Urban Gothic
Stephen Coghlan
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thank you, Neil Gaiman, whose works inspired me to dream.
Thank you, Kyanite Publishing, for taking a chance on my dreams.
Thank you, Moss Whelan, for kicking my ass to get this done.
Thank you, all of you wounded warriors, who carry your scars.
Thank you, all of you, who served so we can enjoy a life where we can dream.
You are not forgotten.
Copyright © 2018 by Kyanite Publishing LLC
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Any characters, names, places, or likenesses are purely fictional. Resemblances to any of the items listed above are merely coincidental.
For permission requests, please contact the publisher, Kyanite Publishing LLC, via e-mail, with subject “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the e-mail address below: [email protected]
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-949645-15-6
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-949645-14-9
Cover design by Sophia LeRoux
Editing by B.K. Bass
Cover image © depositphotos.com
www.kyanitepublishing.com
CHAPTER 1
The door closed with finality. As always, the tune played in his head. It was a familiar song; one that had become ingrained from years of singing it with enthusiasm until he had become driven by survival instead of ambition; until his energy was better spent defending his right to enjoy fresh air and unmonitored walks.
Red light, green light, off the floor,
Shuffle up, buckle up, out the door.
Walking stiffly into the madness of the city, Alec LeGuerrier was deaf to the noises about him as the song continued its inexorable drone with every step he took.
If my chute don’t open wide,
I got another one by my side.
The air was normally crisp this time of year, but the atmosphere of the night weighed heavily on him. It forced him to push his body to match the cadence of the tune. He had always loved chanting the next line—screaming it, even—in his youth.
And if that chute don’t open too,
Watch your ass, I’m coming through!
It wasn't that long ago that he had been young, but the reality of life had worn him down and aged him prematurely. It wasn’t the constant concern of bills, career, or family that bothered him. Rather, it was the smell of death permanently entrenched in his nostrils; it was the emptiness inside, the fact there was no one left around him who could understand what he had seen, what he had done, and why he hadn’t had a choice. It was the stress of taking his place within society and being what everyone else considered human that bothered him.
In order to fit in with society, Alec had found a job—with the help of his parole officer—and rented an apartment in a low-cost area of a high-cost city. He dressed in plain, non-descript clothes. He tried his best to be nobody.
At work, he was invisible. He spent all day in the crowded hospital, and was ignored while he scrubbed, mopped, and polished the halls to an unnatural sheen. Losing himself in his tasks, he was able to turn off his mind and shut out the horrors of the past that still plagued him. Maybe that was why he had volunteered—no, begged—for the night shift?
He loved the daily commute. In the summer, the day’s last light was just fading away as he journeyed to work; the night air was less oppressive and offered salvation from the glaring sun, and he returned to a budding dawn and the realisation that a new day had arrived. In winter, the tranquil darkness was sometimes clear enough to see a star or two despite the city lights that reflected off of the snow.
In the night, he felt at peace. In the darkness, he felt a glimmer of hope. In the silence, he felt the vibrancy of life. As he walked home each morning, he shed his worries with the rising sun. Sometimes he thought he might awaken from the nightmare to find his friends still alive. Maybe one sunrise would see him awaken as a young man; able to change his future now that he had been forewarned.
I’ll splatter high, I’ll splatter wide.
I’ll splatter all over the countryside.
With every step, his keys jangled, his wallet swung, and the tiny pill rattled in its bottle. It, too, was a requirement of his humanity—a requirement for his pseudo-freedom. The pills muted his emotions and muddled his mind. He didn't want to take them, but he had been ordered to keep himself subdued, and a refusal brought penalties he did not wish to pay.
Once his shift was done and the sun had risen, he would pop the last pill in his mouth, before meandering into the growing dawn to present his information to the local pharmacy. There, he would receive another collection of those tiny capsules to numb his mind and let him sleep dreamlessly; free from nightmares, free from memories, and free from the guilt of having survived.
Unlike Kiso, who was buried in the earth.
Unlike Frederick, who lay sleeping in a chemical-induced stupor, trapped inside a charred and immobile lump of ruined flesh.
Unlike Sylvain, who had surrendered to his darkest thoughts and washed away his own regrets with alcohol and pills until his heart had failed.
Ducking into an unlit alley, Alec embraced his own darkness until it felt like he was flying, floating far from the ground; unbound, unleashed, and free of all of life's restraints.
You’ll find my leg up in a tree,
and then you’ll find the rest of me.
And then his feet refused to move. Something he had never seen before in that blind tunnel of brick and mortar broke his trance. Three costumed crazies sashayed about a prostrate body. A woman lay on the ground, her violet eyes wide with fear, blood welling from wounds in her shoulders and legs, hands raised in a feeble attempt to defend herself.
If I die with my hands on my chest
Tell my Ma I did my best.
Every lick of sense Alec had left pleaded with him to keep walking and ignore what he'd seen, and alarm bells rang in his head like the klaxons of some far-away firebase, roaring that this wasn't his problem; it wasn't his duty to become involved. The noise fell silent to his conscience. How would he live with himself if he didn't help this woman?
The voice Alec spoke in was deep and clear; meant to be heard over the chaos of war, over the crack of guns and thunderous explosions.
“Stop.”
The single word echoed off the concrete and asphalt; slowly diffusing as it climbed into the empty sky.
If I die with my hands by my side
Tell the sarge I died o’ pride.
A twisted, warped, and terrifying clown laughed in response. He had thin blood-red lips, teeth that were chipped and had been filed to jagged points, and small sunken eyes that smoldered like brimstone. As he trembled, so too did the crude mace he wielded. It was little more than a knotted branch, and had been covered in tar and dipped in glass shards and metal fragments. The sinister jester’s words came out in the hissing chorus of a thousand broken chimes clashing.
“He can see through the façade.”
As his two companions turned to face Alec, he felt an uncanny calmness sweep over him. For the first time in years, he had a purpose, a duty, and a reason to be.
The first foe to advance was tall and lanky with bronzed skin that glowed in the darkness. He wore a long jacket tied about his loins that hid little beneath, and laughed too, but in body only, for no sound emerged from his throat. He carried a bloo
d-covered spear with a wickedly-hooked bill that had been forged into the shape of a raven’s beak. When he tapped the weapon against a wall, the steel rang on the brick like an otherworldly gong.
Trying not to take his eyes from him, Alec spied an empty liquor bottle that had either helped someone celebrate or wallow in despair. Grabbing the neck of the vessel with his left hand, he tapped the base against his thigh in time to the rhythm in his head.
If I die o’ clutchin' my ass
Tell my dad I died of gas.
Thanks to the narrow alley, the spearman could not swing his weapon from side-to-side, and was forced to aim an overhead strike. Stepping away from the descending blade, Alec let it bite into the ground. Planting his foot upon the haft, he launched himself up and brought his improvised club down on the spearman’s skull. The bottle shattered, stunning the tall man, who reflexively stumbled backwards, both hands clutching his head in agony.
Lunging forward, Alec mercilessly drove the jagged remains into his foe’s throat, shredding the delicate flesh in a fountain of blood. Gurgling, the spearman collapsed to his knees. Alec smashed his own knee into his opponent's face, flattening him so he could advance past his soon-to-be corpse.
With a roar, the other two assailants charged, but were forced to come at him singly due to the tight confines of the alley. With shreds of grime-stained skin and rotten nails hanging from his fingers, the first one to reach Alec thrust out another improvised polearm. Strapped to the business end was a cleaver, held in place with thongs of leather.
Alec flattened himself against the wall and felt the edge of the rusty blade slide over his jacket, barely scratching the leather. He caught the haft and brought his free elbow into the man’s throat, feeling the windpipe collapse with the force of the blow. His attacker released his weapon and staggered back, gasping for air that would never reach his lungs.
With practiced ease, Alec spun the weapon and brought the cleaver crashing down on the charging clown. Despite the dullness and corrosion of the blade, the metal edge cracked the man’s skull as if it were a rotten egg.
It was over before Alec had even broken a sweat. He stepped around the grimy man, who clutched at his broken airway as his face turned blue, and over the painted corpse, which still jerked spasmodically in a gross imitation of life. He walked past the glowing man with shards of glass puncturing his blood-streaked face. Finally, Alec approached the woman.
The song in his head had reached its natural end.
She appeared to be young, in her late teens or early twenties. The skirt she wore was long and split down the center, and her pale legs spilled from the material as she writhed in agony. Her tall crimson boots ground against the asphalt, soaked with the blood that had begun to pool from her wounds. As her dark corset rose and fell with each panicked and desperate breath, Alec noticed that the exposed flesh of her upper body was adorned with tattoos and piercings. Her hair, which looked to have been redyed so often that Alec could not guess at its original color, had begun to collect trash and debris.
Gathering her gently into his arms, Alec cooed, “It's okay.” She was light to him, almost weightless.
She parted her lips with a sigh. Black ink stained her mouth, dissolving into a flock of birds that seemed to soar towards one ear. She whispered, "Do not leave me alone."
* * *
Her eyes snapped open. For a moment, the irises were lost in an inky blackness as deep as the pitch of night, but they returned quickly to the violet hue they had once been.
She was no longer in the streets, but lying on an unfamiliar bed consisting of cream-colored plastic and a soft mattress with an elevated head. Coarse sheets covered her from toe to shoulder, leaving only one arm and her head exposed. From her free limb ran a thin tube connected to a machine, above which hung a half-empty bag of liquids.
“Don't worry. You're safe.” A voice barely louder than a whisper filled the room. Her rescuer was tall, thin, and wiry, and his short brown hair was unkempt and stood out against his pale flesh. Piercing green eyes met hers.
“This is for the pain.” His voice came in a flat monotone as he unhooked her from the machine long enough to inject a syringe into the tube. The contents burned.
She sat up as he offered her a cup of water, letting the sheets slide down. Bandages had been wrapped skillfully about her chest and shoulder, but either side, ankhs, crosses, stars, moons, and other symbols mundane and foreign were etched everywhere on her skin.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the cup. “Where am I?”
“Hôpital du Sacré-Cœur de Montréal.” The words rolled off her host’s tongue with ease, demonstrating a familiarity with the language. “Welcome to my workplace.”
“You’re a healer?” she asked, remembering even through the haze of injury how quickly and easily he had dispatched of the men in the alley.
“I was once someone who chanted Militi Succurrimus.” When his words drew a blank stare, he added, “I was a medical technician. Now, I sweep the floors.”
The painkillers had begun to take effect, and she was surprised to note that they did not cloud her mind but occluded the pain of her wounds. A cart rattled past the room, echoing as it journeyed down the hallway. Voices leached through the open door, but no one disturbed them. “Then I thank you for your help, ” she said, staring into the cup as one hand brushed the choker around her neck, rattling the runes hanging from it, “but you should let me be.”
“If I knew that there was someone to tend to you, I would,” her host explained, “but ever since I discovered you, it’s like I’ve been invisible.”
Blood rushed to her face, but she asked him to explain, even though she feared she knew what he meant.
“From the moment I picked you up, I've been ignored. Cars and pedestrians passed us by despite the fact that you were bleeding and unconscious. When I entered the emergency room, no one gave us a sideways glance. Nobody stopped me when I stole an empty bed and wheeled you in here, and even out of uniform, I was able to raid the tools and equipment without being accosted.” Pausing, he sipped from his own cup before he asked, “What is going on?”
“You would not believe me,” she whispered.
“I killed three men for you tonight! I think I'm owed an explanation,” her rescuer snapped.
“My name is Veleda, and I am of the house of Neviah.” Sadness laced her voice. “I am a Seer, a seeker of truth, and a teller of lies. I am both a princess and a peon. You should leave me be, and forget about me before you risk falling from reality and losing your place here forever.”
“The blood of three people stains my hands tonight,” her rescuer replied calmly, “and it's not like I have much to lose.”
“They were riffraff, and will not be missed. Their bodies will turn to dust where they lay, and your authorities will never even notice them.” Veleda spoke earnestly now. “As long as you are attached to me, you will not belong here. I am not of this realm.”
The man crossed his arms; seeming so patient he would have waited an eternity for her to continue.
“We come from another world. We come from the dreamscape.”
He stared at her, the word meaningless to him.
“When you rescued me, you joined the façade; the illusion that separates our worlds. Now you are hidden behind its veil. You can walk through a crowd and be ignored by all but those who've surrendered to it. At this moment, you do not exist.”
“Then how did you see me?” he asked, doubt heavy in his voice.
“I…breached the façade to call for help,” she answered warily, “and now I've dragged you between worlds. I'm sorry, I know it’s hard to believe. If you take me back to where you found me, I can show you just how real the dreamscape is. But if I do so…” she trailed off.
Tossing his empty cup into the trash, her host lifted her corset from the sink, where it had been hanging to dry.
“Your shirt was ruined. Will you be okay with a gown instead?”
The bloo
died shirt was stiff with dried fluids, and the gap where the pike bit her flesh had widened on the journey to the hospital. The garment her rescuer offered in its stead was a light blue short-sleeve robe that tied at the back.
“Does none of this bother you?” she asked.
“That’s like asking a fish if it has trouble breathing underwater, or a bird if it can fly. To others the very concept is bizarre, but the fish and the bird simply do. I have seen so much, and still see so much, that being attacked by a psychotic clown, a glowing man, and that filthy cretin was not startling."
He shrugged. “To answer your question: no, I'm not bothered. In fact, I'm intrigued. I have nothing here to hold me back.”
Falling silent, he offered the gown once more.
“Well,” Veleda said, stretching out her hands to expose the myriad of tattoos and piercings that ran over them. “It's not my colour, but…”
Her guardian laughed as he slid the gown over her bandaged chest.
* * *
Where the three bodies had once been, there were now three piles of dust. Alec bent down and ran his fingers through the remains as the wind blew, further removing the evidence of the deaths. Even their weapons were gone, rusted away into nothing in a matter of hours.
“They were worth less than dust.” Veleda said softly. “In death, they have improved by far.”
“While I don't doubt that, I cannot help but wonder why they were attacking you.” Alec stood, rubbing his hands together to remove the last traces of death from his fingers and cast it to the wind.
“I am wanted by my home’s imposter king,” she answered. “Fear and hatred are his methods; violence and death his tools.”
Urban Gothic Page 1