by GR Griffin
Further down the stretched of baking concrete to his left, the few passengers disembarked. They looked a little worse for wear. A kettle, cocooned head to toe in thick rope, hopped down the platform while accompanied closely by another kettle who worked away at the bindings with a plastic knife that barely had a blade left. A shell-shocked hedgehog steward carried the conductor who appeared a little too rigid to be overworked. A fuzzy monster who twitched at sporadic intervals, sparks of electricity jumping between his hairs. And a bushy moustached gentlemonster who looked completely fine, walking upright with his briefcase gripped firmly in his left hand.
The crew inspected the condition of the cars. One train car damaged. One digger missing. Several shipments destroyed beyond recognition. Most of the post and packages gone. One crew member unaccounted for.
And the director thought today was going to be a bad day.
It was no big deal. Such loses were commonplace along that route. After checking the stock, he will dispatch the pick-up crew to scavenge what they can from the Shattered Zone, including that missing chef.
His assistant climbed into car A8, which had avoided damage, at least on the exterior. The director had no qualms with sending the assistant in as it gave him more time to bask in the soothing sunshine.
“Okay,” the assistant called, his voice just about audible from out the open door. “Three crates of jellied asparagus.”
The train director skimmed down the list with the ballpoint of his pen. “Check,” he announced as he ticked it off. As in he wrote a tick in the allocated box and not made the list angry.
“Two crates of sandwich clubs.”
“Check.”
“Three crates of bread bricks.”
“Check.”
“And one sleeping beauty?”
The train director automatically scanned his list for one sleeping beauty. He searched the current list and the one underneath, but could not find it. “Must’ve slipped past customs.” It clicked. His head snapped upright. “Hold on, one sleeping beauty?”
The assistant poked his head out from the door. “Come see for yourself.”
So he did. After slipping the pen behind the clip and tucking the board under an arm, he followed his subordinate. Stepping into the car, he was welcomed by the lavish gestures the assistant made toward the floor, as if he were afraid that his superior would trip over the unconscious lady in black.
Barb the Bounty Hunter slumbered in her drugged stupor. Her head rested on a pillow, which explained the one pillow short from the container a couple up. A blanket had been draped over her body, starting from her ankles and ending below her chin.
“This is the bounty hunter,” the director stated, wincing at the prospect that she of all people went to bed in this train. “What’s she doing here?”
The director turned to his assistant for answers, but all he can do was return the gaze with a shrug. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. The question was embarrassingly obvious.
The superior resumed the conversation with a point at the bounty hunter. “Well, we can’t just leave her here. Let’s get her in into the office and wait until she wakes up.”
* * *
What could be said about Winter’s Edge? It was a remote village that served as a hub for travellers and workers many years ago. At the time, business at Winter’s Edge boomed while Ice Island still had business to go around. It was best known for its sprawling views to the southwest. Ironically, despite its name and its proximity to the arctic lands a few hundred metres away, there was nothing remotely wintery about Winter’s Edge.
Exiting the station positioned Fleck straight north, facing three roads stretching in three directions: north, east, and west. The centre buildings flaking the road straight ahead looked like cafeterias and hotels similar to the one they stayed in back in Parfocorse.
Cottages littered the outskirts along the separate roads; homes of stone and thatched roofs, with windows of stained glass where pies were left to cool. Each and every one looked so inviting, so rustic and homely, like Fleck could just choose one and live there forever.
Fleck gazed up at the snowy lands above and beyond the roofs. The precipice stretched for miles both ways like the rim of a giant plate. The white and green trees shook away their layers of icing and the falling snow was endless, but none of it touched the Plain-plain. The proximity between the springtime village and the land of eternal winter was nothing short of bizarre, especially when neither one affected the other.
At the end of that path, they could make out a rising bridge that connected both floating islands together.
There was no point in hanging around here, not when the day was still young and the guard were still on their scent.
They followed the cobblestone path north through the quiet village, encountering few people as they passed. Monsters enjoying the sunshine, a nice drink, a delicious snack, or all three in no particular order. A few buildings were boarded up, their signs irrecoverably scarred from time. The abandonment of Ice Island left its mark on the village.
With the measly sum of coins jingling in their pocket, they could just about afford a cup of hot cocoa, without a marshmallow or whipped cream or the heat or even the cocoa.
As they walked, their equilibrium played havoc with their balance. They swayed and bounced like they were still on the train, catching the leagues of asteroids hurtling toward them with every blink. It felt like, at any moment, the Plain-plain was going to corkscrew spin on them. At least the added nausea would stave off hunger for a few hours.
The rising bridge was not too far. A short, five minute walk across a field of grass and trees and flowerbeds with all the green trimmings. The beds needed tending to; some of the flowers were withering away.
The bridge to Ice Island was not a bridge at all. It was a staircase. As they drew closer, they realised that it was not a staircase at all, but escalators. Four lines of grated metal steps with rubber handrails, just like the ones seen in malls, two going up and two going down. In the centre was a flat platform, some kind of stopping point where the rest of the platform connected with another quartet of moving stairs.
Beside the foot of the escalators lay a cosy bungalow, and between those stood an empty kiosk. The term ‘kiosk’ was a generous name, more like six boards of wood hammered together to form a stall some kid would use to sell lemonade on, with one or more letters written backwards for that ‘hip’ and ‘trendy’ style, when in reality they got a D- in English. The kiosk was empty and had not seen any usage in a long time, but it looked clean and wellkept. There was no dust and not a crumb on the surface, nor were any dust bunnies or dust hares or dust lops hiding in the corners.
The stall face read: The supplier is out. The word ‘out’ was behind a rectangular slot, indicating that it was interchangeable.
There was a notice set upon the kiosk bench. A white sheet of paper set up on a plastic stand. After taking a few steps closer, the sign read:
To those of you who wish to take the challenge, first, let me just say one important thing:
What is wrong with you?
Seriously, you’re absolutely insane. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get rid of whatever get-rich-quick cash grab you got festering in that tiny mind of yours and go home to get a real job.
There’s nothing to be found over there, and if you think you’re different, just remember: so did all the other monsters who tried before you.
Go home. Get a decent, well-paying job. Make your living the honest way, you cheapskate or cheapskates.
If that warning did not faze you, and you’re still adamant about hiking through Ice Island, then please talk to Birgir the supplier. In the event that Birgir the supplier is not present (very likely), please knock on the door to the house on your right. In the event that Birgir the supplier is not present in the house on your right (moderately likely), try again later.
-Mngmt
Rude. But at the same time, something that Fleck should lo
ok into before heading up those escalators. They approached the front door to the rustic, little house. Nothing ominous or haunted about this joint, just a single-story house with a two front windows and a tall door that was painted to match the snow up high. Fleck gave it a knock and waited, pre-emptively looking up to face the owner when or if he answers. Several seconds later came the click of a lock being disengaged, followed by the twist of the doorknob before being pulled open.
“Hi…” someone said, but Fleck could not see them. “Down here.”
They tipped their head down and saw the home owner through the crack in the door. The monster, who they guessed was Birgir, stood shorter than them by at least three inches. He had a straight, stone face that looked like a mask and wore a loose-fitting black t-shirt and baggy tartan pants over an equally rock-like skin. No shoes or socks. Pyjamas, most likely.
“You’re…” he said. Hesitation was written in his voice, but not in his unchanging face. “You’re a little far out to be selling cookies, don’t you think…?”
Fleck replied that they wanted to go up to Ice Island.
“Of course you do. I mean, yeah. Looks like we got ourselves another challenger. Haven’t had one of those in… forever.” He leaned out and pointed to the kiosk beside the escalators. “Wait over there and I’ll be with you in a couple of minutes.” With that, he shut the door in Fleck’s face.
Confused, Fleck remained idle in front of the door before wandering over to the stall. What was he talking about with them being ‘another challenger’? They propped their elbow on the top and slumped their chin on their palm as they waited, drumming their fingers against their cheekbone.
Three minutes later, the scuffling noises of a door opening and shutting came from behind the building. The man of the house emerged, lugging in his possession a plump rucksack. He walked backwards, dragging it behind him. He reached the stall, propped it against the inside wall, then ran back behind the house.
Another minute later, Birgir emerged, this time with a thick, blue puffer coat over his head, topped with a pair of waterproof shin guards, a few winter hats and pairs of gloves – some of which fell to the ground. He returned to the sanctuary of his stall and set them down against the side opposite the bag. All the while refusing to make eye contact with the supposed next challenger of whatever little game he was playing.
Fleck thought that maybe now this monster would address them, but he quietly reached under the counter and flipped the last word of the sign from ‘out’ to ‘in’. The sign now read: The supplier is in. There was no way Fleck would ever know that had he not changed that one word.
Birgir pulled out a stool from under the counter – the legs forming knots on the perfectly flat floor – and took a moment to balance himself on it, bringing himself a foot taller than the human.
The supplier cupped his hands on the counter, remained silent for a second, and then finally said, “Before we go any further, I think you should know one thing.” He reached into the pocket of his pyjama bottoms and yanked out a folded piece of paper. After opening it up, he set it down on the top. “I know who you are.”
It was their wanted poster.
Fleck did not know how to take this, especially regarding how straight forward he was presenting this revelation to them. Did he not care about the reward, or were they staging an elaborate trap? Did this guy call the guards and the whole preparation was his way of stalling for time? While they were waiting, it could have given the Monster Military ample opportunity to formulate behind them and strike the moment Birgir gave the signal. They shot a quick glance over their shoulder. Nothing except grass, trees, flowers, and the clear edge of the Plain-plain.
“Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.” Birgir folded the poster back up and shoved it back into his pocket. “Even though I should call the guards, I’m going to be frank with you: I’ve still got a job to do, and it’s kind of been a really long time since I’ve last did it. So here’s the deal: after our business is done, I’m going to forget I ever saw you. Got it?”
Fleck nodded. That was deal they could agree with.
“Good,” Birgir said. “Because chances are, nobody else is going to see you again either. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, are you sure that you want to travel through Ice Island?”
Fleck took a look at the snow-capped lands above, catching glimpses of flakes breaking across the cliff face. Nobody else was going to see them again either? First the sign was discouraging them, now this guy.
They asked whether there was something about that island they ought to know.
Birgir the Supplier rested his knuckles on the counter. “You don’t know? I mean, of course you don’t know.” He braced himself on both hands and sighed. “Man, have I got a story for you, kid.
“Hundreds of years ago, that island used to be a winter wonderland – I mean, it still is now, but nobody lives there anymore. It used to be one big mining colony, with beehive tunnels under the mountain that ran for miles. During the war, it was a pretty big foothold to the rebellion. They were the ones who wanted to return to Earth. This was one of the hardest places hit. Supply routes were cut. Towns were attacked. Eventually, all the evacuations took their toll, leaving the island without a soul remaining.
“After the war ended, it was said that the cost was so high that mining operations could not continue, that and people had lost faith in its safety. However, people still insisted on making trips through the island, either to get from here to the Forest, or from the Forest to here, or just to enjoy the sights. It was faster than going all the way around. We set up these stalls to supply travellers with equipment and provisions. People paid for them, and received a percentage back upon returning or reaching the other side. Day in, day out, we had a steady stream of travellers. We had a routine and it worked. People got their supplies, headed out, and returned a while later.
“But then one day… monsters who travelled into Ice Island stopped returning. They would turn up, get their stuff, venture out like normal, but never make it back. Weeks, months, and years passed, and yet none of them have returned. Friends and family who went in after them disappeared too, and even a fully armed squad from the Monster Military were sent in to investigate at one point. Twenty sturdy souls… and not a single one has come back yet.
“To this day, Ice Island is the unsolvable mystery of the Outerworld. A thousand rumours surround it, each detailing a thousand terrible, gruesome fates that fell upon those who vanished. Nobody ever enters, and nobody every leaves…
“Allow me to ask you again. Are you absolutely, positively, one-hundred percent sure that you want to do this?” Birgir crossed his finger against his chest. “I won’t think any less of you if you back out.”
Fleck, once more, turned from the supplier to the next island over. Their mind wandered with everything imaginable that could be causing this epidemic, and wondered whether they would suffer the same fate, and if they were able to do what all the others could not.
Their determination was still on the fritz. No going back if they made the wrong move. No retries if the misfortune that took those who proceeded them falls upon them.
Their thoughts turned once more to home, to family and friends on the Earth’s surface. Had they the choice, they would rather be there than trapped up here where everyone was trying to either capture of kill them.
Fleck faced Birgir and, with nothing but certainty in their heart, nodded with a scowling face.
“Okay then,” Birgir the supplier said. “How much do you want to wager?”
Fleck raised an eyebrow. Wager?
“Yep, wager. Because nobody wanted to risk the trek, we ended up changing it from a payment to a wager. Make a bet of as much money as you want and if you make it to the other side…” He placed extra emphasis on ‘if’. “You’ll get fifty times that amount back, with extra depending on what equipment you make it with, like the quality of your clothes and gear, and the number of rations left unused. It di
d rope in a few bettors… all of which have yet to cash in on their winnings. So, what’s it gonna be?”
Fleck retrieved their limp money pouch. They untied the string on top and tipped it upside-down, pouring the remaining five white coins in front of him. If there was nothing left on that island, then saving their pennies made no sense.
Birgir snorted a chuckle. “Really going big there,” he said sarcastically. “Nonetheless, a bet is a bet.” The supplier slid the cloud coins into a waiting hand, then reached under the counter and drummed away at some kind of register. The buttons made loud, clicking noises as he punched them, followed by the slid and thud of the tray and the churn of a receipt. He emerged with a clean strip of paper that he handed to the challenger. “Here is your betting slip. Present this to the travel counter at the Forest’s entrance and you win.”
Next, he reached down and heaved the loaded black and purple rucksack onto the top with a strong thump. Roughly Fleck’s size, its waterproof fibres bulged with a full belly. Three objects were strapped to the outside; two metallic sticks with hook spikes on the left side, a rolled up bag on top, and a rectangular sheet of folded fabric on the right side. He pointed to them in that order: “Here are two ice picks, a thermal sleeping bag, and a self-assembling tent.” He turned the bag and opened the flap with the same tact of a game show assistant showcasing prizes. “Inside, you’ll find four days’ worth of provisions, a compass, map, rope, matches, multi-tool, flask, and this handy-dandy portable radiator.” He reached inside and slotted out a flat square object with vents on the corners and a button interface built into the face. “This is some fancy tech, hot off the press. Interacts with the magic all around us, turn this environmentally-friendly baby on in any enclosed space and in a minute or two you’ll be nice and toasty.”
He placed the heater back and shut the flap, both pulling the strings tight and clicking the plastic buckles together. He pushed it toward Fleck and reached for the piles of clothes.