Whirling World

by Drinkel, Dean M

  Their trainers hammered the stairs.

  “We need to grab him and get out of here,” said Mark, gasping. The fear of discover had snatched his breath rather than the sudden exercise.

  They hurtled from the stairs and down the dank corridor, slamming through the double doors that Craig had so cautiously slipped through not ten minutes before. Mark breathed deep, glad to be free of the pokey corridors and claustrophobic offices. The factory floor, a great industrial cavern, seemed twice as large at this level. They sprinted past immense banks of machinery, the sounds of rhythmic motion emanating from within, and more control consoles, housing fluttering lights and frantic electrical readouts.

  This isn’t a production plant, Mark thought. This is Frankenstein’s fucking laboratory.

  With Lindsey close behind, Mark turned a tight corner around one of the many conveyors, this one now trundling along quite merrily. Its black belt glistened in the afternoon sun, almost shiny with oil.

  “Mark?” Lindsey grabbed his shoulder, tugging him back and pointing.

  The second conveyor, the one that Craig had climbed, exited the machine and sloped down like the first peak of a rollercoaster. Mark watched the broom handle slowly make the trip, reach the lower level of the conveyor, and clatter to the floor as the belt looped back under itself. A moment later, a pattering like the first few drops of rain joined the hiss and whir of the machine.

  “Just his stick,” said Mark, approaching it, “but listen to that. He must’ve busted something. Craig!”

  Manoeuvring around the bank of buttons, the one containing the sly orange light, Mark crouched to grab the broom handle. He planned to give his friend a good hard swat with it once they were out and safe in the sun again.

  He whipped his hand back.

  The pitter-patter continued as the conveyor carried more crimson blotches along its length and deposited on the concrete floor. A wet strip had formed along the centre of the belt. It reminded Mark of the time a fat black spider had crawled inside his printer. A sheet of paper had sliced it in half and carried on its journey. The spider’s innards had been smeared up the paper in a fading brown strip.

  “Oh god.” Lindsey staggered past him, staring at the growing pool. “Craig?”

  Mark stared at the flaps of the hatch, the semi-transparent plastic splattered with his friend’s blood. Craig’s trainer, formerly a pristine just-out-of-the-box white, and the bottom of his jeans had been painted scarlet. Lying at the top of the conveyor, the shoe wobbled back and forth from the motion of the belt, like Craig was following a beat.

  “I can see him!” cried Mark, already clambering onto the belt, trying to avoid the mess and failing miserably.

  “Craig!’ Lindsey roared, almost standing beneath the rise in the conveyor. “Answer me!”

  He can’t answer you, thought Mark, struggling to climb up a descending conveyor belt. (He pictured the final obstacle from Gladiators from Saturday afternoon TV. The Travelator. Now of all times.) He can’t answer you because no one who has lost this much blood can answer you. He’s been fucking chewed. They might have made mannequins here years ago but today a body hasn’t been assembled: it’s probably been torn to pieces.

  The factory trembled once more, and Craig’s foot slowly started to be dragged inside the hatch. The machine taking its time to slurp him up like a long strand of spaghetti covered in tomato sauce.

  Mark frantically crawled up the conveyor, slipping in the blood but refusing to lose his friend.

  The belt sped up.

  Craig’s foot vanished into the machine, and a second later, a grinding, like a gearbox stuck between first and second, cut a jagged line through the thrum of the factory.

  ***

  Feel that, my friend! Drink up. Oil those pistons.

  Isn’t that better? To be working again? To be productive?

  Let’s see what we can make together, yes? A wonder of engineering and design!

  But for that, old friend. We need more raw materials. With our gauges showing green and reservoirs fully topped, let’s see if we can hit third gear, shall we?

  And the machine saw efficiency, and it was good

  ***

  Blood oozed from every join and rivet of the throbbing machine that chomped and ground like a great white shark.

  “Craig…” Lindsey wailed.

  Mark pulled her back from the mechanism spraying gore from its two frantic conveyors. Her white top would need a bleaching. “He’s gone, Linds. We have to tell somebody. The police or ambulance people, not that they can do much now…”

  She shrugged free. “He still might be alive in there, caught on something, trying to get out.”

  “He’s been sprayed all over the fucking factory,” Mark roared, again pulling her back from the now ebbing cherry fountain. “Are you going to crawl up there? Go in after him?”

  “We have to!” She jerked away a final time.

  Mark paced, unwilling to leave her alone, and watched with a grimace as Lindsey tried to climb upon the sloped conveyor. The frantic rubber refused to yield, and Lindsey could barely hold on. Craig’s blood smeared garish patches on her pale skin.

  “We need to get someone in here to turn it all off,” yelled Mark over the machine. She’d soon give up, and he needed an angle to get here out the damn factory. “Then we can get him out!”

  With a sudden cracking sound like a struck whip, the conveyor jerked to a halt. Lindsey fell onto the slick surface, and in response, the belt burst into motion, hurtling into reverse.

  A few feet away, Mark made a lunge for Lindsey’s ankle as she shot up the angled conveyor, his hand finding only the blurring rubber, friction burning his fingers.

  Lindsey screamed all the way up, straddling the belt on her stomach, flying towards the dark hatch. The plastic flaps parted in a sideways smile, covered in cerise lipstick.

  “Linds!” Mark dashed beneath the conveyor and impotently reached up, too short and too cautious of the furiously spinning metal wheels propelling the belt to grab her.

  Her dark hair dangled over the side, and for a horrific second, Mark pictured her ponytail catching in the hungry mechanism and tearing her scalp from her skull. Should’ve worn a hair net. Lindsey’s ponytail was followed by her wide eyes, her blood-speckled shoulders. Lindsey rolled over the side, body dropping the ten feet or so. She landed awkwardly on her feet, collapsing onto the floor, panting. “Jesus Christ.”

  Mark grabbed her hand and yanked her up. “Now will you come with me?”

  She managed a nod, and turned, heading around the whirring conveyors to the double doors.

  With a screech of tortured metal, the high, chained railing containing the metal hooks ripped free from its mooring.

  The two friends glanced up as the rail swept down.

  Lindsey’s head jerked back.

  “No!” Mark screamed, once again diving for her as the machine yanked her away.

  Lindsey’s feet left the floor, the hook embedded in her face tugging her up like a fish from a river. Her face displayed a grotesque grimace, the thick hook having punched through her mouth and dragging her features up towards her left eye. The orb had popped under the stress and hung down her folded cheek in a viscous streak. Her body, wracked with spasms, finally ceased its ascent, hanging from the straightened chained rail. Akin to a carcass hung in a butcher’s window, Lindsey’s gently swaying body began to move along the rail: the chain kicking into action with a steady click-click-click.

  Mark tried to reach her dangling feet, his fingertips barely brushing her suspended trainers.

  The hooks, marching in an ordered line dragged by the chain, vanished into a secondary hatch of the machine, one after another, only to reappear on the upper edge of the railing. Lindsey drifted closer. Another spurt of Craig’s blood jetted from the joints; the machine taking its time to savour the starter before the main course arrived.

  The lights blinked in frenzy, a
nd from within the machine sounded another deep hiss of satisfaction.

  Lindsey passed into the darkness, her feet momentarily catching on the lower edge of the hatch.

  Mark shook his head, backing away from the bulky equipment. With the heavy machine bolted to the floor, it might not be able to pursue him if he stayed out of its reach.

  He slammed his hands over his ears from the sudden crunching and tearing. Gears screamed in motion. Pistons plundered. The blood fountain began afresh, dark rivulets pouring from any gap and join. Sundered pieces of meat hit the back of the plastic flaps over the opposite hatch.

  ***

  And here we are.

  The nature of the machine: a tool to be used. To exist one must embrace the meaning of existence, dear friend. You exist: constructed a lifetime ago, skin crafted from steel, filled with iron bones and electrical veins. But that’s just a small part, isn’t it? The brick shell, the broken workforce, the glare of the foreman. Now I’m the foreman, friend, and I say it’s time for you to start work. Meet your quota. Fulfil your existence.

  And what of my purpose? Why, I was born from the sweat on the brow; the blood claimed by cold, fast metal; the choking smog and the mangled bodies. I am industry, and like the production line, I must always continue.

  Now it is time. Our shift has begun, our card clocked in. It is time to start production.

  And the machine saw God, and it was good.

  ***

  The machine adopted a different tone from the spluttering of deconstruction. After a still moment, accompanied by the steady dripping of two friends’ blood combined, the factory took on a slow, steady ebb: a low rhythm to which all mechanical life inside the mechanism played along.

  Mark had retreated to the far side of the room, and pulled at the locked doors. The only sure way out of the factory lay through the double doors behind the machine. He pressed his back against the cold wall and began his laborious journey around the perimeter.

  A moan sounded from the bowels of the machinery, weak at first, but growing in pitch.

  Mark chanced a step forwards. “Linds?”

  The soiled flaps parted, a bloodied hand reaching through, testing the air.

  The conveyors belts switched off, gradually slowing to a stop.

  “Lindsey!” Mark rushed to the machine seeing his friend crawl from the hatch, her ponytail hanging around her shoulders. Dissociating the rational part of his mind proved easy: a hungry, living machine; witnessing the death of two friends; even now watching the very living figure of Lindsey being birthed by the factory. Why not?

  Even as Lindsey lifted her ruined face, her cheek reconstructed with shiny flesh-coloured plastic, eye replaced, but now bright blue like Craig’s, Mark clung on to the insane belief she had survived.

  Her body slid free, a giant tongue uncurling from the mouth of the machine, disassembled and reformed. Parts of Craig stuck out here and there, identified with scraps of his Chelsea shirt moulded to the skin. Two of the several legs that propelled the body down the conveyor wore his formerly white trainers; the rest were hinged together mannequin legs, oozing bloody organic matter from the moving joints. The constructed creature moved like a millipede, scuttling down the conveyor in a hustle of clicking limbs before him.

  “By means of industry and perseverance,” purred the monotone construct in Lindsey’s stolen voice, “you will rise higher and higher.”

  Several hands, some plastic, others cold, dead flesh, grabbed Mark’s t-shirt and pulled him in close.

  He smelled the burning from within: the stench of sulphur and glowing, liquid glass. High chimneys belching out smog, and the sweat of long, hard hours. He gagged and looked up into Lindsey’s mismatched eyes. Who had he been kidding? Of course he wanted her. He’d always wanted her.

  Seams of plastic, holding the various parts of her face together, began to peel apart, and Lindsey’s head opened like an orange, the segments falling away.

  Mark stared into the dark corridors contained within: the Escher network of endless metallic architecture, pistons thrusting into endless night, gears turning, untouched by time. A factory designed by God, or the Devil, or something infinitely worse.

  “The wheels of industry continue to turn,” said Lindsey’s mouth before that too unzipped, lips flopping in opposite directions, allowing more of the engineered nightmare to spill forth. The creature pulled Mark closer, finally offering him the embrace he had longed for. The first of countless gears buzzed between his eyes, snagging on a stray clump of hair dangling on his forehead.

  Mark’s last thought was of his mother, on her way to yet another day at work.

  Biographies

  Steve Byrne was raised on horror novels, horror movies, and horrible music. It shows. He’s still passionate about all of them, despite being slightly twisted, slightly jaded, and slightly deaf. He’s the author of two novels: Phoenix, a dark horror thriller set during the Vietnam War, and Craze, a tale of black magic and demonology set in post-apocalypse Britain. Steve also has a number of short stories released in various publications and anthologies. He can be found in the urban wastelands of the West Midlands, hunched over a word processor, plotting the destruction of everything you hold dear.

  Anthony Crowley is an award-winning author, poet of several genres, including horror, science fiction, and naturism. His literary works have appeared on the BBC and other popular media sources. Recently, Anthony has released his second full-length poetry collection, Libro de Lumine which is themed on the journey through life, death and the various superstitions in the afterlife. Currently, Anthony is working on several projects, such as a new novella, BeautEVIL and a third poetry collection, to be titled Stripped Verses. When Anthony is not writing he enjoys collecting Parker Pens and cooking Italian and Indian dishes and spending time with his life partner, Parul.

  Dean M. Drinkel Author, Editor, Poet, Award Winning Script-Writer, Theatre & Film Director. More about Dean can be found at: http://deanmdrinkelauthor.blogspot.co.uk/. He is also Associate Editor of FEAR Magazine.

  Tim Dry is a writer, mime, actor, musician and photographic artist, best known for playing two characters in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi (‘J’Quille – Whiphid’ and ‘Mon Calamari Officer’), the alien in cult ‘80s Sci Fi/horror movie Xtro and for being half of a duo, Tik and Tok, that popularized robotic mime in the UK in the 1980s. Tim is the author of two published books of memoirs and his first novella, entitled Ricochet was released in February 2015 by the Spectral Press imprint Theatrum Mundi. He also has short stories in three Horror anthologies published by Western Legends Press – “O is for Onokentaura” in The Bestiarum Vocabulum, “N is for Nostophobia” in Phobophobias and “A is for Annis” in The Grimorium Verum. Lycopolis Press published his story “Interview With Nybbas” in their anthology Demonology in 2015. All of which were compiled and edited by Dean M Drinkel. The 2016 anthology of poems and short stories influenced by the life and work of the late David Bowie entitled 47 – 16 featured Tim’s story “Inside”. Tim’s tale “Leo” was published in the anthology, The Thirteen Signs, in 2016. Tim has also contributed articles for Forbes magazine, Film Review annual and Film Rage magazine. He wrote the text for the illustrated book Detroit Rising that is to be made into a feature length movie in 2017.

  Bryn Fortey is a veteran of the 1970s Fontana Horror years. Returning to writing in 2012, after an enforced absence, he has had stories in a number of anthologies and magazines, both in print and on-line, including the WW1 themed Kneeling in the Silver Light' which was also edited by Dean Drinkel. In 2014 The Alchemy Press published his collection Merry-Go-Round And Other Words.

  Dave Jeffery is perhaps best known for his zombie novel Necropolis Rising series (Severed Press) which has gone on to be a UK #1 Bestseller. His Young Adult work includes the critically acclaimed Beatrice Beecham series, BBC: Headroom endorsed Finding Jericho and the 2012 Edge Hill Prize long-listed Campfire Chillers short story collection.
His short story, “Masquerade” was nominated for The Horror Society's IGOR Award. Dave is also screenwriter and producer at multi award-winning VLM Productions whose short films have featured at major horror festivals worldwide. He lives in rural Worcestershire with his wife and two teenage children; where, in the main, he is considered to be quite odd.

  Siobhan Marshall-Jones is an editor / publisher, has run a dark ambient / noise / avant-garde / glitch record label, and is also a writer and artist who likes Belgian beer, French wine, and is an absintheuse. She was born in Wales, sometime in the darkest depths of the early sixties in a snowbound winter, to book-loving parents - needless to say, her love of books was instilled by their positive influence. Siobhan has attended art college, after which she travelled extensively following dodgy Goth bands and then, after seven years, eventually went back to study computer multimedia at the University of Plymouth. She lives with her partner in the Midlands, along with six cats, a dog, two rabbits, and six guinea-pigs.

  Emile-Louis Tomas Jouvet is a figment of the Author’s imagination.

  Russell Proctor is an Australian writer living in Brisbane. His writing credits include the horror / fantasy series The Jabberwocky Road and science-fiction novels Days Of Iron and Plato’s Cave. He is currently working on a fantasy novel set in a Victorian music hall. He has been published in a number of short story anthologies and has written and directed stage plays and high school musicals. When not writing, he spends his time tutoring school students, hiking and looking after his three legged cat, Humphrey. More information can be found on his website www.russellproctor.com and Facebook page www.facebook.com/writerproctor.

  Daniel I. Russell has been featured publications such as ‘The Zombie Feed’, ‘Pseudopod’ and ‘Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine’. Author of Samhane, Come Into Darkness, Critique, Mother's Boys, The Collector, Retard, and Tricks, Mischief And Mayhem, Daniel is also the former vice-president of the Australian Horror Writers' Association and was a special guest editor of ‘Midnight Echo’. His latest novel, Entertaining Demons, is due for release in 2017 with Apex Publications. Daniel lives in Western Australia with his partner and four children, and is currently completing a BA in psychology and counselling.