Psychopomp
Prologue

AUTUMN

1256 ANNO EXODUS

It was inevitable, even here. He knew it had to happen, yet so much time passed he thought he may die before it did. Now his foolishness cost him precious hours. When the lights flicker and flames dance, a Consul must respond immediately. Every second lost will be torturous, and already reports were coming in of power fluctuations.

Years of atrophy, no doubt to soon finish him off, stymie his movement as he weaves through the congested masses of the ward’s lower quarters. Step back from the horse-drawn carriage here. Wait for the whirring trolley to pass there. For all his haste, he must maintain patience to ensure his exterior belies the urgency within.

Hands coarse as sand rub a white kerchief across his pale, deeply creased face, presenting it to his eyes for inspection after each wipe. Specks of drying blood catch on the stained fabric, crimson patterns blotting all over it in abstract expressions. Ten years here and still it surprises him how far blood travels. As he continues to clear his face of the scarlet freckles, he looks at the people passing by. So many bear red freckles of their own, and he did not have to look hard to find them. Upon their faces, across their clothes, they all wear them, yet not a one tries to clean themselves.

No one cares. To go home to clean and change demands time, their own precious time. What little they may have left. Night descends on the sky and for them this meant seeking pleasure and escape before day’s end. So out they go, bearing moments of death upon their bodies like badges of forewarning.

It takes little to lose oneself here. Energy saturates the district and inundates every sense, strumming a boisterous and cacophonous choreography. Even beyond the Keep, the buildings in this humble ward seem to tower so high and glimmer like lightning-charged spires. Not a corridor gives room to breathe, as the chatter of thousands of voices and blinding lights of a thousand colors leave not a space unsullied.

To absorb it all and think is impossible, and even now in night’s nascent stages he sees people lean against walls, rails, and other people before vomiting everywhere. The trick, as most residents know, is to distill the senses, blur the boundaries between each, be merely a receptacle with no focus. Hiding the vile scars which garnish much of his wrinkled skin, the ravaged eye, and charred ear require little effort here.

Mechanical displays strewn across and between buildings vie for what attention any can give, holding nothing back in their vibrant lights and enthusiastic pitches.

“Your Deliverance needs a guaranteed assurance!” Proclaims an overly dressed man with a small box of elegant white wood and paper held uncomfortably loose in his gloved hands. “Death Boxes are scarce, and we all need one to cross the Stygian! Agh!” he bats away the hand of someone reaching to touch the box, “Away with you! This isn’t a real one, you fiend! PEACEKEEPERS!” he shrieks and points, “PEACEKEEPERS!” The man he points at flees. Straightening his appearance, the well-dressed man continues, “Any moment now your time may come! Wait no more! Take no chances! Stop by our office, get your name on the waitlist, and walk out with your premium Stygian insurance today!” He points to a dingy space crammed between two buildings, sure enough a small, disheveled line queued outside.

Across the street a pale, corset-clad woman whose sleek, shiny hair captures the luminary spectrum in its shoulder-length layers struts among the crowd, her voice sensually beckoning all nearby, “Sweet thing, how can you truly enjoy your time without pushing your senses to their limits? These bodies are limited and don’t last forever. They’re a cage for your senses, let me liberate you,” she extends her bare arm, “all the pharmas you’ll need to truly maximize every moment lie inside.” Many men and women follow the sirens inside, where they add their moans of exhilaration and pleasure to the chorus already playing.

Further down the cackles and rowdy hollers of a tavern bluster out. Drink and merriment seduce the men and women inside. Shed of their peacoats, suede jackets, and hats in favor of slacks, undershirts, short skirts, and undone suspenders, they swing to the energetic tune of trombones, horns, and drums.

Buried beneath it all, tucked into the crevices most neglected by light are weathered posters, each one plastered with a portrait of some poor soul and affixed to every wooden post and stone wall. Some are crumpled and torn, others firm and rigid.

No matter how many times he walked this or any other district, he always saw new faces.

Have you seen me? They all poignantly ask.

Missing since 6-11-47

9-30-39

2-2-42

How might they look now? Were their questions hopeless ones? He always pondered these questions.

His leg slows him like an anchor, though it benefits him now. Details matter, and amongst this place agitating with such chaotic vibrance, finding that flickering light requires time and a sharp eye. His is rusting.

Those with sense enough to discern him and his scars shroud themselves in murmurs and point.

What the hell is he doing here?

Perhaps even the Consul needs to escape.

No, they never leave the walls of their Mission without reason.

Oh, Gods, has it happened?

Yet they remain hushed and few.

There, he sighs, dragging his unbending leg with haste now.

Lost amongst the churning waves of kaleidoscopic lights is an antiquated streetlamp molded with curved points and little iron imps that hang about. Its hovering, dancing ember casts a sickly, green glow, both dreadful and mesmerizing. The old man stands before it, noting each pulsation, its sharpness, its length.

Crisp. Pronounced. Rapid.

Panicked. Desperate. Terrified.

This is it.

Upon the shaft is a small, locked compartment that he opens with a key tethered to his belt, beneath his distressed wool surcoat. Its gate slides open to a clicking cadence, and a resounding crystalline interior shines forth, a small switch and thin port inside. Mechanical clicks squawk as he presses the switch and from his watch pulls a wooden card small as a fingernail. He inserts it into the port, which returns it after several moments of subdued ticks.

Gently the old man puts the card back into his watch and studies its face. Numbers from zero to twenty-three run along its perimeter with both hands aligned together at the zero. Clockwise the long hand turns and turns and with each revolution it brings its shorter sibling forward tick by tick, spiting him with each one.

Damn it.

Six hours, forty-six minutes since disruption.

Not another second can he waste.

He turns and scrutinizes every building around him. So many present themselves, and all with garish adornments of luminary novelty.

Crisp. Pronounced. Rapid. One flicker, two, three. Five seconds of nothing. Three quick, snapping flickers. He reiterates this to himself as he begins to move.

A creaking housing complex enters sight, towering through the walkway tiers above. At its entrance, two lanterns flanking the doorway sway with ghastly, green flames. Through its windows, pale lights tremble oh so softly, in exact mimicry of the flames. One flicker…two…three…five second pause…three snapping flickers.

Those at the entrance sit on its stone steps, against its damp walls. Their eyes struggle to creak open and glistening sweat absorbs the flames’ glow.

An odor of fermented cigarettes, spilt alcohol, and mold seep forth from the people and doorway to mix with industrial incense and greasy culinary fumes and form a gagging concoction that those nearby and even himself are accustomed to. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴᴇt website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

A quiet aura shrouds him as the old man nears, as though the raucous banter of the city ceased at an invisible boundary. Whispers so faint and imperceptible they question their own existence slither through the air to taunt his ears.

His bones feel dense, taking on the weight of lead as the air claws his throat just to make it to the lungs. Keeping his composure, the man leans against the nearby brick wall, eyes never parting from the lantern’s flames. So long…he laments and knocks his head against the wall…. You have grown weak.

Raspy breaths echo from those around him.

He closes his eyes and focuses on each breath. Chase the dark, chase it until darkness is all there is and only emptiness remains.

The whispers dissipate to silence; the darkness of his eyes becomes an undulating, oceanic depth.

Subtly through rusty muscle memory, the old man pulls a tiny syrette from the pocket of his coat and injects it into his forearm.

Tingling numbness pulsates through his body, gifting sensation as his blood flow delivers a cold and fresh rigidity to his weathered body. He checks the pulse of his wrist.

Calm. Five beats per five second. A sufficient baseline. Conscience gives control to body, breathing becomes automatic.

Opening his eyes, fingers steady on the wrist, he enters the complex. A dim monotony lies inside, weakened pipe lights sporadically flicker. One, two, three times. A pause.

The atmosphere attacks him. Every particle imparts a dreadful heaviness, an agony that pricks tiny needles into every pore and demands more effort just to breathe. Even the voice swooning to the rhythm of a piano and saxophone through the nearby radio loses its sweetness, now lethargic and devoid of the merriment he knows the song to have.

Six beats per five seconds….

Breathing becomes raspy, yet still stable enough to evade panic.

People crowd the lobby and nearby hallway yet are silent upon the ground. Air which only hours ago fueled boisterous banter now evades them. Gasps layer upon each other like echoes.

Someone grabs his arm, “H-hey,” they utter so weakly, “h-h-help me outside…please.” The old man effortlessly undoes the stranger’s feeble grip and kneels to examine his eyes. Pupils are normal. Eye coloring normal. Breathing…labored but sufficient. He will be fine until the Peacekeepers arrive.

Beneath the endless wheezing lurk indistinct whispers and hisses, slithering through the walls as syllabic serpents.

Proceeding through the hall, its faded paint pockmarked and scuffed and sconces rusted with dying light, the whispers intensify. Every discernible syllable slimily wriggles deep into the ears.

A faint pulse beats from his watch, growing stronger further and higher into the building.

Seven beats. Heart holds steady.

When he emerges onto the third floor, his watch beats as though a panicked heart were ripped from a body and strapped to his wrist.

People lie upon the ground, eyes closed, mumbling to themselves.

Cut…cut…they mindlessly chant.

Words creep from the walls and their lips in perfect sync.

Bleed….

Eat.

Eat.

Few of the breathing bodies on the ground drag themselves into the hall, away from him.

Behind every closed door, anemic voices chant and doorknobs pathetically twist.

His own voice nearly repeats the chanting words.

He quickly pulls out another syrette and injects himself. A deep, slow breath chases it, letting the air flow into his lungs, stifling the muffled prickling at the back of his throat.

A person crawls by, their eyes, like the many others’, fixated voraciously on a single door.

Unit 313.

Not a sound emanates from 313.

Become…become…weep those crawling.

Biting cold radiates just outside the door, as if he stands next to a glacier.

Eight beats.

Frostbitten chills tingle down each tick in his spine when he grasps the doorhandle. Its icy metal lusts for his sweating palms as he slowly….so slowly and quietly turns it.

Beco-

All voices cease. Utter silence. Every person freezes in place, and all the eyes in the hall glare at him, wide open with terror.

A motionless, messy room swings into view. Meek orange gas lights dance and flicker in their piped sconces, with pink particles flashing from around the corner.

One flicker. Two. Three. Five seconds. One flicker. Two. Three.

Dancing lights from the district outside penetrate the glass doors, yet they bring no sound.

He pulls out the revolver from his engraved and tattered gun belt. Six cylinders, each with five charged shots, stand ready as he steps onto the damp carpet.

Clothes are strewn about the floor, dishes carelessly left upon whatever open surface is available, and a rancid stench drifts through the foul air…sour and oozing into the throat.

He-…a different voice attempts…delicate and terrified. It tries to gasp…. -an’t m-…..

Quiet, cautious steps bring him from the foyer into the disheveled living area with upended tables and items scattered throughout. Opposite from him are wooden sliding doors with panes of taut, yellow fabric. Spots of crimson sprinkle along it and a neon pink glow blinks through.

Through the small crack between the doors, he sees a body upon the ground.

One tender step after another, avoiding sound at all costs, he approaches and slides one door open.

The pale visage of a young woman lies before him, whatever tattered rags left upon her body are torn and crusted ghastly red. Once lovely skin is now pierced repeatedly, a canvas slashed upon with strokes of unbridled fury and left to ferment in a pool of blood. Alongside her in the blood that blackens and congeals are fleshy, vascular nodes as large as his fist. Each pulsates and beats in quick, panicked rhythms, churning the viscous blood.

Never Give Up… curved and looped letters flash in intoxicating pink above her bed. His brilliant, bright aqua eyes examine the walls, the ceiling, the rest of the floor…nothing grows on them yet.

When he looks upon her again, an unfamiliar feeling catalyzes within. Her eyes are still open, bloodshot blue irises that stare directly into his, her nebular rust-colored hair torn and matted with dried blood. She lies thrown upon the ground like refuse. In her face, he sees woe, the intolerable sadness of stolen life.

Please…a voice pleas so shakily from the motionless body. H-h-help. It begins to cry, words barely able to formulate, as every syllable is choked out. I-I-I…-ot…di….

Each shivers from her mouth yet never quivers her lips as her eyes stare at him, follow his every movement.

Only tearless crying stems from her now.

He steps back, his lungs strain and throat begs to cough. Throbbing pain cracks through his side, convincing him to clutch it and cover his mouth. It truly has been a long time.

As the old man regains composure, he closes his eyes and mutters words so conditioned with repetition they require no moment or pause for recollection, not even after ten years.

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