by Darren Dash
Hell, hark at Mr Sociologist. That’s what happens when sobriety sets in. A good booze up is what I need. A few pints, followed by some shots, and I’d be merrily chatting about work, holidays and strippers, not the prioritising of individuals.
Another lykan slams against the bars of the cage. This time I don’t even blink. It drops to all fours and growls at me. I stare back at it and smile. “Don’t suppose you know the way to the nearest off-licence, do you, guv?” In answer, it lifts a leg and pisses by the base of the dome. “Nope,” I say cheerily, “thought not.”
It’s early afternoon the next day when the sun’s blue mask fades to reveal its old, familiar face. The change is so gradual that it takes me several minutes to realise what’s happening. Cheryl’s asleep, having popped one of her pills a few hours ago. When it dawns on me that the madness has come to an end, I shake her roughly and jolt her out of her drug-induced slumber. “Cheryl. It’s over. Wake up.”
“What’s happening?” she yawns, groggily rubbing her eyes. “Why are you waking me? It’s too soon. I haven’t slept long enough.”
“It’s over,” I hoot, picking her up and twirling her round. “The sun’s back to normal.”
She looks up and scowls. “So it’s back. I told you it would be.”
“Aren’t you excited?” I laugh. “We can leave now and –”
“No we can’t,” she says, still yawning. “We have to wait for the clearing.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown.
She points towards a couple of lykans lurking nearby. “You want to go out while those are still on the loose? No,” she chuckles as my face drops, “didn’t think you would. Lie down, Newman. Take a pill. You’ll know when it’s properly over, trust me.”
With that, she makes herself comfortable and drops off again, leaving me in the company of the lykans, to wonder what will happen during the clearing.
For a long time nothing changes. The sun drops. The moon – back to its normal colour – rises. Stars twinkle. Lykans brush by our cage or give the bars a shake to test them. Drones patrol the streets, to be fed on by the hungry. I haven’t seen any humans since the boy ran by. Haven’t heard any screams either.
I’m watching a lykan scratch behind its ears with a foot when all of a sudden it stops and sniffs the air. Two more a short way off are doing the same. After a few seconds, one turns and flees, but the others stand their ground, growling softly.
For several minutes there’s a tense stalemate. The lykans hold tight, growling, looking worried. Then another lykan comes pounding round a corner and dashes past. Shortly after that, a pack of lykans tears into sight and floods by our cage. Two of them stop, hesitate, then retrace their steps and join the pair who didn’t move as the rest fled. The four lykans look oddly courageous, like stubborn warriors guarding their turf as all hell breaks loose around them. I could almost admire them if they weren’t so God damned bestial.
Footsteps approach, the sound of a group of people marching military-style. The lykans crowd closer together and crouch. A man rounds the corner, followed by nine others dressed in blue and red striped uniforms, carrying crossbows, swords strapped to their sides. The leader spots the lykans, stops and barks an order. Six of the soldiers – I’m assuming that’s what they are – step forward, while he joins the three at the rear. Four of the six kneel, while the other two stay on their feet. All six aim their crossbows and prepare to fire.
The lykans are snarling now, howling threateningly, shaking their claws at the humans, warning them to stay away. One makes a darting feint but returns quickly to its comrades when nobody breaks ranks to meet its challenge. The four take a few nervous, backward paces, growl unintelligibly to one another, then get ready to attack. It’s a noble but futile gesture and for the briefest second – before I remember what they are and what they’ve done – I will them on against the odds.
As one, the lykans roar viciously and lunge forward at incredible speed, fangs opening and shutting like steel traps, claws extended. The soldiers fire in unison. Six arrows find their targets and the four lykans shriek, jerk to a halt and plummet to the ground, jets of hot red blood already soaking the hair of their malformed chests and faces.
The four soldiers to the rear of the archers advance, swords drawn, and thrust the tips through the hearts of the lykans, taking no chances. The six with the crossbows reload, then join the others. The one who was leading the way when they turned the corner sheathes his sword, checks his crossbow and once more takes the frontal position while the other nine line up behind him. They resume their determined march.
As they pass the dome the leader smiles at me. “Good evening,” he says, half-saluting with his sword.
“Evening,” I reply automatically.
“Everything fine?” he asks.
“Dandy,” I say weakly.
“We’re almost done with the clearing,” he says. “You should be out by dawn. Be careful though. A few always escape the net. I’d carry a noose for the next couple of days if I were you.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I mutter and watch wide-eyed as they file out of sight further down the road.
I describe the soldiers to Cheryl when she wakes but the news comes as no surprise. “They’re the wolfers,” she informs me matter-of-factly. “They work for the Alchemist. They turn up when the sun and moon sort themselves out, hunt the lykans, kill or drive them away.”
“And that’s the clearing?” I ask.
“The first stage, yes. The sandmen come next to dismantle the cages – they’re the only ones who can break them down – then the baggers who remove the bodies and cart them away for burning or burial or whatever they do with them.”
“Do you know what this cage is made of?” I ask as we wait for the sandman.
“Glass,” Cheryl says.
“Are cages always made of glass?” She nods. “So how come you pretended not to know what glass was when I asked you about it before?”
“Did I?” She looks blank.
“I’ve been trying to describe glass to people ever since I arrived in this place and not one of you claimed to know anything about it.”
She shrugs. “There are things I only know when I need them. When the moon or sun changes colour, I know I have to find a sandman and build a cage. The rest of the time, that information isn’t needed, so my brain doesn’t bother me with it.”
“Of course it’s needed,” I argue heatedly. “If you knew the moon was going to do something crazy, you could have prepared for it. We could have bought bags of magic sand and carried them with us, so we wouldn’t have had to risk life and limb while searching for a sandman.”
She frowns. “I never thought of that.”
“Maybe you should start thinking,” I snort. Sometimes these people show no more sense than their drones. I’m surprised so many of them have lasted this long.
The sandman – a man this time – arrives with a minimum of pomp and four visibly less tense guards. “Stand in the centre, please,” he says. Cheryl obeys immediately and I join her. “Close your eyes.”
As I comply with his request, there’s a shattering noise. My eyelids fly open and I discover myself standing in the middle of a circle of sand. I thought my clothes might have returned but they haven’t. I cover my privates with my hands but the sandman shows no interest in my genitals, nor Cheryl’s.
“Have a good day,” the sandman says, turning away.
“Hold on,” I shout, stepping towards him, only to find my path blocked by four bristling guards. I edge backwards and raise my hands to show I mean no harm.
“Let him be,” the sandman says, then raises an eyebrow at me. “You wish to ask something?”
“I want to know what happened,” I mutter. “Why did the moon change? How often does this happen? When can we expect it to change again?”
The sandman shrugs. “Who can predict the workings of the sun and moon? They change of their own will, not man’s. Even the Alchemist can’
t say for certain when the transformations are due.”
“Alright,” I growl, “but why aren’t your bags of magic sand readily available? They should be hanging up like nooses. Why leave their distribution until the last minute? And why are so few handed out?”
The sandman smiles benignly. “Maybe there’s not enough sand to go around.”
“You don’t know?” I ask.
“No.”
“Does the Alchemist?” I press.
“Possibly,” the sandman says. “He supplies us with the bags.”
“You’ve never asked him about it?”
The sandman laughs. “One doesn’t question the ways of the Alchemist, not if one enjoys one’s job.”
“How can I meet the Alchemist? Where does he hang out?”
The sandman’s nose crinkles. “The Alchemist doesn’t make himself available to the general public. His responsibilities are many. He doesn’t have time to waste on personal meetings. Having said that, I’ll pass on any message you care to give me for him, if that’s acceptable.” The sandman smiles graciously.
“It’s not,” I grunt.
The sandman’s smile freezes. “In that case, there’s no more I can say. Good day to you, sir.” He turns and walks away.
“Wait,” I shout and start after him. The guards intervene again and this time the sandman doesn’t stop them, so I play it safe, back off and let him leave.
“Come on,” a nervous Cheryl says, taking hold of my arm and attempting to kiss away my frown. “Let’s go find some clothes. There are shops where they’ll be giving them away for free. It’s part of the clearing.”
“We should pick up the sand,” I murmur. “It might come in useful next time.”
“No,” she says. “The magic only works once.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
She shrugs. “I just do. Are you coming or not?”
I stare at the sand, then at the bodies of the lykans and slaughtered humans. The first few baggers appear, stocky men and women with large black bags, into which they pile the remains of the dead, lykan and human bundled in together. The baggers look bored, as if this was part of a mundane garbage collection.
“Yeah,” I sigh, “I’m coming.” Then I take Cheryl’s hand and turn my back on the sand, the bloodshed and all the unanswered questions, and off we meander to find replacement clothing, Sunday shopping, city-style.
TWELVE
And so life returns to normal. The clearing takes another three days, by which time all the bodies have been disposed of and the blood washed away. Walking the streets, you’d never know there’d been massacres galore mere days before.
The population has slumped dramatically and suddenly the lines outside popular factories and nourishment houses are a thing of the past. Employers are desperate for workers, while shops and boarding houses are crying out for customers. I could get a day job if I wanted, top pay, to supplement my income from Kipp’s, but I can’t be bothered. I’m earning enough as things stand. Right now, time is more important to me than teeth.
Vin didn’t survive the lykan assaults, one of the untold thousands of fatalities. Sorely missed by all who knew him. People might not boast many friends in this emotional iceberg of a city but Vin was popular. Lots of drone sap is devoured in his honour.
Franz and Kipp pulled through, Kipp in a cage like ours, Franz in the basement of his boarding house. It’s the second time he’s taken shelter there, he tells me one night as I’m pumping him for information about lykans and wolfers. He’s been fortunate but doesn’t fancy his chances a third time. “From now on I run and search for a sandman,” he says. “There’s nothing worse than being holed up in a makeshift cage, not a bar of glass in sight.”
Everybody knows what glass is now. They still don’t know the name of the city – “Where do you think you are?” remains the common refrain if I ask – or what electricity is, but glass? Glass is what the sandmen’s cages are made of. Every old fool knows that.
Except, a couple of days later, every old fool doesn’t. They begin to forget as we move further away from the slaughter. The red moon and blue sun are forgotten and people stare at me oddly if I mention them. The lykans become creatures of myth again, popular in stories – in which they’re normally man-eating drones – but not something grown people believe in. Glass — what’s that? Even the popular Vin is cast adrift somewhere in the collective memory banks, lost to the confines of the past. You wouldn’t want to be concerned about posterity in this city. Here, the present is all. All.
And so, as I said, life returns to normal for everyone… except me. I can’t go back. I’d been willing to buy into this skewed reality, to accept the city for what it is and do my best to drift along unobtrusively, but no longer, not now I know that the sun can turn blue at the drop of a hat, or the moon redden any night while I’m asleep. I was lucky this time but I can’t rely on the fickle hand of fate.
I’ve got to find out why people change into lykans, how often it happens and how it can be averted. I have to track down the answers, no matter how many blank walls I crash into along the way, otherwise how will I sleep at night or endure the days? Cheryl, Franz and the others are blessed in a way. Their position’s as precarious as mine, but thanks to their fragile hold on the past, they don’t realise it. I’m cursed with a fully functioning memory. I can’t sit back and accept life as they do. Roll on the quest for knowledge.
The Alchemist is the man I’m after, although I’d settle for a long conversation with a sandman or a wolfer, even a bagger if that’s the best I can do, but nobody I spoke with – before their memories began to evaporate – knew how to find any of those mysterious beings. They just turn up at the appropriate moment, seemingly out of nowhere.
My first port of call is a public contact box. I’m pretty sure the line of enquiry won’t lead anywhere but I’ve nothing to lose trying.
“Operator Lewgan here, how may I help you?”
Good grief. Her again.
“Lewgie, baby,” I boom. “How’ve you been? Are you the only one manning the lines or is Cupid trying to pitch the two of us together?”
She coughs, flustered, and I picture her blushing. “I’m sorry,” she says coyly, “but who is this?”
“It’s Newman Riplan. I was on to you a while back, asking about planes and outside worlds and –”
“Oh. Mr Riplan.” Icy now, blushing no longer, nothing wrong with her memory, at least where I’m concerned. “What do you want?”
“I’ve a few specific queries this time, you’ll be glad to hear,” I chuckle. “But first, do you know anything about a red moon, a blue sun and a pack of destructive lykans who recently ran riot through the city?”
“Please, Mr Riplan, if you’re going to waste my time, why don’t you –”
“No worries,” I interrupt, “it was a long shot, forget it. I’d like to speak with the Alchemist if I could.”
She hesitates. “I can’t get you a direct line.”
“How about putting me through to one of his assistants then? Somebody close to him, his right-hand man or woman.”
“I’m sorry,” Lewgan says, “but the Alchemist’s key personnel are off-limits to the public. If you wish, I can take a message and pass it along.”
“There’s no other way of getting in touch with him?” I groan.
“Not through me,” she says.
“OK,” I sigh. “In that case, please tell him that Newman Riplan’s looking for him. I assume he’ll know where to find me?”
“Of course,” she laughs.
“How about the sandmen?” I ask. “Can you connect me with one of them?”
“Do you mean someone who sells sand?” she asks.
“No,” I tut, “I mean the guys and gals who come out when the moon turns red and dispense bags of magic sand that turn into glass cages.”
She sucks on her teeth for a second. “Magic bags of sand. Cages of… grass?”
“Glass,” I correct her.
“With an L.”
“Ah,” she says.
“You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” I smile.
“I’m afraid not.”
“How about wolfers and baggers?”
“I know some garbage baggers,” she says helpfully.
I press her for information for a couple more minutes but if she knows anything about the lykans and the people who combat them, she isn’t telling. I ask how she accounts for the sudden population drop but she’s unaware there’s been one. As far as she’s aware, the city’s the same as ever. Long lines of jobseekers? There have never been long lines. Nourishment houses packed wall-to-wall with customers? A ludicrous notion. Doesn’t happen. Never happened. Not enough people in the city.
“What about death?” I ask. “You know what death is, don’t you?”
“Naturally,” she says.
“What happens when somebody dies? Numbers drop then, don’t they?”
“Marginally,” she concedes, “but hardly enough to make a difference.”
“But what happens when everyone dies?” I press. “All of the people alive today are going to die eventually, aren’t they?”
“I assume so,” she agrees.
“Who’ll replace them? Where will new faces come from?”
“Hmm.” She considers it a while. “It’s something of a paradox, isn’t it? I never thought of it like that. Still, things will work out. They always have done. The Alchemist takes good care of us.”
I ask her how many undertakers there are in the city but she isn’t familiar with that term. When I explain what an undertaker is, she gets it and says that they’re called boxers.
“So how many boxers are there?”
“Lots,” comes the vague reply. I ask her to put me in touch with one of her choice and she patches me through. The person I speak with doesn’t recall dealing with a mass of dead bodies any time in the recent past.
“Business is normally pretty slow,” he tells me. His firm rarely handle more than three or four bodies a day. I ask what they do with the corpses. “We strip them,” he says cheerfully. “All their belongings are ours — salvage rights. Then we chop off their arms and legs and stuff them in a box.”