Crescent

by Phil Rossi

  A metal shelf stacked with cans of condensed foods stood adjacent to the door, tall enough to nearly reach the light panels in the ceiling. All those cans meant it’d be heavy. Too heavy for only the two of them to slide it in front of the door, and it’d take way too long to get all the goods cleared off. Marisa thought she might be able to topple the thing over so that it blocked the door. She climbed up the shelf to the top, squirming herself into the small space between shelf and ceiling. She pushed at the wall with her feet and the shelf started to totter. An instant later, she was riding it to the ground. She crouched and covered her head with her arms as it slammed into the opposite wall. Cans rained down around her, bouncing off her body with stinging, bruising blows. She crawled out from underneath the mess, dazed but as far as she knew, unharmed. Ina sat against the far wall, her hands over her abdomen protectively.

  “Are you okay?” Ina asked, although she didn’t sound all too concerned.

  Screams came from the other side of the door. People began to hammer at the barrier and the door rattled in its frame, but it did not give.

  “Yeah,” Marisa said and touched the back of her head with hesitant fingers. She found her hair a tangled and tacky mess. She wiped the hand clean on her pants.

  There was more screaming—bloodthirsty cries that sounded more like a pack of animals than anything human. The pounding had taken on a wet sound, each impact a crunching slap. Marisa didn’t want to know why it sounded that way.

  “You’re bleeding,” Ina said over the racket.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good. When we get out of here, we’re going to have to work fast. I’m sure of it.” Ina closed her eyes.

  The beating on the door stopped, and the screaming really picked up. The wails were like nothing Marisa had ever heard. And judging from the lack of color in Ina’s face, she was scared, too. Marisa sat down on the floor beside her. They both put their hands over their ears and Marisa closed her eyes. This station has been hungry for so long, Marisa thought, and now it’s feeding time. Sweet Christ. Let this be over soon.

  (Part XIX)

  The brawl began as a single bottle impact, but the fighting birthed out of Heathen’s and onto Main Street like a living thing. The batwing doors spewed forth a giant serpent with hundreds of punching, kicking, and tearing limbs and hundreds of howling mouths. The beast flowed over the innocent and unsuspecting, leaving twisted, bloodied bodies in its wake. Crescent security arrived just as the rioters began smashing storefronts and destroying anything they could get their hands on. The serpent was clubbed and gassed. Repeated gunfire picked away at the rioters; it wasn’t Core Sec doing the shooting. It finally took an army of collector robots to subdue the man-snake.

  Nigel’s heart skipped several beats when he stepped through the brushed chrome batwing doors and into Heathen’s. It looked like a bomb had been set off. Concentrated death—there were bodies everywhere. Some were missing ears, others noses, and eyes. Some of the bodies were even missing limbs. Still others had holes in their torsos—fist-sized and bigger. There was blood everywhere. It fell in droplets from tables and from the bar.

  Nothing stirred.

  Nigel lifted his camera, placing its lens between his eye and the grisly scene—a necessary buffer between reality and emotion—and began taking pictures of the carnage. Movement from above caught his eye; the camera fell to his side to dangle from its strap while he reached for his sidearm. A closet door on the bar’s second tier opened and Nigel raised the weapon and took aim. A dazed Lieutenant Griffin stumbled from the closet followed by a waif-thin blonde woman. Nigel sighed relief, lowering his weapon, and ran to them, careful to avoid the carnage. Marisa’s face was devoid of color. Her green eyes went wide at the devastation as they swept across the macabre scene, first to the left, then to the right.

  “Marisa,” Nigel grabbed her by both arms. She hardly responded. Lost in shock, she seemed unable to make eye contact, staring instead at the bodies sprawled one atop the other.

  “God, Nigel,” she said at last. “The screaming. The sounds they made killing each other. It was horrible.”

  Nigel couldn’t imagine. He didn’t even want to try. He let go of her arms and nodded once.

  “I’m sure it was heinous. Security arrived in time to keep the riot from making its way down Main Street. It’s over now. The whole level is closed.”

  “Riot? Main Street?” Marisa looked over Nigel’s shoulder to the club’s exit.

  “Yes, Marisa. The violence didn’t stay confined to Heathen’s. But, it’s over. All of it. You’re okay?”

  “I hit my head… ” She probed the back of her skull and winced. Her fingertips came back with fresh blood on them. “Otherwise, I’m fine.”

  “Get that checked out. There are medics out on the street. Is your friend all right?”

  “Yeah,” Marisa said, glancing behind her before adding, “she’s not my friend, but she’s fine. This is all you needed, isn’t it? You’re happy about this,” Marisa said. Her cheeks flushed. The violence was another nail in Crescent’s coffin, but Nigel felt little cheer. He was surprised to actually find himself insulted by her words.

  “This is a tragedy. I’m not happy about it at all. Now, go on. I’ll join you in a moment. I need to take a few more pictures.”

  Marisa brushed past without sparing him another glance; the blonde woman followed her wordlessly. Nigel examined the door of the women’s hiding place. Bloody handprints and fist marks smeared the gray metal exterior. He shook his head and turned around to face the barroom. Close by, a young woman lay on her stomach behind a small side bar. A mosaic of broken glass surrounded her contorted limbs. Ruined black underpants had been pulled down around ankles that were mottled with fresh bruises. Her neck was twisted at an unnatural angle so that her bloodied face looked at Nigel. He raised his camera to take a final photo.

  “The glass shudders…unity is almost here,” the girl said. As she spoke, a fresh stream of blood flowed down and over her chin. “You will join us soon.”

  Nigel stumbled backwards, dread overcoming him completely. The sea of corpses stared at him, their unblinking eyes peering out from gore covered faces. The dead seemed poised to rise at any second. The air grew heavy and all the hairs on Nigel’s body stood on end, as if each individual molecule around him trembled with energy. He took another jerking step back and stumbled over his own foot, losing hold of the camera in the process. Nigel managed to catch himself by grabbing the closet doorframe, but the device dropped to the floor with an unpleasant crack of glass and plastic.

  The atmosphere went still and Nigel scanned the room, refusing to give up his hold on the frame for fear his legs would turn to water. The corpses had regained their blank, death stares, their eyes no longer focused on him. He looked back to the sidebar; the serving girl’s head faced the other way now.

  Nigel swallowed hard and retrieved the now-worthless camera. The sooner I get off this god forsaken station, the bloody better.

  (•••)

  Maerl sat on the opposite side of the street from the club that had been his life for more than ten years. Heathen’s had been the promise of a bright future. Bodies and broken glass now littered that promise. Wide, angry brushstrokes of spilled alcohol and spilled blood sullied its face. The end had brought horrifying things—unreal things. Maerl had watched as people beat each other to a pulp, and then the colors had come: the Black, the Red, the Violet. The walls had come to life then—gleaming, razor sharp, and hungry. People had been maimed or cut clear in two. And what the station hadn’t taken, the brawlers took from each other. While the victims screamed, Maerl had cowered. When someone came too close, he had thrown bottles of alcohol at them. Cuts from broken glass marked his hands. He was covered in blood up to the elbows. How much of it was his blood and how much of it was his customers’ blood? He didn’t really know. It all amounted to the same.

  Now he sat with his hands between his legs and watched the medics cart body a
fter body out of his place. He wondered how many of his staff had been loaded into those carts. A sob rose in his throat along with the urge to vomit. What was left for him to do now?

  “Sir.” A security officer stood above him, arms crossed over the chest of a too-tight uniform. “I’m going ask you again. Please, leave. You can’t be here anymore. This portion of the station has been closed off.”

  “This is my portion of the station,” Maerl said, and pointed. “That is my place. My lady. You expect me to walk away while you pick over her remains? No way, Jose. Not if this is the last time I’m going to see those neon letters. No fucking way, man. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Sir, if you stay here much longer, we’re going to arrest you.”

  Maerl stuck his tongue out at the security officer; he didn’t know what else to do. The officer shrugged and walked away, leaving the man squinting into the heart of the destruction again.

  White light, cast by portable floodlamps, washed over the epicenter—a circle of blood, bodies, and smoking debris. Uniformed men and women prowled the scene casting long, exaggerated shadows. He wanted to leave; he’d seen enough. Maerl just didn’t know where he’d go. Not only was Heathen’s his business, it had been his home. Where do I go from here? Maerl thought again.

  Fresh tears stung his eyes.

  A girl with long black hair sat down next to him. Thick, brownish-red smears covered her slender arms. Maerl stared.

  “The blood—it’s not mine,” the girl said, and offered him a cigarette from a steel case. Maerl blinked and shook his head before taking one of the smokes gratefully. She lit it for him and then did the same for herself. Eyes as dark as her hair looked him up and down as she took a drag.

  “You look tired,” she said, and then exhaled the smoke in a sidelong plume.

  “I have nowhere to go,” he responded dumbly.

  She cocked her head in the direction of Heathen’s. “I’ve seen you working in there a lot. That your place, then?”

  “It was. So much time… so much of my life poured into that bar… just so I’d have somewhere to go. And now… ” The threat of a fresh sob silenced him. His vision blurred with tears. The girl placed a hand on his knee.

  “Hey man, I’m really sorry about your place,” she said. He looked up at her. Beneath all the dried blood, there was a pretty girl. She stood and extended her hand. A small, azure beetle tattoo decorated the back of it, between her thumb and forefinger.

  “My name is Dhalia,” she said. “Come with me. I know a place you can go.”

  (•••)

  Dhalia led Maerl through one of Crescent’s storage levels. Dark corridors went on and on with no seeming end. They turned a different direction at each junction. Maerl was positive they were lost by the time she finally stopped their trek at a rusty bulkhead. She tapped in an entry code on the keypad beside the door. Locking mechanisms released with a clank. She pushed the door open and took Maerl’s hand.

  Dahlia guided Maerl into a warehouse. A thick layer of dust covered a handful of empty and scattered shipping containers. The warehouse hadn’t been used for storage in a long time, that much was apparent. The shipping containers shared the largely empty floor space with big and unidentifiable objects that were draped in moldering canvas tarps. Dahlia led Maerl to the far end of the warehouse to where a handful of black-garbed men and women lounged on mismatched furniture. The furniture rested on equally clashing swatches of carpet. Black leaflets were piled atop several, rickety tables.

  The strange den glowed with hundreds of candles. The warehouse smelled of wax, matches, and dust. As they neared the group of people, Maerl could see they wore the same tattoo as Dahlia. Some had the design on their hands; others had it on their necks or arms.

  “Everyone. this is Maerl. He has nowhere to go.”

  The group welcomed him with soft greetings.

  “What is this?” Maerl asked.

  Dahlia giggled softy and stroked his arm with her blood-stained fingertips.

  “We are the children of a new beginning, Maerl. The Aphotic, you silly man. I know you’ve seen us around,” Dhalia said and winked. A shirtless man, his wiry frame covered in ink, stood and approached Maerl. He clapped him on the shoulder with a strong hand and grinned.

  “Welcome, my man. Welcome. Drink?”

  (•••)

  “A mess. In the truest sense of the word,” Captain Benedict said and tossed a data pad onto Kendall’s desk. The data pad’s viewscreen rotated with glowing scenes of the inside of Heathen’s and the section of Main Street. Kendall hardly glanced at the images. You didn’t need to stare long to know the term “mess” was a grave understatement. The timing could not have been worse.

  He looked to Albin, who leaned against the closed office door with his arms crossed over his chest. A cigarette hung from his lips, the thin trail of smoke drifting up past the tall man’s unshaven, freckled face.

  “You were shooting people?” Kendall asked Albin. “Is my understanding correct? Shooting like you were in some carnival gallery?”

  “Fuck, Kendall. That’s the only way I could get out of there.” Albin’s words were more than a little slurred. The son of a bitch was still drunk.

  “I’ve got Jacob Raney cutting his own cock off. I’ve got you drunk, shooting up Heathen’s.” Kendall growled and turned his eyes on Benedict. “Captain, are you about to tell me you fucked my dear, dead mother?”

  “I’ve reviewed the feeds,” Benedict said. “Things had gone to hell even before your man started shooting.” Benedict looked at Albin and scowled. “I should have him booted off the station, but right now the flaunting of his firearm is the least of my worries. When things got really nasty in Heathen’s is when all the cameras cut.”

  “Maybe for the better,” Albin said. “You really want to see people choppin’ each other up?”

  Benedict grunted.

  “I have a meeting with Captain Swaren later this afternoon,” Benedict said and got to his feet. “I didn’t sleep for more than a goddamn hour last night. FYI, the vatter’s tour ship arrives tonight. The concert is tomorrow evening.”

  “Concert?” Kendall asked. “What concert?”

  “Erick Haddyrein, Mayor.” Benedict said.

  Kendall had all but forgotten about the rockstar’s upcoming concert on Crescent. Kendall had agreed to host the final performance of Haddyrein’s outer rim tour months ago. It was to be good publicity for Crescent—a revitalization of the station’s image. Kendall didn’t realize the date had almost arrived. You can’t pay for timing like this, Kendall thought. The station’s complete disarray would be broadcast across all the seventeen systems. Kendall took a deep breath. It would be far worse to cancel the concert.

  “The concert will go on. You get the station running in top shape again. Do you hear me? Work with Vegan. Pool any and all resources you need to. And make sure we have more than enough security at that concert. I don’t care if you get people from off the streets.”

  “Yes, Mayor.”

  “Clean up this fucking mess,” Kendall commanded.

  Albin stepped aside and opened the door for the security captain. After Benedict took his leave, Albin closed the door and resumed his casual lean. He dropped the cigarette he had been smoking and crushed it out beneath his boot.

  “What did I tell you about that?” Kendall said. He was not in the mood. A small, flat circular robot exited a mouse-hole in the wall and scooped up the discarded cigarette butt. It vacuumed the portion of the floor where the cigarette had been extinguished and then disappeared back into the wall.

  “Things are falling apart around our ears, Albin,” Kendall said and slammed his fist down on desk’s dark surface. The LCDs were blank; Kendall had disabled the feeds as soon as he heard about the riot and ensuing bloodshed. “Swaren is comin’ after me. By now, he’s ready to make his move. You keep a close eye on him. That means, don’t get drunk, you fool. We need our wits about us. We are at a crucial time h
ere.”

  “Why don’t we just get rid of him, Ezra?” Albin lit another cigarette.

  “It’s not easy to make a Core Sec auditor disappear.”

  Albin shrugged and said, “Matter of opinion.”

  “Go drink some coffee or something. Sober up, for god’s sake.” Albin smiled around the filter of his cigarette and left the room.

  Kendall was alone.

  “We had a deal,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “You’re my fucking station and we had a deal.”

  The office was dead silent.

  “You still have no words for me? After all these years?” The mayor activated the door lock; the bolts clacked into place. He leaned back in the consuming leather chair and closed his eyes.

  “Then perhaps,” Kendall said, “I still have a chance.”

  (•••)

  The conical speakers in the cell block screamed for two straight hours. When the alarm finally stopped, Gerald’s ears rang with a persistence that was almost as bad as the sirens. Almost. Gerald stopped combing the cell for sharp objects to shove in his ears, and thanked every god he could think of for the silence. He even made up some gods to thank. Whatever the hell was going on in the outside world, it must have been a big deal.

  Not long after blessed silence had fallen, people were deposited into the holding cells around him. Shredded clothing hung on bodies that had clearly been involved in some brand of violence. If his new neighbors had been a fighting bunch earlier, all the fight had gone out of them now. Gerald wasn’t sure if he was glad to have the company. It had been quiet earlier when he was all alone—that silence had been unsettling. Now, Gerald was surrounded by people and it was still dead quiet. The variety of silence freaked him out even more.