Leon: Listen to this.
Weeble: Listening.
Leon: The acolytes are all converging on Manhattan which means, I think, that they know where the Edward guy is. Also, turns out those riders for the train that found the break in the line were found. Only one was alive and she was only hanging on by a thread. She was so hysterical they couldn’t get much out of her.
Weeble: Any word on who did it?
Leon: No ID, but I think it sounds like Jehovah. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was somewhere in Manhattan too. Something’s about to happen there, you know?
Weeble: Definitely. I’m seeing all kinds of stuff...
Leon: Wait! Shut up! Don’t give away your location!
Weeble: What do I care?
Leon: I’m not the only one always listening you know! There’re tons of people crazier than me out there.
Weeble: No, that’s where you’re wrong. I think you really are the only one always listening.
Leon: You stubborn son of a bitch. Nevermind. Do what you want.
Weeble: Well not now! Now you’ve got me all paranoid!
Dead Air
Leon: Well, I’m going to keep listening. And seriously, take care of yourself.
Weeble: Will do.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Chapter 52
Witticker’s mind swam with confusion as he stood shakily in the New York Public Library. He found himself at the back of a large hall filled with long wooden tables, each lit dimly with small candles invoking a sense of reverent calm. His entire focus was drawn to the series of flickering lights branching out from table to table. He wasn’t quite sure how the small candles were able to conjure their mystical ambience, but nevertheless; it was so.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.
*~~*
…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…
…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…
…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…
…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…
*~~*
And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.
*~~*
If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.
*~~*
“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.
*~~*
Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.
Except once…
*~~*
The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.
He began to reason that this train of thought, being directed solely on candle light instead of his location or his way of being there, could be considered, at the least, tertiary. His abrupt entry into the library from the advancing hoard of tribalistic city-dwellers had sent his normally observant and calculating mind into a dizzying storm. From the moment the door clicked shut from behind Witticker could only remember brief snapshots from the arrival at the library.
*~~*
…A grand marble atrium with expansive staircases framing each wall…
…Long wooden hallways with doors on each side peeking into large rooms with red curtains…
…Walls lined with portraits posed in rigid sitting positions…
…A large wooden door, only slightly cracked, being pulled open…
*~~*
And as if he had awoken from an afternoon nap that had gone on longer than planned Witticker suddenly found himself very aware in the table-filled hall. As his brain began to ask the questions appropriate to the situation he noticed Edward next to him in the room, leaning on the wall, staring down the aisles of chairs. Witticker had learned through experience that the subject of Edward’s focus was generally one of collective importance. He casually turned and looked in the same direction.
The tables were populated in general intervals, implying the feeling of a full room without each table being overly crowded. Those present participated in the traditional academic traditions. They poured over mounds of paper, drank steaming coffee from ceramic cups, talked in muffled tones while exaggerating emphatically with their arms, or, which seemed to be the most prevalent, all three at once. The specific locale of the room which Edward had been directing his gaze seemed to not only be of interest to him, but to most of the people in the immediate area.
The table in question was situated on the left side of the hall, from their vantage point, and was occupied on both sides by men and women dressed in a casually elegant way, the look of a chic think tank. A few of the men smoked on fat cigars while almost all the ladies held their sticks of tobacco on the end of thin plastic cylinders. Smoke rose from the area as if someone had poked holes in the table and it had begun to leak all the hazy after-product it had collected through the years.
The smokers on the sides of the table were directing their attention to the head smoker, a man at the head of the table who even Witticker found to be a visually engaging subject. He was very skinny with an average build, but, in comparison with his colleagues, appeared to be the largest at the table. His hair was blond and tossed about on his head as if it had been pulled in agony over a very serious question that presented no clear answer. He wore thin wire-rimmed glasses which sat nimbly at the end of his nose, implying that he was giving great thought and attention to whomever he was speaking with. His ensemble matched his physical attributes with bright khakis at the bottom, a black argyle sweater vest over a white button-up shirt in the middle, and done up in full with a loosely-fitted black tie on top. He was the picture of the idealized intellectual and, from his overly exaggerated mannerisms and condescending tone of voice, it appeared that he knew it.
The head smoker, as if suddenly aware that he was being watched from afar, glanced to the side of room where Edward and Witticker had been leaning for the past several minutes.
“Okay,” mumbled Edward, “this might get a little strange.”
Having already experienced several peculiar events in the past several days which Edward had remarked upon as being merely standard, Witticker became immediately nervous at the prospect of being greeted by any person worthy of being described as ‘strange’.
The skinny man rose from his sitting position and began to push through the aisles of chairs in Edward and Witticker’s direction. He moved with a light swagger, but his stature was slightly bent and, thus, the swagger communicated less of a confident stride and more of an old man’s gait. To Witticker’s surprise Edward left his resting position and began to walk towards the advancing man. Witticker quickly followed, dodging through the walkway littered with chairs.
He noticed as the two men drew nearer that the people at the tables had stopped their own gesturing and coffee drinking to turn and watch the imminent exchange. Finally, only a table’s length from the other, the two men stopped, glaring distastefully at one another.
*~~*
If the setting had been different the latent observer would have been easily convinced that a showdown between rival cowboys was about to occur and that a gunfight, very likely to the death, was imminent. However, in the locale of the library reading room, this was not as much implied.
*~~*
“What brings you back, Edward?” crowed the skinny man, his cold and sharp tone betraying his words, which might be considered welcoming if offered in a way that was even remotely warm or friendly.
“Oh, just business,” replied Edward, disregarding the overtly hostile nature of the skinny man, “I’m fine, by the way. How are you?”
“Don’t pretend to teach me any lessons in pleasantries,” snapped the man, “you people shouldn’t even be allowed to set foot in this place.”
Edward casually took a cigarette and lighter from his pants pocket and with a quick snap of his wrist brought flame to the small silver fire box. He placed the cigarette in his mouth and carefully lit it.
“But I am allowed,” mumbled Edward out of the corner of his mouth, “and that’s that, so how about you go back to your table and discuss something important or revolutionary. I’m sure you have a lot of that to do today.”
Edward took a step forward to pass the smoker. The skinny man quickly stopped him with a hand to his chest, his fingertips squashing the crease on Edward’s lapel.
“You don’t get to brush me off anymore,” returned the skinny man, “We’re not equals like before. I’m much more important now.”
Edward stared at the hand on his chest. Witticker, who had witnessed several supernatural feats of strength from Edward in the course of their time together, feared for the skinny man’s health.
“Okay, Horace” said Edward, taking a step back to where he had been, “what do you want? I’m rather busy, you see, so this’ll have to be quick.”
“You act so smug,” replied Horace, “but you’re nothing anymore.”
Edward chuckled at his adversary.
“That’s just another way of saying I’m everything. Just depends on how you look at it. Or had you forgotten all that? Or did you never get it in the first place?”
Edward walked closer to Horace, placing his cigarette in his right hand, and cupped his hands to his mouth, feigning a whisper.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot the policy of this place. Leaving out bits and pieces here and there. I’m sure you’ll forgive me. I’ve been away for a while. You know, actually trying to help the world instead of sitting at tables chatting about the sorry state of things.”
At this Edward took a long drag and blew a cloud of smoke in the face of his verbal opponent. He then turned and began to walk back towards where Witticker stood. As he watched Edward walk away the man named Horace looked to be frozen in volcanic rage, bubbling with violent tension. As if spurned on by a screaming mob Horace suddenly leapt towards Edward, releasing a guttural cry from the depths of his soul. Instinctively, Witticker grabbed Edward and pulled him out the immediate conflict as the crowd around them suddenly sprang into action, rushing to hold Horace back. The pasty man had quickly changed into a red-faced ball of anger, screaming and shouting as the crowd pulled him back from his violent desire.
“You’re nothing! A wasted shell! Nothing!”
The picture of a fistfight was far from anything that the halls of this reading room had ever seen and all of the spectators were captivated, excited by the possibility of witnessing any physical altercation. All, except one.
“Stop this at once!” bellowed a commanding voice from the opposite end of the hall.
*~~*
Malcolm Dietrichs was considered by most of the people that knew him well to be one of the smartest, if not thee smartest person in the living world. Those same people were also aware that he suffered no bullshit. He had held the position of senior librarian in the New York Public Library since a time well before the birth of most of its current residents due in no small part to his insistence on getting directly to the point.
His age had been a general fascination among the library populace for several years, most people placing him, on average, between ninety and one-hundred and five years old. However, the number was of little consequence as Dietrichs benefited from his extensive longevity, which commanded him respect in every sphere of his life.
In fact, the only catch of his long-lived life was the style and state of his appearance. Most residents could not remember a time that the aged book keeper had not appeared emaciated. Tottering through the halls on legs no thicker than a fresh sapling, his trunk suckled in upon itself from lack of any indulgence, his arms stretching nimbly from his body like bent broomstick handles. His face was long and sagging, the skin draping from his cheekbones as if hung like loose fabric. In contrast, however, his beard and hair, the only physical conditions still under his direct control, were always very well kept; having been combed and clipped to the extent that even the most discerning eye could not have found a white hair out of place.
Despite this aged physique, Dietrichs was still very much a part of the day-to-day operations in the library. He was regularly consulted in any forum for debate and his word, while not always substantial, was final. He was a well-respected director with an authoritative personality and, thusly, his decisions, judgments, and conclusions had never been questioned.
Except once…
*~~*
The crowd in the hall slowly turned their heads to the senior librarian who had just put an effective hold on all movement.
“Edward, my office,” rumbled Dietrichs, “five minutes.”
The dusty old man turned and left the hall. Edward grabbed Witticker and began shuffling through the tables as the remaining crowd shuffled back to their tables. The two darted down the thin walkway toward the door the senior librarian had just exited.
“Wait, what’s going on?” cried Witticker, running after Edward, “you’re not going to leave after what just happened back there?”
“Did you hear him?” shot back Edward, “Five minutes! Let’s go!”
Witticker jogged after Edward out of the reading hall and into yet another dark hallway into what seemed to be a series of dark hallways towards another in a series of undisclosed destinations.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Chapter 51
Found in 2212 scribbled on a wall opposite the entrance to the Macy’s Relief Center on the island of Manhattan
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Chapter 50
The afternoon sun poured from the sky onto the Manhattan Island as Witticker and Edward cautiously made their way through the ancient city streets. Witticker, having only experienced a fragment of the world in his travels, was pleasantly surprised with the recent lay of the land. The streets here, in comparison to those of the former cities he had seen, were still in working condition and relatively clear of debris and fauna. Very few buildings had given way to the passing of time, but, while still standing, showed clear signs of vacancy. Every window had shed its glass to provide more natural ventilation for the vegetation pushing out towards the sun. Birds flew overheard, darting from building to building, and twittering back and forth in celebration of their ready-made nests in the expansive metal trees.
Witticker and Edward’s travel was made much easier by the smooth walkways and as there was no foot traffic, nor people to make it, they were able to push through the city at a markedly speedy pace. As they walked Witticker played the part of tourist, stopping at every intersection, rapt in wonder at the seemingly endless rows of mammoth buildings and fantastic sights. Abandoned cars lined the roads, rusted through to the frames. Some were left in the midst of traffic, while others had been left parked, waiting for the world of people to return. Every corner produced a new store front with magnificent signs advertising a product forgotten by the modern world. Every street entrance appeared to have been forced in and each store taken for most of its contents, leaving little incentive to explore further than the outer edge for any food or equipment.
As the two travelers drudged through the city Witticker became acutely aware that he would be in a particularly regrettable state if he were ever to find himself alone or lost amidst these crowds of buildings. He turned to ask Edward about the possibility of this very predicament when he noticed that his companion had left his side and climbed atop a rusting heap next to a large metal pole at an intersecting street corner.
“Hey,” yelled Witticker, his voice echoing generously through every hollow space, “what are you doing?”
Edward waved him off and reached up to a thin piece of black metal jutting out from the edge of the large metal pole. He rubbed at the thin scrap with his hand revealing the large letters ‘PAR’ beneath the black film that had covered it. After studying the letters he jumped down from the car and slowly sauntered back towards Witticker.
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Edward, “I was just checking to see that we’re going the right way. Can’t believe those signs have held up as long as they have. Most everything else was taken out of here a long time ago. I guess it just goes to show that a system that can contribute a helpful service still commands a little respect.”
Witticker, though utterly confused by the meaning of the speech, nodded his head in agreement.
“We appear to be on the corner of Park and 50th,” said Edward pointing down each street as he named them.
“Great,” answered Witticker blandly, “What does that mean?”
Edward shot Witticker a sly smile through a furrowed brow.
“Sorry, I rarely travel with anyone. I’ll try to keep it simpler. In other words, we’re on the right road.”
He pointed down one of the large roads.
“Right road to where?”
“Ah,” replied Edward thoughtfully, “I keep forgetting you don’t know. I didn’t tell you before because it’s not exactly…well, if we’d been stopped…or you let it slip…it was just better that you didn’t know so nobody else could know.”
“Sure,” sighed Witticker, resigned to his fate of ignorance.
“We’re going to the only institution, I mean, foundation that survived the Great Decline. In fact, one of the only organized centers of culture still in existence in the Western Hemisphere. The New York Public Library.”
“Oh,” responded Witticker, injecting a hint of interest in his voice as he was sure that it was what Edward had wanted to hear.
*~~*
As the companions continued their trek through the city there was very little difference from sight to sight. Street corners and building fronts began to blend together into a collage of masonry and fauna. Suddenly, as they rounded yet another indistinguishable corner, a building came into view looking much more distinctive than the ones surrounding it.
It began with an open plaza from the street bridging into the majestic stairs. Two granite creatures, very proud and ancient beings, were set upon large stone pedestals flanking the stairway to the building. The stairs led up to three large archways housing three very intact glass windows. Pillars, made smooth by the wind and waters of time, were distributed evenly between each archway. Light glowed attractively from inside the building, luring the eye like a siren call.
“This is it,” said Edward as they approached the foot of the stairs to the massive structure.
“Yeah, I guessed as much.”
“Listen, if you don’t mind, at the door, let me do the talking. This might not be as easy as…”
BOM!
Edward’s voice was drowned out by a thunderous metallic sound coming from end of the street at their rear, perpendicular to the stair entrance. Both men looked towards the sound to see a crowd of strangely dressed individuals standing less than a block away. Each was arrayed in an assortment of decaying rags that hung from their bodies like extra appendages. They stood in hunched stances and held vast assortments of items in their hands ranging from large sticks to metal poles, all of which jutted out in sharp, menacing ends. One of the larger members of the crowd stepped forward holding a large cylinder. He raised a small hammer and slammed it against the cylinder.
BOM!
The sound crashed through the streets in every direction. Witticker jumped back at the sound as it ran through the space around them.
“We need to be very careful,” murmured Edward.
Witticker didn’t answer; his full attention spent on the crowd that had begun to advance from their position.
“Don’t move,” whispered Edward.
The people shifted together as if bound by some invisible chain, walking in similar step and stature. As they drew closer Witticker could see that their physical appearance resembled that of primal beings. Hair long and matted. Skin dark with dirt. Some wore bits of jewelry and others had items, such as cans or bags, hanging from their backs, tied with rope. The drum beater raised his hand and the crowd stopped. He stared at the two strangers, looking at each of them from top to bottom as if trying to figure out what kind of animal he had discovered.
Edward stood completely still, his forehead glistening with fresh droplets of sweat. Witticker fidgeted with stress, visibly shaking with tension. The anxiety ran its way up through his body and prompted his mouth to open and speak, but he was cut off by a guttural shout from the drum beater. The crowd joined their leader and let out a cacophonous yell that rang out in the open plaza. The drum beater began to beat his cylinder wildly, his arm flailing with reckless abandon.
BOM! BOM! BOM!
The native crowd ran at the two men. Upon their abrupt advance Edward grabbed Witticker and leapt up towards the building. Both men bounded up the stairs, past the granite guardians, and were met finally with a wall of doors. The sounds of their pursuers could be heard behind them as they clinked and clattered up the stairs, their metal accoutrements rattling against the stone. Witticker tried the doors and finding them locked pounded the wooden panels desperately. Edward turned back towards the clattering advance behind him. He drew his sword and held it steadily at his side.
Bellows and screeches came up to the foot of the building and suddenly went quiet. Witticker, amazed at the sudden silence, turned to the crowd to see them all frozen, staring at one of their members fallen on the stair, an arrow sticking from his side. The whole group stood motionless, looks of horror painted across the mass of natives. As if pricked with pins the people quickly sprang to life, scanning the building tops around them. The drum beater let out a deep bellow and pointed up to one of the taller buildings looming across the street. Several dark figures stood jumping and screaming from the rooftop, holding their bows high in the sky.
Witticker stood as frozen as his pursuers had just been when he was suddenly pulled backwards into the building. The door which had been locked stood open and Edward was pulling him inside. The two men fled inside the building and the door snapped shut behind them leaving the tribal hunters to their next pursuit.
Witticker and Edward’s travel was made much easier by the smooth walkways and as there was no foot traffic, nor people to make it, they were able to push through the city at a markedly speedy pace. As they walked Witticker played the part of tourist, stopping at every intersection, rapt in wonder at the seemingly endless rows of mammoth buildings and fantastic sights. Abandoned cars lined the roads, rusted through to the frames. Some were left in the midst of traffic, while others had been left parked, waiting for the world of people to return. Every corner produced a new store front with magnificent signs advertising a product forgotten by the modern world. Every street entrance appeared to have been forced in and each store taken for most of its contents, leaving little incentive to explore further than the outer edge for any food or equipment.
As the two travelers drudged through the city Witticker became acutely aware that he would be in a particularly regrettable state if he were ever to find himself alone or lost amidst these crowds of buildings. He turned to ask Edward about the possibility of this very predicament when he noticed that his companion had left his side and climbed atop a rusting heap next to a large metal pole at an intersecting street corner.
“Hey,” yelled Witticker, his voice echoing generously through every hollow space, “what are you doing?”
Edward waved him off and reached up to a thin piece of black metal jutting out from the edge of the large metal pole. He rubbed at the thin scrap with his hand revealing the large letters ‘PAR’ beneath the black film that had covered it. After studying the letters he jumped down from the car and slowly sauntered back towards Witticker.
“Keep your voice down,” hissed Edward, “I was just checking to see that we’re going the right way. Can’t believe those signs have held up as long as they have. Most everything else was taken out of here a long time ago. I guess it just goes to show that a system that can contribute a helpful service still commands a little respect.”
Witticker, though utterly confused by the meaning of the speech, nodded his head in agreement.
“We appear to be on the corner of Park and 50th,” said Edward pointing down each street as he named them.
“Great,” answered Witticker blandly, “What does that mean?”
Edward shot Witticker a sly smile through a furrowed brow.
“Sorry, I rarely travel with anyone. I’ll try to keep it simpler. In other words, we’re on the right road.”
He pointed down one of the large roads.
“Right road to where?”
“Ah,” replied Edward thoughtfully, “I keep forgetting you don’t know. I didn’t tell you before because it’s not exactly…well, if we’d been stopped…or you let it slip…it was just better that you didn’t know so nobody else could know.”
“Sure,” sighed Witticker, resigned to his fate of ignorance.
“We’re going to the only institution, I mean, foundation that survived the Great Decline. In fact, one of the only organized centers of culture still in existence in the Western Hemisphere. The New York Public Library.”
“Oh,” responded Witticker, injecting a hint of interest in his voice as he was sure that it was what Edward had wanted to hear.
*~~*
As the companions continued their trek through the city there was very little difference from sight to sight. Street corners and building fronts began to blend together into a collage of masonry and fauna. Suddenly, as they rounded yet another indistinguishable corner, a building came into view looking much more distinctive than the ones surrounding it.
It began with an open plaza from the street bridging into the majestic stairs. Two granite creatures, very proud and ancient beings, were set upon large stone pedestals flanking the stairway to the building. The stairs led up to three large archways housing three very intact glass windows. Pillars, made smooth by the wind and waters of time, were distributed evenly between each archway. Light glowed attractively from inside the building, luring the eye like a siren call.
“This is it,” said Edward as they approached the foot of the stairs to the massive structure.
“Yeah, I guessed as much.”
“Listen, if you don’t mind, at the door, let me do the talking. This might not be as easy as…”
BOM!
Edward’s voice was drowned out by a thunderous metallic sound coming from end of the street at their rear, perpendicular to the stair entrance. Both men looked towards the sound to see a crowd of strangely dressed individuals standing less than a block away. Each was arrayed in an assortment of decaying rags that hung from their bodies like extra appendages. They stood in hunched stances and held vast assortments of items in their hands ranging from large sticks to metal poles, all of which jutted out in sharp, menacing ends. One of the larger members of the crowd stepped forward holding a large cylinder. He raised a small hammer and slammed it against the cylinder.
BOM!
The sound crashed through the streets in every direction. Witticker jumped back at the sound as it ran through the space around them.
“We need to be very careful,” murmured Edward.
Witticker didn’t answer; his full attention spent on the crowd that had begun to advance from their position.
“Don’t move,” whispered Edward.
The people shifted together as if bound by some invisible chain, walking in similar step and stature. As they drew closer Witticker could see that their physical appearance resembled that of primal beings. Hair long and matted. Skin dark with dirt. Some wore bits of jewelry and others had items, such as cans or bags, hanging from their backs, tied with rope. The drum beater raised his hand and the crowd stopped. He stared at the two strangers, looking at each of them from top to bottom as if trying to figure out what kind of animal he had discovered.
Edward stood completely still, his forehead glistening with fresh droplets of sweat. Witticker fidgeted with stress, visibly shaking with tension. The anxiety ran its way up through his body and prompted his mouth to open and speak, but he was cut off by a guttural shout from the drum beater. The crowd joined their leader and let out a cacophonous yell that rang out in the open plaza. The drum beater began to beat his cylinder wildly, his arm flailing with reckless abandon.
BOM! BOM! BOM!
The native crowd ran at the two men. Upon their abrupt advance Edward grabbed Witticker and leapt up towards the building. Both men bounded up the stairs, past the granite guardians, and were met finally with a wall of doors. The sounds of their pursuers could be heard behind them as they clinked and clattered up the stairs, their metal accoutrements rattling against the stone. Witticker tried the doors and finding them locked pounded the wooden panels desperately. Edward turned back towards the clattering advance behind him. He drew his sword and held it steadily at his side.
Bellows and screeches came up to the foot of the building and suddenly went quiet. Witticker, amazed at the sudden silence, turned to the crowd to see them all frozen, staring at one of their members fallen on the stair, an arrow sticking from his side. The whole group stood motionless, looks of horror painted across the mass of natives. As if pricked with pins the people quickly sprang to life, scanning the building tops around them. The drum beater let out a deep bellow and pointed up to one of the taller buildings looming across the street. Several dark figures stood jumping and screaming from the rooftop, holding their bows high in the sky.
Witticker stood as frozen as his pursuers had just been when he was suddenly pulled backwards into the building. The door which had been locked stood open and Edward was pulling him inside. The two men fled inside the building and the door snapped shut behind them leaving the tribal hunters to their next pursuit.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Chapter 49
He’d been finished for several hours, but Arnold Cavenstein could not shake the feeling that he was inevitably bound for misfortune. Not until these people, these doomsayers, left his apartment would he see any chance of improvement on the situation. He sat crookedly, slumped upon a dirty stove in his kitchen staring out the window, pondering his state of affairs. The view looked out across a city landscape which had just emerged from its evening slumber. The sun peeked over the horizon casting shadows over toppled buildings, bathing the land in light. Arnold sipped gingerly at a cup of coffee that he had only moments ago reheated from a surplus left from his guests’ dinner.
As he sipped and swirled the coffee in his mouth his thoughts cycled dramatically from the events of the past two days to the foreseeable intentions of the dining party. While they had said in their original letter that they wished to ‘leave him to himself’ once they had concluded their affairs his paranoia had begun to get the better of him. He suspected now that it would not be as easy as it had originally been intended.
The cup of coffee shook in his hand as he brought it to his lips. His other hand rose to steady it and, with much concentration, willed the quivering limb into submission.
A light bell sounded from the next room prompting a hasty leap from the stove. Mr. Cavenstein flew into the room with a flurry of energy, but his face betrayed him, portraying the desperation of a man to the gallows, wishing for a pardon in his final hour. The four table members sat tall in their chairs, feigning alertness, but obviously tussled from their long engagement. Roland, as had become the routine, spoke first.
“You can clear the table now, Arnold. Thank you. We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Arnold nodded and quickly set to work around the table.
“Shouldn’t be,” mumbled Simon leaning back in his chair. He let out an elongated sigh as he ran both of his hands through his thick black hair. His hair, which had been so stiff and orderly at his arrival, had begun to stick out in awkward angles. This was due to his proclivity of running his fingers through it in any moments of mild stress, of which there had been many through the stretch of the past two days.
“Aren’t any of you even the least bit curious as to what is taking so long? We’ve been in this bloody room for god knows how long with nearly no word from anyone! I’m ready to go and take care of this myself!”
At this both Roland and Ms. J shot Simon a cold glare.
“What?” growled the giant, “where’s the harm in that? Sweet Christ! All any of you want to do is talk! Talk, talk, talk! Well, I’ve had it.”
Simon stood up from the table and began to walk towards the door.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Roland quietly.
“Do what?” said Simon spinning in his tracks. He approached the table as if he were advancing on his prey, coiling up for a full spring. Mr. Cavenstein noticed the advance and backed against the wall, moving out of the line between the two men.
“You know we’re waiting for a ghost, right? He’s a coward! He crawls in the shadows, never looks anyone in the eye. Probably’s run off and left us to…”
“Now that’s enough,” bellowed Victor from his normally quiet side of the table. “You’d be smart to choose your words more carefully. Jehovah may be a bit unorthodox for your tastes, but he is a faultless technician, which is more than I can say for some at this table. He is entirely thorough, never doing more or less than has been requested.”
*~~*
Twenty-four years earlier…
Three men dressed in dark suits sit inside the back of a van headed towards an undisclosed situation. The men sit facing each other in a triangular formation and hunched forward to keep their voices low. The largest of the three men commands the attention of the other two, being both greater in size and volume.
“Bloody bumpy roads,” growls the large man in a thick accent, “thought this place was being looked after.”
The other two men murmur in agreement. One of the smaller men reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to each man, who both silently decline. He retrieves a small lighter from his coat pocket and snaps it to life.
“Any idea of what we’re meant to be expectin’ out here?” mumbles the small man through the corner of his mouth, the other busy with a freshly lit cigarette.
“Just some nobody in the sticks who’s forgotten he’s not in charge. A real asshole, if you ask me. Knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told that someone’s going to come and rap his knuckles, but goes ahead and does it anyway. People like that just get at me in the worst way. Just like that guy we pulled in last week. The one with the long hair holed up in that shithole of an apartment. He kept yelling about how they couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. Why sign up then? Just do as you’re told. Or that preacher hiding out in the warehouse. He looked surprised! Surprised! Couldn’t understand why we were bringing him in and all that! Then why’d you run and hide you old fool?”
The large man throws his arms in the air in disgust. As he brings them back down he catches his hands in his black hair, running his fingers down the length of his scalp.
“I’m fed up with’em. These people are useless. I expect it’s time for a change and if the people on top aren’t ready I’ll be ready for them.”
The van begins to slow down and the smoking man quickly dabs out his cigarette on the floor. The van stops and the back door swings open. The scene is idyllic, an open countryside cut in two by a narrow road. A small house sits on one side of the road, a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard. Wind whips by the open door of van as the men rise to leave.
The large man hops out of the van first and turns to the other two. His eyes light on them with a fierce intensity.
“Just follow my lead.”
*~~*
“As for your restlessness,” muttered the old man, “remember that you were called here for your past experience with the subject at hand, period. You may see what we’re doing here as a waste of time, but I assure you that as you grow older you will discover the value of words over action. Now sit down.”
Simon hesitated for a moment before treading back to his seat. At the same time Arnold slowly left his position from the wall and gathered the remainder of the dirty plates from his guests. The table was now empty save for a small centerpiece of spices and the telephone that had been requested by the party days before. Arnold pushed through the door to the kitchen when the phone on the table began to ring. As the kitchen door closed he quickly laid the dishes on the stove and put his ear to door. He needed any reassurance that this nightmare would eventually end and he hoped that this call might be it.
Through the door the hushed voices of his guests were barely audible save for Roland who, sitting closest to the kitchen, could be heard in spurts.
“You found…”
“Where?”
“…need to get in…”
“…don’t waste…”
“…borrowed time…”
The phone clicked down on its carrier and Arnold Cavenstein slid away from the door. He stood and returned to his position on the stove. He picked up his now room-temperature cup of coffee and took a long draw from the cup. As he churned the liquid in his mouth his gaze was once again pulled to the landscape outside his window. As he gaped at the magnificent view he wondered where all these fantastic events were occurring and what was compelling everyone to be so drawn into events that could only be reached by telephone.
As he sipped and swirled the coffee in his mouth his thoughts cycled dramatically from the events of the past two days to the foreseeable intentions of the dining party. While they had said in their original letter that they wished to ‘leave him to himself’ once they had concluded their affairs his paranoia had begun to get the better of him. He suspected now that it would not be as easy as it had originally been intended.
The cup of coffee shook in his hand as he brought it to his lips. His other hand rose to steady it and, with much concentration, willed the quivering limb into submission.
A light bell sounded from the next room prompting a hasty leap from the stove. Mr. Cavenstein flew into the room with a flurry of energy, but his face betrayed him, portraying the desperation of a man to the gallows, wishing for a pardon in his final hour. The four table members sat tall in their chairs, feigning alertness, but obviously tussled from their long engagement. Roland, as had become the routine, spoke first.
“You can clear the table now, Arnold. Thank you. We shouldn’t be much longer.”
Arnold nodded and quickly set to work around the table.
“Shouldn’t be,” mumbled Simon leaning back in his chair. He let out an elongated sigh as he ran both of his hands through his thick black hair. His hair, which had been so stiff and orderly at his arrival, had begun to stick out in awkward angles. This was due to his proclivity of running his fingers through it in any moments of mild stress, of which there had been many through the stretch of the past two days.
“Aren’t any of you even the least bit curious as to what is taking so long? We’ve been in this bloody room for god knows how long with nearly no word from anyone! I’m ready to go and take care of this myself!”
At this both Roland and Ms. J shot Simon a cold glare.
“What?” growled the giant, “where’s the harm in that? Sweet Christ! All any of you want to do is talk! Talk, talk, talk! Well, I’ve had it.”
Simon stood up from the table and began to walk towards the door.
“I wouldn’t do that,” said Roland quietly.
“Do what?” said Simon spinning in his tracks. He approached the table as if he were advancing on his prey, coiling up for a full spring. Mr. Cavenstein noticed the advance and backed against the wall, moving out of the line between the two men.
“You know we’re waiting for a ghost, right? He’s a coward! He crawls in the shadows, never looks anyone in the eye. Probably’s run off and left us to…”
“Now that’s enough,” bellowed Victor from his normally quiet side of the table. “You’d be smart to choose your words more carefully. Jehovah may be a bit unorthodox for your tastes, but he is a faultless technician, which is more than I can say for some at this table. He is entirely thorough, never doing more or less than has been requested.”
*~~*
Twenty-four years earlier…
Three men dressed in dark suits sit inside the back of a van headed towards an undisclosed situation. The men sit facing each other in a triangular formation and hunched forward to keep their voices low. The largest of the three men commands the attention of the other two, being both greater in size and volume.
“Bloody bumpy roads,” growls the large man in a thick accent, “thought this place was being looked after.”
The other two men murmur in agreement. One of the smaller men reaches in his coat pocket and pulls out a package of cigarettes. He offers one to each man, who both silently decline. He retrieves a small lighter from his coat pocket and snaps it to life.
“Any idea of what we’re meant to be expectin’ out here?” mumbles the small man through the corner of his mouth, the other busy with a freshly lit cigarette.
“Just some nobody in the sticks who’s forgotten he’s not in charge. A real asshole, if you ask me. Knows that if he doesn’t do as he’s told that someone’s going to come and rap his knuckles, but goes ahead and does it anyway. People like that just get at me in the worst way. Just like that guy we pulled in last week. The one with the long hair holed up in that shithole of an apartment. He kept yelling about how they couldn’t make him do anything he didn’t want to. Why sign up then? Just do as you’re told. Or that preacher hiding out in the warehouse. He looked surprised! Surprised! Couldn’t understand why we were bringing him in and all that! Then why’d you run and hide you old fool?”
The large man throws his arms in the air in disgust. As he brings them back down he catches his hands in his black hair, running his fingers down the length of his scalp.
“I’m fed up with’em. These people are useless. I expect it’s time for a change and if the people on top aren’t ready I’ll be ready for them.”
The van begins to slow down and the smoking man quickly dabs out his cigarette on the floor. The van stops and the back door swings open. The scene is idyllic, an open countryside cut in two by a narrow road. A small house sits on one side of the road, a tire swing hanging from a tree in the front yard. Wind whips by the open door of van as the men rise to leave.
The large man hops out of the van first and turns to the other two. His eyes light on them with a fierce intensity.
“Just follow my lead.”
*~~*
“As for your restlessness,” muttered the old man, “remember that you were called here for your past experience with the subject at hand, period. You may see what we’re doing here as a waste of time, but I assure you that as you grow older you will discover the value of words over action. Now sit down.”
Simon hesitated for a moment before treading back to his seat. At the same time Arnold slowly left his position from the wall and gathered the remainder of the dirty plates from his guests. The table was now empty save for a small centerpiece of spices and the telephone that had been requested by the party days before. Arnold pushed through the door to the kitchen when the phone on the table began to ring. As the kitchen door closed he quickly laid the dishes on the stove and put his ear to door. He needed any reassurance that this nightmare would eventually end and he hoped that this call might be it.
Through the door the hushed voices of his guests were barely audible save for Roland who, sitting closest to the kitchen, could be heard in spurts.
“You found…”
“Where?”
“…need to get in…”
“…don’t waste…”
“…borrowed time…”
The phone clicked down on its carrier and Arnold Cavenstein slid away from the door. He stood and returned to his position on the stove. He picked up his now room-temperature cup of coffee and took a long draw from the cup. As he churned the liquid in his mouth his gaze was once again pulled to the landscape outside his window. As he gaped at the magnificent view he wondered where all these fantastic events were occurring and what was compelling everyone to be so drawn into events that could only be reached by telephone.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Chapter 48
Witticker spent the remaining hours of daylight creeping after Edward through the ruins of the Queens borough towards an undisclosed location. As the very last moments of sunlight lingered on the horizon the two men arrived at the edge of a large river, flanked on both sides by crumbling stone walls. Across the water stood the remains of a grand and ancient city, towering in antiquity. Out of a nest of trees skyscrapers, remaining as monuments to the past achievements of man, cast massive shadows over the land.
As the two explorers walked the length of the river several small fires began to crop up on each side of the river. The flames were accompanied by small groups of native people, huddling close together. When the last glint of light had fallen from the sky’s edge Edward stopped and stopped to his knees. He waved his hand to the ground, motioning for Witticker to join him in the position.
“We need to be very careful until we see the sun again,” whispered Edward. “The natives of this area are mostly peaceful, but some can be very dangerous. They’re called city people. They are very territorial and are likely to overreact if they feel threatened.”
Edward pointed to a large bridge downriver in the direction that they had been walking.
“We’ll stay there tonight,” mumbled Edward quietly, “should be safe.”
Witticker nodded and followed him in silence.
*~~*
When they finally came upon the bridge they found a set of wooden platforms that had been systematically layered to replace the decaying set of stairs leading up to the bridge. Both men climbed up the wooden shelves and walked across the bridge until they were above the mid-section of the river.
“Alright,” said Edward, his voice returning to a normal speaking volume. “This should be good tonight. The tribes on either side of the river have never been able to successfully claim this bridge or the river as their own, so we should be on relatively neutral ground. We’ll stay here ‘til morning.”
Edward sat down on the metal frame of the bridge and leaned back on the small satchel hidden so deftly under his robe. He reached into his pockets and pulled out several rolls he had confiscated so long ago from the morning in Henry Dodgson’s dining room. He threw one to Witticker and tucked another in his mouth. Witticker laughed as he looked at the stale roll.
“I thought you were crazy when you took these from that old man.”
Edward laughed and shook his head.
“Crazy is a matter of perspective. You might want to keep that in mind in the next few days. You’re going to hear and see some pretty bizarre things.”
“I don’t doubt it” said Witticker, his voice completely devoid of sarcasm. He bit into his roll and, with much effort, gnawed off a small piece to work in his mouth. He looked down the river at the fires twinkling on both sides, as if lighting the way for the water to follow.
“Where did these people come from?” asked Witticker quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘where did they come from’?” responded Edward as if he had been slapped across the face. “They aren’t migrants. They’ve been here for centuries!”
“No,” said Witticker, realizing his verbal misstep, “I guess I meant, how did they become like this? So primal.”
“Ah,” answered Edward in a more thoughtful tone, “that’s a different story.”
He stopped for a moment and took another bite from his roll.
“It’s hard to know where to begin, but let’s see. I suppose it’s important to know that this area was subject to some of the worst fallout of the Great Decline. The city was highly populated in the years prior to the Decline and, when the economy sank, this region was host to more than its fair share of violent incidents. These people,” said Edward gesturing across the landscape in front of and behind them, “are the products of those times. They are the ancestors, like you and I, of the pre-Decline citizens, but they are not as accurate a reflection of their predecessors as you and I are. The city-dwellers of the past were as civilized as what you would expect from most other people. These people have, in most cases, been subject to the great horrors of this world and have simply adapted to survive.”
Both men sat in contemplative silence, staring down the length of the river. Witticker’s mind swam in the sea of information, not only from the most recent conversation, but from every conversation he had ever had with Edward.
“How is it you know so much about all this?” posed Witticker, “Not that I mind, of course, but you seem to have a pretty intimate knowledge of, well, everything.”
“Bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?” parried Edward who had finished his roll and was reclining against a thick steel girder.
“Not really,” snapped back Witticker, his discontent with the response well-voiced.
“Well, I was, at one point, taken to task on learning a bit of history. I’m just trying to put that time spent studying to good use.”
*~~*
The lights along the river slowly dimmed until they had all but gone out. The moon shone over the river banks, lighting an ancient scene of tribes returning to the city forest.
“So,” said Witticker after some time had passed, “where is it that we’re heading to over there? There doesn’t seem to be much in this city but leftovers.”
Edward shook his head and laughed as he turned to look across the island they were bound for.
“There’s a lot more going on in there than you’d imagine. Believe me.”
He looked back toward Witticker and yawned.
“And as for where we’re going,” he said with a knowing smile, “that’ll be a surprise for the morning.”
*~~*
Witticker sat awake on the bridge several hours after Edward had fallen asleep. He found himself surprisingly restless and had turned to sifting through the contents of his white box to pass the moments before sleep would take him. Over the course of their journey Edward had taught him how to properly access it and he had since become rather adept at poking through the white device when there was a spare moment.
At first the interface of the white box seemed rather simple, only offering the options of ‘visual’ or ‘aural’, but each spilled out into subsequent options and each of those doing the same implying an endless amount of functions. The general layout of the machine inferred that it was a memory recording device, but the submission policy was not prohibited to the user. It appeared to be possible for several people to add to the contents of the white box with only the owner having access to every item in the device.
Under ‘aural’ Witticker had found vast catalogues of music, hours of recorded speeches, and several miscellaneous sounds from nature. After listening to a random sampling of the music he returned to the beginning screen and selected the ‘visual’ option. There was a wealth of information including what appeared to be a small library, alphabetized by classification. Each label provided the title of the written work, the name of the author, and the date of submission into the white box. He sifted through the titles, unconsciously filtering, until one entry caught his eye, causing his heart to skip a beat faster.
“A Dream within a Dream”
Brisby Jacobs
March 25th, 2188
The light from the white box glowed around Witticker as he peered at the information on the screen, surprised by the significance he felt from the less-than-remarkable combination of words.
As the two explorers walked the length of the river several small fires began to crop up on each side of the river. The flames were accompanied by small groups of native people, huddling close together. When the last glint of light had fallen from the sky’s edge Edward stopped and stopped to his knees. He waved his hand to the ground, motioning for Witticker to join him in the position.
“We need to be very careful until we see the sun again,” whispered Edward. “The natives of this area are mostly peaceful, but some can be very dangerous. They’re called city people. They are very territorial and are likely to overreact if they feel threatened.”
Edward pointed to a large bridge downriver in the direction that they had been walking.
“We’ll stay there tonight,” mumbled Edward quietly, “should be safe.”
Witticker nodded and followed him in silence.
*~~*
When they finally came upon the bridge they found a set of wooden platforms that had been systematically layered to replace the decaying set of stairs leading up to the bridge. Both men climbed up the wooden shelves and walked across the bridge until they were above the mid-section of the river.
“Alright,” said Edward, his voice returning to a normal speaking volume. “This should be good tonight. The tribes on either side of the river have never been able to successfully claim this bridge or the river as their own, so we should be on relatively neutral ground. We’ll stay here ‘til morning.”
Edward sat down on the metal frame of the bridge and leaned back on the small satchel hidden so deftly under his robe. He reached into his pockets and pulled out several rolls he had confiscated so long ago from the morning in Henry Dodgson’s dining room. He threw one to Witticker and tucked another in his mouth. Witticker laughed as he looked at the stale roll.
“I thought you were crazy when you took these from that old man.”
Edward laughed and shook his head.
“Crazy is a matter of perspective. You might want to keep that in mind in the next few days. You’re going to hear and see some pretty bizarre things.”
“I don’t doubt it” said Witticker, his voice completely devoid of sarcasm. He bit into his roll and, with much effort, gnawed off a small piece to work in his mouth. He looked down the river at the fires twinkling on both sides, as if lighting the way for the water to follow.
“Where did these people come from?” asked Witticker quietly.
“What do you mean, ‘where did they come from’?” responded Edward as if he had been slapped across the face. “They aren’t migrants. They’ve been here for centuries!”
“No,” said Witticker, realizing his verbal misstep, “I guess I meant, how did they become like this? So primal.”
“Ah,” answered Edward in a more thoughtful tone, “that’s a different story.”
He stopped for a moment and took another bite from his roll.
“It’s hard to know where to begin, but let’s see. I suppose it’s important to know that this area was subject to some of the worst fallout of the Great Decline. The city was highly populated in the years prior to the Decline and, when the economy sank, this region was host to more than its fair share of violent incidents. These people,” said Edward gesturing across the landscape in front of and behind them, “are the products of those times. They are the ancestors, like you and I, of the pre-Decline citizens, but they are not as accurate a reflection of their predecessors as you and I are. The city-dwellers of the past were as civilized as what you would expect from most other people. These people have, in most cases, been subject to the great horrors of this world and have simply adapted to survive.”
Both men sat in contemplative silence, staring down the length of the river. Witticker’s mind swam in the sea of information, not only from the most recent conversation, but from every conversation he had ever had with Edward.
“How is it you know so much about all this?” posed Witticker, “Not that I mind, of course, but you seem to have a pretty intimate knowledge of, well, everything.”
“Bit of an overstatement, don’t you think?” parried Edward who had finished his roll and was reclining against a thick steel girder.
“Not really,” snapped back Witticker, his discontent with the response well-voiced.
“Well, I was, at one point, taken to task on learning a bit of history. I’m just trying to put that time spent studying to good use.”
*~~*
The lights along the river slowly dimmed until they had all but gone out. The moon shone over the river banks, lighting an ancient scene of tribes returning to the city forest.
“So,” said Witticker after some time had passed, “where is it that we’re heading to over there? There doesn’t seem to be much in this city but leftovers.”
Edward shook his head and laughed as he turned to look across the island they were bound for.
“There’s a lot more going on in there than you’d imagine. Believe me.”
He looked back toward Witticker and yawned.
“And as for where we’re going,” he said with a knowing smile, “that’ll be a surprise for the morning.”
*~~*
Witticker sat awake on the bridge several hours after Edward had fallen asleep. He found himself surprisingly restless and had turned to sifting through the contents of his white box to pass the moments before sleep would take him. Over the course of their journey Edward had taught him how to properly access it and he had since become rather adept at poking through the white device when there was a spare moment.
At first the interface of the white box seemed rather simple, only offering the options of ‘visual’ or ‘aural’, but each spilled out into subsequent options and each of those doing the same implying an endless amount of functions. The general layout of the machine inferred that it was a memory recording device, but the submission policy was not prohibited to the user. It appeared to be possible for several people to add to the contents of the white box with only the owner having access to every item in the device.
Under ‘aural’ Witticker had found vast catalogues of music, hours of recorded speeches, and several miscellaneous sounds from nature. After listening to a random sampling of the music he returned to the beginning screen and selected the ‘visual’ option. There was a wealth of information including what appeared to be a small library, alphabetized by classification. Each label provided the title of the written work, the name of the author, and the date of submission into the white box. He sifted through the titles, unconsciously filtering, until one entry caught his eye, causing his heart to skip a beat faster.
“A Dream within a Dream”
Brisby Jacobs
March 25th, 2188
The light from the white box glowed around Witticker as he peered at the information on the screen, surprised by the significance he felt from the less-than-remarkable combination of words.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Chapter 47
“Do you accept a higher power?” chanted a man from a raised pulpit in front of a large cathedral. The question echoed from the vaulted ceiling through the ornately decorated wooden walls and down to the marble floors.
The congregation seated in wooden pews filling the length of the massive room responded with a mechanical ‘amen’ in staggered unison.
“Offer your prayers to that power now in this moment of silence,” bellowed the lector.
As the congregation bowed their heads Witticker became immediately visible in the crowd through his ignorance of the ritual. He panned from side to side, marveling at the massive audience all bowed down in collective mumbling. Suddenly he felt a sharp jab in his left side.
“Put your head down,” hissed Edward from his bowed position.
A cacophony of ‘Shh!’ echoed around the two men as Witticker quickly bent his head to the pew in front of him. He enjoyed the cool wood on his forehead as he carefully balanced himself against it. He closed his eyes and took in the silence of the room as his mind wandered to the events preceding their arrival at the church.
*~~*
Two hours earlier…
11:30 A.M. – Witticker and Edward exit a train in the borough of Brooklyn.
11:40 A.M. – The wave of arriving travelers are herded three miles from the train station to the nearest distrip, Braganza Plaza, in the borough of Queens.
12:30 P.M. – Upon arrival at Braganza Plaza the travelers disperse in several different directions.
12:45 P.M. – A bell rings in the plaza.
12:46 P.M. –Witticker, unaware of the custom of the area, is swept up into a crowd entering the Great Cathedral.
12:52 P.M. – Edward finds Witticker in the cathedral.
1:00 P.M. – The service begins.
*~~*
The silence in the room was broken by an explosion of sound from the organ in the front of the cathedral. Its sound, while emanating from the front, seemed to encompass the whole room. The congregation rose and sang in unison.
This God, in prayer and song,
Will pardon any slight or wrong
Committed by ourselves in word or deed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
Our lives, in sin and pain,
Are only trod and toiled in vain
Unless we come to God with prayerful need.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
We fear not death or dark
For on us God hath placed his mark.
A sign unseen, but through our souls are freed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
As the congregation sang each verse became louder and more emphatic than the one preceding. The hymn finished with an extended organ finale followed by several shouts of indecipherable, but fully convicted, words of praise from the worshippers. As the people slowly fell to their pews Witticker turned to Edward.
“What is going on? Where are we?”
“Just shut up,” whispered Edward keeping his face towards the front of the cathedral. “Shut up and keep your face to the front. This is not the time.”
Witticker leaned closer to respond, but thought better of it and sat back facing the front. He reasoned that Edward had been well-versed in the local customs thus far and it would be more than presumptuous to assume he was wrong in this circumstance.
As he began to listen he noticed that the lector had been replaced by a very tall and skinny man draped in black and green robes. His voice was remarkably low and rumbled through the cathedral as if funneled through a large megaphone. The priest-like figure began his speech by chanting in a monotone drawl, occasionally rising or dropping in pitch. Witticker, having missed the beginning of the chant, came in at the end.
“God, Father and Mother of these people, shed your light upon them and their troubles. God, Savior of our race, grant us peace through prayer and belief. Amen.”
The priest drew a large silver pitcher from the pulpit and poured a glass of water for himself. He took a long drink and after placed the glass on one of the pulpit’s many horizontal resting places.
“God saved us,” said the priest, pausing a moment for effect, “God saved us and continues to save us every day that we are not swept up from this land by the many savage and horrible devices of this world.”
“But,” shouted the priest, prompting the congregation to jump and shuffle in their seats, “will God continue to offer this saving grace? Is there any guarantee of remaining in God’s favor? Consider the beach tree. It does not fear the wrath of God and does not change its behavior to garner God’s good will, even in the longest of droughts. It is a solid and stoic representation of what we should all strive to be. Unmoved by the conditions or state of affairs that might plague us. Untouched by the forces that would seek to ruin us. Unchanged,” roared the priest, crashing his hand down on the pulpit and, subsequently, sending his glass of water hurling to the floor, “by the forces of this world that would seek to alter our way of life.”
He emphasized his final words with an even deeper and darker tone than before, letting the idea hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“If you believe, like me, that this philosophy, this blessed ethos, is one that you want for your own then I urge you, take up this beach tree, brothers and sisters. Remain solid and true. Stay with the flock. Keep to your ways as you have in the past. Be kind to your neighbor and consistent in your dealings remembering that consistency is the truest sign of honesty. There is no cause to change your ways, just your inner attitude and outlook.”
Water dribbled from the broken glass next to the priest. It ran across the floor of the wooden podium, dripping down to the marble floor below.
“God wants you to be happy. God provides for those who want to be happy. We must remember that we are the catalysts! Were you happy before? Were you happy during the wars? Were you happy when food ran dry and fires rained down?”
The priest pointed into the audience.
“You, Abby Fordice, were you happy when your son was lost on the front line in Illinois? Or you, Jacob Ballanger, were you happy when your wife was slaughtered by a crowd in Cobble Hill? How about you, Rachel Persinger? Were you at all happy when they took the only man you ever loved and shot him in the forehead in this very square?”
“No! That’s not happiness! That’s not happiness and that’s not God’s doing! God want you to be happy! It was not God that brought the war and it was not God that took all those things from you. It was the work of evil men. Despicable minds with filth ridden causes and, what’s more, their work isn’t through. There are still people who would ask you to rise up. To throw away everything you’ve worked for and to toss aside the happiness that God has bestowed upon you.”
The priest reached inside his robe and produced a bright white handkerchief, wiping his brow which had become exceedingly damp through the course of his sermon.
“What can these people give you that you don’t already have? What are you in want of that isn’t being supplied? God is already filling you up with everything you need! There is no cause to fight for! There is no wrong to be made right! We are content because God is content with us and anybody who says otherwise is as empty as their words!”
The priest replaced the handkerchief within his robes.
“God wants you to be happy. It’s as simple as it sounds. Amen.”
*~~*
After the service had concluded the congregation poured out of the church into the open square. The plaza was circular and centered on a large plaster fountain with several menacing mermen lifting their tridents toward the large cathedral at the far end. The newly released mass of worshipers lingered, making polite and empty conversation. The crowd slowly drifted away until just Edward and Witticker sat next to the plaster fountain. Edward smiled up at the mermen, recalling the music hall so far away from them now.
“What exactly was that?” asked Witticker as he stared at the church towering above the plaza.
“You just experienced a service of the congregation of God,” responded Edward, “and, while I appreciate your inclination to ask questions when you don’t understand something, I’d like to remind you again that we are still being hunted. It might be our best bet to remain, for the time being, part of the crowd, so to speak.”
“What are you talking about? Those people aren’t after us. They don’t even know who we are! Besides, I was barely noticeable. You were the one talking and getting ‘shh’ed from every direction.”
By this time Witticker had stood up from the fountain and was pacing back and forth over the uneven street top. Edward reclined on the fountain edge, running his fingertips against the surface of the cool water.
“You’re a very stressful person to keep company with,” muttered Edward from his meditative state. “Your body language communicates a load of tension. Sit down and relax. I’ll explain a few things and then we can have a more informed conversation.”
*~~*
Selected excerpts from a lecture delivered in 2205 by Ronald Talcum, a specialist in religious history working in the New York Public Library.
“…The Great Decline not only took a massive toll on the physical and socioeconomic living conditions of the period, but also exercised a great overhaul on the emotional and spiritual principles of that time…”
“…The churches of the past, their roots invested in a corporate world, disintegrated into varying levels of chaos during the failing of businesses nationwide. A large majority of the population, hungry and homeless, looked to the church for help. Over time the need became too great and the church was forced to turn the crowds away…”
“…For several decades the public opinion of the church was recorded as an attitude of distrust and anger. The idea of religion in an organized fashion or manner gradually diminished and was eventually forgotten by all but a handful…”
“…In the late 2150s small congregations suddenly began meeting in distrips across the country for services led by members claiming to be the last ordained priests. These priests held none of their congregation accountable with offerings or attendance and preached on a wide variety of subjects from current affairs to spiritual obligation…”
“…The church has since redefined itself in the general population. No longer structured or operated as a corporation (i.e. taking donation, providing community service), the church now identifies itself solely as a lifeline of religious philosophy…”
*~~*
“So,” explained Edward, “the church currently has a foothold in nearly every distrip on the northern continent. Their congregations are a small percentage of the overall population, but their attendants are a pivotal sect of society. The church appeals primarily to shop owners and merchants due to its proximity.”
“Okay,” responded Witticker unenthusiastically, now sitting on the ground next to the fountain.
“Okay?” queried Edward, “not at all. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many holes in the framework. No one knows where the priests are coming from. It’s very dangerous to disregard the spiritual leaders of the population’s only economic instigators. What if the church decides that the trade of merchant craft is in opposition to its ‘holy work’? Half the nation starves over religious fundamentals.”
“But that wouldn’t happen,” argued Witticker. “The people wouldn’t just die. They would either find another way or revolt against the church.”
“Were you in the same service I was just in?” cried Edward, pulling out a cigarette from inside his robe. “People aren’t making decisions for themselves anymore. The whole message of the church is to maintain the status quo. To do what is expected of you and remain predictable, like the ‘beach tree’. They preach uniformity and fear. Those people do exactly as they’re told because the ones up in front put God on the other end of it. It’s a crock. They’re making complacency into a religion. Don’t think or you’ll go to hell!”
Witticker shook his head and looked to the dirt at his feet. Edward lit his cigarette as the sun banked across the plaza on its descent from the sky.
“The people aren’t stupid,” said Edward, putting his hand above his eyes for shade, “they’ve just forgotten how to think independently of the group.”
Neither man moved for several minutes as the sun crept lower towards the horizon, spreading the rays even wider across the expanse of the plaza.
“In any case,” forwarded Edward, “it's time we find a place to stay tonight. If we’re where I think we are I have an idea of where we can go next. Are you ready to move again?”
Witticker looked back at the church towering high above the plaza floor.
“Yes,” answered Witticker hesitantly, “and I’m sorry for arguing with you before. I guess I’m not as ready for this world as I thought.
Edward laughed and pulled Witticker up from his spot on the ground.
“No one is. But don’t take my word for it. That’s the problem they have in there. The world is truly what you make of it. For better or for worse.”
Edward tossed his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his heel.
“Now, if only everyone else knew that. That’s the trick.”
The congregation seated in wooden pews filling the length of the massive room responded with a mechanical ‘amen’ in staggered unison.
“Offer your prayers to that power now in this moment of silence,” bellowed the lector.
As the congregation bowed their heads Witticker became immediately visible in the crowd through his ignorance of the ritual. He panned from side to side, marveling at the massive audience all bowed down in collective mumbling. Suddenly he felt a sharp jab in his left side.
“Put your head down,” hissed Edward from his bowed position.
A cacophony of ‘Shh!’ echoed around the two men as Witticker quickly bent his head to the pew in front of him. He enjoyed the cool wood on his forehead as he carefully balanced himself against it. He closed his eyes and took in the silence of the room as his mind wandered to the events preceding their arrival at the church.
*~~*
Two hours earlier…
11:30 A.M. – Witticker and Edward exit a train in the borough of Brooklyn.
11:40 A.M. – The wave of arriving travelers are herded three miles from the train station to the nearest distrip, Braganza Plaza, in the borough of Queens.
12:30 P.M. – Upon arrival at Braganza Plaza the travelers disperse in several different directions.
12:45 P.M. – A bell rings in the plaza.
12:46 P.M. –Witticker, unaware of the custom of the area, is swept up into a crowd entering the Great Cathedral.
12:52 P.M. – Edward finds Witticker in the cathedral.
1:00 P.M. – The service begins.
*~~*
The silence in the room was broken by an explosion of sound from the organ in the front of the cathedral. Its sound, while emanating from the front, seemed to encompass the whole room. The congregation rose and sang in unison.
This God, in prayer and song,
Will pardon any slight or wrong
Committed by ourselves in word or deed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
Our lives, in sin and pain,
Are only trod and toiled in vain
Unless we come to God with prayerful need.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
We fear not death or dark
For on us God hath placed his mark.
A sign unseen, but through our souls are freed.
We only need to ask and God will feed.
As the congregation sang each verse became louder and more emphatic than the one preceding. The hymn finished with an extended organ finale followed by several shouts of indecipherable, but fully convicted, words of praise from the worshippers. As the people slowly fell to their pews Witticker turned to Edward.
“What is going on? Where are we?”
“Just shut up,” whispered Edward keeping his face towards the front of the cathedral. “Shut up and keep your face to the front. This is not the time.”
Witticker leaned closer to respond, but thought better of it and sat back facing the front. He reasoned that Edward had been well-versed in the local customs thus far and it would be more than presumptuous to assume he was wrong in this circumstance.
As he began to listen he noticed that the lector had been replaced by a very tall and skinny man draped in black and green robes. His voice was remarkably low and rumbled through the cathedral as if funneled through a large megaphone. The priest-like figure began his speech by chanting in a monotone drawl, occasionally rising or dropping in pitch. Witticker, having missed the beginning of the chant, came in at the end.
“God, Father and Mother of these people, shed your light upon them and their troubles. God, Savior of our race, grant us peace through prayer and belief. Amen.”
The priest drew a large silver pitcher from the pulpit and poured a glass of water for himself. He took a long drink and after placed the glass on one of the pulpit’s many horizontal resting places.
“God saved us,” said the priest, pausing a moment for effect, “God saved us and continues to save us every day that we are not swept up from this land by the many savage and horrible devices of this world.”
“But,” shouted the priest, prompting the congregation to jump and shuffle in their seats, “will God continue to offer this saving grace? Is there any guarantee of remaining in God’s favor? Consider the beach tree. It does not fear the wrath of God and does not change its behavior to garner God’s good will, even in the longest of droughts. It is a solid and stoic representation of what we should all strive to be. Unmoved by the conditions or state of affairs that might plague us. Untouched by the forces that would seek to ruin us. Unchanged,” roared the priest, crashing his hand down on the pulpit and, subsequently, sending his glass of water hurling to the floor, “by the forces of this world that would seek to alter our way of life.”
He emphasized his final words with an even deeper and darker tone than before, letting the idea hang in the air for a moment before continuing.
“If you believe, like me, that this philosophy, this blessed ethos, is one that you want for your own then I urge you, take up this beach tree, brothers and sisters. Remain solid and true. Stay with the flock. Keep to your ways as you have in the past. Be kind to your neighbor and consistent in your dealings remembering that consistency is the truest sign of honesty. There is no cause to change your ways, just your inner attitude and outlook.”
Water dribbled from the broken glass next to the priest. It ran across the floor of the wooden podium, dripping down to the marble floor below.
“God wants you to be happy. God provides for those who want to be happy. We must remember that we are the catalysts! Were you happy before? Were you happy during the wars? Were you happy when food ran dry and fires rained down?”
The priest pointed into the audience.
“You, Abby Fordice, were you happy when your son was lost on the front line in Illinois? Or you, Jacob Ballanger, were you happy when your wife was slaughtered by a crowd in Cobble Hill? How about you, Rachel Persinger? Were you at all happy when they took the only man you ever loved and shot him in the forehead in this very square?”
“No! That’s not happiness! That’s not happiness and that’s not God’s doing! God want you to be happy! It was not God that brought the war and it was not God that took all those things from you. It was the work of evil men. Despicable minds with filth ridden causes and, what’s more, their work isn’t through. There are still people who would ask you to rise up. To throw away everything you’ve worked for and to toss aside the happiness that God has bestowed upon you.”
The priest reached inside his robe and produced a bright white handkerchief, wiping his brow which had become exceedingly damp through the course of his sermon.
“What can these people give you that you don’t already have? What are you in want of that isn’t being supplied? God is already filling you up with everything you need! There is no cause to fight for! There is no wrong to be made right! We are content because God is content with us and anybody who says otherwise is as empty as their words!”
The priest replaced the handkerchief within his robes.
“God wants you to be happy. It’s as simple as it sounds. Amen.”
*~~*
After the service had concluded the congregation poured out of the church into the open square. The plaza was circular and centered on a large plaster fountain with several menacing mermen lifting their tridents toward the large cathedral at the far end. The newly released mass of worshipers lingered, making polite and empty conversation. The crowd slowly drifted away until just Edward and Witticker sat next to the plaster fountain. Edward smiled up at the mermen, recalling the music hall so far away from them now.
“What exactly was that?” asked Witticker as he stared at the church towering above the plaza.
“You just experienced a service of the congregation of God,” responded Edward, “and, while I appreciate your inclination to ask questions when you don’t understand something, I’d like to remind you again that we are still being hunted. It might be our best bet to remain, for the time being, part of the crowd, so to speak.”
“What are you talking about? Those people aren’t after us. They don’t even know who we are! Besides, I was barely noticeable. You were the one talking and getting ‘shh’ed from every direction.”
By this time Witticker had stood up from the fountain and was pacing back and forth over the uneven street top. Edward reclined on the fountain edge, running his fingertips against the surface of the cool water.
“You’re a very stressful person to keep company with,” muttered Edward from his meditative state. “Your body language communicates a load of tension. Sit down and relax. I’ll explain a few things and then we can have a more informed conversation.”
*~~*
Selected excerpts from a lecture delivered in 2205 by Ronald Talcum, a specialist in religious history working in the New York Public Library.
“…The Great Decline not only took a massive toll on the physical and socioeconomic living conditions of the period, but also exercised a great overhaul on the emotional and spiritual principles of that time…”
“…The churches of the past, their roots invested in a corporate world, disintegrated into varying levels of chaos during the failing of businesses nationwide. A large majority of the population, hungry and homeless, looked to the church for help. Over time the need became too great and the church was forced to turn the crowds away…”
“…For several decades the public opinion of the church was recorded as an attitude of distrust and anger. The idea of religion in an organized fashion or manner gradually diminished and was eventually forgotten by all but a handful…”
“…In the late 2150s small congregations suddenly began meeting in distrips across the country for services led by members claiming to be the last ordained priests. These priests held none of their congregation accountable with offerings or attendance and preached on a wide variety of subjects from current affairs to spiritual obligation…”
“…The church has since redefined itself in the general population. No longer structured or operated as a corporation (i.e. taking donation, providing community service), the church now identifies itself solely as a lifeline of religious philosophy…”
*~~*
“So,” explained Edward, “the church currently has a foothold in nearly every distrip on the northern continent. Their congregations are a small percentage of the overall population, but their attendants are a pivotal sect of society. The church appeals primarily to shop owners and merchants due to its proximity.”
“Okay,” responded Witticker unenthusiastically, now sitting on the ground next to the fountain.
“Okay?” queried Edward, “not at all. There are too many unanswered questions. Too many holes in the framework. No one knows where the priests are coming from. It’s very dangerous to disregard the spiritual leaders of the population’s only economic instigators. What if the church decides that the trade of merchant craft is in opposition to its ‘holy work’? Half the nation starves over religious fundamentals.”
“But that wouldn’t happen,” argued Witticker. “The people wouldn’t just die. They would either find another way or revolt against the church.”
“Were you in the same service I was just in?” cried Edward, pulling out a cigarette from inside his robe. “People aren’t making decisions for themselves anymore. The whole message of the church is to maintain the status quo. To do what is expected of you and remain predictable, like the ‘beach tree’. They preach uniformity and fear. Those people do exactly as they’re told because the ones up in front put God on the other end of it. It’s a crock. They’re making complacency into a religion. Don’t think or you’ll go to hell!”
Witticker shook his head and looked to the dirt at his feet. Edward lit his cigarette as the sun banked across the plaza on its descent from the sky.
“The people aren’t stupid,” said Edward, putting his hand above his eyes for shade, “they’ve just forgotten how to think independently of the group.”
Neither man moved for several minutes as the sun crept lower towards the horizon, spreading the rays even wider across the expanse of the plaza.
“In any case,” forwarded Edward, “it's time we find a place to stay tonight. If we’re where I think we are I have an idea of where we can go next. Are you ready to move again?”
Witticker looked back at the church towering high above the plaza floor.
“Yes,” answered Witticker hesitantly, “and I’m sorry for arguing with you before. I guess I’m not as ready for this world as I thought.
Edward laughed and pulled Witticker up from his spot on the ground.
“No one is. But don’t take my word for it. That’s the problem they have in there. The world is truly what you make of it. For better or for worse.”
Edward tossed his cigarette to the ground, grinding it out with his heel.
“Now, if only everyone else knew that. That’s the trick.”
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