gesturing for the men to leave. “Protect . . . protect and all of that. I can take things from here.”

  The nub took one final look at Michael. “Best be on your toes with this one,” he said. “He’s fond of male flesh.” And with that, the two guards turned and marched back the way they had come.

  When they were alone, Slag turned to Michael and grinned. “You have been blessed, my young friend, truly blessed.” He took another slow lap around Michael, his eyes widening with every step. “A true aura . . . and to be in contact with it! Marvelous!”

  Michael shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want with me?”

  “You’ll see . . . in time,” Slag said. “For now, follow me.” And with that, he tugged Michael’s shackles, pulling him forward. “We have much work to do, the both of us.”

  “Work?”

  Slag chuckled gently. “Why, we must obtain a link with your aura. We can’t have you bringing the entire Circle to our doorstep without knowing why.” He placed his hand gingerly on Michael’s shoulder, a nefarious grin parting his cleft lip. “You need not worry with me. I am quite skilled with the drill.”

  “Drill?”

  Two cloaked men stepped from the shadows and grabbed Michael by the arms.

  “Let go of me damn it!” Michael cried.

  Slag approached him and ran a hand down his cheek. “Let’s dispense with the pleasantries for now, eh? We’ll have time enough to discuss your feelings in my sanctuary.” And with that, the cloaked men carried Michael off into the darkness.

  14

  Harold sat silent before the wraith, too horrified to breathe.

  All around him the stone walls were covered in blood and scratch marks. So much so, in fact, that it looked like paint.

  The Red Room, he thought with dread as an ember snapped inside a cooling fire pit.

  The interrogator sat slumped before the glowing coals, his face concealed in shadow. Bloodstains and puss discolored his fraying, black cloak, and the stink of mold wafted upon his breath. Beside him, a marble altar reflected gold torchlight, its bloodstained surface strewn with various implements of rusted torture.

  Harold shivered, even though the room was stifling hot. Until now, he’d never seen a Circle interrogator. And from what he’d heard, few did and lived to tell about it.

  “You are frightened?” the interrogator asked, his voice a horse whisper.

  Nervous sweat trickled down Harold’s forehead. “Y—yes,” he replied.

  Another coal exploded in the fire, casting a plume of sparks into the air.

  The interrogator leaned forward, his face still hidden in shadow. “It is said that fear is the ultimate motivator. Do you agree?”

  Harold sat silent, trembling. I want to go home, he thought. To the Isle. To my friends.

  But you can’t, another voice said. It’s all gone now.

  “I myself believe it to be the clutch of all power. Good and bad.”

  Someone screamed outside the chamber. As the din faded, the interrogator smiled. “Tell me what I want to know, friend. Tell me and perhaps you can leave here in one piece.”

  Harold sunk deep into his chair. He could see the wraith’s eyes now, twin globes of orange boiling within sunken eye sockets. He swallowed. He’s a meridium addict. That was the only explanation for those horrific, orange eyes.

  But it would take a lifetime of meridium to do that to a man. He dared another glimpse and swore he saw two black, razor-sharp slits pulsating within each pupil.

  “W—what do you w—want to know?” Harold asked.

  “You uncovered something out there.” The wraith leaned in close, his rank breath splashing against Harold’s face. “Something of great value to the Circle. And to me.”

  Harold shook his head. “It was just a bunker.”

  The interrogator picked up a long, metallic instrument. On its rusty tip was a pair of razor-sharp pincers.

  Harold’s heart jumped. “There was something else, though.”

  The interrogator perked to attention. “Go on.”

  “A chamber,” Harold said. “A chamber protected by a Garbat Bristle.”

  “This chamber . . . did you enter it?”

  “N—no. We saw only a door,” Harold replied. “A—and some dead soldiers.”

  “Did you disturb anything?”

  “O—one of us did. A m—mutant. He t—touched the door.”

  The interrogator glanced toward the fire. “And what happened?”

  Harold swallowed. “It . . . it burned him . . . with frost.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “N—no,” Harold said. “That was it.”

  Frustrated, the interrogator sat back and sighed. “Where did you discover this . . . bunker?”

  “B—Blackened S—S—Stix.” Harold replied. “On the western slopes of Tribat Hill.” Another chill danced down his spine. I’ve given it to them, he thought. By the gods, what have I done?

  “And how many were you?” The wraith was getting excited, a grating wheeze escaping his lungs.

  Where did they find such an abomination? Harold wondered as sweat dripped down his nose.

  “F—five,” Harold replied. “There were five at the beginning.”

  The interrogator picked up a rusty razor blade. “You lie, child.”

  “N—no! Th—there was just f—five . . . I swear. A gob, a Garfaxman, a boy, m—me, and our Charger, Nicodemus.”

  With a growl, the interrogator lunged forward and sliced Harold’s brow.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhhh!” Harold clutched his forehead as blood dripped between his fingers.

  Indifferent, the interrogator tossed the razor aside and approached the brazier. “This will hurt,” he said as he removed a glowing poker from the flames.

  “W—wait!”

  The interrogator grabbed Harold by the hair and yanked his head back.

  “P
lease!” Harold wailed. “That’s all I know!”

  Without a word, the interrogator thrust the spike deep into Harold’s right nostril and held it firmly in place.

  “Stop!” Harold screamed as his flesh sizzled.

  “Should I?” the interrogator asked. “Perhaps your memory is rekindled now?”

  Frantic, Harold broke free from one of his bonds and clawed at the wraith.

  “Oh, no,” the interrogator crooned as he effortlessly pushed Harold’s hand down. “We have much more to endure here.” With that said, he picked up a new razor and slowly drew it across Harold’s mouth.

  “Ahhhhhhhhhh!” Harold lurched forward, blood and mucous bubbling between his lips. “I—I—I will . . . I will tell you . . . Anything! Anything you want!”

  The interrogator took a few steps back. “You had but to say those words, child.”

  Harold vomited onto his lap. When the gut-wrenching spasms passed, black spots formed before his vision.

  Laughing, the interrogator slapped him across the face. “Get up, slog! Get up!”

  Harold groaned, wavering in and out of consciousness. “Please . . .” he managed, his voice but a broken whisper. “I . . . I’ll tell you what you want.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Harold lolled back and forth, struggling to stay awake. “W—w—we . . . we found a lock,” he coughed. “A Karna-bara lock.”

  The interrogator began circling him like a hungry vulture, his head jerking excitedly from side to side. “How exciting,” he crooned. “Do tell more.”

  “I—it was huge . . .” Harold whispered, every word more painful than the last. “Bigger than any I’ve ever s—seen.”

  “Were there markings on it?” the wraith asked. “Perhaps a circle within a star embedded on the lock or floor?”

  “Y—yes,” Harold slurred.

  “And a shield. Did you see a golden shield? It would be emblazoned nearby.”

  “Y—yes.”

  The wraith shrieked excitedly. “You will show us this place. You will take us there and show us the exact location.”

  Harold nodded. “Yes . . . I will.”

  The interrogator knelt down before him, his eyes staring into Harold’s soul.

  Help me, Harold lamented as the interrogator raised a rusty saw before his vulpine eyes. My god, somebody help.

  “It is said that the deformed take solace amongst the Culver.” Torchlight glinted off the saw’s razor-sharp teeth. “Perhaps when you find them you might whisper my name. For they will know my work well.”

  “Who are you?” Harold breathed.

  “Renway,” the wraith replied. “Renway Menutee. But to you, I am the devil.”

  Waypman shielded his bloodshot eyes as polluted, orange light broke across the city.

  Forget it, old buddy, he told himself as the first work call echoed in the distance. You’ll never find him now.

  Beneath his sandy perch, thousands of workers poured onto the streets, choking on dust and smog. Like a ghostly circus, they raised tents and fed livestock, strapped on laptane flesh and whispered various prayers.

  A gathering of the half dead or dying, Waypman thought. And he was one of them now.

  Exhausted, he pushed aside his disgust and descended the sandy slope into town. For the next call, he wandered aimlessly, ignoring the many merchants and whores vying for his gold. When he finally found a quiet square where he could rest, he lay down beside its long-dead fountain and stared at the tumultuous sky.

  To the east, two elementals were intertwining into a single black cloud, spitting blue ichor onto the sands below. Waypman watched it curiously. He’d never seen such a storm before; it moved as if sentient by nature.

  “They’ve been coming in off the easterly drift,” a voice said beside him. Waypman turned and found a man lying opposite him at the base of a shaded wall. He wore a battered hat pulled down over his eyes, and his tattered laptane suit had seen better days.

  “Elementals?” Waypman asked.

  “Not like any I’ve ever seen. But then again . . . a lot of strange things have been happening out here. Ice storms popping up in the Ripple . . . fire sprays washing across the Boiler. It’s like the land has had enough of us and is trying to wipe the slate clean.”

  Waypman turned back to the sky and nodded. “Might just be.”

  “Damn right. And I’d watch yourself here as well, brother. Things are going down in the shadows. Things best left unseen, if you know what I mean.” And with that, the lout rolled onto his side and fell silent.

  Dehydrated and sun-scorched, Waypman turned his attention to the dead fountain. It was like everything else in the Culver: a broken mirage of what once was. If he hadn’t been so thirsty, he might have shed a tear for such a sentimental thought. But not now. Not in this heat.

  Forcing himself up, he quickly ducked into one of the many alleyways surrounding the square. As he walked, his feet crunched atop gnawed draba bones and yellowed work receipts. Beneath the trash, veinlike rivers of sewage trickled between islands of maggot-covered filth.

  A shame, Waypman thought. In his father’s time, Cumlety had been the definition of beauty and commerce. “One of the prized cities of the great Culver Sprawl,” the old man had once told him. No longer, though. Now only scags and scrappers dwelt here, the refuse of a junked world.

  As Waypman walked, he passed several windows yawning into utter darkness. He didn’t dare look inside, though. There were too many horrors lurking within the city’s shadows — flesh hunters, pederasts, murderers, and rapists — every breed of beast and dreg patiently waiting for a throat to cut or pocket to pick. And here I stroll without a clue as to my next move.

  After wandering for another call, Waypman finally came upon the edge of Cumlety’s secondary square. It was a large, dusty area filled with dozens of dead fountains and enormous claims tents. Hundreds of drunken dregs wandered about, most celebrating their recent hauls with adreena weed and ale.

  Waypman stepped into the blazing sun just as a group of drunken gobs stumbled out of the nearest claims tent. Their pockets bulged with newfound coinage, and as they marched off into the city, their laughter polluted the already fetid air.

  Waypman watched enviously as they rounded a corner. There was still a chance he could get half pay for what little they had cleansed. But it was a long shot. Especially with the loss of the Charger. No sense not trying, he thought.

  Holding his breath, Waypman approached the claims tent and ducked beneath its heavy flap. The air inside the tent was foul and dark, a humid mix of sweat and decay that overwhelmed Waypman’s hardened senses.

  “What’s your business?” a bored voice asked beside him.

  Waypman turned. An enormous guard lay half asleep atop a pile of moldering animal pelts. “I’ve come to collect wages,” he replied.

  The guard pointed to a figure sitting in the center of the cluttered tent. “You know the drill then. Move to the white line and hand over your receipt.”

  Waypman slowly waded through the sea of desert-worn junk. Everything from rusty helmets to human bones lay heaped in careless piles. Some were marked with tags or trade numbers burned or wired onto their surfaces, while others appeared to have been simply dumped in haphazard piles. Even the ceiling was cluttered with thousands of dangling tools and weapons, all rusted and worn by the endless Culver elements.

  In the center of the mess, an emaciated clerk sat behind a petrified desk, his nose buried in a sun-stained ledger. His bloodshot eyes drooped impatiently behind a curtain of knotted, gray hair, and his skin glistened with feverish sweat as he scrutinized the day’s profits.

  “Come on, come on, we don’t have all day,” he bellowed without looking up.

  Waypman approached the white chalk line etched on the dirt floor and reached into his laptane suit.

  His stomach dropped.

  My work paper! he thought. It’s gone!

  “Let’s go, let’s go,” the guard belched behind him
, a pungent cloud of used grog wafting between his cracked lips.

  Waypman’s heart began to race. Without the receipt, he might as well be another beggar scampering for loose change along the lines. Damn it to hell, he thought. How could I be so stupid?

  “Well?” the clerk grumbled.

  “I . . . I must have lost it,” Waypman replied.

  The clerk turned a page in his ledger and began scratching numbers with his draba quill. “Then we have no business here, do we?”

  Another loud belch bubbled up from the lounging guard. “Get lost, slog. We’re not running no charity here.”

  Waypman longingly eyed the cache of goods sprawled before him. “Isn’t there a record of my name or number from the lines?”

  The clerk chuckled. “Record? Where do you think you are?”

  The guard sat up. “Let’s go, squiddy. Either you got business or you’re out.”

  “Why don’t you try the brothels,” the clerk quipped. “I’d wager that tentacle you call an arm would fetch quite a price with the fags.”

  Waypman ignored their laughter and ducked back out into the city. Now what? he thought as white hot sunlight blasted his eyes.

  Hundreds of laptane-clad men raced back and forth across the square, kicking up clouds of boiling dust. Coughing, he quickly retreated into one of the alleys.

  As he considered his next move in the shade, he noticed a handful of cats hissing and toiling over a mummified rat. They were a ragged bunch, their fur matted and singed, and their bleach-white eyes whispering of the first stages of desert blindness.

  When the cats noticed him, they quickly perked to attention.

  “How do, fellas?”

  A large, orange tabby arched its back high in the air.

  The leader, Waypman thought as he cautiously approached. When he was within arm’s reach, the orange tabby hissed, bearing its chipped, yellow fangs.

  Indifferent, Waypman knelt down and stared at the plump creature. Few, if any, cats remained in Garfax, and their presence in the Culver continuously drew his curiosity. For they were such proud, stubborn creatures, caring little about mankind’s errors or achievements.