The Map of Chaos

by Félix J Palma

  When he saw the junction ahead of him, he began to pedal even harder, getting ready to swerve into the road with one of those sharp turns he had practiced so often toward dawn, before the servants were even up, and unbeknownst to his brother. He felt a pang of anxiety at the thought of the drubbing his brother Jim would give him if he ever found out he had been riding his precious bike without asking and had even gone to the village on it. Luckily, Tommy’s brother had just gone to the war in South Africa, and by the time he came back, if he ever did, Tommy didn’t think he would be upset over something so trivial. Tommy narrowed his eyes and leaned over the handlebars. So lost was he in dreams of glory, and so loud was the wind in his ears, that he didn’t hear the roar of the automobile coming along the road he was about to ride out into, hidden from view behind a bend. And if Tommy had been five seconds slower spreading honey on his toast that morning or tying his shoelaces, then that day would certainly have been his last on earth. But fortunately for him he wasn’t meant to die until fifteen years later in a train crash and so, seconds before Tommy swerved into the road, he was forced to slam on his brakes because of a miracle on wheels that suddenly appeared from round the bend. The bike skidded and came to a halt at the end of the path, so that Tommy could fling one foot to the ground.

  And from there, the bike twisted between his legs, his eyes on stalks, Tommy watched the extraordinary machine hurtle by, leaving a thick cloud of dust in its wake. He had never seen anything like it, and he marveled at the shiny, cream-colored bodywork and the gigantic wheels spinning like mad, although he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the two people sitting inside it before the black plume of smoke gave him a coughing fit. By the time the fumes had subsided, the miraculous carriage had vanished round the next corner. Tommy wasted no time. He picked up his bike and began pedaling furiously, following the tracks the tires had left on the road. He had to see it again! He knew he would never catch up with it, but he needed to see it again even if only from afar: he wanted to remember every important detail when describing the amazing machine to that know-it-all Barrie, who would never believe his story otherwise. Several more bends in the road prevented him from attaining his goal for a while, but finally, after one of them, the ground suddenly sloped steeply down, giving Tommy a perfect view of the road ahead as it snaked along a shallow gorge. And there, several yards away, he spotted the machine and its telltale cloud of dust and fumes. Tommy stopped on the brow of the hill, sweating and out of breath, and gazed at it in astonishment. How beautiful it was! And how shiny! And now that it was going downhill, it seemed even faster. What would it be like to travel at that speed? Tommy wondered, intensely jealous of the couple inside. All at once, the smile froze on his lips. The vehicle had suddenly veered off the road and was rolling down a steep slope, bouncing over the rutted ground like a horse that has bolted; the man at the wheel seemed to have lost control. Tommy shuddered as he thought he heard the couple’s desperate screams, and he was seized with panic as he realized the machine and its two occupants were careering hopelessly toward the edge of the gorge, into which they would plunge in a few seconds if someone didn’t do something.

  • • •

  THE HANDFUL OF LOCALS who found themselves in the Hexworthy Inn that morning tried not to stare at the two strangers sitting in front of the fireplace at the back of the room, speaking in hushed voices, oblivious to the curiosity they were arousing. Neither had removed his flowing cloak or wide-brimmed hat, hats they wore pulled down over their faces, and both had peculiar-looking canes between their knees, longer and thicker than the average walking stick, on whose handles an identical symbol shone: an eight-pointed star inside a circle. That wasn’t the first time the regulars at the tavern had seen the two men there; in fact, they had appeared several times over the past few years, or if not exactly those two men, as some claimed, then two others very like them. In those heavy cloaks and those hats they never took off, they were almost impossible to tell apart, and the few words they deigned to exchange with others—if you could even call them words—resembled more a kind of metallic rattle, like the sound a tin bucket falling down a well would make. The fact was that little or nothing was known about them, or why they would appear only to disappear again for months, with no apparent rhyme or reason to their comings and goings. Some claimed to have seen them on the moor, posted on the hilltops like sinister sentries. On other occasions, as now, they would turn up without warning at the inn, always in pairs, and take a seat by the fire. They would order two tankards of ale, which they left untouched, and sit facing each other like statues, their unnerving stillness broken only by the slight tremor of their lips, an almost imperceptible vibration that suggested some form of communication, although, rather than talking or whispering, they seemed to be feeding, like fish, off the thoughts each dispersed through the air. No one had ever dared to ask them who they were or what they were doing there. In fact, everybody steered clear of them if they could and complained of the same disturbing feeling whenever they were close: as though an unbearable weight were crushing them, overwhelming them with all the misery and loneliness in the world. That very morning, Mr. Hall, the innkeeper, who, much to Mrs. Hall’s despair, fancied himself a poet, had described it thus: it was, he said, akin to having a vast, immeasurable void in a starless universe suddenly expand inside you. And at that precise moment, Mrs. Hall had gone over to him to express her unease in far less poetic terms.

  “Those two give me the creeps, George. And what’s more, they’re scaring away the customers. Why don’t you go and ask them if they’ll be wanting anything else while I see about laying the tables for lunch. Maybe they’ll take the hint . . .”

  “They’ll be gone soon, woman,” Mr. Hall replied with feigned indifference. “You know they never stay very long. Besides, they tip well.”

  “I don’t want their money, George. I dread to think what sinister methods they use to get it . . . God, they’re horrible . . . Lulu is under our bed, trembling,” she told him, as if the image of their little dog scared half to death might stir him. “Can’t you hear the horses whinnying outside? They scare the animals and they scare me, too! I want them out of here, and I hope they never come back. I insist you go and talk to them, George Hall!”

  “But they haven’t done anything to you, Janny, have they?” Mr. Hall swallowed hard. He was as keen to see them leave as his wife, but he had no desire to approach them. “Besides, it would be rude of me to ask two gentlemen with perfect manners to—”

  “I don’t care if it makes you look rude, George!” his wife interrupted. Then she added in hushed tones, “I’ll tell you one thing: I’m not often wrong about people, as you know, and I wouldn’t be surprised if either of those two would hesitate for a second to butcher a child or a defenseless old woman . . .”

  As though Mrs. Hall’s words, although faintly whispered, had reached the ears of the two strangers, one of them forced his lips into a taut smile and in voice devoid of any inflection, he murmured to his companion: “Old women and children. They are what I’m always afraid I’ll find when I pick up a scent.”

  His companion did not reply; he simply contemplated him at length while the first man held his gaze, neither of them moving a muscle. But allow me to add, dear reader, just for the record, that despite their disquieting stillness the two men’s faces, illuminated faintly by the glow from the fire, weren’t altogether unpleasant: both had strong, symmetrical features that could even be considered handsome. And yet the exquisite paleness of their skin did not seem human and was moreover tarnished by a kind of dark tint that somehow seemed not to belong to it, like the shadow a cloud casts on the snow. At last, after the prolonged silence, the second man’s lips began to vibrate imperceptibly: “You are suffering from a serious fault in your peptidogenesis, my friend. Perhaps a guilt neutralizer would minimize the unwanted effects of your remorse.”

  “I feel what you say is truth. But remember, we are no longer receiving any consignments from the Other
Side.”

  “I feel what you say is truth.”

  There was another silence.

  “What is the feeling of guilt like?” the second stranger asked.

  His question elicited an even longer silence.

  “How can I explain it? Imagine taking a huge dose of neuropeptides AB3003 and AZ001,” the first stranger finally replied, “that canceled out all your connective mutation neutralizers.”

  The other raised his eyebrows slightly. “I feel surprised! Then . . . I suppose it is very similar to the sensation of pity.”

  “So they say. Although I’ve heard that guilt is more addictive.” The first stranger stroked the handle of his cane with his forefinger. It was an extremely slow, almost imperceptible movement. “So . . . you’ve experienced pity.”

  “I have: I suffered a slight mutation soon after arriving here. That is why I feel sympathy for what you are going through. My bio-cells developed their own connections based on segments of my AZ model, producing their own neuropeptide chains. For a while I experienced the feeling of pity. Thank goodness it was quickly diagnosed, and in those days there was no problem with the consignments. Even so, it took three types of neutralizers to solve the problem.”

  “As I understand it,” said the man who was afraid of finding old women or children when he followed his next trail, “years ago they discovered that the AZ model was responsible for nearly all those random mutations, and the Scientists decided to phase it out. That’s why the last group of Executioners sent two years ago doesn’t have it.”

  “Then they are lucky.”

  “They aren’t aware of it: the feeling of satisfaction was a feature of the AZ model.”

  The two men’s shoulders trembled for a few seconds, in what for them was presumably a moment of shared amusement. Another lengthy silence followed.

  “Two years . . . It’s been two years since the Other Side sent anything or anyone,” remarked the first stranger.

  “They are nearing the end. The temperature is almost zero and there are hardly any black holes left. Everything there is slow and dark now. They are saving their last, feeble strength in the event the Great Exodus might still be possible . . .”

  “Then they’re saving it in vain,” his companion pronounced. “They’ll never be reborn here: this world is doomed. I feel frustration. I feel impotence. We’ve carried out a senseless slaughter.”

  “We have done our job and have done it well. They needed more time and we gave it to them. We even provided two years more than they expected from their worst predictions. Remember that twelve years ago the Scientists calculated that this world had only a decade left . . .”

  “Yes, but we, the Executioners, managed to claw back another two years.”

  The man who did not want to encounter old women or children rapped the floor with his cane. The gesture was so out of character that his companion raised his eyebrows several millimeters in surprise. “Yes, we did our job,” the first stranger went on, ignoring the other man’s silent disapproval. “And we did it well. That’s why they created us, isn’t it?” The stranger’s voice, still inaudible to anyone who didn’t press his ear to his lips, was slightly raised, or perhaps it wasn’t, perhaps it had simply acquired a few nuances, like sarcasm or resentment, that the human ear could hear. “Even so, I insist it has been senseless.” He rapped his cane on the floor again as his face began to flush. “The Scientists haven’t managed to find a cure for the epidemic. They haven’t even come close. And exterminating the carriers . . . well, it was always a crude solution, as chaotic as the malady itself. The epidemic is uncontainable, it always was. All those deaths for nothing!”

  “Return to a state of calm, my friend. Return to . . .”

  “They boast of possessing Supreme Knowledge and look down on us; they refer to us as killers. It enrages me just to think about it. They have no idea what it means to look into a child’s eyes, to show him in your pupils the chaos for which he must die, and then put him to death . . . I could tell them a thing or two about their famous Supreme Knowledge!”

  “Return to a state of calm!” The second stranger leaned forward and placed a hand on his companion’s cane. It was an extremely swift, imperceptible movement. “The end is near,” he reminded him in an expressionless voice. “What does it matter how many of them you have slain? They are all going to die. What does it matter what the Scientists think of us? We are all going to die.”

  With those words, both men sat up straight in their chairs again and remained silent. The one who had rapped the floor with his cane several times seemed gradually to regain his composure. After a while, he spoke again.

  “I’m sorry. It’s the effects of the remorse. If I don’t get hold of a guilt neutralizer soon it will be the death of me. But as you so rightly said, what does it matter? What does anything matter now? Chaos is inevitable.”

  “Chaos is inevitable,” the other man repeated. “And so is our mission, my friend. That is why we were created, and we must go on accomplishing it until the bitter end. Otherwise, what is the point of our existence?”

  “If only one more death were needed. A single death that would put a stop to it all . . .”

  “And if that one death were the death of an old woman or a child?”

  The Executioner who suffered from guilt closed his eyes and smiled.

  “I feel what you say is truth. And if it’s true that I need a guilt neutralizer”—he looked at his companion—“you could do with one for sarcasm, my friend.”

  Perhaps what made both men shake gently for a few moments was another fit of laughter. Or perhaps not.

  “Go on until the bitter end . . .” The one whom guilt was destroying shrugged slowly. “Why not? After all, it won’t be long now. The fabric of the universe is as riddled with holes as a moth-eaten sweater. The molecular traces of the carriers have become as jumbled as the roads on a crumpled map; their trails are growing so faint that it’s almost impossible to distinguish between the terminal molecules of a Destructor of whatever rank and those of a natural Jumper. Our tunnels are no longer infallible; our searches have become random, intuitive . . . This world is coming apart at the seams. Any day could be the last. And when that day comes, men will get out of bed and look out of the window on a world inhabited by horrific, unimaginable phenomena, a world invaded by their worst nightmares. And I promise you that all those we haven’t killed will wish they were dead.”

  “The background molecular nebula has increased a hundredfold in the past few months,” his companion remarked. “Only today, on the moor, I sensed a very high concentration of it. I suspect that in one of the nearby houses a window onto another world must have opened momentarily, but I was unable to detect whether anyone had jumped through it or not. And yet, only four or five years ago, catching our prey was a daily event, do you remember? What rich pickings we found in this sector! Almost as valuable as the ones at that famous haunted house in Berkeley Square. Not a day went by in one of those hyperproximity points where whoever was on duty didn’t capture a couple of level 6 Destructors at least. But those days are over. All I managed to detect today—more by accident than anything else, I suspect—was a potential aura. My cane picked it up. It was an old level 3 Destructor whom I had trailed before; the last time was two years ago, at the entrance to the Royal Opera House. That evening I almost caught him, but he was lucky, I let him go because I came across a level 6 plus Destructor. Luck was on his side again today, for as soon as I perceived him I lost him again. His aura simply dissolved into the background mist.”

  “Their aura is very faint when they haven’t jumped for a while,” his companion sympathized. “In any case, a Latent isn’t such a big haul . . .”

  “It is better than nothing.”

  “I feel what you say is truth. But tell me . . . that level six plus detector you just mentioned, it wasn’t . . . ?”

  There was a fresh silence. The Executioner who had lost the trail of the quarry he had let go two
years before followed a drop of moisture trickling slowly down the side of his beer tankard, until he saw it merge with a small pool forming on the table. A few seconds later, he spoke.

  “No, it was not the legendary M. That night I caught a big one, it is true, but it was not M. M’s trail is unmistakable and was still being detected until relatively recently. It seems the legendary M is still jumping.”

  “I feel astonishment. I don’t understand why he hasn’t already disintegrated. Other far less active Destructors than he have already lost all their molecules . . . He should have been classified as terminal a long time ago.”

  “A six plus is never classified as terminal, my friend. They are considered Destructors down to their last surviving molecule. And M is the most powerful and fearsome Destructor of any we have ever come across since we started fighting this epidemic. His talents are as astonishing and formidable as his lunacy. Indeed, if M has become invisible, which I am sure he has, he is still as powerful as a hundred level 6 Destructors.”

  “I was on his trail for a while; there was even a time when I thought I might actually be able to catch him,” said the man who felt guilty about his terrible task.

  “And who has not? We have all dreamt of catching him. We have all tried to fish that legendary fifteen-pound salmon that snatches all our bait and avoids all our hooks. Oh, yes, dear friend, whenever I go to Lake Windermere, I pray the legendary fish is still alive and kicking and will end up dangling from my rod.”

  Mr. Hall, who had finally been forced by his wife’s nagging to approach the two men, cleared his throat timidly.

  “Gentlemen . . . forgive me for interrupting, but . . .” When the men looked up at him, Mr. Hall felt that terrible emptiness inside, which made him recoil. “Er, will you be wanting another drink?”

  Before either of them could reply, the inn door swung open, and a small figure stumbled in, coming to a halt in the middle of the room. He stood motionless for a few seconds, gasping for air and casting his glazed eyes around the room. He was shivering from head to toe, and beads of sweat mixed with tears rolled down his face. Mrs. Hall went over to the boy and gently placed her hand on his bony shoulder.