Underneath the Draconian Sky

by Chatwin, Dale M.

  After fleeing the asylum, Gerald decided the Industrial Complex would be his safest bet, away from the Folk and the Cult of Aakmanu. Complex 17 may have been the only fully functioning area but it had no security. It was in the care of Iob Barr, a man who loved to hire child workers.

  All across the Island the Aakmanu took children to recruit into the Complex and all Iob asked in return were pleasures of the innocent flesh. Gerald Danmouth took care of him by snapping the scrawny man’s neck like it belonged to a chicken.

  He took up residence and began to use Iob’s name. Pleasures of the flesh indeed, he felt spoilt for choice in this farm of children. On a night, after feasting on the virgin vagina of an 11 year old girl he asked if she knew what happened to them when they reached an older age.

  “We’re sent into the Earth via a tunnel. We’re told there are other people down there like us, free and, uhm, retired.”

  Gerald nodded and the girl took her fearful eyes off him. He knew there were no tribes beneath the Earth, only the Aakmanu and their bizarre rituals and inter-dimensional prayers to the Cosmic Forces.

  There was a dampness in the air, it flowed thickly through his nostrils as he broke his fast with dry toast and an omelette.

  “Nancy, do us a favour would you baby and make papa a mug of coffee,” said Gerald, winking. Nancy Burrow shyly got her clothes on and walked awkwardly to the coffee machine. The room was an office and bedroom all in one.

  The wallpaper used to be cream with green leaves dotted around, now it was smeared with tar and rot. The bed was nothing special, just a single constructed of a metal frame that squeaked whenever it was pushed hard enough. In the corner there was a maroon chair that was shaped into an open hand, if one were to sit in in, one would feel as through the hand would snap shut like a mutated Venus fly trap. The desk was large and made from birch, it had a habitat consisting on an old Hermes typewriter, an inkpot and quill, stacks of coffee stained papers, files chocked full of reports and various antiquities that would fetch a good price in the City. Finally there was the ample window; copper strips were infused horizontally and vertically on the glass splitting the window into squares. The view was eye watering; for miles the desert went, but in the distance you could make out something green on the horizon, the beginnings of the Moffatt Fields.

  Nancy handed Gerald the hot mug, being careful not to spill it. The heat made her hands glow in pain but she bit back the tears until the mug had passed hands.

  “Thank you girl,” he said, ruffling her hair, “you can go now, if you wish. Back to work with the rest of those maggots, or you could stay here with me and go a few more rounds.”

  She turned and fled, sobbing and she could hear him laughing. Cruel, pungent laughter that made her flesh crawl and her developing genitals ache in misery.

  In the main hall she was greeted by the sights and sounds of a normal day. The copper and bronze machines chugged and whirred and pumped out steam, however, unlike the red brick disciples, the machines in the twin factories had inlays of gold, polished brass and mother of pearl. Nancy was told that 100 children worked in the factories, 50 in each, though she had never been inside the opposite factory.

  All of them ranged from 10 years old to 16 years old, at 17 they were taken to the tunnels and given to the Aakmanu that dwelt beneath the Earth. Those who left were immediately replaced by children.

  The machines took care of themselves, the child workers were there to maintain and clean, to keep an eye on things as well as serve the head caretaker. Gerald never left the Ivory foundry; he used the CCTV system to keep an eye on the neighbouring children.

  Nancy wiped the tears from her face, none of the other children spoke to her, and they just stared pitifully with sunken brows and vacant eyes. She had been made homeless at the age of 9, her parents had both died of a rare disease that had struck on the opposite side of the Island. It wasn’t long before she was approached by shadowed figures promising her a family and a life full of activities and luxury. Nancy Burrow was mature for an 11 year old; life had a way of hardening a girl, especially when she had been dealt with some hardened cards. She despised Complex 17 and she despised Gerald Danmouth, although he was kinder than Iob, unlike him Gerald had known the meaning of the word pleasure. Nancy still hated the putrid act of sex but at least it had become tolerable.

  She could hear a storm brewing outside; a bad sandstorm was coming their way. Something inside her tingled, coming from the heart, not the genitals. A hopeful tingle, not a sickening one. Nancy went about her business, checking the machines for imperfections, the children only had a basic training that involved a whip when they arrived, over time they learnt, whether it was from watching others or Iob telling them during sex.

  A boy approached her.

  “Nancy, you needs to go outside and cover the well before it gets full o’ sand,” said Tommy, where his left eye should have been there was a gaping hole caused by a pressurised blast of steam to his face.

  “Okay Tommy,” she said, smiling. Nancy gathered some filthy rags off the floor and draped them over her head for protection against attack from nature.

  No matter how many times she gazed upon the faces of those children, she would always feel sad. She would like to say after “retirement” she would be fine, and grow up into a happy adult, but something always told her that deep scars never heal. The scar tissue would always be fragile and would tear at any time. Nancy would have to bear the burden until her death; that was one thing she always prayed for. Death.

  Outside the sand was like a swarm of mosquitos, she had prepared herself for some malicious biting and stinging. When she opened the door a backdraft of sand almost knocked her to her feet, she saw a hand reach out and grab her tattered dress and could feel it steadying her. Confusion, surprise and terror rattled around her brain like out of time maracas. Emerald eyes caught her blue eyes. Nancy was too young to understand the concept of love, but those eyes had set something alight in her soul.

  6

  Pineapples were a rare delicacy on the Island; Gerald had found Iob’s secret stash of luxury food in a pantry. Among the items of food were; strawberries, tangerines, slabs of chocolate, pounds of steak and mouth-watering fillets of salmon. What caught his eye though, was the pineapple. He took the prickly fruit and a pineapple cutter. It was one of those contraptions that cut inside the core of the fruit, when taken out there would be succulent rings of pineapple flesh waiting. Gerald sat on the hand-chair and began to devour the pineapple, the taste blew his mind, it was luscious. The nectar juices ran down his chin and dripped onto his bare chest, getting caught in his thick body hair. He ate with gusto; feeling waves of nostalgia lap against the present shores, memories of being a child eating pineapple in the kitchen with his Mother.

  Smiling, he took the final ring of that exotic fruit in his mouth. He took a deep breath in and exhaled in pleasure.

  Pleasures of the flesh. There are 2 kinds of flesh a man can derive pleasure from. A simple notion in a never ending ocean of dreams and past memories. As a child I lived vicariously through my brother, wiling the away the hours imagining I was on the mainland fighting the good war. No regrets, nothing to regret, nothing to feel sorry for. My brother’s life had been laid out like a constructed novel, whereas mine had been laid out like a never ending roll of typing paper. A stream of consciousness brought on by the faculties that control our existence…

  His thoughts were cut off by the sound of chaos; he looked at the black and white TV screens and saw the children fleeing the factory. Gerald felt agitated and full of anxiety at the sight; he checked the screens that provided him a window into the ebony factory. It was empty.

  Disorientation warped his thoughts and exacerbated emotions clouded his vision. There was madness afoot and Gerald Danmouth was choking on it, like a lingering cloud of sawdust. He looked down at the remaining pineapple and saw it was black with rot.

  7

  The Man with the Emerald Eyes fought the sandstor
m, shielding his face with his arms against the squall. His saliva tasted sour as he swallowed, each step towards the ivory factory was a toiling endeavour. When he reached the entrance he noticed a strong aroma seeping from inside; mouldering pineapple and musty grapes crept inside his nostrils and the Guy gagged slightly.

  The ebony factory had been deserted, the machines were all in working order, chugging away, excreting steam and clunking sounds. The only aroma in that place was the smell of time. Time, eating away at reality, gnawing the present and discharging it as the past. The office area was full to the brim with cardboard boxes coated in thick, grey dust. He opened one and what the Guy saw made him stumble; bones. All the boxes were full of bones, child skeletons that appeared to be years old.

  The Gods died in these parts a long time ago. There is something fiendish about this Industrial Complex; I do not like its taste or its bouquet.

  He closed up the box and observed his surroundings; there was an ink blotted door near the back of the room. The Guy shuffled through the boxes, trying not to knock any to the floor, and opened the unknown door. There was a stairwell that spiralled down into darkness, to his right was a switch, he flipped it and was blinded by a white neon light. Mr Nowhere Man made his way down into Nowhere Land, his unknown plans whispered to Nobody.

  The stairs led to a concrete basement, the stench of damp was rigid like folded meringue and the Guy could hear the sounds of scratching from rats.

  A copper and lead tank bulged in the centre of the basement, pipes protruded from it in different directions. There was a sign:

  WARNING – KOLOXIC NEUROS DO NOT INHALE!

  The Guy had heard of Koloxic Neuros, it was potent psychoactive, liquid drug that induced realistic hallucinations; anyone who inhaled it was given a distorted view of reality. The trip could either be good or bad, if the Guy had inhaled any, the basement would either be a saloon where he could take a drink of whisky, or a brothel full of disemboweled whores writhing like gutted salmon.

  Koloxic Neuros was so powerful, the user would be convinced the world they inhabited was real, every touch, sound, taste and smell. So why was there a tank full of it in a factory in Complex 17?

  The Guy had seen the pipes leading out of the copper and lead container but had overlooked the ones going into it. He deduced that maybe the liquid form of the drug was being pumped into the tank, converted into a gas and then sent around the ebony factory, but it didn’t make sense.

  The Guy had keen senses and knew when he was being drugged, it was a skill that had been developed over many years. He did not feel like he was in a drugged state, the machine on the container was working perfectly as far as he could see. Without warning the truth broke on the horizon of his mind; the gas was being pumped into the Ivory factory. There was a burgundy knob beneath the warning sign with the words GAS CAP engraved upon it. The Guy closed his right hand around it and turned, at first it was stubborn and refused to budge, but eventually it succumb to his strength. He could hear the sound of the flowing gas being cut off and the tank shuddered and creaked. The Guy absconded from the basement swiftly with thoughts of Gerald Danmouth drawing on sheets of dot to dot paper.

  8

  Coarse sand engulfed his vision and for a brief moment in time everything became a brown and yellow blur. He stretched out his arms and felt like a blind man in a ghost town, the Guy felt the cold metal door and felt relieved. As he fumbled for a way to open it, there was a clunking sound and he felt the air surge around him. Sand was being sucked through a hole. The door had been opened. There was a sudden confusion and he saw a figure stumble backwards, out of instinct he grabbed him/her, clutching cloth that felt greasy. When the dust settled the Guy gained some clarity in his vision and there he found himself looking upon a young girl in tattered rags. She was skinny, withered to be exact. The girl had a cute face and had the makings of a beautiful woman, if she had the fortune of growing up in a better environment. Her eyes were a deep sapphire that could have stopped time and her hair was a fiery auburn. The Guy knew she had fallen in love with him, he had seen that look in women’s eyes before.

  “You almost had an accident there kid,” he said, trying not to sound like the sand. The Guy saw she was taken aback by his words. No, his voice.

  “It’s okay mister, happened many a time before,” her voice was soft, but full of sorrow.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t got much time. I’m here for one named Gerald Danmouth and I know he is here.” The Guy saw a spark of terror in her eyes; he could almost see her painful thoughts.

  “Are you one of his?”

  “No.”

  “Who are you, mister?” The girl took a step back.

  “I’m someone who needs information,” he tried not to sound so cold but it couldn’t be helped.

  “He’s upstairs in the office,” she began to turn away.

  “Wait. What is your name kid?”

  “Nancy Burrow, mister.”

  Nancy, the name resonated within his soul.

  Her name is Nancy.

  His mind became awash with memories of a woman who had been tender with him. The Guy observed his surroundings; the machines were working at full capacity, steam spewed from vents and funnels, cogs turned and chains rattled, he counted the amount of children.

  “How many of you are there?” he asked Nancy.

  “50 mister, in this factory and 50 in the other.”

  “I’m afraid not, look around there are 15 of you, and there are none in the ebony factory,” he saw the fragile girl look around; she saw the few scrawny children standing near her but what knocked her down the most were the dead bodies of children strewn across the floor.

  Some bodies were skeletons and some were halfway through decomposition while some were fresh. When her eyes finally met his they were full of confusion and anguish. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

  “What’s happened?! I swear mister there are, were, 50 of us!” Her face glowed crimson.

  “Do not fear Nancy,” the Guy reached out and stroked her cheek tenderly, wiping away the stray tear. “You have been poisoned with a drug called Koloxic Neuros, a potent hallucinogen that alters your perception of reality. I fear you have all been experiments for the Aakmanu.”

  “Why?!” she screamed and shoved his hand away from her.

  “I don’t know, they are complicated beings with raw thoughts. What I do know is that you need to flee from here. There is a train not too far away, get on it and leave. Never come back.” The Guy never broke eye contact.

  Nancy snapped out of her hypnotism, those Emerald eyes held a strange power, the power of persuasion.

  “What about you, should we wait?” she asked.

  “I’ll be fine, kid. I think I heard horses outside in the storm, although it could have been me hearing things.”

  “There is only one horse, Gerald’s horse, in a barn out back.”

  “Good, then I shall use it.”

  Nancy rounded up the 14 other children and wrapped their heads in blankets to shield them from the sand storm. The Guy heard loud noises coming from above and he knew what was making them.

  “Leave now, it is your only chance.”

  “Thank you mister, I will always love you for this even though I don’t know who you are,” she said with a glimmer of hope that he would kiss her and embrace her.

  “I lost a woman named Nancy, can’t say I fancy losing another. Go”

  The children bustled out of the factory and disappeared into the storm. The Guy saw Nancy turn and look at him one last time, he gazed at her intensely remembering another he once knew.

  9

  The winds changed and life seemed to freeze, as if the traffic warden of heaven had stuck out his hand and yelled for the mortal beings to halt. A threat would follow; the decomposition of Humanity’s consciousness.

  Gerald Danmouth stood on a balcony above the Guy, he wore rounded industrial goggles and brown coveralls stained with oil and ash.

  “Such t
hings are not often perceived by man, and clouds would hesitate to linger in their passage. Ripped from the Earth, their roots torn to shreds with severed worms and shrivelled petals. It is life they wanted; to breed and encompass reality with their gargantuan glory, so, what do we know of such things? You spit and strive to rebel against fantasy but your mind is tuned into immortality. It is you! Only you who bends over backwards with pleasures of the flesh, and guess who will pick up the shattered remains? Me. Only me,” said the Guy, his eyes burned with a ferociousness that could have created new stars.

  Gerald let out a chuckle and brushed his long, black hair back with his fingers, he replied:

  “Dimensions cheat, we all know that. Who are you to judge the illusion? Who are we to feel free in a world where there is an abundance of depravity? Your heart beats with passion but the screen says different with its sombre glow, the residue of an evening’s masturbation lying heavy on your thoughts. You have been cheating too. Fornicating with demons and wallowing in self-loathing and crying for a merciless death because it is what you deserve. Such a shame, such a tragic waste when all you can muster in your pathetic soul is a dream of banners and adorning chants. You regale us in the fable of currency being non-existent in your life but you’re just too deluded to admit that blood and tortured screams are your currency. What makes you so different from me? From the rest of us poor saps from Bachman Gardens? If you answer nobility then I will spit your name and die gracefully within my mind. 1107, the man with the emerald eyes, the man with the heavy past. Go now and clench your fists and make them bleed, then smother me until I die.”