by SJ Davis
“No, there was another nurse. I have seen her before. She made me swallow a pill. She’s trying to kill me.”
“Sir, you should get back in bed. You are not well.”
“I’ll never get well if I stay here,” Tom stated flatly, putting his housecoat on over his hospital gown.
Tom pushed passed the confused woman, stepping over his spilled dinner as he exited. She ran to the nurses’ station and informed security that Senator Bateman was intent on leaving the hospital. Moving faster than a man of his size and deteriorating health should be capable of, Tom hit the emergency door at the end of the hall and disappeared into the night to the sound of pleading nurses and screaming security alarms.
***
Day Three
Senator Tom Bateman woke on a park bench, not quite sure how he had gotten there. He was chilled, housecoat was damp from the fallen dew. He slowly sat up and tried to swallow but was met with stinging dryness. He rolled his tongue around in his mouth and shivered in pain. He could feel countless sores, crevices burned into his flesh from the pill that nightmarish woman had force fed him. He was no longer sure if she was real or a figment of his imagination or both.
He stared blankly as the occasional jogger or stroller pushing mom passed by, pretended they didn’t notice him. He didn’t see them either. He was lost in confusion, desperate to make sense of his situation. How did this happen? Why? He didn’t know who this woman was, but he was certain she was hell-bent on his death. Before two days ago, he never saw her before, still didn’t know her name or have any way to identify her. He was now convinced that she was not on staff at the hospital but had somehow known he was going to be there, put on some scrubs, and blended right in.
Tom’s entire body shivered with cold and pain, the medication keeping his symptoms at bay had run their course. Even though he had just woke up, he was still exhausted. He checked his housecoat pocket for the twentieth time, but his cell phone was still not in it. He must have left it in his room, merely assuming it was in his pocket as he made his hasty escape. The only comfort he had now was the warm, mid- morning sun on his face and the hope that he would meet someone who would let him use their phone.
“Here buddy, get yourself something to eat.” A young gentleman said, touching his shoulder to get his attention while handing him a ten dollar bill.
“Thank you, but I’m not homeless,” Tom answered, barely able to speak. “I am Senator Tom Bateman.”
“Well the next time you see the president, tell him I said hello.” He laughed as he walked away, leaving the ten in his hand.
Tom stumbled around the park and surrounding streets for hours, his rest breaks becoming more and more frequent and closer together until finally, he was unable to continue. His heart sank when he realized he was sitting on the same bench he had woken up on. He had asked countless people for help, begged them. He could not believe that nobody he met recognized him. Nobody wanted to be bothered. How could so many people be so heartless?
As the sun set, there were fewer people passing by. In the last fading rays of sunlight, a dreaded and familiar silhouette approached. Tom broke into sobs but was too exhausted to run. He resigned to his fate. If she was going to kill him, he hoped she would just get it over with.
“Hello Tommy, bad boy making me chase you down.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” he mumbled through his bleeding lips, his mouth and throat swollen with infected sores. “What have I ever done to you?”
“Don’t tell me you have forgotten your life’s work already, your Bateman Buster.” He knew by the look on her face that his failure to understand angered her. In a breath, she was nose to nose with him. Her hand clutched his throat, pulling him off the bench by his neck. “Do you know how long it took my mother to die when she could no longer afford to go to the doctor?
Tom’s face was red as a tomato, tears streaking down his cheeks.
“Three weeks, Senator Bateman. My mother suffered for three weeks, refusing to go to the doctor because there was no help for her and she could not pay. No mercy. Your Bateman Buster saw to that. It is your fault she suffered. You know her pain now, the pain you caused. I gave you a day of suffering for a week of hers. You should be thankful I was so kind.”
“I’m sorry.” he pleaded, his words barely recognizable. “I can make things right.”
“No, you had your chance. You chose your path.”
Tom Bateman fell back against the bench, released from her hold but not her clutches. With wide eyes, he watched her take a mysterious object from the pocket of her skirt. It was a small, handmade doll, its body fashioned from his silk pocket square. Pins and needles protruded from its round belly, filling its drawn mouth, fraying threads dangling from its head. His perfectly angelic demon cracked another crooked smile, and Tom felt his blood run cold. She grabbed the doll by the head and twisted its body in the opposite direction, back and forth. Tom’s neck snapped, and he collapsed into a heap on the bench, his eyes staring blankly ahead as she disappeared into the dark.
AIRSHIP COFFINS
BY LILY LUCHESI
Daniela Gable was one of the first female airship designers in Victorian England. She was a true genius, able to build innovative ships, some grand enough to live in permanently if you so desired. She could build you anything inside of them, from ballrooms to bedrooms. Even bathrooms were not beyond her level of skill.
The small, thriving town of Oakheart was where she lived, and had lived all her life was where she honed her craft. They were advancing even more than London in airship design. Daniela had always thought that, when she made her mark in this industry, it would make her become appreciated by her contemporaries. That did not happen. In fact, the complete opposite happened.
The community ostracized her. She was cast out because of her talents. The men who ran their trade felt threatened by the fact that she was a woman and had better skills than they did at their craft. She could not find work, she could not even find a sympathetic ear.
Sitting in her home, she spent her days crying and her nights staring into the fire, plotting terrible things on the men who taunted her; things she knew she’d never actually do. One such evening, there was a soft knock at her front door.
She answered it, holding her trusty raygun behind her back. You could never be too careful. The man standing on the other side of the door was of a small build, middle-aged and dignified. He wore a gear-shaped monocle, a top hat made of velvet and adorned with brass keys like charms and a very nicely made black suit. His boots were leather, with brass buckles. She could see his own weapon bulging in his pocket. He had a sandy blonde handlebar moustache.
“Who are you?” she asked rudely.
“I am Barnabas Williams, at your service.” He removed his hat and bowed to her. “And you are Daniela Gable, the woman who designed three custom airships for the King of Griswold last month.”
“You’re certainly quite informed, aren’t you?” she said, wary. “Pray tell, who are you and what is it you want with me at this late hour?”
“I have come on behalf of my Master. He is in need of a special ship made for him, and is unable to find anyone capable of designing it. Until, that is, he heard about you. Believe you me, he went to great pains to locate you, Ms. Gable,” Mr. Williams said.
Daniela paused then at the possibility of a job. It was true she was nearly destitute, thanks to her misogynistic town, but was she really desperate enough to take a job for a man she did not know? What if he wanted a warship? Not that she couldn’t build one: she could. She just didn’t want to be dragged into some nefarious plot because of her need for survival.
“What is it he wants me to build, exactly?” she asked.
“Can you come to this address tomorrow, be there around this time of evening? He would explain it to you if you’d let him.” Mr. Williams handed her a card.
/> “Mr. Lucien Crosthwaite, Esq,” she read aloud. “London.” It was far to travel to get an airship designer. He must really desire her work. “I will be there.”
“He will be quite pleased to hear that, Miss. Good evening.” Mr. Williams bowed once again and turned away. She watched as he got behind one of the inventions she herself wanted to try to improve upon: a tall, curtained Walker. A Walker was usually anywhere between three and twenty feet high, with a carriage that could only hold two people on it’s four impossibly thin, steel legs. It ran on steam, as everything else did, but it was difficult to steer. She wanted to make one that was able to accommodate more people and be less of a hassle to direct.
She closed the door and leaned against it with a sigh. This would either be a complete disaster or it would be the start of a new life for her. She prayed for the latter.
***
The next morning she silenced her shrieking alarm, which was built to resemble a rooster but sounded more like a teakettle going off. In her haste, she knocked one of its cogs off, and apologized to it, as if it were real. Her creations were precious to her.
While wearing trousers was taboo, she knew she needed something comfortable under her dress so her legs wouldn’t get sweated on her vaporbike, the only mode of transportation she could afford, unless she took a locomotive or steamcab, which, being public transportation, were uncomfortable for her. One day she hoped to have enough money to build her own special airship or Walker.
Finding a thick pair of leggings, she slipped them on under her many-petticoated dress, put on her fingerless gloves and buckled her corset. She hoped it would not be windy and ruin her hair, thus making her look unprofessional. To be safe, she pinned a small burgundy hat over her black locks. It was her favorite, adorned with a single black raven feather and a few silver cogs she’d taken from her father’s workshop.
London was thirty miles away, and if she took her time, she’d still get there a bit early, but better to be early than to be late. Her father had taught her that, along with a good deal of other practical things, when she was a girl sitting with him in his workshop.
Her vaporbike was aging, and quite a few times she had to stop along the way and knock some gears back into place. She was glad she had set out so early and always kept a few tools in her bag.
London began to come into her line of sight, dark and smoggy with some impressive airships in the sky, and Walkers towering over buildings, their metal gears shining in the sunset. She smiled to herself without meaning to. This was her element. If she got the position to build an airship for Mr. Crosthwaite, perhaps she could move here, leaving that small town behind her.
She stopped still to take in the view, her breath taken away. She gripped the handles of her bike tighter, and said a little prayer before taking off again.
As she entered the city, she stopped by a bakery to pick up a bun for sustenance and ask directions. She figured Mr. Crosthwaite was wealthy enough so that many people knew of him.
The baker was running a press for a peculiar kind of flatbread, spinning cogs and pumping levers. In the three seconds she stared at it, Daniela could see at least ten different ways to make this process easier.
“Excuse me, sir?” she called.
He walked over to her, took her order, and she then asked for directions, watching the baker’s face darken. “Crosthwaite is quite the strange fellow. Why d’ye want to see him, miss?”
Daniela was not pleased with being questioned. “That is none of your concern, sir. I will go elsewhere and enquire about directions, since you are being so purposefully intrusive.”
“Wait, miss,” the baker called. She turned back. “Mr. Crosthwaite is indeed a strange fellow. All the Crosthwaites have been. I am just warning ye, miss. I will tell ye how to get to his home.” He proceeded to give her directions to a darkened street where only one house sat--or stood, as it was a walking house, made to move around at will.
It was grand, and anyone could tell that the owner was well-to-do. Daniel stared at the amazing craftsmanship and felt jealousy in her breast. Whomever had built this had more talent in their little finger than she had in her entire body. She could build impressive walking homes, but nothing so grandiose. It was dark, no light could be seen through the thick curtains, and the moon shone on the metal surface eerily.
She suddenly wondered if the baker’s warning was more serious than she had originally taken it for. Oh, well, you’re here: might as well go in, she thought. She walked up the steps and pulled the ringer, which let out a breath of steam that sounded akin to a teakettle going off. Well, it was certainly loud enough to rouse the house!
The door opened slowly, revealing Mr. Williams, who brightened when he saw Daniela on the front step. “Ms. Gable, welcome.” He moved aside to let her through the door. The house was, as were most walking houses, bigger on the inside than the outside indicated. It was warmly furnished with thick rugs, paintings on the walls, lovely grey wallpaper and metal fixtures. Just the entrance hall was impressive.
“I do hope I am not late,” she said, handing him her black coat. “I had to stop and ask for directions.”
“No, you are just on time,” Mr. Williams said. “Please, let me lead you into the parlour and Mr. Crosthwaite will see you in a moment, I am sure. He has just finished his evening meal.”
She followed him down the main hall, her silver and black heels making no sound in the thick carpet. She could hear no sound in the house whatsoever; it was as if it were deserted. Usually men like Mr. Crosthwaite had many servants out and about in the home, but here there only seemed to be Mr. Williams.
The parlour was warmly lit with a fire in the grate, which burned hotly as a mechanism fed it wood and stoked it every few minutes to ensure it did not die. Interesting contraption, she thought. There were clocks showing the time from all over the Earth on the mantle, a brass table sat in front of a duvet, decorated with brass cogs and silver filigree. The chairs had velvet cushions on brass frames, high-backed and with clawed feet. upon closer inspection, she saw that the chairs could walk as well, if fed enough steam. A small bookshelf held about ten tomes between two pistons to keep them stationary, probably as the house moved.
“Please make yourself at home. May I get you some tea?” Mr. Williams asked, breaking her fixation on the design of the room.
“No thank you, sir.” She smiled and took a seat, bending over it to inspect the walking feet. What a great idea! Could she make walking tables, possibly, to help carry food from kitchens to dining rooms with less hassle? It was a thought. She took her fountain pen and a sheet of paper from her bag and wrote the idea down so she wouldn’t forget it. Becoming absorbed in her design, she started sketching a rough blueprint, forgetting where she was.
“I see you are already hard at work,” a voice said, making her jump in her chair. She had not heard anyone approach.
Standing in the threshold, wearing a double-breasted black jacket with brass buttons, a black cravat, deep navy vest, and black suit with a short top hat as an accessory was the most stunning man Daniela had ever seen.
He was tall, built slim but sturdy, with high cheekbones, a strong jaw, and piercing blue eyes. His hat had goggles atop it, but not as an adornment. She could tell he actually wore them for function, not fashion as many men did in those days. His skin was fair, offset by the dark clothing and equally dark waves of hair that fell just above his jaw.
Daniela stood and gave a small curtsey, feeling her corset dig into her stomach. “Hello, sir. You must be Mr. Crosthwaite. I am Daniela Gable, the airship designer.”
He tipped his hat and hung it on a metal hat stand, also removing his coat. She saw that he had a raygun of his own on his hip. Moving close enough that she could smell the spicy cologne he wore, he took her hand and bowed over it. “A pleasure, Ms. Gable. Please, be seated.”
Daniela had always been very sensible
; she never lost her head because of a pretty face when she was young as her female companions had. She kept her mind focused on her passion of building and crafting things, and had forsaken the warmth of romance for the cold steel and brass of cogs. Now, with three sentences, this man had made her weak in the knees...literally. She was glad to sit again.
Mr. Crosthwaite did not say anything further, but appeared to study her at leisure, which only added to the uncomfortable feeling in her breast. His eyes were prying and hypnotic.
“Do you find staring at a possible employee to be an intimidation tactic?” she asked, wishing she did not have such a blunt way of speaking. It was unladylike and had made her lose many opportunities as she grew up.
He met her eyes and smiled. “I like to see what I can glean for myself before I bombard one with endless and tedious questions.”
“And what can you glean from me, pray tell?” she asked, folding her black-gloved hands in her lap to prevent her from slapping that smirk off of his handsome face. Why were the good looking ones always bastards?
“Your dress is meticulously cared for and laundered, but signs of wear are beginning to show at the hems of the petticoats and the buckles on the corset. Your hat is handmade, not from a shop. Those boots are dusty and dirty, indicating that you came here by the country road, most probably on a vaporbike that kicks up a lot of dust around you.
“You do not hesitate to meet my gaze, when others always shirk away. You do not stutter when you speak. And the way you were writing as I came into the room tells me much about your tendencies to overwork yourself. You smell of baking and sweat. Oh, and you cut yourself shaving your right leg with your straight razor this morning.”
Daniela simply stared at him, willing her mouth not to gape. Was he a psychic? They had not been sitting tête-à-tête for two minutes! Finally, she found her voice. “If this is an intimidation tactic, I must say you will not scare me off with a few simple deductions.”