Sleepwalking through this life
Dreaming of a new one.
Sleepwalking through this life
Dreaming of a new one.
There was something strange about the sky, when Dawn scrambled from the ashes. She didn’t remember much, apart from the smell. A mixture of charred wood and soaked skin, preserved like porcelain in atomic winter. The farm lay torn around her, but tornados are rare in Alice Springs.
Michael was sleeping next to her, before the explosion, his body wrapped around hers, comforting and warm. “Mike?”
She had looked for him in the ruins of their home, a mangled semblance of their life together, scattered across the desert, in the creek of Endless Summer.
After finding a photo of Ben, the only thing left of a son two years dead; Dawn sat in the sand perfectly still. Remembering Michael, she managed to claw her way into their fallout bunker, threw on some old clothes her late mother had worn to a science fiction convention in the eighties. Her parents were eccentrics, but fortunately Michael saw past them, to a daughter who had escaped the loony gene.
“Michael?” Dawn screams as she runs back out into the creek. Michael doesn’t answer. She shivers, despite the heat. Unusual colours break the sky, an aurora of lights, some of which are falling to the sand, shooting stars in the morning. “What the heck are they?” she whispers.
Something on the horizon, staggers, as if drunk, but it’s too far away for her to see clearly. It looks like a man, dodging between the falling meteors. “Mike?” Her father’s binoculars were amongst the stash of junk he’d piled into his bunker, before he was taken to the nut house. “Thanks Dad, at least you did something right!” She removes the lens caps; stuck to the ends by a twenty year vacuum, blows off the dust, and holds them up. “Bloody things are old!”
It’s blurry; Her Dad never looked after his junk; but clear enough for her to see a man, limping, half running, arms flailing like he’s fleeing from something. She gasps, as his left hand’s hanging off, as if something’s chewed it. “Michael!” His pyjamas are shredded and bloody. She drops the binoculars and starts sprinting towards him, aware he’s spewing blood over the sand.
He loses his footing, but gets back up, waves and screams, “Dawn, get back, run!” She ignores him, can see his legs weakening, and remembers his arms around her, before they fell asleep, expecting to wake safely. They were planning on having another baby. Not that anything could replace Benny, but his absence is hard to live with.
Adrenalin pumping, she darts towards him, and through the frenzy, something appears over the hills. They’re dots at first, and don’t look real, differently shaped, unbelievably altered things, with parts torn off, and they’re gaining on Michael. “Those aren’t Boomers!” More figures emerge, but they aren’t anything she’s seen in Alice Springs. “Werewolves?” She screams, “Run, Mike!” and ignoring any fear she reaches him.
He has her Dad’s old gun in the hand that still works, but curses as she grabs him. “I’m out of bullets!”
Something isn’t right, his face has drained of colour, his voice is husky, but it’s probably the pain. She takes his arm and helps him run towards the fallout bunker. They scramble down and Dawn throws on the bolts, turns the big wheel inside, locking them in airtight. The whole town laughed at this shelter when she was an Ankle Biter. She mutters, “No one’s laughing now!” but jumps back as something pounds on the outside, “What is that? Was that what I think it is?” she asks.
Michael moans, and she turns on the lights. He staggers over to the weapons rack, clutching his arm, “Stay away from me, Dawn!” and she can see in his eyes, the same look there was when the doctors told him Ben was gone. Mike’s a fighter, doesn’t accept defeat. “Mike, what are you doing?”
He chucks the gun at her. “It bit me!”
“One of those things out there?” she asks.
He doesn’t answer, takes hold of an axe, brown with rust, and with one strike attempts to chop his arm off below the elbow. It doesn’t sever in one blow. He strikes again, chopping furiously. The noise of him screaming, makes the pounding outside vibrate, ricocheting around the bunker, like they’re stuck inside a coffin with demented mourners outside trying to bash their way in. In a frenzy of pain the man Dawn held last night, takes a bottle of her Dad’s old brew from a rack, unscrews it and pours it over the wound. Dawn takes another of her mother’s dressing up outfits from the box, and tears it up, “Give me your arm, Mike!” She tries to wrap it tightly, but he pushes her away.
“Don’t touch it!” His voice is deeper than before, he growls and takes out a cigarette lighter, setting the bleeding stump on fire. She holds him through the screaming, until he collapses. The last time they cried like this, was when they realised Benny wasn’t coming back. Grief kept them together and denial guaranteed it stayed that way.
He points at the severed hand, “Look, that’s why!”
Amongst the blood and bone, the fingers broaden; the nails lengthen and sharpen, as Michael’s severed hand changes into something bestial. Mike takes the gun and passes it to his wife. “Dawn, load it up and get away from me!”
Dawn is good at ignoring anything she doesn’t want to face, and begins to wrap his wound up tightly, giving him a kiss, as if they’ve woken up in bed. “Babes, you got it in time! Look what ever it is, whatever those things are, you’re going to be fine!” she pleads.
He shakes his head; sweat pouring down his flesh and blood in his eyes. “Those things weren’t dingoes, Dawn! I can’t just get a rabies shot and a wooden arm!”
The severed hand looks gnarled and muscular, and course hair begins sprouting out of the back, making Michael pour the rest of the wine over it and light it up. They watch it burn, the barbecued hand, making them choke and move to the back of the bunker. The sound of clawed feet on steel, above their heads, shifts, following their sound.
Michael slumps against the wall, looking paler, a distance in his eyes that Dawn doesn’t like. She lights a cigarette and places it in his mouth. “Smoke, love, relax, we got to get you to a doctor.”
Michael starts laughing, making the scurrying above turn to scratching, as if whatever’s there is hungry, digging through the metal of the bunker to get at them. “Doc’s dead, the whole bleeding town’s gone. It’s just us, and those things out there.”
He sounds as if he’s got a cold, rubs his face, eyes yellowing, although Dawn hopes it’s from loss of blood and nothing more sinister. He coughs up more of it onto his lap and it spatters over her hands. Through the sticky bits she can see his skin beginning to turn a bluish colour. “I’m not right love,” he whispers, his voice sounding stranger with each breath.
He grabs the gun, placing it in his mouth, “Get away from me!” he screams. The survivor in her staggers back as his face contorts, but she turns and dives towards him, grabbing the weapon as the shot fires, ripping a hole through the roof instead of Mike’s skull.
She pushes him, screaming. “Don’t you leave me on my own, Michael, like everyone else in my stinking life!” and then throws the gun to the floor next to a pile of her Dad’s contraptions. The hole in the roof lets in sunlight from outside and Dawn can see shadows breaking the streams as the beasts prowl around above. Specks of black blood drip down from the hole and an eye peers through, making Dawn shiver. “It’s not human!” It begins scratching, poking a clawed finger through and prying the metal, attempting to bend it enough to widen it.
“Don’t look up, babe, look at me.” Mike whispers, severing Dawn’s delusions of survival.
She refocuses and says. “I’ve got to get help, distract those things somehow.”
“There’s nothing you can do! You should kill me and wait here for help.” He growls, deeper than before, but isn’t quick enough to counter Dawn’s hunger to save him. She has an ottoman her Dad left, in his madness, full of tranquilisers and morphine and loads of apocalyptic paraphernalia that got the old man locked up. “Maybe Dad wasn’t so crook in the head?”
She takes a tranquiliser and, finding a vein, injects it into Mike’s good arm. Kissing him, she says, “We’ll stay here till they leave and then I’ll get help. You promise not to leave me?”
He nods, “My body’s not going anywhere!” and glances at the chains she’s using to tie his legs to the wall. “You don’t believe I’ll make it either,” slipping into semi consciousness his last words are. “Kill me when I change.”
The scurrying outside gets louder and the hole in the roof is bigger as she glances up, allowing two clawed fingers room to maneuver, scratching and bending the steel. The claws retract and an eye peers through. She shivers, as the pupil dilates, watching her, like a dingo, a quiet predator, seeing her fear, unblinking. It knows in time the hole will widen.
She grabs her father’s gun and shoots point blank at the eye. There’s a splatter and yelp and black pulpy goo spills down her arm as the thing recoils. There’s a thud and the body blocks out the sunlight, closing the hole with the weight of its corpse. “I got it.” She whispers, almost too frightened to breathe in case the others drag it off and begin digging their way in again.
The light on the ceiling swings back and forth, making the shadows in the bunker sway uncontrollably, turning Mike into a gruesome prerequisite, a blueprint for a beast that may not emerge. Dawn imagines her once loving husband, replaced by something monstrous, changed forever. Unlike with death, she’d have to endure the hope of his recovery, until the eventual realisation that he’s not coming back. Like her old Dad used to say. “Everything ends.”
The light stops swinging and the shadows ease, but Mike hasn’t returned back to how he was before. His breathing is raspy and his skin covered with beads of sweat and a thin layer of hair, rapidly sprouting. His body contorts and he breaks from unconsciousness, letting out a snarl as his bones and muscles crunch, shedding his clothing with the bulk of his new form. When he opens his eyes they’re the same yellow as the eye she shot through the hole in the ceiling. The man she told her secrets to and entrusted with her dreams, is vanishing and being replaced by something vile and dangerous, something her brain wants to kill. She remembers his last words “Kill me when I change.” But her hands can’t pull the trigger, despite leveling the gun at him. The chain’s are strong and around both legs. She curses herself and switches the gun for another tranquiliser, loads and shoots. What he’s becoming lashes out at her, trying to rip the chains from its legs. The chains tighten and the beast flies back against the wall with the force of his own aggression.
“We were supposed to start a new life, Mike.” She screams, hoping something remains of her husband as he attempts to rip shreds out of her again. “Werewolves aren’t real!” she tries to reason with herself. “It’s daytime out there, there’s no moon.” She feels ridiculous, but shoots another dart into his neck, which does nothing to weaken him. “Mike!” she screams. “Listen to me!” It causes the chains to buckle, but not enough for it to break loose.
She can’t reason with it. Can’t feel safe locked up in her war bunker, a pretentious womb like structure meant to pacify the insane paranoia of her parents. It’s just prolonging her torment. She begins to laugh at the absurdity, remembers the trails of misfortune nagging at her throughout her life, now encapsulated in this tomb. She points the gun at herself, contemplating suicide seriously for a few seconds. It would be quick.
Mike breaks loose and launches at her, but she aims at his head, shooting him down. There’s a thud and a whimper and the werewolf’s body lays motionless as she reloads, fear taking over from any residual love. And then she feels a great sense of remorse, as he remains on the floor, his body changes back to her husband. “Mike?”
She checks his pulse. There’s nothing. He’s gone, just like Ben and her Mum and Dad, her whole life cluttered with death, parading behind her, taunting her with cruel laughter. Death likes chasing Dawn. Ever since she was a small girl. It’s played hide and seek, taking everyone she loves out one by one, denying her a family and now she’s hiding from it in a bunker. For all she knows, she’s the only woman left in The Creek of Endless Summer. Only it’s not summer down in this dark stinking pit, and with no food or water and werewolves scratching around outside, Dawn sits down. She opens a bottle of her Dad’s home brew and taking a large swig, contemplates the remainder of her life.
“I could stay here and get drunk.” She whispers to Mike’s corpse. He looks peaceful now, and she covers him with a blanket. Hoping he’ll forgive her for not saving him. She wonders if his ghost can see her, if it’s trapped down in the bunker. “Mike?”
She kisses him. His hair is dripping with sweat, and his face is icy cold. “I’m so sorry.” She whispers. “I tried to save you but.”
There’s a scratching sound from above and light breaks through the hole she shot earlier. Clawed feet scratch around on the steel roof. The body of the fallen werewolf is dragged away. She can hear them munching on it. Another yellow eye peers through, studies her. “Oh crap!” She fires at it, missing feebly, through grief, making a new hole in the roof, where another set of eyes peer through. “Shit!” she screeches. “Get away from me!” she panics, and drags Mike’s body away into the shadows, in an attempt to hide. It’s too late, as the beasts push their claws through the holes attempting to dig their way inside. “It’s never going to end.” She whispers to Mike, stroking his hair, out of comfort, the last traces of hope still clinging to her like the dregs in an emptying bottle.
“That’s it then.” She decides. Taking another swig. Her Dad died ten years ago, although this stuff has been left to fester for a good twenty. “It’s strong stuff.” She says, still talking to Mike as if he’s alive. “You’re right. I’m good at blocking things out.” She blocked out Mike’s affairs, and her mother’s suicide, her Dad’s manic depression and Ben’s disappearance. She blocked out the fact Mike looked at her differently after Ben died. As if it was somehow her fault.
She takes another few swigs, and imagines how she’d feel if she heard a helicopter up above. The sounds of gunfire, werewolves obliterated and turned into corpses, just like with Mike. She chuckles as her mind constructs a scenario; where soldiers stamp on the roof of her bunker and shout. “Is anyone alive down there?”
She’d answer. “I’m here! Please get me out of here!” and then she’d open the doors and be greeted by people in biohazard suits, who would march her past the bodies of dead ex werewolves, into the helicopter and she’d be flown out of the Creek of Endless Summer, to start a new life, somewhere else, somewhere far away from the memories.
No one’s going to save her. Instead, Dawn sits in her mother’s science fiction costume, drinking her Dad’s beer, holding her dead husband and the photograph of Ben, as the hole in the roof gets bigger. The claws of werewolves scrape away the metal, and any hope she had of survival. Some people aren’t meant to live happy lives. Death trailed her for a reason. She puts the gun in her mouth and pulls the trigger.
“Overblown and dramatic!” You judge from the outside
But I Question this godless, empty vacuum
Waiting for something to save me
A religious residue from a life left behind
You say, “It must be hard to find anyone, when.”
“When I’m still living in limbo with him.” I reply, my heart
If one more helpful stranger tells me
What I already know
This feeling will get deeper,
The time, longer
So I dream of my own fictitious ending.
Scraping my life away with your clumsy scalpel
You shaped my reality into something unrecognisable.
I could have been safe without you.
Shredded by your promises and my own failings
A life apart was inevitable, but
I’m still waiting for you to put the knife down
To let me go, so I can remember how to smile.
A Worm Is A Bird And Other Bad Things, was originally published in SFF e’zine, which is unfortunately no longer with us :( Anyway I thought it a shame my story died in that way, so have resurrected it for you to read. It’s from the steampunk issue 5. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. RIP SFF e’zine… (SFF e’zine by Peter Saga)
Amongst the ruins of her ship, crawls Captain Isabel Deckard. She can see Paris, blazing. They’ve reached Europe. “A woman’s no substitute for the real thing!” She looks towards a shadow turning into a man, can see the smugness on her first mate’s face as he offers his hand, to mock her. “M’lady!”
She growls, “This is no time for blame, Mr. Bailey.” She scrambles to her feet, pushes him away, and points towards the sky. “I suppose men can fight gravity? An unnatural gift if that were the case!” Through the smog and dust of falling debris, they see more Zeppelins plucked, like fledglings crashing to the war torn streets, once the cultural hub of Paris.
She barks, “Mechanical worms! The laws of science have reversed the natural order of things. We’re living in a land where worms eat birds!” She grabs his hand. “Run, Bailey. Or are you immune?” They run far enough away to see the full damage to the Zeppelin. A home for five months to twenty crew, burnt beyond the survival of anyone trapped inside. But Deckard didn’t earn her place without the respect of her men, or most of them, at least. She begins to turn, in hope that others were fortunate enough to be thrown from the cabins. “My crew!”
Bailey screams, “Captain, get back!” A tremor underfoot begins to break the ground beneath until the ship is taken, sliding into a place deeper than it was designed to venture. It was made for the sky, not for the depths of earth. They run, avoiding death, like insignificant specs in a landslide. “It’s chaos!” cries Bailey, dragging his captain, sensing her reluctance to leave her ship.
Other ships are being plucked from the sky. More worms drag a once proud army into graves, marked only by the craters left behind. The mechanisms screech, like living creatures, driven by human pilots, trained for terrestrial conquest. Deckard takes some explosives from her coat, more for comfort than use. “The world’s turning to ash, and the sky even more so.”
Mr. Bailey draws his rifle. “It would have been kinder, if we’d died with the others.”
Dwarfed by their enemy, the two of them run between the shrapnel from exploding Zeppelins, amongst the falling debris of their once proud fleet. “We fell two hundred feet and survived, Mr. Bailey. Maybe we yet have purpose in this terrible series of events?” She points towards the Flight Academy, a giant amongst the Parisian landscape. “The project, Bailey. There’s a chance it’s not damaged.” He calls, “What project?”
She dodges the back end of a molten statue, as it shakes loose from the top of a building, the cause of its crumbling, quite obviously, another fallen ship. She drags him into a side alley with buildings still attached and points towards the Flight Academy. “It’s said the French government were working on a way to drag these worms from the ground, just like they’ve plucked our ships from the sky.” She grins. “A reversal of physics sounds much more palatable than death, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Bailey?”
He smiles at last. They run, towards the Flight Academy, a dream of something to cure this infestation speeding them past the dangers all around. Flashing by are all the possible avenues for failure, the alternatives, which shadow victory, the chance that death will take them, sooner, like everyone else around.
As they continue to run, Captain Deckard, hollers. “It’s three streets away, we can get there. It’s supposed to be in the lower levels.”
Bailey isn’t so hopeful. “What if this project’s gone?”
She growls at him. “I lost eighteen good men and women back there. Don’t make me regret you survived!”
He stops and waves his arms at the chaos, pulling her backwards. “But look around you! If this miraculous project existed, these worms would be in the sky already!”
She pulls him forward, and they begin running again, but she takes a second to reply. “If it’s gone, we’ll flee the city. Watch the world crumble as we get drunk on French wine.” She ducks as shrapnel from an explosion skims close to her face. “If we survive this, I’ll gladly join you. But not yet.”
They speed up, as the rain turns to ash. It would have been spring, but this carnage has stripped Paris of its season. Apart from the cherry blossom, which fall between the cracks. Pink tears, from trees mourning for the tourists who worshiped their beauty, before the worms came. Deckard slows, as they reach a row of cherry trees. She stops to reflect, to watch events beyond her. Death doesn’t discriminate, doesn’t care about daughters or husbands, or those left behind. It’s rolling back its eyes and laughing as it reminds her of New York; of a place she never wanted to look back on.
“Isabel?” Bailey grabs hold of her, “What’s wrong? Why have you stopped?” She doesn’t answer. He takes her hand, as if they are no longer Captain and mate, but two people, caught up in something horrific. “Come on, run!” There is some sign of life. A few survivors scramble from the wreckage of fallen Zeppelins. Bailey, points at the nearing Academy. “We’re almost there!”
She nods, allowing him to cauterize the memories, as the bouquet of present events filter into her, leaving New York where it should be. She becomes something better and braver. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course.” She looks at the world as it is now. Civilian’s clamber about, searching for the quickest exits, for unbroken bridges connecting them to the country, allowing them to run away from Paris, into the suburbs. Those who haven’t been swept into the Sein, or the other unmentionable places, beneath civilized structures.
She motions to the Flight Academy as they sneak past another worm, too gigantic to register them as a threat. As if they’re fledglings, already chewed by a cat, and doomed to starve. “There it is!” They stop, outside the large and tattered entrance. Its gates have been blown off. Craters and Zeppelin’s litter its foundations, just like everywhere else in the city. The main building is steaming, the Zeppelin hangars lined with skeleton ships.
Bailey mutters, “We’re too late!”
Deckard regains her authority, as if it’s a natural part of her. “Let’s look inside first, before we reach that conclusion.” She signals to the carnage, to the dead all around. “This is genocide. I can’t give up, until I know for sure, that we’ve lost.”
Bailey nods. “You’re right, but I’d rather be in the country, drowning myself in wine and women!”
Despite this, they sneak towards the main entrance, using the cover of trees and their own slight of foot. Five months on board the Zeppelin hasn’t robbed either of them of their stealth. In fact they have set foot in many foreign lands, but nowhere as strange as Paris looks now. “Get back!” whispers Deckard. She pushes Bailey into the foliage, as something lumbers out of the security doors, leading through to the Academy foyer. They squat, as the thing is followed by others, all of them shaped like men and women, bound in some sort of mesh, distorting them into something less than human. “What the hell are they?”
What used to be flesh is pressed so tightly to the mesh that it looks like little fatty eyes, bursting through. Their features appear like worms, walking on two legs. Bailey whispers, “Look at their boots!” They both look down as the parade of human worms march past, with the same boots as themselves.
The two survivors crawl back further, allowing the last to march past. Deckard whispers. “Now we know why no one’s saved us!”
She moves swiftly, dragging Bailey towards the entrance. “Something’s changed them. We’ll have to do it ourselves!”
Bailey holds back. “I’m not going in there with those things! You’re mad, woman!”
Deckard doesn’t smile. “Then run away, knowing a woman saved you. Remember me if you see worms flying, during your orgy, because I’m not handing our world over to them!” She drags him backwards, as another troop of human worms march past them, out onto the streets of Paris. “You’ll be court marshaled for desertion.”
He spits, “That’s if you’re not turned into a worm, Captain!”
Before she can lecture him about his attitude the ground shakes, more violently than it had when their ship was taken. They cling to the branches of their hideaway, unable to move, predicting another metal worm emerging from the grounds. But something different appears. Steam, followed by the smell of sulphur, bursts from a fissure, making the human worms open fire. Their bullets ricochet, slicing holes through the surrounding area, as an enormous metal bird takes shape and grows into something beautiful. The flying machine opens fire, turning the sky red for a moment. It bears the colours of France, the colours of Europe, the seals of Queen Victoria and president Félix Faure.
The mechanical worms, for miles, begin to turn as the steam and the sounds of churning cogs, the workings of two great nations, arise, from the earth. As if they sense it’s not as flimsy as a Zeppelin. “It’s bullet proof, Bailey!” Cries Deckard. “But is it worm proof?” She laughs, and turns towards him, but his eyes are wide, dead man’s eyes, staring at the blood, seeping from a tiny wound in his stomach. He crumbles, “Bailey?” She has no time for him. She’s lost better people today. She wipes off his blood, takes out her gun and waits, as the mechanical worms burrow their way towards Her Majesty’s flying machine. She whispers. “The project. This must be it!”
The sky begins to fill with mechanical worms, lifted out of their burrows, with no hydrogen to give them flight. Her Majesty’s ship is the source of their levitation. They become specks, floating upwards, becoming so distant that Deckard finds it hard to see any trace of them other than the devastation they’ve caused, tiny spots of light, thousands of small explosions, as the mechanical worms burn up in the earth’s atmosphere. Instead of trees mourning, the sky begins to weep, the remains of worms, silicon ashes spat out by the atmosphere. “It works!” She cries, but too loud, as something grabs her foot. She twists round, aiming her gun, at what used to be Bailey, his face contorted into an inhuman mess. His death must have triggered some horrid transformation. She fires, and falls out of her hideaway, scrambling into the courtyard towards Her Majesty’s ship and the troop of human worms in between.
She feels the ashes falling, takes out her pack of explosives and hurls them at the troops, scattering some, disabling others. In some rage for survival, she sprints across the grounds towards the flying machine, waving her hands, hoping that someone inside will see she’s still human. “Open up! Stop!”
A hatchway opens and a ladder falls out from the base. A man’s voice calls in broad French, “Are you infected?”
She scrambles towards the ladder and clings on as the ship leaves the ground. She’s used to being at the helm, not clinging for her life below. “I don’t think so!” She clambers upwards, and the man’s hand hauls her onto the deck. The hatch closes. Her eyes adjust to the unnatural light.
The man, dressed in a cleaner’s overalls, smiles and shakes her hand. “A Zeppelin Captain!” He looks relieved and says in fluent English. “We’ve got a crazy scientist piloting this ship! We need you at the helm, Ma’am. Unless you fancy a world full of worms?” He adds, “We’d better get up there. The world’s a big place to save and we’ve only got one ship!”
It seems she does have purpose, after all. “Looks like the laws of science have shifted in our favour. Show me to your deck, Monsieur!”
Without introducing himself, the cleaner disappears up a spiral stairway, “This way, Captain!”
She follows, swaying as the ship ascends, hoping that the rest of the crew is more qualified. It’s a difficult climb, with the gravity shifting. She’s not used to such swift takeoffs as Zeppelins were designed for gradual flight, not the obvious maneuvering this ship is capable of. She feels sick, remembers herself falling as her own Zeppelin crashed from the sky, as a worm ate through the gasbag. For the first time since her daughter and husband died, she feels completely helpless. New York is so far away, but the smell of burning fuel; mixed with the blossom in spring air, encourage such cruel memories. A dead woman’s life has no place amongst the living, and certainly isn’t appropriate onboard a ship capable of such potential. “Not now, Isabel.” Shaking off the emotion, she reaches the hull, peers up at the new space, through the floor hatch. It’s empty, save the cleaner, but she can see the crew through an open doorway, to the control room.
The cleaner holds his hand out to help her to her feet, a rare gentleman, with misguided chivalry. “Captain?”
Deckard marks him as a hopeless romantic at best, but accepts his gesture gracefully. “Thank you, Monsieur?”
He looks sick, as the ship enters some turbulence, but replies. “Christophe Lautrec.” He motions towards the cabin. “Let me introduce you to the others.” She follows him through to where two more people sit, a man and a woman, both of them fluent French speakers. Unfortunately French was far from her mind as a girl. She didn’t need it in London.
The conversation dies, as she enters, and both glance at her as the cook begins to boast. “She’s a captain! We were right to pick her up! I told you!”
Deckard assesses the hierarchy. The cook is obviously at the bottom as the woman teases him, using English to include her new companion. “Ah, Christophe thinks he’s saved the world, he’ll clean it of worms, but if we get out of here alive he’s going to end up cleaning the ship, just like before, while we destroy these worms!”
There is underlining tension, as Christophe retorts sarcastically. “That’s so sweet of you, Genevieve. I feel so worthwhile!” She assumes there’s more to this relationship. Sexual politics had its place on her own ship, and she can sense the chemistry between them.
Deckard looks at the jumble of alien controls, and the hopeful expressions on the faces of her new crew. She says in her best Captain’s voice, to establish her dominance, “Isabel Deckard, former captain of The Birmingham.” She keeps calm, but inside, the woman who knows nothing about advanced technology, panics. Captain Deckard takes her place, beside the old man piloting the contraption.
He offers his hand. “Professor Yuri Moreau!” He looks precarious and frightened, as if he’s never flown a ship before.
She glances at him, and asks. “You built this thing?” He is perspiring. “Yes, but I’m not a pilot!” She can see why he’s so scared, as more worms begin to break the surface of the earth. The ship weaves around, like a mouse avoiding snake strikes.
He yells. “Tirer, Genevieve!” Genevieve looks hardened, Deckard can sense military, her eye patch and attitude give her away, despite civilian atire. She takes hold of a machine gun, begins blasting the worms, lifting them out of the ground, as they had before, screaming, “Die!” Deckard steps in, takes the machine gun on the opposite side, as more worms strike at the ship. Professor Moreau clambers over his seat, muttering, “We should swap!” and pulls her from the machine gun, so that she is sitting at the ship’s helm. She quietly panics as she realises there are no rudder or elevator wheels, just a strange looking handle bar, which forced the ship to plummet, when Moreau removed his hands. He screams at her. “Grab the joy stick! Pull her up!”
Deckard grabs hold of it as the ship nosedives, and growls at him as the earth spins rapidly nearer. “You’re crazy!”
Moreau replies, “You’re a captain!”
“Of a Zeppelin!”
The controls feel heavy, but she pulls them down until the ship stops vibrating. It stabilises, and begins to climb upwards as she steers it. Genevieve lets out a cry of relief, still firing indiscriminately at anything that moves outside of the ship. She says to Deckard. “Stay just below the clouds so I can see anything that crawls from the earth, and blast it into the sky.”
Deckard smiles, for the first time, in a while and jokes. “Are you always this dramatic?”
Genevieve grins, and says quite coolly. “It’s been a dramatic day!”
Deckard looks outside, along with the others. There are worms all around, being elevated, broken up and burnt, like before. It’s like a fireworks display, during daytime. She hasn’t been to one of those since she was Genevieve’s age. She was a civilian back then, but things change. She concentrates on steering, despite the worm’s sudden aversion, but turns to Moreau, the man with the brains. Hopefully. “Professor, any plans?”
He nods, and points towards the horizon, where the land swiftly turns from earth to sea, revealing how fast this ship travels in a matter of moments. He mumbles. “Head South, towards Antarctica.”
She waits for an explanation, but Moreau stands up, motions for Christophe to take his place beside the machine gun, says absently. “Just point and shoot!”
Christophe pulls a face as Genevieve laughs at him. “Pretend it’s a mop!”
Deckard focuses on steering southwards, across the Mediterranean, as Professor Moreau sits down, perspiration dripping down his forehead. He wipes it with a handkerchief and lights up a cigar. He’s a man who looks like he’s had a few heart attacks in his long lifetime. Antarctica is where the first worms appeared. It’s a no fly zone, in fact no Zeppelins came back from there with human crews, or so it was rumored. “Antarctica? You are mad!”
Professor Moreau looks quite the opposite, as he watches the worms burning. “You should know as a Zeppelin Captain, this infestation originated from there.”
She nods. “Yes.”
The first sign of North African land, skims by, as the ship accelerates past the Sahara, past South Africa, every worm flying upwards, as this ship drags them to their death, like a reaper, calling locusts back to heaven by the millions. She warns. “Antarctica’s supposed to be impregnable!” Her own ship had been diverted from that region, several months ago, when the plague first broke out.
Moreau continues, “I didn’t plan to be onboard, when this day came, but if we can find the factory, maybe we can survive long enough to stop production.”
Deckard retorts, “That’s very encouraging!”
Christophe and Genevieve say together, “Icebergs!”
Moreau jumps out of his seat. “Stop the ship!”
Deckard has no idea how to stop. “How?” Genevieve flips a control, and the ship hovers over the open ocean.
Moreau points at something in the South, jutting from the water, a hundred miles high, so high in fact, its peak skims the clouds. “There it is!” He screams, at Genevieve, “Sergeant Lambert, full power to the anti gravity device! I want to wipe these things off the planet!” It looks like a giant iceberg, but it’s teaming with holes, and inside can be seen billions of mechanical worms.
Deckard says, almost to herself, out of shock, “A worm factory!”
Genevieve begins firing, at the giant factory, as the mechanical worms team out, towards the tiny ship. The anti gravity device lifts the worms upwards, until they cascade like a carpet of serpents, mechanical bones crunching as the atmosphere burns them into innocent flashes.
The factory remains intact, sitting quite smugly as if it has some awareness of its menace. Deckard steers the ship nearer, past stray worms, as they pummel against the sides, making the ship spin, into unwelcome turbulence. Moreau cries, “Force fields!” Everything inside goes dark, steam bellows from the engine, before the power returns, and the generator charges the force field, making the worms ricochet off the sides, into the sky.
Deckard hollers, “How do you plan to destroy it?”
Moreau removes his cigar. “The opposite of ice, Captain, good old fashioned fire!”
The ship emits another noise, and the crew covers their eyes, as a light, sweeps all trace of the landscape. When the whiteness fades, Deckard hears her companions screaming, but in euphoria, rather than its opposite. She joins them, watching as the ice factory crumbles into the ocean, little worm workers tumbling, like in some apocalyptic painting she saw in The Tate as a girl, although God has no part in this, machine induced justice. She laughs, “Looks like it’s bird over worm, machine beats machine.” She sits back, with the others and remembers Paris burning, toasts her crew, silently, and hopes there’s enough left of the world to call this victory.
Corset Wings was originally published in SFF e’zine, which is unfortunately no longer with us Anyway I thought it a shame my story died in that way, so have resurrected it for you to read. It’s from the steampunk issue 5. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did writing it. RIP SFF e’zine… (Original artwork for this story by talented artist Kiri Moth and SFF e’zine by Peter Saga)
It’s not the sort of dream that can be made inside a brothel.
“Come back here you thieving Dollymop!”
I run towards Fleet Street, in the clothes of the bloke who beat me. Old men his age can’t run fast and I’m guessing it’ll take him a while to make himself decent enough for the streets. I wasn’t planning on running tonight, but Mrs. Harding told me if ever I needed her, I was to come in disguise.
She’s one of those new age American types, with too much money and a curiosity that could get her thrown in the slammer if she didn’t own half of New England. Her Daddy was some big industrialist in the North East, built Zeppelins and submarines, but I didn’t care for her stories, to begin with, so long as she paid me.
I’ve had my share of female clients, but she mostly wanted to talk. Rambled on about women’s liberation before she bedded me.
The old man wasn’t so pleasant. Fell asleep after a few rounds of treating me like a bruiser, so I left him laying there, thinking he’d be out for a few hours. I misjudged him, can hear him bellow from across town, “Stop that roller!”
I hear pig whistles, duck down a side alley, as the rozzers run past. It’s funny how quiet they were when the old man was beating the shit out of me. Double standards, still I know these streets better than any of them, and Mrs. Harding’s house is only a few roads away. I disappear into the back yards of Kirby Street, and slip by, guised like a proper gentleman. I’ll fit in with the toffs around here, no problem. Although rich folks probably don’t hide in church yards, like I’m planning, unless they’re students from St Bart’s, robbing the dead of their rest.
The whistles have stopped, but I hop over the fence. I like my man drag, it’s better for scaling fences than any skirts I’m used to. “Ain’t so bad, Moll, eh!” I hit the grass, still in my bare feet. “Well almost!” I wish my feet were as big as the old man’s so I could have stolen his shoes as well. “Can’t have everything we want, girl!”
I laugh to myself as I sneak into St Etheldreda’s churchyard. Sway along the stone path onto the grass. My feet don’t thank me for the battering they’ve taken along the alleyways, but it’s dark here and that’s what matters.
I slip into the trees at the back of the graveyard, take out the note Mrs. Harding wrote, just to check I wasn’t imagining her invitation. “My dear, Margaret.” I stop. She wouldn’t call me Molly, said it offended her appreciation of the English language.
I roll my eyes and read on. “My dear, Margaret. You strike me as an open-minded but somewhat restricted young woman.” I duck low as the pig whistles get near again. Hold the note like those Catholic beads my old Mum used to pray on, before she was taken by consumption.
The pigs shout, “Oi, come here!” The whistles get louder and nearer as more rozzers take to the streets. That’s a hell of a lot of whistles for one Ladybird like me. I hear the sounds of other men, a gang of toolers. They’ve been pick pocketing toffs. I relax. Those whistles aren’t for me.
I wait for the feet to run past the streets behind, and then open the note again. It reads. “I have great capacity to see past the confines of this very limiting society, into somewhere more advanced. Somewhere liberating. If you want to know more, come visit me.” She wrote nothing else apart from her address and name.
I fold the note back into my pocket; look at the graves, at the sky, from what I can see of it, through the trees. It’s beginning to rain. I don’t feel safe slipping back to my flat, dressed like a man. People around Whitechapel talk. The East End’s not as big as it seems when you’ve lived there all your life.
I walk quickly to the back of the churchyard, where there’s a break in the fence, which hasn’t been repaired yet. I curse, “Bleeding feet!” and head towards Fleet Street, down a maze of tiny courtyards and passages, easing my escape.
Mrs. Harding’s street is full of grand old buildings, but hers is particularly handsome. I stop outside, check the address. There’s a sign outside, as if it’s some place important. Typical for a woman with a high opinion of herself. It says, “Dr. Samuel Johnson lived here.” And then some dates from last century. Mrs. Harding lives here now, but there’s no plaque to say so. I feel my stomach rise into my throat and then knock. “Mrs. Harding?”
The sound of footsteps makes me nervous, heavy and mechanical. She must have one of those protocol butlers the paper sellers have been shouting about. The door opens. I’m right, as a creepy looking seven-foot man-shaped thing stares at me through the steam, which powers its motors. It hisses, “Come in, Margaret,” as if it was expecting me. Its mouth is full of smoke, which warms the hallway.
I ask, “Where’s Mrs. Harding?” It motions for me to follow it into the house.
I’ve never seen so many books, as I’m lead from the entrance, past a spiral staircase, through doors hidden in walls, rooms behind rooms and more staircases going downwards until I can feel the air getting thinner. The creature turns and points to another door and says, “Mrs. Harding’s through there.” It holds back, as if it isn’t meant to go further than this room, but holds the door open; until I can hear more engines, feel a rush of cold air, like on the London underground. I can hear steam trains, echoing from somewhere in the distance, smell the grease and stale air.
I walk towards the door and ask. “She’s got a train track in her house?” The steam man doesn’t answer. He just hands me a book from one of the many shelves. It’s entitled “Corset Wings, by Emilia Harding.” I open it up to the first page, a diagram of a strange looking flying machine is scrawled on it and underneath, written in her handwriting and inscribed to me, are a few words.
“Dear, Margaret. I dream of turning corsets into wings, of building metal and brass around your bones, the skin of a new woman, released from something constricting.” I stop reading; feel a sudden urge to turn around, and run back out onto the streets, but the mechanical man pushes me through the door and slams it shut.
I feel a rush of cold air, as I pound on the closed side, “Let me back in!” I’m in a tunnel, with oil lamplight; it’s a train platform, completely abandoned apart from me. I holler. “I’ll call the police!” I claw at the edge of the door, to try and prise it open, but it’s jammed tight. I drop the book, as it’s no use to me, clamber down the embankment, figure the train track leads somewhere out into the London sewers. Better I return home covered in filth than a skin of metal and brass. I mumble. “Lunatic!”
I don’t need her stupid book or her creepy butler to find my way out of this place. I knew I shouldn’t have come here. That mental cow’s probably turned her old Man into that robot, for all I know. I shiver and give the door one last glare, as the light behind it is switched off. I don’t plan on getting on Mrs. Harding’s train after reading her creepy plans for me.
I wish I had shoes as I scramble over the track, in the opposite direction to where I heard the train. There’s enough space at the sides for me to crawl behind if anything approaches. “No rich lunatic’s turning me into an experiment!” My old Mum always told me I got my stubborn streak from my father, but neither of them are any use to me at the moment, so I concentrate on not tripping over the track. “You are an idiot, Molly Baker.” Serves me right for stealing the old man’s clothes. I doubt they’d find my body if it ended up down here permanently, not that they’d look for it in the first place, being that I’m not that significant in the world above.
“Margaret! What are you doing down there?”
I look up at a woman standing on the platform, peering down at me. She’s holding some gadgets in her hand, and blowing out cigar smoke as she reaches down to help me off the track. I step backwards. “Mrs. Harding!”
She looks confused, from what I can make out through the gloom. “Well, yes! Who did you expect?”
I motion to the door her butler pushed me through as she sighs and realises I’m not going to accept her gesture. “I have rights you know, same as you. Now let me out of here.” She’s a small-framed woman, and I’m used to fighting men if I have to. I clench my fists. “I’ll not ask you again!”
She glances towards the door, and walks, quite absently; as if she has no plans to turn me into a machine and picks up the book I left on the platform. She mutters, “You dropped my book!” I begin walking further down the tracks, as she doesn’t seem to have anything that can stop me.
I shout. “This is ridiculous! And my name’s Molly!”
She replies, “Where are you going?”
I answer, “Away from you!”
She waves the book at me. “But I gave this to you!” I stop. She says. “You’d better get off the track, you’ll get squashed!”
I growl, “I’m not coming near you after that butler thing slammed the door on me and left me here!”
She frowns, and raises her eyes, gives the door a hefty yank until it opens. “This door? Well, I’ve been meaning to get it fixed! And these butlers are not really designed for semantics, so I’m afraid your cries for help wouldn’t have been understood.” She motions towards the room, turns the light back on, and says, “I heard you screaming from my laboratory, thankfully!”
I clench my fists tighter, in case she’s tricking me, but she nods to her house, as if she is inviting me to leave. “I thought you were more curious and perhaps a little more open minded than this, Molly, but don’t let me stop you. I’m sure you have other plans out on the streets tonight?” I clamber onto the track, seeing my opportunity to make an exit, push past her, smell the cigar smoke as she stubs it out on the wall and extinguishes it with her boot. She frowns, I follow her eyes as she looks down at my feet and says. “You don’t have any shoes!”
For such a clever woman she likes stating the obvious. I snatch the book from her and turn to the first page, read out her threats, so she knows I’m not frightened of her. “Says here, you plan to turn my flesh into metal and brass!”
She puts on some reading glasses, and squints, a slight smile on her lips, as I put my foot in the door to stop it closing. “Oh, that’s so endearing and at the same time quite frustrating. You’ve taken my words literally. I can see now, why you look as if you’re ready to grind my head into the wall!” She grins, “I’m not keen on brutality, but I understand why a woman in your position resorts to that kind of behaviour. It won’t be necessary, Molly!”
She pats my shoulder as if this is all cleared up, and says. “You can leave if you like, I’ll find someone else.” I stand in the open doorway, as Mrs. Harding walks away from me, as if she’s forgotten I’m here, but she turns and mutters. “If you want some shoes I think I have a pair in my laboratory, you can use.” She disappears back into her laboratory, leaving the door to slowly creak closed, but not enough, for me to remain uncurious about what’s behind it. I sigh, curse myself for being so nosey, and place the book in the door to the house, so it doesn’t close on me if I need to make a run for it later. “It’s a wonder you’ve reached twenty five, Molly!”
I peer into Mrs. Harding’s laboratory. I’ve never seen one before, but I’ve read about them. This one looks cluttered, with bits of engine parts littering the floor, steam rising from half made contraptions, and Mrs. Harding running around frantically, looking for those shoes she promised me. She turns and trots over to me, quite thrilled that I’ve entered her workhouse and passes me some flat looking boots. “These were my sister’s, they should fit you!”
They look quite new. “She doesn’t need them?”
Her mind seems to wander, as if she doesn’t want to think about my question too deeply and replies. “She died.” I take the gift reluctantly, not quite sure how to accept a dead woman’s shoes, or reject the offer, but put them on, as my feet are raw.
I ask, “How?” hoping it has nothing to do with her experiments.
She lights another cigar, and waves me into the workhouse. Says absently, “Accident at work, things go wrong, but without experimentation, no one gets anywhere.” She gives me a curious look, and touches my face, but not in the same way she did when she paid me. “You’ve been in a fight?”
I nod. “Bad customer, that’s all. Nothing new!”
She removes her hand and says nothing else, looks slightly angry, but then begins to walk across the room, as if she wants to show me something. “Before you go, you may as well see what I was making for you, had you chosen to stay.” I step over bits of engine; all types of materials lay haphazardly across the floor and worktables. I can see a large wing stretching outwards, made of soft red cloth, and a second, attached to what looks like a corset. She points at it, her eyes not quite right, as if she is so absorbed and obsessed, she’s forgotten the world around her. “This is my new experiment!” Her eyes get crazier as she points up at the ceiling as if she can see things that I can’t. “Men and women use Zeppelins and large flying machines to conquer the skies, but think about what would have happened if poor Icarus hadn’t flown too close to the sun? We’d be a world of bird people, free to fly unhampered by gravity and hopefully society. I deal in gravity as it’s much more predictable than the people who govern us.” She begins tightening something loose on one of the wings. “Imagine how vibrant the skies would be if Leonardo Da Vinci had lived in this age!” She can see from my expression, I think she’s obsessed, but instead of stopping, she lifts up the corset and says, “Try it on?”
The wings trail behind, like a bridal train, looking heavy in her arms. I must admit I spent last night wondering about Mrs. Harding’s plans for me, in a bed full of bumps and broken springs. I look at the wings and admit, “They do seem beautiful!” Strangely I begin removing the man’s jacket and shirt, “I suppose wearing it won’t hurt!” She smiles as I raise my arms up, for her to wrap the corset, watch as she ties the strings, feel the weight of the wings, and ask, “Where would you fly something like this?”
She smiles, and nods towards the workhouse door, to where the sound of a steam train gets louder, “You want to find out?”
I really do hate myself for not running away, but she hasn’t turned me into what I thought, in fact this is the opposite of imprisonment. I admit. “I’m not going to fly this, you understand?” She looks hopeful, but nods, as the noise of an approaching steam train blocks out my voice. I look towards the door and peer back at the enormous wings, disabling my exit. Before I can ask her to remove them, Mrs. Harding rushes over to the doorway, turns a lever until the mechanisms unravel into a hatchway large enough for me to see out onto the platform as the train hisses and stops.
Without turning back to look at me, she rushes towards the train, so I follow her, my feet a little warmer in her sister’s shoes, the wings surprisingly light, as if the weight has been balanced by all the mechanisms attached. The platform fills with steam, like the sea when warm tides mix with cold. Before I wonder how I’m going to fit on the train, Mrs. Harding unravels another door, until a gangway rolls down onto the platform, wide enough for me to step into the cabin.
The cabin is lit from inside, and there are other people, some dressed in modern clothes, others, like me, have strange contraptions fitted. Mrs. Harding hops on, buzzing, despite me saying I won’t fly her strange device, she says. “We’ve only got one stop, I want to show you a most liberating site, Molly!”
I can’t imagine anywhere liberating in London, but I humour her. “These trains go to the moon or something?” I look around at the people; some of them look like they belong in lands quite removed from London. Maybe the moon isn’t such a wild guess. Mrs. Harding doesn’t laugh with me; in fact she sits down and motions for me to hold onto the handrail above.
“Better hold tight, this train goes fast!” I prepare myself for a bumpy ride, close my eyes as the train fires up, can smell the steam, hear the whistle from the chimney as the doors close. “We’re here, Molly, it’s our stop!”
I open my eyes, onto daylight. I swear it was nighttime in London. There’s a cliff outside, and the seaside, I can hear seagulls and smell seaweed. Mrs. Harding gets out of her seat and takes my hand, as the door opens and leads me out. No one follows, as we step onto the new platform. I can hear ice cream sellers and the sound of fairground rides. Mrs. Harding grins and points up at the sky, to where I can see others like me, human flying machines. She says, “This is New England. My father owned this beach and left it to me after he died. You can stay here on the ground and watch if you like?” She motions towards a beach hut, and passes me a key. “You can store your wings in there?”
I study the beaches; hear the drawl of foreign accents, similar to hers, “I’m in New England?”
She nods. “I told you the train moved fast!”
There’s always a price, but she hasn’t told me what it is, so I begin to unstrap my corset. “I’d better go home!” She doesn’t stop me, as I protest. “This was a bad idea.” A woman who uses Ladybirds for sex probably has ulterior motives. I accuse, “So what do you get out of this?”
She looks confused again. “I told you. Possibility, a reason to live, a place to realise my passions. I want to share my inventions, Molly.”
She looks sincere, but distracted as a young man wanders past, eating ice cream, identical wings strapped to his own corset. He grins at Mrs. Harding and says in an American drawl, “Hi, Emilia, you going to join us today, or go back to that stuffy laboratory of yours?” He glances at me, “New recruit?”
She shrugs. “Maybe not!”
The man looks me up and down, attempting to remain neutral, but I can see he thinks I’m a coward. “Ah, the British are so conservative!”
I retort, “Mrs. Harding find you in a brothel too?”
He frowns at me, as if he thinks I’m crude. Mrs. Harding simply looks at the sky, admiring her work, as if she isn’t part of the conversation. A normal woman would have gone an embarrassing scarlet, by now, but not her.
The young man offers his hand to me, despite seeming unhappy with my manner. “Zachary Turner.”
I reply, “Molly Baker.”
He continues. “I’m not a prostitute, although some think lawyers are lower on the social order than hookers, which is probably why I spend most of my free time on this beach!” I return his gesture, growling at his undertone. I don’t like being accused of cowardice, and as he lets go of my hand, I realise why I took the train, why I didn’t return to the rain, the dark streets of London, crawl back to my filthy bug ridden bed, dressed like a Ladyboy.
I turn to Mrs. Harding. “I’ll do it, Mrs. Harding!”
She looks a little shocked but pleased as I strap my corset back on. She helps me tighten it, and says. “Call me Emilia.” And adds, “We’re equal here!”
I feel my arms tingling, the bones of a new woman, emerging from something restricting, a beautiful new creature, as the possibility of flight brightens up my dismal past life, and I leave the brothel far behind. “Thank you, Emilia.”
I try to escape
but you’re like quicksand
fiction draws me
I become lighter
can visit places
far beyond the traps you’ve made.
I have to thank you
for allowing me to see something beautiful
an imagined life
I try to escape
but you’re like quicksand.