by Rick Wayne
Gilbert turned nonchalantly in the ankle-high pool and walked toward the dark pipe that trickled water into the sewer, as if that had been his intended target all along. The pipe was four feet in diameter and clogged with filth. Just beyond the clog, that was where he had seen it. He was lucky that his hood obscured his eyes. They wouldn’t be certain he had seen them.
But he had. A withering sprite sat motionless in the dark. A harlequin razorback was draped over its lap like a miniature pieta. The withering must have made a kill. Gilbert was sure it doubted anyone would find it, not down here, but now it was counting on its camouflage and its ability to remain motionless.
Gilbert set his gun on a narrow concrete ridge and stopped in front of the pipe. He needed both his hands free. He took off his hood, and wiped his brow. He was careful to look at anything but the camouflaged creature near his ankle. The smell was foul. All manner of waste had collected at the opening, but it hadn’t happened at random. It was a blind, a trick to keep wandering predators, like men, from stumbling upon the throng. It must be close. That’s probably where the withering had made the kill.
Gilbert wrinkled his nose from the smell. He let his hood dangle, ready to use it as a net, but when he turned, the harlequin sprang away, knocking over a doll with black cloth wings.
Gilbert scowled.
“GOTCHA!”
A giant hand, three feet across, wrapped its gnarled, hang-nailed fingers around Gilbert’s leg and dragged him into the tunnel. He was pulled through the filth and tossed into a pile of junk.
“Ow!” He landed on his arm. It stung, but it wasn’t nearly as mind-stabbingly painful as it was just a few hours before. The painkillers he’d pilfered from Marcy’s first aid kit, which he still had crammed in the pocket of his lead-lined pants, must be taking effect.
Gilbert was lifted by his ankle and held in the air. His hood was missing. His captor was huge and stank of stale urine. The stench wafted from its body in waves, and Gilbert covered his mouth. He stared upside-down into the bulbous face of a troll. Its eyes were bloodshot. The tip of its nose was barnacled.
“We know you,” it said.
There was a splutter of wings as a mass took to the air inside the cavernous room, like a flock of birds. But it wasn’t birds. It was fairies. Thousands. Pink Winklers. Red razorbacks. Crested blues. Summer-spot pixies. Even a green meanie or two.
“Wow.”
The interior dome of the concrete causeway was covered in birdhouses, dollhouses, dog houses, and things that weren’t houses of any kind. They were plastered to the ceiling like a refugee camp. Babies poked their large eyes from tiny windows.
The rainbow-hued throng twisted on itself before fluttering in the air before Gilbert. They looked angry. They had good reason. He’d been hunting them for years.
The troll peered at Gilbert with one large eye. Hanging upside down as it was, Gilbert didn’t notice at first, but the monster had multiple tutus strung around its corpulent belly—one red, one pink, one green, and one blue. They had been cut and attached end-to-end, but still couldn’t cover the beast’s ample girth, and the red and blue were connected with a stretch of twine. A ball-headed penis swung between the troll’s legs like a flaccid pendulum. Makeshift straps sewn from all manner of clothing circled its chest and affixed a pair of fake wings to its back. The troll clutched at the straps like a bra as it swung Gilbert in little circles.
“We know you, yes we do.”
“I’m going to be sick.”
The troll swung his arms, tossed Gilbert into a cage on the ground, and locked him in. It looked like it had been fashioned from old shopping carts. The floor of the room was covered in junk piled two stories high between curving walkways. Everything stank. And overhead, the inverted fairy city, lit by hundreds of hanging lights recycled from the city’s refuse. There were miniature gardens and upside-down insect pastures and hoops for turning cartwheels on the wing. If not for the smell of the troll, it would have been beautiful.
The throng of fairies swirled and chattered with excitement. They couldn’t speak, but they buzzed and clicked to each other in fairy language.
Gilbert sat up. He kept his arm pinned to his chest. He kicked the door to the cage, but it didn’t budge. “Let me out!”
The troll ignored him.
Gilbert stood. “Let me out of here.”
The lumbering giant walked on two squat legs but always balanced itself with at least one long arm. The other tugged constantly at its cloth-winged brazier. It dragged a broken metal fire pit from a pile of junk, which crashed to the ground. The troll ignored the mess and set the pit in front of Gilbert’s cage, which crowned a small hill of plastic debris.
“Hello?” Gilbert rattled the cage. “Hello? My name is Gilbert.” He thought if he humanized himself, mentioned his name, it might help. That’s what they always said on TV anyway. “I’m Gilbert Tubers. I live in South Carton. I’m heading to the Old Arcade.”
Nothing.
“Please, let me out of here.”
“No,” boomed the troll.
Gilbert looked at the fairies. They were impervious to radiation. That’s why he started collecting them in the first place. He didn’t know about trolls, but even if it did get sick, it wouldn’t be before supper time. He tried a different tack. “At least tell me your name.”
The troll lifted its head. It must not have expected that.
“My name is Slagatha,” it said. “But you can call me Anthony.”
Gilbert scowled. “Anthony, that’s a very . . .” He looked at the tutus and the wings. “Pretty name.”
“Thank you.” The barnacle-nosed troll curtsied.
The throng was chattering overhead. They were pointing to Gilbert and snickering. A few brave males flew by and gave angry looks.
Gilbert stepped into the middle of the shopping cart cage. “What kind of fairy are you?”
Slagatha paused. It hadn’t considered that question. “A pretty one.” It smiled with the joy of a satisfactory answer.
Gilbert nodded and looked around his prison, which was formed of concrete and had one very important feature. None of the three exits were remotely large enough for the troll. It was trapped inside. Gilbert looked up at the fairy city.
“You’re a scarecrow,” Gilbert muttered.
“What?”
Gilbert shook his head. “I was just admiring your beautiful city.”
“Thank you.” Slagatha was busy with the fire pit.
Gilbert could guess the rest. If the troll didn’t fit, that meant it had entered the room at some time when it was smaller, a child perhaps. The stupid creature made a simple connection between itself and the creatures that fed and nurtured it for their own selfish aims. Whatever else lived in the old sewers, whatever dark creatures would otherwise attack a fairy city like a bear at a hive, they would stay away from a throng guarded by a monstrous troll, leaving the fairies free to live well off the detritus of the city above.
“We are having a good dinner tonight,” Slagatha explained as if Gilbert weren’t it.
“I can see that.”
Across from the cage was a random assortment of metal: coffee pots and silverware and car bumpers, all faded but in decent condition. Slagatha had piled the rusted metal elsewhere. Apparently it was a tidy troll. Gilbert saw a silver platter in the pile, heavily tarnished, but wide and flat.
“If you’re a fairy, then you must like to play games.” Gilbert had an advantage over his captors. He could speak. “It’s not quite supper time yet. How about we play a game before dinner?”
Slagatha scowled. “Why?”
“Because fairies love games.”
“They do?”
“They do!”
The troll thought very hard. It seemed true. “What kinds of games?”
“All kinds, really. Fast games. Slow games. Thinking games. As long as it’s fun.”
“All right then,” Slagatha boomed. “Let’s play a game.” It stopped. “Wait a
minute. If I love games, how come I don’t know any?”
“You know tiddlywinks.”
“I do?”
“Yeah, tiddlywinks is your favorite.”
“It is?”
“Of course! It must be. I see a tiddlywinks board just over there.”
“Okay. If it’s my favorite, then I want to play tiddel-E . . .”
“Great!” Gilbert tried to stay positive. “But you have to let me out of here.”
“How come?”
“Because you can’t play by yourself, and I can’t play from in here. You need a running start to play tiddlywinks. Everybody knows that.”
Slagatha bent low and gave him an eye. “Running start for what?”
“To fly of course.” Gilbert pointed to the throng overhead. They were getting suspicious and traded worried glances. “To fly in circles, like them. Don’t you want to fly in circles?”
Slagatha unlocked the cage, and Gilbert stepped out. A troupe of male fairies flew in front of Gilbert facing the troll and waved their arms in warning, but it shooed them out of the way. Gilbert climbed over a collection of broken records to the walkway below. He looked at the exit. It was too far. He was no athlete, especially in the bulky suit, and Slagatha could almost certainly catch him before he made it.
“Here.” Gilbert walked to the pile of metal and pulled the tarnished platter free. The remainder of the pile clattered to the floor. “We can use this.” Gilbert grabbed a pad of steel wool and wiped one side of the tray to a shine. He was sure to hum happily while he did it.
Slagatha watched, mesmerized by the shine. “How do you play this game?”
“Oh, this is a fun game. I’ll show you. I’ll go first, and then it’ll be your turn.”
“Okay.” Slagatha sat on the floor, crushing its own penis. If it noticed, Gilbert couldn’t tell. It tugged at its bra.
Gilbert was making it up as he went along. He looked at the shining platter. It distorted his reflection, but it was clear enough. His eyes were bloodshot. He’d lost more hair just in the last couple days. Gilbert realized he hadn’t actually seen himself in quite some time. He looked awful, worse than ever. He had deep bags under his eyes. The pale violet of a vein was visible on his forehead. He was dying.
“Well?” Slagatha asked.
Gilbert forced a smile. “Mirror, mirror in my hand . . .” He struggled for a moment. “I spy a magical land. With fairies and pixies and . . . ice cream galore.” He glanced at the exit. “Won’t you follow me out the door?”
Slagatha clapped. Gilbert knew nothing of trolls, but he wondered if baby Slagatha had been abandoned for a reason. Its eyes were enormous for its body, and it had the mind of a child.
“Do you want to see?” Gilbert asked. The tray shook in his hand. He was having second thoughts.
“Yes!” The troll clapped. It stood and jumped. Three houses fell from the ceiling and a gaggle of fairies rushed to catch them. “My turn!” Slagatha clapped its enormous hands.
Gilbert sighed. He extended the tray. The troll snatched it and scowled into tarnished metal.
“I don’t see anything!” It hit the ground in anger and the room shook.
Gilbert stepped back. “You have to turn it over, silly.”
“Oh.” Slagatha turned and stared. It opened its mouth to speak, but nothing came. Its smile faded. It touched its face.
“What do you see?” Gilbert started sidestepping towards the closest exit, a narrow tunnel a foot shorter than himself.
Slagatha collapsed on its butt and the fall shook the room again. The bright and beautiful fairies were buzzing. They tried to get the troll’s attention, pointing to the escaping meal, but Slagatha ignored the slender little things. A single tear gathered at the corner of its eye.
“But,” it stammered, “but . . . I wanted to be a pretty fairy.”
The writhing throng cluttered and clicked as they seethed over the ceiling in a swarm. They were angry.
The troll sniffed as it stared at the bulbous nose in the tiny mirror, a hideous, giant, cancerous mass on a pock-marked face. Slagatha looked nothing like a fairy. It wiped a tear from its cheek with a hang-nailed finger.
Gilbert kept moving toward the tunnel. “If you still want to play, I’ll take that running start now.” Gilbert took off at a sprint, leaving his hood lost in the junk.
The fairies began to wail in unison as sweet revenge and several days’ worth of dog food escaped into the sewer. Gilbert ducked and scurried through the small tunnel and emerged into a causeway trickling with water. He could hear the clatter of thousands of wings echo behind him through the brick-lined tube. He ran. As fast as he could, he ran forward hoping to find a manhole or other break to the surface.
Gilbert saw a metal-runged ladder jutting from the brick wall ahead, but he didn’t make it. The throng was upon him, a swarm of thousands and their angry beating wings. It was payback.
© 2014 [email protected]
All Rights Reserved
Cover art and design © Cosimo Galluzzi
www.cosimogalluzzi.com
Map of the Floating Island © Jeffery Mathison
www.artbymathison.com
Pimpernel Illustration © Carlos Cuesta Dolz
Kraxus Illustration © Narciso Espiritu, Jr.
cargocollective.com/narcisoespiritu
Nero, Wereninja, Zen-ji Illustrations © Luke Spooner
carrionhouse.com
Lette Illustration © Sharleen Banning
Word Vomit Illustration © Jethro Wall
The author has provided this work without digital rights protection for the enjoyment of the purchaser or original intended recipient. Be nice. Please don’t copy or otherwise reproduce it or alter it from the original without permission.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and events depicted herein are imaginary. Any resemblance to real persons—living, dead, or undead—is an illusion.
Copyediting and proofing by
Karen Conlin, Dark Angel of Grammargeddon
Grammargeddon.com