“THE NEST OF DESPAIR” ARC CONTINUES…
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The wood panels 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 – from his work at the local hovering garage – were a reminder of that, of how far humanity had come, from the horse-riding of ancient times to the hovercars of the Twenty-Second Century. By the Twenty-Third Century – potentially even earlier, George reckoned – those hovercars would become obsolete themselves, replace by some other technological wonder.
Perhaps it will be teleportation next, George thought as he walked across the reception room. The thought brought a smile to his face. Those books Lilly reads all have teleportation in them. His smile died at the thought of his sister, fading away for a grimace to take its place. He ruffled his blonde hair with a dirty hand – a habit, though it relaxed him.
He joined the queue at the reception counter, trying to ignore all the funny noises and smells circulating the room. Hospitals always made him uncomfortable. He repressed a shudder as someone coughed loudly behind him, much too close for comfort. Please don’t make me ill, please don’t make me ill, please don’t make me ill…
He pressed his foot against the floor, feeling the wood creak. I hope their medical facilities are more advanced by their flooring. He smiled gently at his own joke, the tension in his chest easing slightly as a result.
After a brief wait, he was the first in the queue and was greeted by a beaming woman at the counter. She was young, maybe only a few years older than he was, 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, like a grandma’s. Comforting.
George managed a tight smile, forcing himself to look at the woman’s face. Lilly had taught him the importance of keeping and maintaining eye contact. It was polite, so she said.
‘Hi. I’m George Marsh.’ His tone was a little more formal and robotic than he would have liked, with an awful squeak of youthful inexperience in it. His face twitched. ‘I’m here to see my sister, Lilly Marsh. I wanted to know what ward she’s in.’
The woman smiled brightly at him. ‘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 like the right thing to do. People seemed to respond well to nodding.
How come everyone else finds this so easy?
He tried not to be 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 plastic. She took the licence and tapped some keys on her computer. After a few moments of scrolling, she returned the ID to him, smiled, and said, ‘Everything looks correct. Welcome to St Benedict’s Hospital, Mr Marsh.’
George frowned slightly at his being called “Mr Marsh”. Sounds weird…
‘Your sister,’ the woman continued, ‘is on the fourth floor, in Ward Thirteen. Stairs are just over there.’ She pointed them out, just to the left of the counter, next to a pair of lifts with “Out Of Order” signs stuck to the doors.
George thanked her, silently chastising himself for the squeaky nervousness of his voice, and headed towards the stairs. 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 glowing-blue 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 the med-drones, the woman’s smile faded to a stern look. She glanced fleetingly at the hoverbed and the body nestled on it, before quickly averting her gaze. ‘Ward Two. Quickly.’
As the hoverbed rushed past him, led up the stairs by the med-drones, George caught a quick glimpse of the body on the bed, fighting the urge to throw up. It was almost unrecognisable as a person. Their arms and legs had each been torn off, leaving only bloody stumps and a torso. Half the head was missing, and what remained looked as though it had been badly chewed.
George grimaced. Void beasts. He had only heard stories about the wild mutants prowling the edge of the city, but what he knew of them had determined enough to him that he would never dare set foot outside Ilkton.
Forcing the sick back down his throat, he headed up the stairs as the hoverbed trundled up. A heaviness had set itself upon his chest. He sighed, wincing at the sound of the tiles clacking 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 began making his way down the corridor.
The door to Ward Thirteen was dull and grey. Like a gravestone, he noted. That thought prompted a wave of anxiety, and he began fiddling with his hair again in an effort to soothe himself. He pressed his palm against the doorpanel, and as the door slid open, he stepped inside. The door thunked shut behind him, making him flinch.
The woman lying on the bed was almost unrecognisable to him. She was connected to a cluster of whirring machines, while being tended to by a pair of dishevelled doctors: one was crouched by her bed, checking the machinal connections, while the other observed from his propulsor-chair. The propulsor-chair hummed irritatingly.
The woman looked weak, pale, and emaciated, a far cry from the strong and vigorous woman of George’s youth. She had dragged him through his childhood, through tragedy and heartbreak; now, her strength was so gone she could barely raise a finger to acknowledge him. Bags hung under her eyes. Her auburn hair had been shaved off for a glinting bald head.
She smiled as he entered, and it was only by her smile that he recognised his sister. The colour evaporated from his face. He coughed awkwardly. ‘I – I – I – I –’ He inhaled sharply, cutting off his stammering. He fixed her with full eye contact, just as 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 cut off his babbling, dropping his gaze to the floor.
She gave a croaking groan and shook her head. ‘It’s…okay…’ Her voice was frail.
His breath shuddered. Seeing her like this…He shook his head and 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. George exhaled sharply as the door slid shut behind them.
He sat on the chair next to the bed, trying to work out what to say. The silence spoke for him.
Finally, he managed. ‘So, you had the surgery, then?’
He glanced at her bald head, before diverting his eyes to the floor. The last time he had been here, she had still had her hair, the same auburn locks as their mother. It would take time to get used to her without any hair. He tried not to stare; staring was rude. He just hoped the surgery had worked.
She nodded. ‘I…Yes, I had the surgery…’ Her voice seemed weaker than just moments before, with a raspiness to it.
He frowned. ‘Did it – did it work?’
Her face darkened. She did not smile.
He bowed his head and cursed, feeling the weight return to his chest, crushing his ribcage. ‘All this technology – all this so-called progress! Damn them all. Damn them!’ He inhaled sharply, voice trailing off, and sighed, shoulders slumping. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’
She reached out and touched his face. Her hands were as cold as a morgue. She touched his hair, fiddled with it, and he felt the tension leave his shoulders, the crushing weight on his chest relax. Her stared into her deep, brown eyes.
‘There is no one to blame,’ she told him. ‘It was God’s doing.’
He sniffed. ‘Then God is evil.’
She smiled slightly, amused by his comment. ‘Ah, Georgie. It’ll be okay.’ She turned away from him to cough loudly.
‘Why…?’ His voice trailed off. He shook his head firmly, jaw clenched. ‘I will save you, Lilly. I will save you.’ He gulped, fighting back tears.
‘You cannot save me, Georgie. I’m sorry. No one can.’ She suddenly let out a feeble gasp and sank deep into her pillow. Her eyes stared aimlessly at the ceiling.
His 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…’
She did not answer. There was a wail as the heart monitor flatlined.
An invisible hand wrapped itself around George’s throat. The world faded 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, their footsteps booming like thunderbeats. They jostled him out of the way, barking and shouting at each other. The roaring sea of noise descended into a buzzing, numb silence.
George’s insides turned to ice. Pushing through the sea of white gowns and haggard expressions, he forced his way out of the room. Outside, he slumped against the wall of the corridor. He shuddered with every gasping breath.
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…
He saw a dark man, at the end of the corridor, by the lifts. Next to his foot, on the floor, was a greyish-bluish cube that glowed faintly. Leather jacket and grey hair – normal enough features, but his manner was enough to draw George’s interest. George inhaled sharply. He tried to focus on the man, to distract himself from Lilly. His breathing steadied, his heartbeat slowed.
A sudden pain stabbed at his temples.
George winced, burying his head in his hands. The pain was sharp and shrill, like a bolt of lightning cutting through his head. It felt as if his brain was on fire. His instincts pointed him towards the man in the leather jacket.
‘Help! Please! Help!’ he shouted.
Those were the last words he managed. Thereafter, his mind stopped working and his body froze into paralysis, refusing his commands. He fell to the floor – face first – hitting the tiles with a heavy thud that resounded through his entire body. His vision blurred, and his mind reeled.
There was a shout. Someone swore. Footsteps…running towards him.
A man’s voice. Gruff. He could not make out the words; the pain…overrode…everything…
Heat prickled his back. Paralysis kept him from screaming in fright as great plumes of fire appeared before his eyes, engulfing his body.
‘Trying to break the tether,’ came the gruff voice again. ‘Trying my best not to hurt the lad.’
The fire, the paralysis, and the pain in his temples seemed to stop simultaneously. With a shuddering breath, George sprang to his feet, tearing off his half-burnt T-shirt to reveal a skinny, but miraculously, unburnt chest. He threw the shirt on the floor, stamping out what little flames remained.
Inhaling sharply, he turned behind him to see the dark silhouette of the man in the leather jacket bearing down on him. The man was gaunt, with a leathery face cross-hatched with wrinkles and scars. He wore a grim demeanour and dark eyes.
George frowned, heart beating hard in his chest. He swallowed. A fog seemed to have descended on his mind; his head buzzed. There was a distinct feeling of sadness, of wanting to cry, though he could not determine what about.
He stared at the man. ‘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 ignored him. He seemed to be looking through George, at something behind him.
‘I’ve found a Third Rank, Cleo,’ the man muttered. ‘A vendig. Bit more powerful than the last guy.’
George frowned. ‘Who – who are you talking to?’
Sharp eyes fixed on George. ‘Go away,’ the man snapped. ‘Get out of here.’ He returned his gaze to whatever he was looking at behind George.
At last, George’s curiosity could take no more. He turned around to see what the man was looking at 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 upturned teardrop. The white lights along the ceiling glinted sharply off the creature’s translucent skin. Hanging down from the midsection of the creature were long tendrils of bright-pink, which snaked across the floor, as if with a life of their own. At the base of the teardrop body was a ball of hairy flesh. Poking from underneath the hair were four stalked eyes and a mouth. The mouth was spread into a cheesy grin, cackling with laughter.
George’s insides froze.
George bit his lip. 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’s face twisted. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘I do,’ George insisted.
The man sighed, rubbing a scar on his chin. ‘Captain’s going to bloody kill me. Fine.’ Keeping his eye on the alien creature, he explained, ‘That’s a dream-eater. Magic monster that feasts on your memories. But don’t worry. I’ll handle him. Just stay away.’ He gritted his teeth, watching as the creature squelched down the corridor away from them, towards the lift. A flash of confusion dabbed his features. ‘Why’s it running away?’
As the man mused to himself, George’s mind whirled. A “dream-eater”? His eyes widened. Feasts on my memories?
He rifled through his mind, through the memories of his mother, his father, his friends…He conjured a memory of his sister and was alarmed to see that, despite having seen her only a few moments ago, he could no longer recall what she looked like. Indeed, the whole memory was fading, greying out.
His 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, leaving a trail of silver goo in its wake. I can’t…remember…her…
The man gave him a sorrowful, almost mournful, look. ‘Sorry I couldn’t get to you in time, mate. The dream-eater took something precious from you, right?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, lad, but those memories are lost forever.’
George gritted his teeth. Lilly…who is Lilly? Lill – He was already beginning to forget the name. This person, whoever she was, had been important to him, somehow, somewhere. Where was she now?
He swallowed, straightening himself up. His eyes fixed on the dream-eater, and he scratched his hair, fighting to keep himself calm. He was kind of cold without a shirt, but he warmed himself up with the heat of his own internal fury. That woman, whatever he name was, he knew he couldn’t just let her be forgotten.
With a grunt, he sprinted after the dream-eater, which squealed frightfully as he chased after it. He heard footsteps and shouting coming from behind as the man chased them both down the corridor.
Suddenly, the dream-eater stopped. It turned to face George, grinning. It chortled to itself.
‘It was a feint,’ George heard from behind. ‘No! Turn away!’
The man’s words did not register to George as he continued towards the dream-eater. He balled his fists. Admittedly, he had not planned what he would do when he actually caught up to the dream-eater. He didn’t even know if he could get back his memories of that nameless woman.
He inhaled sharply, feet thudding on the tiles. Maybe if I punch it hard enough? Everything falls with a strong enough punch.
The dream-eater’s pink tendrils lanced out towards him like a hail of spears. Instinctively, he dropped to the floor, skidding underneath the tendrils and rolling towards the dream-eater. He rolled and swung his fist low – at what he hoped was the creature’s face.
As the blow struck flesh, time seemed to stop for a minute-long moment. Around George’s hand blossomed a gold glow, and he heard a sizzling sound, like the sound of frying bacon. The dream-eater’s smile was gone, dissipated instantly, and it wailed. The golden glow swallowed George’s hand, growing in size and intensity until it engulfed his vision.
What’s…happening…?
The golden glow disappeared.
George collapsed to the floor, panting for breath. The dream-eater had disappeared. His hand felt warm, though looked no different than usual. He staggered to his feet, nursing his pounding head. A thousand questions raced through his mind. He repressed a shiver, realising he was still shirtless.
Lilly…Lilly…I remember you… He was too tired to celebrate.
Footsteps came from behind. A hand gripped his shoulder. He turned to see a leathery, scarred face stare down at him, eyes wide in disbelief. The eyes gleamed with a miasmic of emotions, but what caught George’s eye was the darkness and 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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