Dark Blue Monstropolis

The wind howled outside the rooftop dome, which Argo had tuned to full opacity. The duststorm was going full force, so that even the sound dampeners they had installed were overwhelmed. They managed to reduce the howling to a droning undercurrent, like an animal somewhere far away crying on and on and on.

His earpieces played a series of songs at him, and every once in a while his gloved hand would twitch and change something, but the music was just a failing attempt to distract himself.

The dome was one of the best kept in the entire city. Without it, the top of their tenement would look like the blasted wasteland that most other buildings crowned themselves with. Instead, this building boasted a rooftop hydroponic garden, good soil being too hard to get this far west. Mayster had even found and restored a faux stone fountain, and it gurgled in the midst of the foliage.

Their handiwork was the reason they could afford to keep such a nice apartment. The landlord loved them, because between the two of them they could manage to fix just about anything. They kept the seals working, the dome intact, their rooms soundproofed and the tenants happy–and that was their bartered rent.

Argo shut his eyes behind his visor, head swimming. What a night, he thought absently and changed up a song with his fingers without looking.

After the massacre at the Fellowship Lodge had concluded, Argo and Mayster had packed up, as instructed. The ringing in their ears had subsided to a dull roar when Welsh called for them to follow him. Welsh stepped through the doorway that Threnody had disappeared into.

Immediately on their right through the doorway was a heavy metal door that led to a caged in area. The door was quite locked.

“Hey,” Mayster called, “hold up a second.”

Welsh looked through the doorway at the opposite end of the room and then back at the metal door. He nodded. “Just make it quick.”

Mayster grinned and dropped into a crouch in front of the doorknob. “Quick I can do,” he said, then reached down into his boot. Seconds later he had produced his lockpick kit, and exactly one minute later, the metal door swung inwards.

He and Argo stepped in and Mayster whistled.

The room, as they could tell from outside looking through the chain links, was an armory. The far wall was covered with a variety of sharp-edged instruments: swords, makeshift poleaxes, machetes. Down along the counter was a series of guns, mostly pistols. There must have been a dozen, and Argo and Mayster had never seen so many firearms in one place before. Ammunition was rarer than clean water. Some people preferred to make their own, but it was much easier to just walk around with a knife or sword since they never needed reloading.

Mayster scanned the wall and did not find what he was looking for.

He grunted his displeasure. “Talk to me,” he hissed under his breath, then a tall woven basket in the corner caught his eye. Mayster bounded to it and threw off the lid. Inside was a bouquet of rather nice swords, most of them in their scabbards. He reached down and plucked from the center his own katana blade and, smiling, kissed it in the middle of its scabbard. “Hey baby,” he cooed, “miss me?”

Welsh had stepped into the doorway and was surveying the stash inside. He palmed a small pistol seemingly at random, inspected it, and then dropped it into his left trenchcoat pocket. “None of the rest of this shit is worth taking. I say leave it and let’s move.”

Mayster strapped his blade to the side of his backpack and nodded. “This is what we look like when we’re moving.”

What had followed was an unguided tour of hell.

Beyond that first room there had been another, loftier room with a high ceiling. A quick inspection led them all to the unspoken agreement that it was a chapel of some kind. A lectern stood near the front, next to a large concrete bowl of some sort with undecipherable ideograms carved across the sides and the lip. The inside of this bowl only Welsh peered into, and the look on his face made it clear that it was not anything he wanted to share. The dark stain that ran down the bowl’s side and onto its base was enough for Argo.

Mayster hmmed and counted pews. “Small,” he observed aloud. “Too small to hold all the skinheads at once.”

Welsh nodded. “Multiple services.” For some reason, that made the hair on Argo’s arms stand at attention under his jumpsuit. Second time that evening. He wasn’t fond of the feeling. “Keep moving.”

A metal spiral staircase descended into darkness lit by flickering light bulbs. Mayster attached the light to the side of his visor and turned it on. Argo followed suit. Welsh was content to march along in semi-darkness. “What are we looking for?” Mayster finally asked.

“Threnody,” Welsh answered from ahead of them, “and what we came for. Wait,” he said, holding up a hand.

He had turned a corner and found himself at an open doorway. He poked the muzzle of the shotgun inside and then stepped in after.

Argo and Mayster came in just in time to hear the whimpering cry from a bed in the corner.

“Aw, shit, no, don’t…”

The room they had entered was a sleeping area. Bunk beds filled the large room. Mayster did his counting again and nodded: this was where they all stayed, big enough to fit them all. The lights were low in here and the room was deserted but for the three of them…and the one skinhead on a bottom bunk in the corner.

This skinhead was younger than his dead fellows topside had been. He was also breathing, which was unique for a skinhead in this building. And, finally another singular thing: he was wounded. Both of his hands were gripping at the crimson remains of his right knee. His pants leg had been shredded all the way down, and below what was left of the knee, his leg leaned at a disturbing angle. Tears streamed down his face.

“This wasn’t part of the deal,” he whined through gritted teeth. “You said…you said…”

Welsh crouched down in front of the skinhead. “I said if you told us what we needed to know, we’d leave you alive. You talked; you’re alive. You’d rather be up in the main hall awaiting burial?”

“She came in and asked me. I told her where to find them but she did this anyway,” the skinhead threw his head back, “Oh GOD, please help me…”

“God already helped you. I can’t remember the last time she left anyone alive,” Welsh said flatly. “Speaking of God, His son is supposed to have the market cornered on cannibalism, or are you too stupid to have read that book?”

Argo and Mayster exchanged looks. They had run across a lot of crazy, disturbing shit in their lives together. Out in the Bowl, any kind of justice was scarce, so mankind got to play out all manner of little atrocities. But this was a first even for them. Argo felt his stomach turn over.

“I had to eat. And they would’ve killed me if I left,” the skinhead complained. “No one ever leaves. Ever.”

“And you almost got killed staying,” Welsh pointed out. “Enough chit chat. Which way to the storage area?”

The skinhead nodded towards the far end of the room as best he could. Sweat mixed in with his tears. “There. She went there.”

Welsh got up and turned away.

“Hey!” the skinhead cried. “Hey, don’t just leave me like this! Help me, you fucking–”

Welsh turned back and brought the butt of the shotgun into the skinhead’s forehead in one swift movement that was almost elegant, it was executed so perfectly.

The young man’s skull jerked back and connected with the wall behind him, then he slumped forward, unconscious.

Mayster was impressed despite himself. “You didn’t kill him,” he pointed out.

Welsh turned and started walking, presuming they would follow. “No, the deal was he got to live. The only help I could give him was to knock his whiny ass out so I made sure I honored my part of it.”

Welsh stopped at an archway which the skinhead had indicated to them. He turned back to them. “You don’t have to come any further than this. You can wait here for us to come back. This isn’t yours to do.”

Argo looked back to where the skinhead lay sprawled, blissfully concussed on the far end of the room. “No, we’re in this,” he said, and Mayster merely nodded.

Welsh nodded. “Good lads,” he said. “Okay, then. Come on.”

Argo looked to his log. He had been absently making and undoing a single change to a single music file for the last five minutes.

He sighed, flicked his visor up and sat for a moment, thinking. Or giving the air of one who is thinking: his mind did not want to go anywhere but back down into the bowels beneath the Fellowship Lodge.

He reached into his backpack and produced a small metal ball. He unscrewed the two halves of it and produced a pocket acetylene torch. Then he went to work on it. There was no undo feature when you were working with metal. At least he could only go forward.

It had taken Argo’s mind a moment to process exactly what he was seeing. Out of the corner of his eye, Mayster appeared to be experiencing the same thing.

Welsh had taken a look up and around, digested for a moment, and then walked on down the passageway, wisely leaving them to do the same in their own time.

In the moment before he registered was he was seeing, Argo thought, Right next to where they slept? Jesus, they kept this right next to where they slept?

Bones. The long hallway was filled down each side with human skeletal remains. Mounted to the wall were sometimes complete skeletons, sometimes only skulls. At any point, no matter where Argo looked, he could easily pick out the remains of twenty individuals.

As Argo stepped forward to examine a skull that was sitting on a shelf at his eye level, he noted that they each had writing, positioned in the middle of what would have been their foreheads.

NORTON, AUG. 2192

“They identify them,” Argo said to himself, feeling his skin crawl. “They write their names and the date for each on them.”

“How long has this shit been happening?” Mayster asked. He had picked up a skull and was looking at the date on it. “June 2181,” he read off.

“How long has the Lodge been here?”

Mayster blinked. “No idea. It was here when we got here.”

Argo stepped away from the skull. “Exactly.”

“This damn thing goes on for miles and keeps spiraling back down under itself,” Welsh said, walking slowly back down the hallway towards them. A fresh cigarette was clamped between his lips.

“Where’s Threnody?” Mayster asked.

“She’ll be along. She can cover ground faster than we can, we’re best just waiting here.” Welsh held out his hands and Mayster instinctively tossed him the skull. Welsh examined it. “They played it smart. Mostly. As smart as a pseudo-religious cannibal cult could be considered to be, I guess.

“They’d take people who wouldn’t be missed. Like musicians dumb enough to leave the Atlantic Union and tour beyond the Wall.”

“How did you find out about this?” Mayster asked. “They’ve been here forever and no one in town knew.”

“Peg Leg,” Welsh jerked a thumb back towards the dorm, “or whatever he’s going to be calling himself now. He made a supplies run, and we found him. We talked to him. He traded information for his life.” He flicked ashes off the end of his cigarette and drew from it thoughtfully. “We don’t like to go into anything without knowing what the shot is first.”

“I know what you mean,” Argo scowled. He wanted to get royally pissed about being on the dinner menu without his knowledge, but couldn’t. It wasn’t the strangest thing that had happened to him in his life, regardless.

Welsh smiled. “If you had known, would you have come along anyway?”

Mayster grinned, “For a paying gig?”

“Of course,” Argo had finished for him.

“Good lads,” Welsh said.

“Why the hell did you get involved with this in the first place?” Argo asked.

Threnody appeared behind Welsh so suddenly that even Welsh was startled.

Argo distantly felt glad that the guy who constantly snuck up on them was able to be snuck up on himself.

Threnody was carrying what looked to be a pillowcase. From the shape of what she had inside it, it was easy to guess what it held.

Welsh took it from her and looked into it. He nodded. “This is Jeni. She was eight years old. She was the daughter of a friend of ours.” He dropped his cigarette and ground it to death on the floor. “And that was when they ceased playing it smart.”

From there, Welsh had asked Argo and Mayster if they might bunk down with them for the night. They had a room booked with a hostel, but there was the threat of retaliation. Perhaps there were other members of the Lodge at large. Perhaps Peg Leg would sound the alarm and bring those other members running. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Argo had protested that their apartment was not much. Welsh laughed. “Whatever it is, we’ve seen worse and slept in it anyway.”

Mayster had offered Threnody his room but Argo had pointed out that Mayster’s room was a labyrinth of crap. Mayster had fumed, but he couldn’t deny it. Anything Mayster couldn’t fix, he felt honor bound somehow to keep–and thus monoliths of parts and gears, circuit boards and old monitor-visors littered the entire room. “Shithenge,” Argo had named it long ago.

Argo had offered up his room instead. Threnody smiled a little while she thanked him, before turning in for the night. Mayster had seen the smile and once Threnody was out of earshot, he proceeded to mutter terrible things about Argo’s parents under his breath while he busied himself getting ready for bed.

Welsh had taken the couch, but not before telling the both of them that they wanted to move at first light. Then he had handed them each a small device that looked like an EPROM. “Inoculations,” he explained.

You couldn’t enter the Atlantic Union’s borders without a sponsor. And even without a sponsor, you had to have myriad shots that cost a fortune. Word from the other side of the Wall was that anyone living in or near the Bowl was suspect from a health perspective. Everything west of the Wall was a festering pit, they believed.

They were half-right, anyway.

Mayster and Argo had looked at each of the small devices. “All of them?” Mayster had asked, impressed. “All in here?” Back in the Lodge, all the members of that fine establishment had ample reason to kill them. Now, half the population of Indianapolis would gladly kill them for what they were holding. To get all the treatments one needed to cross over…in one fell swoop? Fucking priceless.

“Yeah,” Welsh said, lighting up again from his apparently endless supply of smokes. “Best to slap it against your upper arm, almost like a TB test. Just a little harder.”

“A what?” Argo had asked.

Welsh was already shaking his head. “Never mind,” he chuckled a little. “Just dating myself. Listen, go ahead and do them now. Those are the last two of those I have.”

They did. Like little pinpricks, ice cold pinpricks, moving slowly around the perimeter of the devices. It tingled more than it stung, but he could tell it was there. The look on Mayster’s face was more confusion than anything else. “Worth more than both our lives put together and it’s over in five seconds,” he commented.

Welsh smiled, “A lot of things in this world are like that, I’m afraid. Both done then?”

They nodded.

“Great,” he said. He laid down on the couch, trenchcoat and all, and threw an arm over his eyes. “Now fuck off, would you? I’m exhausted.”

Argo blinked once, twice, hard. He was still sitting on his bedroll and leaning back against one of the concrete islands on the roof. Above him began a row of hydroponics. He looked up at them and then around, reorienting himself.

He must have dozed off, but for how long he could not say. He was about to flip down his visor and check the time, but there was a nagging realization: something had woken him.

The low roar outside was not it–for someone born and raised in a Bowl city, that was just background noise one often forgot was there. No, it was something else. Argo glanced up and over the rim of the concrete island and the something else in question walked into view.

It was Threnody, moving almost silently across the surface of the roof. She was dressed only in what appeared at first to be a set of shorts and a tank top. Another moment and he realized it was one piece and bearing pads of impact fiber in several key areas.

Argo wasn’t sure, but he thought it must be the kind of undergarment that mech pilots used to wear, back when there was such a thing as a mech pilot. It left her arms and neck bare, as well as most of her legs. It was a faded white, and the contrast with her light brown skin was a sight to behold.

The metal staircase that led to the roof–the bottom steps creaked, no matter how stealthy you tried to be. God knows Mayster had tried to sneak up on him while sparring enough times that he knew what to listen for, even asleep.

The only sound she made now as she walked was the faintest of padding noises as her bare feet touched the concrete. She walked slow and with the way she moved, Argo was reminded of the great cats that used to exist in the world. He had no memory for their names, but the gist was all that was needed: he was watching a predator in motion. Even though he was behind the island and she had not once even come close to looking his direction, Argo was certain his presence there was known. Whatever she was doing, though, it did not concern him. He was not worth notice, he felt.

He took some kind of unnamable comfort in this.

She reached the fountain and cocked her head a little, perhaps studying it. It was a movement he had seen domesticated dogs perform, when they were curious about something they had run across.

As she paused, Argo noticed something underneath the garment. Across the backs of her shoulders, which were only partially obscured by the fabric, appeared to be a tattooed design of some sort. It fanned out across her shoulder blades, and led down below the back of the garment.

Then he could see no more of it, for she turned to one side and knelt on the concrete.

She placed her hands on her legs, sat up straight and he could see her chest expand as she inhaled deeply. Her eyes closed. She took her time with her breathing, slowing it down, slowing it down.

She stayed like that, seemingly meditating, for what must have been five minutes.

Just as Argo was deciding to turn in for the night, her lips moved the smallest amount. She had said something, a word, but he was too far away to hear it properly.
One of her pistols appeared on the ground at her knees in response to her summons. Argo eyed it as best he could; the last time he had seen her pistols with their wide open mouths they had been busy, speaking invisible words that reduced men to wet ribbons.

As Argo watched, she picked up the pistol in her left hand, opened her eyes–

–and brought the muzzle directly up under her chin, with her finger on the trigger.

He was on his feet before he realized what he was doing, but the shout died in his throat when he felt the hand grab his arm.

“Easy, hero,” he heard Welsh saying softly. “Stand down.”

Argo turned to see him standing there, trenchcoat and all. Then he looked from him to Threnody and back again. “But she–”

“–won’t do it,” Welsh finished for him. “At least she hasn’t yet.” He studied Argo’s face for a moment and then pulled him down behind the concrete island again. “Let’s let her have her private moment, shall we?”

Welsh sat back against the island and fished in his pocket, producing a cigarette.

As Welsh lit it, Argo half-asked, “She’s done this before.”

Welsh inhaled and nodded, “Countless times.”

Argo digested this then continued, “Every night?”

Welsh shook his head, “Only on nights where she’s killed a bunch of people. A little meditation, some pranayama, and she makes her peace with Death.” He gestured with his cigarette. “That’s how I interpret it, anyway, I’ve never asked. I’m just always on hand in case she needs me.”

Argo looked at him. “Has she ever?”

Welsh smiled. “She hasn’t yet.”

Argo rubbed his fingers against the stubble on his chin. “Those pistols she has. I’ve never seen what they can do to people.”

“Ah,” Welsh tapped two fingers against one of his temples, “that’s because they weren’t designed for use on people.”

This clicked something home for Argo. “They’re anti-mech weapons, aren’t they?”

Welsh kept smiling and nodded a little, impressed. “That they are. I’m surprised you could recognize them. Even when they were standard issue for pilots, I’m sure you didn’t get much of them in this part of the world.”

“And your weapons…you use folds to store them, don’t you?”

“Again, you are well-read,” Welsh answered. “Yes, they sit in folds until we need them. Easier than carrying them around.”

“Welsh,” Argo said, “all of that’s heavy tech.”

Welsh nodded. “You’re just full of answers tonight.” He rubbed at his forehead. “Yes, sorry. I’m always cranky when I have to wake up and stand suicide watch. Yes, they’re heavy tech weapons.”

“But no one uses heavy tech anymore,” Argo said. It was such a patently obvious thing to say, but he had to say it regardless.

Welsh smiled and shrugged, “No one but us.”

“How is that possible? It should all–”

“–go batshit and wreak untold havoc? Perhaps it should. But it doesn’t. The people we work for have made some…arrangements.”

Argo’s confusion must have been plain on his face, for Welsh kept going. “Look, here’s what you need to know, although most of it you’ve probably already figured out. Threnody’s not just a singer. I’m not just her manager. We’re not just running around on a musical tour. We have a job to do and we’re doing it. The job gets crazy more often than not, but the whole world’s crazy now.” Welsh studied him for a long moment. “How old are you, Argo?”

“Twenty-seven.”

Welsh chuckled. “Twenty-seven. Jesus, I’m old. Listen–you’ve never known anything but the way things are now. But when I was a kid…it was always about the future. We were always so excited about the future. The future was coming and everything was going to be easier, faster, better. That’s what we believed. But now…well, the future has come and gone. And all of us that managed to survive it leaving…we’re all just making do with the ruins and remnants.”

Welsh held out his hands and Argo realized that he had been holding the metal ball this entire time. Argo handed it over.

“This your ammunition?” Welsh asked.

Argo nodded.

“It’s a ball bearing, isn’t it? Where did you get it?”

“It’s from the giant automated tractors they used to use in the Bowl before…well, before it was The Bowl.” Argo explained, “They’re hollow. So I cut them in half and then punch holes in them. I put a timer inside that counts five seconds from when I launch it and then it sprouts these.” He pulled a small metal rod from within his pack. “Helps it hit what I aim for and stay there instead of bouncing and ruining my day. Once it hits, the charge I put inside explodes.”

Welsh nodded his approval. “I like that. I like that a lot. You rogue the ball bearings from out in the Bowl?”

Argo took the ball back. “Mayster and I go out every once in a while. When it’s calm for a long stretch. Grab what we can and then get out before the storms kick up again. It’s hard to miss the tractors. They’re broken into pieces and the paint’s been sandblasted off of them, but they’re there. Like the film reels of when they used to find animals’ skeletons buried in the ground. You just dig forward through the Bowl and suddenly they loom up out of the nothing.”

Welsh finished off his cigarette in two long drags and ground it out against the concrete island. “You know,” he said, “I wasn’t entirely truthful with you. About why we’re here.”

Argo sat up a little straighter. Whatever secret mission Welsh and Threnody were on, he was suddenly unsure he wanted to know details…although he knew it was far too late for that. “Share what you know.”

“We had been thinking about heading out here for a while, so when our friend got word to us about Jeni and the Lodge, that just stepped up our agenda.”

“What agenda is that?” Argo asked.

“Finding you and Mayster,” Welsh stood up.

Argo blinked. Whatever answer he was expecting, that was not it. “Finding–? Are you fucking with me?”

“No. You’ve been sending songs back across Sneakernet for…how long?” Welsh asked.

“Almost eight years,” Argo managed to say; his mouth seemed very, very dry.

“We heard one of yours about a year ago. ‘Open 5 A.M.’, it was called. You and Mayster had worked on it together. Eight minute track. It was great. Thren and I talked it over and decided we needed to head out here and audition the two of you.”

Argo didn’t know what to say to that.

Welsh stood up and put a hand on Argo’s shoulder. “I know, it’s a bizarre concept, isn’t it? You fire stuff out into the ether for years and have no idea who’s listening to it, or if anyone’s listening at all…but what do you know? Someone is. And someone responds. You think about it and know it’s going to happen, but when it does…it’s just a strange feeling.” Welsh smiled. “And there you have it.”

Argo blinked. “Wow.”

“Wow is right,” Welsh said. “I need to get up in a few hours and I haven’t slept at all. We’re going back across into the Union tomorrow, so I need you somewhat rested. Get some sleep, kiddo.”

Argo nodded, “Yeah. Sure thing.”

Welsh walked off. Argo stood up as well and noticed Threnody was gone; perhaps back downstairs and sleeping now that she had made her peace.

“Hey, Welsh,” Argo called.

Welsh turned around.

“Thanks,” Argo said simply. It was insane to try and think of something else.

Welsh smiled. “Great,” he said. He then reached over, grabbed a few pieces of loose concrete from the wall and placed them in his pocket. Then he was gone.

Argo laid down and tried to calm his mind, though it kept racing around in all directions. They were leaving Indianapolis. In the morning.

That thought wore a groove in his consciousness and wore it down until he finally began to nod off. His last thought before he finally fell asleep was: when Threnody left, I didn’t hear the stairs creak. At all.