Filaria

by Brent Hayward

  He would never see her alive again. He would never see anyone again.

  The car slowed. The hallway split, left and right. He looked over at McCreedy. Phister would have picked right. Without a word of consultation, McCreedy chose left. They rumbled onwards, down more unfamiliar paths.

  Fervently, Phister hoped Crystal was safe, warm and breathing out there, somewhere, perhaps even back home.

  Stumbling up suddenly from the moss bed, and heaving ragged breaths, she had gone over to the doorway. And turned back. The image of her from that moment would never leave Phister. Never. She’d been a broken thing. Broken. No longer even a girl, the bones of her face collapsed, structures of her wondrous physiognomy fallen in on themselves, streaked with dirt, tears, and snot. Lurching, hanging from the jamb to shout at Simpson Lang (was he still in the room? Phister never was sure, though he had looked; was not sure now, remembering): “Don’t follow me! I wanna be alone! I’m leaving this fuckin hole! I wanna fuckin die!”

  No one got up. Certainly not Young Phister. Because he weighed seven hundred pounds. He weighed four tons. Four tons of inaction.

  He just watched her go. The last time he saw her.

  Several of those who had been loitering on the landing outside the moss room — Lenny, Penelope, and Cassandra, the mute — told Phister as the lights were coming on the next morning (well, Penelope and Lenny did, anyhow) — that they hadn’t seen Crystal at all. Hadn’t seen her run past, hadn’t heard her shouting or crying. But she sure wasn’t in her cot when they checked. Simpson, brooding, half-asleep in his own little cubby, dried blood on his cheek, hadn’t seen Crystal since leaving the moss room. She wasn’t anywhere. Headachy, hungover, unsure, the group managed to work each other up into a state of genuine concern.

  “But she’s run off before?”

  “Yeah. Only for an hour or two. And then she was just hiding.”

  “Maybe she’s just hiding now.”

  “Where?”

  “She said she was leaving? Where can you go?”

  “And she said she wanted to die?”

  “Yep. Fuckin die, she said. This time I wanna fuckin die.”

  “What about those bloody rags that Jeb found last week, in the glower room, behind vent twenty?”

  “What about them?”

  “What bloody rags?”

  “Rags with shreds of flesh on them. Maybe there’s a connection?”

  “Aw, shit . . .”

  So they told others that Crystal was missing: bleary-eyed folks, only now heading to their rooms. Trying to impart the urgency they felt, and Boy Harbour overheard. He stood against the wall, one foot flat behind his butt. Boy Harbour ate no moss and felt sanctimonious because of it. He said, “A scream, in the middle of the night. But you mossheads was messed up, as usual. I heard terrible screams.”

  This comment — predictably dire, and given in a mean-spirited tone, that being Boy Harbour’s leaning — nevertheless caused a collective intake of breath and exchanged looks. Something horrific had happened! Phister felt the certainty of this in his gut. Biting the inside of his cheek, he watched Cassandra — who could read lips as well as anybody could listen — respond to the story with equal alarm. Crystal was in trouble. She had done some rash and foolish act. Had she run away? Or was she taken?

  Sensing an audience — and loving the drama of a missing person — Boy Harbour lifted his voice: “Worms the size of pinky fingers live in your stool out there. The water’s bad. Them worms eat your insides. And there’s people, too, that live above us, in the ceilings. Those stories you scare each other with are true. Only they’re not the same as us. They’ll tear Crystal apart if they catch her, long before the worms kill her. My daddy went up there once, after the war with the men in the blue suits. He was never the same after that. Couldn’t even talk about what he’d seen.”

  Needless to say, search parties were formed. Phister and the old man — the driver, McCreedy — would take the ancient car, checking the outer halls, driving around the perimeter of known turf and maybe even into halls uncharted. As long as they didn’t go too far. (This was Linden’s suggestion. Linden sometimes assumed the role of leader. Linden agreed Phister had good eyes and McCreedy drove real good.) The rest were to split up, on foot, and look in every conceivable place within the known turf. Each hall, each room.

  Only thoughts of Crystal Max, in peril, made Phister climb into the passenger seat.

  Well, she sure wasn’t out here. Sure as shit. Nothing was. No canteens. No water spigots. Only strange halls with power outlets in odd places and who knew what else up ahead, McCreedy driving on and on. Oblivious through it all.

  About to touch the sleeve of McCreedy’s coat — because he wanted to vomit, and wished the car to stop — twenty metres ahead, unflinchingly, directly into the car’s path, stepped a man.

  Young Phister gripped the seat under him; the cover tore in his fingers. On the steering wheel, McCreedy’s gloved hands twitched.

  The stranger was tall. Straighter, and fuller in the face than either Phister or McCreedy — or anyone Phister knew, for that matter. Stronger, too, no doubt. Dressed in a yellowed jacket that had probably once been white, a black hat low on his head. Cracked boots, knee-high. Pale slacks. Yes, odd garb, but despite this, and despite the man’s large stature and sudden appearance — despite all the horror stories and rumours Phister had heard off and on throughout his life about people who might exist beyond — somehow the whole surreal apparition seemed less and less threatening as they drove nearer.

  The man’s features were clean, uniform in tone. Perhaps older than Phister had first thought. Not like McCreedy, but about double Phister’s age.

  For a long moment, they regarded one another.

  Then the man raised one hand and said in a clear voice, “Brothers, stop! Stop, sirs, please!”

  Wisps of hair, long and white, sprouted from the man’s scalp. Hair. This unsettling growth — exactly like an infant’s, before it falls out — was tied back and poked, for the most part, down the neck of the yellowed jacket. More was crammed under the hat.

  “Brothers, stop!”

  And, palm held out toward them, the man now smiled, showing wet bones glistening, right inside that red mouth. Teeth, and hair

  Somewhat stunned, Phister waited to feel that wash of fear, or repulsion, or at least really creeped out, but all he felt was an evergrowing sense of entrancement and just plain old relief that finally they had found someone, anyone, no matter how bizarre.

  “Could you please stop, spare a moment, answer a few questions? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  McCreedy had already stopped. The car hummed under them like a crouched beast.

  “Listen, my name is Philip. A man of the cloth, a thespian, an explorer. I greet you gentlemen, and I am at your service.” Holding the hand out — nails clean, trimmed — as if to shake, though still too far away for that. He looked at the car.

  “What the hell do you want?” McCreedy snarled.

  “Pardon me?”

  “You heard me. What do you want?”

  “Why such, uh, hostility?”

  “Answer the question.”

  “We are all just men, who happen to meet in this remote hall.”

  “You’re not like me. Look at yourself!”

  “I am like you,” Philip said. “Perhaps a tad healthier. But we are cut from the same cloth.”

  “Ratshit. Now where did you come from?”

  “You, sir, are a suspicious wreck, if I may say so. I am not armed. I do not wish any trouble. Did I not say I was a man of peace?”

  “No.”

  “Well I am.” Philip sighed. He put his hands in his pockets. “However, if we are to be dispensing with any civilities — going straight to the point, as it seems — then all I want from you is information.”

  “Like what?”

  “Did you pass anyone? In the direction you’ve just come? Twins, perhaps?”

  “Twins?”


  “Yes. Co-joined brothers? I’ve lost two friends.”

  “We didn’t see no one, sir,” Phister said, touching his grubby fingers to his forehead by way of greeting. “Name’s Phister, by the way. They call me Young Phister. Though I’m sixteen.”

  A hard kick on the shin — hidden from the stranger’s view behind the car’s console — made Phister quickly shut his mouth again.

  But too late: Philip had already turned his attentions to the passenger. “Young Phister,” he said, smile widening, those big white teeth so incongruous in an adult’s face, so captivating. “A pleasure. Serendipity to run into you, out here, in the middle of nowhere, as it were. Phister. Young Phister. A fine name. Hello, hello. Perhaps you could tell me the name of our surly friend here, at the wheel?”

  “None of your business,” McCreedy said. “And I ain’t your friend.”

  “Please. As I’ve told you, I have no untoward intentions.” Philip regarded each in turn. “I’ve lost two associates, that’s all. I’m merely seeking two, uh, young actors. We were rehearsing, you see, for an upcoming performance of The Engineer, when there came a strange call. And a rumbling, as of a distant explosion. My vanished friends decided to investigate.”

  “What’s that mean?” Phister swung his legs away from McCreedy’s fumbling boot.

  “What?”

  “The engineer.”

  “The play, the man, or the prophet? Have you never heard of these?” White eyebrows went up.

  Phister, who had no eyebrows but could remember a few thick hairs once growing over each of his eye sockets, shook his head.

  “You poor souls. You truly are lost. When I mention the engineer, in this context, I refer to the three-act dramatic text. A classic. History. Words to live by, all in one.”

  “We don’t know anything about that sort of shit,” McCreedy said.

  “For shame, gentlemen.” Another step nearer. “It is in your very nature, as humans, to learn, to explore. To find out everything you can in the limited time we have been allotted. Seek out the truth!” This last word echoed up and down the infinite corridors. “The play, you see, deals — in a very picaresque fashion — with the engineer’s inauguration and subsequent rise to mythic heights. The engineer, friends, was our veritable creator! The last act hints at his agendas for resurrection and implies that he left behind much more than just our tattered world! Oh yes, there is subterfuge, and conflict. Quite a drama! The old story of good versus evil! You must attend.”

  Open-mouth stares.

  “Of course, I revise this work myself, as self-appointed custodian, and have my lads perform it, often, in various locales, both to keep the performance contemporary and to educate the squalid masses. (Such as, if I may say so, yourselves.) I’m somewhat of an authority.”

  For another long moment, neither Phister nor McCreedy spoke. They looked at each other. Then McCreedy coughed and said, “That may be, but it all sounds like a crock of shit to me. Good verses evil? I may not get around much, but I know dumb ideas when I hear them.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There ain’t no good, just like that. Clear cut. Or no bad. Life ain’t that simple.”

  “Oh, you’re a philosopher now?” The look on Philip’s face was as if he had just sniffed a turd. “All right. Look. One who opposes the engineer in his grand plan shall henceforth be considered a bad guy. How’s that?”

  “Ask this so-called bad guy what he thinks of the good guy, or why he don’t like him. You ask him which one is which. Everyone got their reasons to do what they do. You go and ask the lady who gave birth to the bad guy, see what she thinks of her son.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t challenge every man you meet. I’ve greeted you as a friend. I’m trying to educate you. Perhaps you should write an act in our play, since you’re so profound.”

  “Writing is for sissies.”

  Silence descended again, awkward and prickly, but then Philip — who clearly did not want any trouble, or any form of quietude — tried a new tack of communication: “I must admit, that’s quite a fine-looking vehicle you two have there. Department of Resources, if I’m not mistaken?”

  Phister said, “It talks. Crazy stuff. Rambles sometimes, when you plug it in.”

  “That car can talk? Really? When it’s connected?” Philip looked duly impressed. “What sort of things does it say?”

  “Never mind,” said McCreedy.

  “I’ve certainly never seen anything like it. Not this far down. I’m surprised you can get power here.”

  “Well you can.”

  Phister, who had been quite baffled by the conversation, was still contemplating what McCreedy had said. No good or evil in the world? For him, the division between the light and the dark was not only real, but also crucial. He looked up at Philip’s odd face. He just wanted to go home. He wanted his life back, no matter how flawed. “Hey, listen,” he said, “you say you’re looking for two people? Or one person? Joined? You say you’ve lost friends?”

  “That’s right.” Philip nodded, standoffish. “Seth and Kim Dean. Attached at the shoulder. You would have noticed them if you’d seen them.”

  “Well we lost somebody too! A girl. Not joined to anyone. One girl. And we’re also lost.”

  McCreedy turned slowly toward Phister; Phister dared not meet the older man’s eyes. He felt their anger boring into him like heat. But he would not sit quietly, no matter what McCreedy thought or did. He would not shut up. He felt tears sting his eyes. “Please, we’re really lost . . .”

  Philip brushed at his lapels with both hands. “You’re headed west. In the basement. If that helps. About forty klicks from the westernmost extremity and about seven from the base of the lift shaft I used to get down here.” He took off his hat. The long hair that was not tied together in the back and tucked inside the coat stood almost straight out from his head now. “Interesting that you search for the missing also. When did your friend vanish?”

  “Never mind,” McCreedy hissed. “Get out of the way. We have to keep moving.”

  But desperate not be to left alone again with McCreedy, to reflect upon his own ruptured worldview and lost loves, and to meet his certain death, Phister blurted, “We’ll give you a lift! We’ll help you find those twins and you can give us directions back home!”

  “Wait a second,” McCreedy snarled. “We need to talk, me and you, kid.” To Philip: “I said don’t come any closer. I’m in fuckin charge here, in this car.”

  Yet Philip approached. “Brother, you are filled with distrust. We are all people. We have to stick together. And there is no need for profanity. Certainly not before such an impressionable young man as Young Phister here. For you see, I could use a lift. My feet are getting weary.”

  “This impressionable young man,” McCreedy said, “is soon gonna be a fucking killed young man.”

  Much nearer now, Philip stared hard at Phister. He frowned. “Up close you look familiar, boy. The more I engage your ravaged features. The texture of your skin, your toothless smile, your blotched scalp. Your sunken eyes. These are all etched into the recesses of my cerebellum. How? Have we previously met?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I’m sure I’ve seen your face before — it is rather distinct. Perhaps in a dream?”

  “I, uh, don’t think so.”

  “No? Tell me, Young Phister, where do you want to go? Where do you want to look? I know a lot about this world.”

  “Just stay there.”

  “I can offer you some water, and something to eat. You both look like you could use some real food.”

  Stricken, McCreedy paused, his hard stance foiled. “Food?” Drymouthed, in a whisper. “And water?”

  “Homemade bread. Water. And canteen wafers. Real wafers. Not that modified garbage you try to survive on down here. You two are living proof that the canteens of these lower levels are seriously lacking nutrients. In fact, there’s no sustenance at all in these par
ts. A man could starve here, literally, in these remote service halls.”

  “Let’s see your stuff.” McCreedy held out his dirty, cracked hands.

  Long before Philip had drawn the mouldy bun and two vials of water from the front pocket of his jacket Young Phister was salivating. And maybe McCreedy was relieved that he no longer had to pretend to know the way home, or perhaps he derived assurance from the idea that he could henceforth apportion the blame, if things continued to go wrong. But Phister decided that the most likely reason for the about face was that McCreedy was way more hungry and frightened than Phister had imagined. Whatever the motive, Philip was allowed to clamber aboard, untouched, and squat awkwardly between the young boy and the old man, without so much as a word of protest.

  Grabbing the bun from the stranger — as Philip leaned forward — McCreedy took a crumbling bite, and another, and another, passing only broken remains across to Phister.

  “Onward then,” Philip said, grinning, showing those big square teeth.

  Young Phister stuffed his face. Crumbs fell from his lips and his dry black toothless gums as the car moved once more.

  “Onward, new friends, onward!”

  Philip clapped them both on the back, and there his big hands rested, strong and heavy.

  DEIDRE, L2

  The Orchard Keeper’s youngest daughter, Deidre, woke intentionally during the night, dressed silently in darkness, and descended to the plantations long before her esteemed father had even entertained thoughts of his morning’s ablutions.