Lostlander

by Dean F. Wilson

   So Nox did just that.

   He fired his grappling hook up, pulled his hat down over face, wrapped his coat tight around him, and zipped upwards. He growled as he passed through patches of steam, turning where he could to let it scald the already burnt patches of skin on the back of his head. The fire'd done that to him many years ago. The sun'd added its own crisp after. Now it was the steam's turn to burn.

   He barely reached the place the grapnel hooked onto before he fired the second one. He glided up again, through the periodic blasts of steam, until he arrived at the top. He was a little scalded, but there was one good thing about the concoction of chemicals in the tank on his back. It wasn't just oxygen. It didn't just help him breathe. It helped with the pain.

  * * *

  Oakley's ladder was stable, and he faced far fewer vents. For once, the climb was relatively easy. Oh, he was tired, sure, but he was used to that. He was used to the long days of travel, and the short nights of rest. He was used to the road and the journey. Most times you travelled sideways. Sometimes, rarely, you travelled up. And other times, far too often, you travelled down. That was the pervading direction in the Wild North. Folk didn't need to signpost it. Sooner or later, you were going down. Best keep climbing then.

  * * *

  Porridge's ladder seemed stable at first, just enough to get him higher. Then it started to shake. Now, they all shook a little, especially when the steam blasts came. But this one shook a lot. He could hear the rattle. He could feel the rattle. Hell, he could see the bolts coming loose.

   “Oh!” he cried, wishing he was ascending in the Dandyman instead of climbing on foot. He wasn't cut out for this, he knew, and yet he found himself being increasingly dragged into the affairs of the Coilhunter, not to mention the war down South. The truth of it, and he'd never admit this, was that he liked the attention. He liked having a place in the big events of the time. He liked knowing that he was doing some good, even if he was doing it in his own oddball way.

   But what good could he do if he fell?

   “One step at a time,” he told himself, but he didn't follow that advice. He tried to take two rungs now. He wasn't sure if that was helping or hindering. Sometimes the faster you went, the slower you got there. And often times the higher you went, the farther you fell. He wondered if maybe he should've been climbing down instead of up. No. He was more than halfway there, or so it seemed in the endless venting chamber. The only way was up.

   But a bolt popped loose and pinged off the ladder as it tumbled down below. Porridge didn't even hear its final clink. He couldn't see where it landed. The only way to see it now was to join it. But no. The only way was up.

   There were things folk in the Wild North said to themselves every day. Words of wisdom. Promises, even. Like the only way was up. But you see, the Wild North made its own promises. It had its own kind of desert wisdom. It wouldn't just tell you. It'd teach you. The only way is down.

   The other bolts came loose, and the ladder bent in half. Porridge clung from it and dangled over the massive drop. He could already feel his grasp weakening. He'd lost a lot of his strength already. You didn't come to the Lostlands to find that.

   “Help!” he screamed.

   “Hang on!” Nox shouted.

   Porridge watched the small figure of the Coilhunter vanish into the doorway. No doubt he was trying to find a way around. No doubt about that at all. What Porridge doubted was whether he'd still be clinging on when Nox got there.

  * * *

  Oakley stood at his own doorway, feeling a little helpless. He knew there wasn't a whole lot a drifter like him could do. He didn't have the Coilhunter's gadgets. He didn't have his survival skills. And he sure as hell didn't have his daring.

   Then he turned, and he saw something move in the shadows of the corridor. Something big. Something menacing.

   “Careful, now,” he told himself, as he reached for the rifle on his back. The Man with the Silver Mane hadn't taken that either. “Careful.”

   No, he didn't have Nox's gadgets, or skills, or daring. But he knew he'd have to find some courage and fighting power of his own. You see, that figure ahead wasn't just another slave. The Man with the Silver Mane didn't just work with collars. It was an experiment. He didn't give it a name or a number. He called it X.

  37 – EXPERIMENT X

  Experiment X was seen by some as a failure. Its hulking size made it strong. It had the weight of many, the bulk of many, and the strength of many. By some accounts—by most accounts—it was a monster.

   But to the Man with the Silver Mane, X was no failure. X was a test. What was he trying to achieve? Oakley had scratchy memories of overheard words. He knew he was brought through the experiment chambers. He could hear the screams. No faded memory erased those.

   “One body,” the Magus said. “One body and many minds.”

   The scientists injected X with numerous substances. There was seemingly no end to the needles. Every week there was another “breakthrough,” which just meant another substance, another needle. The Man with the Silver Mane claimed he was imbuing the poor soul with the souls of many other people. But not just any people. People from across the veil. People from his world, wherever he came from. He saw success in X's increasing size and stature. He saw the souls of many trying to burst out through its bulging muscles. All Oakley saw was the product of all those needles. There was just one soul inside, and they were killing it, day by day.

   And here it was, chained, but ready to kill him today.

   “Easy, now,” Oakley said, as X struggled with his bonds. “Easy.”

   Those were words he'd say to his horses over the years. It reminded him of Old Reliable, who he'd presumed had died to the wolves. There wasn't time to ask Nox about him, and there wasn't time to hear the Coilhunter's story. Oakley had to be his own old reliable. He had to keep on trotting on.

   X stared at him with frenzied eyes. Oakley wasn't quite sure if the original state of the beast was male or female. Its bulk had overcome any sense of form or figure, any indication of what it had previously been. The bulges weren't just on its body. Its face had turned into a bulbous thing with many mountains. The eyes stared out from the valleys between.

   “I ain't here to hurt ya,” Oakley said, holding out his hands, palms outward. He'd already placed his rifle away.

   Unsurprisingly, X didn't believe him.

  * * *

  Nox raced through a series of doorways, taking every left he could. He passed through a room of men shovelling coal in giant, fire-licked furnaces, some with masks over their faces, some with suits covering their entire bodies, and others bare-chested, with burns and scars. They paid no heed to him, and even if they did, they were just slaves, and he was just a blur.

   Yet even in the blur the Coilhunter overheard their chatter, and gathered that the Man with the Silver Mane never went down to the furnaces. Of course, why would he? He was the master. Yet something about it stuck in Nox's mind, like the little things did during a stand-off. To him, this whole chase was the stand-off, and he was looking out for every little detail before the draw.

   By now, he should've turned into the corridor leading to Porridge's ledge. But no. This fortress was built on the land, and the land was anything but cooperative. The building was as much a maze on these levels as the ones below.

   Nox heard Porridge's screams. He ran to a small viewport in the wall, just barely big enough to squeeze an eyeball through. He saw the scavenger dangling. Oh, how the earth beckoned. Oh, how the ground yearned. The sky asked for nothing. All the hunger was below.

   The Coilhunter tried to work out how to get to that ledge. It should've just been a few metres away, just another turn away. He scampered on, feeling for false walls, nudging against sealed hatches. A silent desperation was mounting in the back of his mind. He couldn't ask for directions. The hourglass wasn't just trickling away. It was pouring out.

   Then
he found it. A corridor snaked away, then led back to Porridge's ledge. He clambered through, raced to the outcrop, and pointed his arm. He had that grapnel launcher primed and ready. The ground would have to go hungry.

   Then he heard the footsteps of guards behind him.

  * * *

  Experiment X yanked on the chains, and the walls shuddered. Oakley shook with them, though he tried to hide it. He knew to fear it instinctively, but he'd also learned to fear it from what he'd heard others say. There were reports that it had ripped scientists limb from limb, that it had popped off the heads of others like they were dolls. It might've had the souls of many, but by all accounts, there was no man or woman left in it. It was a monster. It was the Beast with No Name.

   Oakley could've backed away. He could've shuffled back to the ledge and climbed back down. Part of him wanted to. Another part urged him to just race past Experiment X, to keep going, and don't look back. Fear and courage fought their war in him.

   Then he heard Porridge's cries, and he knew he had to do something.

   He eased up towards X, taking slow, careful steps. X watched him with those manic eyes, seizing him in their stare. Something about the look told Oakley that it could've been him. It could've been his body used. Something else told him that it still could be, that the Man with the Silver Mane would continue his experiments.

   “I'm just … gonna … squeeze by,” Oakley whispered.

   He darted forward, summoning all his strength and speed. His heart leaped in his chest, and his head thumped to match that frantic beat.

   But the Beast with No Name matched it too.

   X pulled on his chains with greater force, ripping them from the walls. He swiped at Oakley, who gasped and jumped. The chain swung under his feet, but he stumbled forward and into the grasp of the monstrosity's other hand. It pushed him back and pinned him to the wall.

   This is it, Oakley thought, as he wiggled and writhed. This is what you've been searchin' for. Time to meet your maker, old boy. Time to visit the real Lostlands.

   X raised a clenched fist. Oh, the strike'd be like a meteor. It'd leave a crater in the wall and a crater in Oakley's body. Maybe it would be quick. But it wouldn't be painless.

   Then X drew close, close enough that their eyes were parallel. Oakley presumed it wanted to see him truly before the kill, that it wanted to intimidate him with its horrible glare. Oakley stared back defiantly. If he was to go, he wouldn't go cowering.

   Then the Beast with No Name surprised him.

   It spoke.

   “Help … me,” it said.

  38 – FREE TO FALL

  Nox shot the grapnel as he turned, gun ready in the other hand. He fired, aiming for the hip. He expected men with pistols raised. That was how it usually went in the Wild North. But no. The Man with the Silver Mane never did things the usual way. These were men in armoured suits, like something the Dew Distributors would wear, albeit with fewer sharp edges.

   The bullet pinged off their armour at about the same time the grappling hook grasped the top of Porridge's collapsing ladder. Nox was pulled back a step towards the edge. Porridge still screamed.

   “Well, howdy,” the Coilhunter said, facing off against the guards.

   “Put your weapon away,” one of the guards told him. The voice was muffled just like Nox's was, but it didn't have quite so much grit.

   “Which one?” Nox asked, with a glint in his eye. He slid back another centimetre.

   The guards edged forward. “All of them.”

   They took another unified step. It was like a wall of metal, pushing Nox closer to the edge. Behind him, the grapnel pulled him too. They say most folk in the Wild North live on the edge. They weren't all daredevils and risktakers. Some were just trying to live their lives in peace, away from the war, and away from the law. But you walked a fine line in the wastes. If you were good, the bad would likely get you. And if you were bad? Well, that was where the Coilhunter came in.

   Nox's eagle eyes spotted a piece of iron jutting from the ground around about where the ladder'd broken free.

   “Here,” Nox said, holstering his pistol. “They're all away.”

   He slid back again. The guards moved with him.

   “The grapnel.”

   “It's not a weapon,” Nox lied.

   That helmet almost cocked. “For you, it is.”

   “You're right,” Nox said, before wrapping the wire around the guard's neck. Then, as he felt his feet slip over the edge, pulling the guard with him, he coiled the wire around the jutting piece of iron just in time. It caught and held him there, and held the ladder from falling any further. But Porridge still dangled. It didn't matter if the Coilhunter saved the ladder. He had to save Porridge too.

   The other guards raced to the edge and tried to lift up their hanging comrade. It was lucky that he wore a helmet or the wire might've sliced through his throat. But Nox wasn't here to be a hangman. There were no posters for those armoured guards, though there might've been posters for the men beneath the masks. Until he knew for certain, he couldn't kill them. Pity, that. You see, a conscience made things … complicated.

   “If you want him to live,” Nox rasped, “then catch him over there.” He nodded towards Porridge, who didn't need to be nodded to. Everyone'd spotted the multicoloured dangling man, and everyone'd heard his panicked screams echo through the chamber.

   The guards pondered this for a moment, but the Coilhunter didn't have a moment to spare. He shifted the wire a little, so that it looked like it might unwind and drop the captured guard. “Hurry, now. You let that one drop, I let this one drop as well.”

   By rights, they should've known he wouldn't do it. He wouldn't let an innocent man fall. Not without trying to catch him. Sure, accidents happen, but everything the Coilhunter did was no accident. If there was even the hint of his hands in your death, you knew he caused it plain and simple. But those guards likely had a secret fear, likely had a secret past. The kind of past that was all too common in the Wild North. The past of a killer or a rapist. The past of a conman or a crook. Just as the Coilhunter couldn't be certain they were bad people, they couldn't be certain that he didn't already know they were. He wouldn't let an innocent man fall, true enough. Well, who said they were innocent?

   The guards vanished back into the corridors. Maybe they were looking for help. Maybe they were looking for backup. Or maybe they'd bring both.

   Nox looked at the guard flailing below him. “Let's hope you've got some friends behind those masks.”

   The guard said nothing. Maybe he was saving all his energy for hope.

  * * *

  Experiment X kept Oakley pinned to the wall, maybe out of instinct, maybe out of fear. After all, it was men like Oakley that'd done this to it. What, except that lost look in his eyes, would let X know that Oakley was any different?

   “What can I do?” Oakley asked.

   “Free … me.”

   “How?”

   X shook its head, then punched the wall beside Oakley. The drifter hoped to God it was intentional, because he didn't like the idea that the creature missed.

   “I tried,” X said, pointing to a variety of scars on its body. One of them was a complete laceration around its throat. It was clear by those scars, but also by that desperate, defeated look in its eyes, that it had tried many times to kill itself.

   “What happened?” Oakley asked.

   “He … keeps … bringin' … me back.” Its voice was low and laboured, its breathing heavy and difficult. Its body didn't just bulge outwards. It bulged inwards as well, right into its own organs. Those experiments were slowly killing it, and yet the Man with the Silver Mane just wouldn't let it die.

   “How?” Oakley wondered. He'd heard a lot of tales about the afterlife on his travels, and some folk believed you had a chance of coming back. He'd explored the teachings of so many sects and tribes, he wasn't sure wha
t to believe. All he knew for sure was that Experiment X was in a kind of pain he had never experienced himself. They say it can always get better. Well, it could always get worse.

   “I … don't know.”

   Oakley shook his head and mused. If the Man with the Silver Mane was a Magus, then it was possible he had some control of unseen forces. That was just a rumour though. If anything, the supposed Magi seemed like everybody else. They had a mystique about them, sure. They gained a reputation with their consecration of amulets for the Order. Some of them, like Doctor Mudro, did a little bit of stage magic on the side. But otherwise they were just flesh and blood. The Regime had made an example of enough of them to prove that.

   “So … much … pain,” X said.

   Oakley could see it clearly. Even now, those muscles didn't just bulge, but seemed to pulse and bubble, as if there was something horrible beneath the skin. At times the flesh went so red Oakley thought there might be lava underneath. What was certain was that with so much pain and pressure, X was a volcano waiting to explode.

  * * *

  The Coilhunter dangled, the guard dangled, and Porridge dangled. Some folk said that's all you did in the Wild North. You clung on helplessly to the fraying thread of life. And boy did they cling.

   Nox wasn't sure what the guards'd do. Maybe they hadn't gone for help, like he hoped, and were just leaving them all to hang, like flies caught in the web. Or maybe they were an efficient kind and would let gravity do all the work. Maybe the guard below Nox had no friends at all.

   Then the Coilhunter heard a commotion below, and he saw many people assembling something at the corners of the chamber. It seemed like maybe it was a net of sorts. Except Nox couldn't see a net. Maybe they were just there to watch them fall.