“THE NEST OF DESPAIR” ARC CONTINUES…
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The wood-panelled floor creaked underfoot. George frowned, narrowing his blue eyes to icy slits. Wooden floors…a rarity in this day and age of metal and machine. The grease stains on his face – earned through his job at the local garage – were a reminder of that, of how far humanity had come, from the horse-riding of ancient times to the hovercars of the 22nd Century. By the 23rd Century – and potentially, even earlier, George reckoned – those hovercars would become obsolete, replaced by some other technological wonder. The human race was truly awe-inspiring.
Perhaps it will be teleportation next, George thought as he resumed his walk. Those books Lilly reads all have teleportation in them. At the thought of his sister, his face sobered. His dirty hand rose to ruffle his blonde hair – a habit, though it relaxed him.
He joined the queue at the reception counter, and after a brief wait, was greeted by a beaming woman. She was young, maybe only a few years older than him, with a playful look in her eye and a head overflowing with golden curls. ‘Hello, dear, how may I help?’ Her voice was soft and kind, lacking the energy of her youth. She sounded, George wondered to himself, almost like his late Grandma, even though she was at least seventy years his Grandma’s younger.
George gulped and forced himself to look at the woman’s face. Lilly had taught him the importance of keeping and maintaining eye contact – and he sought to follow that principle by the book. ‘Hi. I’m George Marsh.’ His tone was a little formal and robotic than he would have liked, with that awkward squeak of youthful inexperience in it. His face twitched. ‘My sister, Lilly Marsh, is in the hospital. I wanted to know what ward she’s in.’ As he finished, he sighed softly, trying to hide it from the woman. Just talking to people was difficult in a way he could never explain. He always struggled especially when Lilly was not there to help.
The woman made no reaction as to whether she had noticed his nervousness. Her bright smile did not falter. Lights danced in her eyes. ‘I’m going to need ID before I can tell you that.’
George nodded stiffly twice – then after a pause, nodded again a third time. He was not sure why he had done that; it had just felt the right thing to do. People seemed to respond well to nodding. How come everyone else finds this so easy?
He was embarrassed by the slight shaking of his hand as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his driving licence, emblazoned on a thin plate of holocrystal. She took the licence, tapped some keys on her computer, and while muttering near-silently to herself, scrolled on the monitor. After a few seconds, she returned the ID to him, smiled, and said, ‘Everything looks correct. Welcome to St Benedict’s Hospital, Mr Marsh.’
George frowned slightly at that. Mr Marsh? That sounds weird…
‘Your sister,’ the woman continued, ‘is on the fourth floor, in Ward Thirteen. Stairs are just over there.’ She pointed them out; they were just a little way away from her desk, besides a pair of lifts donning “Out Of Order” signs.
George thanked her, silently chastising himself for the squeaky nervousness of his voice, and headed towards the door. The creaking wood panels underfoot distracted him again, but he tried to push them out of mind. His attention was diverted, however, at a series of brisk shouts from behind. He turned.
A bed – hovering gingerly on a pair of blue-glowing hoverpads – entered the reception in a hurry. It was escorted by what looked to be four flying metal cubes with arms and digital faces – med-drones.
At the sight of them, the woman’s face shifted: her beaming smile faded to a stern look. She glanced fleetingly at the hover-bed and the body nestled on it, before quickly averting her gaze. ‘Ward Two. Quickly.’ Her voice was hard and neutral, as if she was repressing every emotion from it. George noticed she had gone pale, and that playful glint in her eyes had disappeared entirely.
George looked at the bed. The person on the bed was hardly a person. Their arms and legs had each been torn off, leaving only bloody stumps and a torso. Half of the head was missing, and what remained look as though it had been badly chewed.
George grimaced. Void beasts. Prowling the edges of the city, the void beasts were fearsome mutant monsters. George had only heard stories of them – and seen the results of their carnage – but that was enough for him to decide he would never leave Marsheton’s borders, only if his life depended on it. Seeing the remains of the body made George gag, and for a second, he thought he was about to throw up.
Forcing the sick back down his throat, he was suddenly overcome with a resounding wave of pity for the void beasts’ latest victim. A heavy weight descended upon his chest. He – assuming he was indeed a “he” – had not been fortunate enough to die, judging by the wheezing rise and fall of his chest. The doctors would do everything to save him – even if they had to destroy everything about him. George bristled. He guessed only one possible life lay ahead for the man: the lonely life of a cyborg. He would not wish that life on anybody.
As the hover-bed rushed past him, led by its cubic med-drone escorts up the stairs, the heavy weight on George’s chest did not dissipate. He sighed and headed up the stairs after the bed. The stone tiles clacked underfoot. When he reached the fourth floor, he was almost blinded by the harsh luminescence of the white tiles and whitewashed walls, polished to a bright shimmer. He grimaced and muttered something to himself, then walked down the corridor.
He found the door leading to Ward Thirteen. It was dull and grey, he noted, like a gravestone. That thought prompted a wave of anxiety, and he began fiddling with his hair in an effort to soothe himself. He punched the doorpanel, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside. The door thunk-ed shut behind him, and he flinched.
Lying on the bed was a woman – almost unrecognisable to him – connected to a cluster of whirring machines and tended to by a pair of dishevelled doctors – one crouched by her bed, while the other sat observingly in his propulsor-chair. She looked weak, pale, and emaciated, a far cry from the strong and vigorous woman of George’s youth. She had been the one to drag him through his childhood, through tragedy and heartbreak; now, she looked as if she could barely raise a finger. Her eyes were heavy and bagged, and her hair had been shaved off in favour of a glinting, bald head.
The only thing that made George recognise his sister was the smile she gave him as he entered. It was warm and genuine. He never had any trouble understanding its meaning: I love you.
The colour left George’s face, and he coughed awkwardly. ‘I – I – I –’ He inhaled sharply, cutting off his stammering. He fixed her with the full eye contact – just like she had taught him. ‘Sorry I haven’t been here for so long – things cropped up at work – we had a baron’s spacer to deal with – you know how Mr Cripps is–’ He fell silent, and his gaze dropped to the floor.
She gave a croaking groan and shook her head. Her brows were furrowed from the pain, but her smile told George her discomfort was not because of him. ‘It’s…okay…’ Her voice sounded frail, like the voice of an old woman. It sounded like the voice of the woman at the counter, George thought, only with an added layer of pain.
George shuddered, struggling to keep his breath level. Seeing her like this…He gestured at the doctors. ‘Please, please – can you just leave? Just leave.’ His tone was sharper than he had intended, but the doctors simply gave him a look of understanding before turning out the door. The propulsor-chair hummed irritatingly as it left; George exhaled sharply as the door shut behind the doctors, and the humming was stopped.
He turned to face her, sitting down on a chair positioned by the bed. He did not quite know what to say. The silence spoke for him.
Finally, he managed, ‘So, you had the surgery, then?’ He glanced at her bald head. The last time he had been here – before her surgery as due to take place – she had still had her hair: the same long auburn locks as their mother. It would take time to get used to her without any hair – stroking her hair was just as soothing for him as stroking his own – but he tried not to stare, for her sake. Staring was rude. So long as this surgery worked, he was happy. So long as it worked.
She nodded. ‘I…Yes, I had the surgery…’ Her voice seemed weaker than before and had developed a raspy quality to it, George noticed. He tried not to worry.
George frowned. ‘Did…Did the surgery work?’
Her face darkened. She did not smile.
He bowed his head and cursed. Flames blossomed in his chest. ‘All this technology…All this so-called progress!’ He was shouting now. ‘If they invested more in medical technology rather than trying to make faster spacers – damn them all! Damn them!’ He inhaled sharply, voice trailing off, and sighed. His shoulders slumped.
She reached out to touch his face. Her hands were as cold as a morgue. She touched his hair, playing in the blonde grasses, and he felt the tension leave his shoulders. He looked up at her, at her deep, brown eyes, brimming with intelligence.
‘You cannot blame anyone,’ she said. ‘It was God’s doing.’
He sniffed. ‘Then God is evil.’
She smiled slightly, amused by his comment. Her smile vanished as she descended into a coughing fit. ‘Maybe God is evil. Or maybe humanity is evil, and this is our reckoning.’
‘But you’re not evil–’ He gulped, fighting the tears welling in his eyes. ‘But you’re not evil…’ he croaked. ‘You looked after me, after…’ His voice trailed off.
She sighed. ‘There is sin in every human heart – even mine.’ She paused, looked up at him, and smiled sadly. ‘You cannot save me, Georgie. I’m sorry. No one can.’
Her shook his head, jaw clenched. ‘No…No! No! I will save you. I WILL SAVE YOU!’ He balled his fist so tight his nails dug into his palm. ‘I will save you…’
‘No. You cannot. You–’ She suddenly let out a feeble gasp and sank deep into her pillow. Her eyes stared aimlessly at the ceiling.
George’s eyes widened, and he leapt to his feet. His insides twisted and writhed, constricting on themselves. He shook her frantically. ‘Stop staring at the ceiling; stop staring at the ceiling; stop staring at the ceiling; stop staring at the ceiling…’ She did not answer. There was a wail as the heart monitor flatlined.
An invisible hand wrapped itself around George’s throat, squeezing with enough force to crush a mountain. George could feel himself going purple. The world seemed to fade to blurred images and distorted sounds and smells. A torrent of white-garbed doctors rushed in from outside, only a blur to George’s eyes; the sound of their footsteps was like deep, reverberating thunderbeats. They jostled him out of the way, barking and shouting at each other urgently. The roaring sea of noise descended into a buzzing, numb silence.
George’s insides went cold. Pushing through the sea of white gowns and haggard expressions, he left the room. Outside, he slumped against the wall of the corridor. Even the blindingness of the white tiles was muted now. Every breath he drew – each a mouthful of poisonous agony – sent shudders rattling through him.
Lilly… Just the thought of her made his head spin. His mind hurt as though driven through by a thousand needles. Lilly…please…Lilly…no…
The descending weight on George’s mind lifted for a instant, bashed away briefly by curiosity. He spied a man stood at the end of the corridor, by the lifts. He was inspecting an old woman sleeping on a bench. Beside him, on the floor, was a greyish-bluish cube which glowed faintly. He had a brown leather jacket and grey hair – normal enough features, but his manner was enough to draw George’s interest. It gave him something to anchor himself to, as the fires of his mind burned at his sanity.
George’s curiosity slowed his beating heart. His breathing grew more even. Suddenly, an image flashed across his mind: Lilly lay dead in her bed. His heart leapt to a gallop, and he began hyperventilating, drawing rapid, shallow breaths. The man vanished from his mind.
A sudden pain stabbed at his temples. George winced, burying his head in his hands. The pain was sharp and shrill, like lightning cutting through his head. His head became engulfed with the pain; it felt as though his brain was alight. His instincts pointed him towards the man in the leather jacket. ‘Help! Please! Help!’ he shouted.
Those were the final words he managed. Thereafter, his mouth stopped working, and his body froze into paralysis, refusing his commands. He fell to the floor – face first – hitting the white tiles with a sickening thud that resounded through his entire body. His vision blurred, and his mind reeled.
There was an exclamation – someone swore. Footsteps…Running towards him. There was a man’s voice, gruff and with a hardness to rival titanium. George could not make out the words; the pain…overrode…everything…
Heat prickled George’s back and embraced him with a fiery touch. Paralysis kept him from crying out with fright as great plumes of fire appeared before George’s eyes, cloaking his entire body. He felt pain, but not of the burning kind.
‘I’m trying to break the tether,’ came the gruff voice. George barely made out the words above the cackling fire. ‘Taking a bit of time, as I’m trying ta keep the lad alive.’
The fire, the paralysis, and the pain at his temples seemed to stop simultaneously. With shuddering breath, George leapt to his feet, tearing off his half-burnt T-shirt to reveal a skinny but – miraculously – unburnt chest. He through the shirt on the floor and stamped out what little flames remained.
Gasping sharply, mind futilely attempting to puzzle what had just happened, George turned to see the dark silhouette of the man in the leather jacket bearing down on him. The man was gaunt, with a leathery face adorned with many wrinkles and scars. He wore a grim demeanour, one George recognised many war veterans donned. This man had seen things. Piercing eyes fixed on George like heat-seeking missiles.
George frowned. Confusion was scrawled plainly over his features. A distinct sense of loss resounded through him – though he could not recall where that had come from. ‘What’s going on?’ He pointed at his half-burnt T-shirt, which lay dejectedly on the floor. ‘What happened to my T-shirt?’ His voice suddenly turned accusatory. ‘Did you set me on fire?’
The man’s eyes, though, were not fixed on him any longer. He seemed to look through George, as if he were just a cloud blocking the brilliance of a great golden sun. The man’s gaze was fixed on something behind George. ‘I’ve found a Third Rank, Cleo. A vendig. Bit more powerful than the last guy.’ He paused. ‘I hope the nest is only a small one.’
George frowned. ‘Nest? A nest of what…?’ He shook his head.
The man turned to George so sharply he sent his grey hair flying about his head. ‘Go away.’ His tone was harsh. ‘Get out of here.’ He returned his gaze to the thing behind George.
George’s curiosity could take no more. He turned around to see where the man was looking and gasped as his eyes fixed on a strange creature stood in the middle of the corridor. He pointed at it, hands shaking. ‘What – what is that?’ he asked in a hushed voice.
The creature was around the size of a small hippo. It looked like a huge blob of jelly, formed into a shape vaguely resembling an upside-down teardrop. The white lights along the ceiling glinted sharply, reflected in the creature’s translucent skin. Hanging down from the mid-section of the creature were long tendrils of bright pink, which snaked across the floor, almost as if with a life of their own. George counted ten of the long tendrils in all.
The only thing that indicated to George that it was indeed a creature was the mound of hairy flesh balled at the base of the creature’s teardrop body. Poking out from the flesh were four stalked eyes and a mouth. The mouth was spread wide into a cheesy grin, and it almost looked as if the creature was laughing.
George’s insides froze.
The man sighed, rubbing a scar on his cheek. ‘Cleo, I’m sorry. The captain’s going ta bloody kill me…’
George bit his lip, fixing wide eyes on the strange creature in the corridor. He glanced at the man, who seemed not to have recognised the bizarreness of the situation. This seemed almost…routine…to him. ‘What’s going on?’ George squeaked.
The man sighed, and his face twisted. ‘Fine. I’ll tell you. But listen quick.’ All the while he spoke to George, the man kept his eyes fixed on that alien upside-down-teardrop-shaped creature. ‘That there is a dream-eater. It’s a magical monster which feasts on your memories.’ The man gritted his teeth, watching as the creature squelched down the corridor away from them. A flash of confusion dabbed his features. ‘Why is it running away?’
As the man mused to himself, George’s mind whirled. A “dream-eater”? His eyes widened. It feasts on my memories? He rifled through his mind, through the memories of his mother, his father, his friends…He conjured one memory of his sister and was alarmed to see, despite having only seen her a few minutes ago, he could no longer recall what she looked like. Indeed, the whole memory was fading, greying out, like a dream in the process of being forgotten. George’s heart pounded. Lilly – I can’t remember her. He fixed his eyes on the translucent blob – the “dream-eater” – as it slid down the corridor. I can’t…remember…her…
The man gave him a sorrowful, almost mournful, look. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get to you in time. The dream-eater took something precious from you, right?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but those memories are lost forever.’
George gritted his teeth. Tears welled in his eyes – tears for a sister he had never known, or at least, could no longer remember. His eyes fixed on the dream-eater, and he scratched his hair, fighting to keep himself calm. ‘Those were memories of my sister – I have to get them back!’ With a grunt, he sprinted after the dream-eater, which squealed as he chased after it and sped up. He heard footsteps and rough shouting coming from behind as the man chased after them both down the corridor.
Suddenly, the dream-eater stopped. It turned to face George. It grinned, chortling to itself. George’s eyes widened.
‘It was a feint…’ said the man from behind. ‘No! Turn away!’
George barely heard the man’s words, rushing furiously towards the dream-eater. His teeth were gritted, his mouth twisted into a snarl. He balled his fists. Admittedly, he had not planned what he would do once he actually caught up to the dream-eater. With no knowledge of how the dream-eater worked, he had no idea how tog et back his lost memories – if doing so was even possible.
But I have to – for Lilly. I can’t forget her. He inhaled sharply, feet thudding on the tiled floor. Maybe if I punch it hard enough. Everything falls with a strong enough punch…
As he neared the dream-eater, the dream-eater’s ten pink tendrils lanced out towards him like a hail of spears. Instinctively, George dropped to the floor, skidding beneath the tendrils and rolling towards the dream-eater. Fire burned down his veins, and he swung his fist low, at what he believed – and hoped – was the creature’s face. As the blow struck flesh, time seemed to stop for an instant. Around George’s hand blossomed a gold glow, and he heard a sizzling sound, much like that of frying bacon. The dream-eater’s smile was gone, dissipated in an instant, and it’s mouth wailed. The golden glow swallowed George’s hand, growing in size and intensity until it had engulfed George’s vision.
What’s happening?
The gold glow disappeared. George collapsed to the floor, panting. The dream-eater had disappeared. His hand felt warm, though looked no different than usual. Its golden glow had disappeared. He got back to his feet, nursing his pounding head. A thousand questions raced through his head; each was a missile, impacting against his mind with a furious explosion. His head ached with dull pain.
Footsteps came from behind. A hand rested on his shoulder. George turned to see the leatheyr, scarred face of the man looked down on him, eyes wide in disbelief. The eyes shone with a blend of emotions, but what caught George’s eye was the darkness, the dancing shadows. He shuddered.
‘I don’t believe it,’ the man whispered. ‘The Golden Fist…Cleo, we have an Ov’l…’
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