Category: fictionissue10

Your honour, members of the Jury. My name is Symes the Ice Wizard and literature expert. Now knowing my skills in storytelling, I suppose you would like an account of how this fiasco all started.

Our tale begins in our home, Scotia of Greymane. A land where shields and swords are the most common weapons, royalty rule over the province and magic is a mysterious and powerful force that only the few diligent enough to study its arts can harness. Greymane is an island continent separated from the four neighbouring, giant continents surrounding us we have yet to explore. Scotia is the northern division of the island that has its own economy and government separate from the Greymane kingdom. Scotia is also known as the land of the fog, as every morning, a fog arises and spreads across the land that is so thick it covers most of the landscape for two hours. The skies are covered by cloudy mist and sometimes and can have days where it rains frequently.

There are ten-thousand inhabitants of Scotia, but the only people holding power are the thirty royals. Each of the thirty royals has a birthmark on the back of their necks in the shape of the sun. The castles, homes of the royals, are where every road in the country lead to and from. They were the first structures of Scotia, and every village on the island is formed from these roads and the castles they lead to. Each castle is heritage, crafted from large, rough stones and reach up to fifteen feet and cover an area of one-hundred and fifty by two-hundred square metres.

This society of ours stayed prosperous for more than one-hundred years. I only bring this all up as emphasis for the parallel to the day it all changed. When the army bearing the black flag with a white dagger arrived. The flag of the Dark Lady, Oblivion. Oblivion, as we discovered, was an outcast from the southern Greymane kingdom, exiled for attempting to overthrow the governing body and usurp the King of Greymane.

Now with an army, the Legion, of one-hundred-thousand mercenaries and criminals under her command, she took their sights to Scotia to claim as their own. Her Legion pillaged village after village and murdered villager after villager, ransacking their homes to strike fear into the hearts of the people. The royal family and the sheriffs stood little to no chance against her army and her magic of all four elements and darkness. Eventually, the Dark Lady drove out or killed every member of the royal family and became the Dark Lady, Empress of Scotia.

And I can already see your eyes glazing off while I’m speaking, so I’ll just move on to why we are all here.

We discovered this when my wizard friends, Philes—that old lunatic—and Gendry, and I returned to it from our year-long isolated study of the magic arts, we found our home village, Cadun, in ruins. The carpenters, the bank, the bakery, the butchery, the town hall and all of our homes were reduced to nothing but burning wood and straw, and the stone walls nothing but rubble. Villagers lay massacred on the tiled-roads, their blood staining and running through the cracks. Those left alive were in shock and mourning. The butcher’s daughter was burying her father in the back of the butchery. The carpenter held his lifeless son and wife in his arms, crying and wailing outside the ruins of the carpentry. Castle Cadun that overlooked Cadun had crumbled into cobblestone debris with the large boulders that caused the stronghold’s destruction amongst the wreckage.

Philes, all wise wizard (at least he thought so), wept, covering his golden eyes with his thumb and finger as his brown teeth bit his lip. He soaked my cotton robes and long grey beard with tears but avoided the book tied in leather straps over his shoulder. I consoled him and I moved my jars of fluid which I tied over my robes like a necklace before he hugged me. I absorbed the desolation as a drop of sweat dripped down my long-pointed nose and more trailed down my wrinkled cheeks.

Gendry, a wizard so gentle in nature that even a lamb could bully him, took out a bandage from his satchel and a handful of leaves from the vines hanging around his neck. He rubbed his hands together with the leaves in between until hands glowed a bright green. He placed his hands on the bleeding neck of the carpenter and the carpenter barked at him to leave. He mustered his most comforting smile from under his long, black beard and said:

‘Shh please tell me what happened,’ Gendry whispered to the carpenter, fighting back his own tears.

‘They came, the Legion of the Dark Lady!’ He struggled to push out of his mouth. ‘They slaughtered everyone in this village and no one could stop those animals! They’re gone to the other castles. God help anyone who lives through their massacre…’ He quietly sulked as Gendry continued to heal the carpenter, looking over to us concerned.

‘Gentleman, there is only one person who can defeat the Dark Lady,’ Philes proclaimed, exiting the hug, and wiping his tears. ‘The Chosen One!’

‘Ah yes, the Chosen One,’ I sighed, ‘the one you think will save Scotia from desolation.’ My voice oozed with sarcasm as I crossed my arms.

‘You know this story well! It was foretold upon the ancient walls, that when a great darkness destroys the land, a hero bearing the sun shall vanquish the darkness. That must mean the sun mark on the necks of nobles! All we must do is find a noble still alive and they can defeat her!’

‘I am fully aware, you overdramatic codger, but the only people with the marks of the sun are nobles, and we don’t know how many this Dark Lady has even left alive!’

‘Then we search all of Scotia to find one in hiding.’ He pointed his finger towards me with a giant grin on his face.

I let out a mixture of a growl and a sigh at this stupid plan. ‘Philes, let me explain this simply. Even if we could find one in hiding, where would we even begin to look? We would have to search the whole continent before we found a single noble left in this carnage!’

’Would you rather leave the people to continue suffering?’ Philes asked.

Silence was shared between us. We scanned the wreckage further and the damage of a once-thriving town. How many more towns would share this fate if we do not step in?

‘We will gather tomorrow and search the lands,’ I announced to my friends.

The next day, the three of us mounted our horses as we travelled the many roads leading to what remains of the seven kingdoms and their surrounding villages in search of the Chosen One of this prophecy.

Philes had a better stroke of luck, as he recounted us. After a month of searching, he arrived in the small coastal port town of Tusae, which was thankfully spared the wrath of the Legion. The buildings were cubic, smooth, and were painted white as snow. The streets permeated with the smell of salt water, alcohol, and human waste. The sun reflected brightly off the sea and the white buildings. While roaming the bustling street markets, and shielding his eyes from the light, he had his purse swiped by an urchin boy. Before he could conjure his Magical Hand to retrieve it, a cloaked young man swiped his purse out of the urchin’s hand. With a smile, the young man walked over to Philes and handed over his purse.

‘Sorry about that, sir. The little street kids always swipe valuables when the sun is its brightest. Best to keep your hands over your purse in the future. Have a nice day.’ The boy turned around and his hood came off. On his neck was the birthmark shaped like the sun. Without a second thought, Philes put his hand on his shoulder and halted him immediately

‘What is your name, young man?’ he asked.

‘Wolne, sir.’

‘Tell me Wolne, have you ever heard of the prophecy of the Chosen One?’

‘Yes sir, I have.’

‘My dear lad, my companions and I of the Three Great Wizards have been searching for the Chosen One for some time. I suspect you are the goal of our quest.’

‘Me? The Chosen One?’ Wolne repeated in disbelief. ‘But sir, I’m nobody special. I’m just Wolne.’

‘Nonsense, my companions and I have been searching for a person of noble birth and the mark on your neck is proof of your legitimacy. You are the only one who can defeat the Dark Lady.’

‘But sir, I don’t think I’m strong enou—’

‘Young man, do you wish to stay here and let the world fall into further ruin until only corpses remain?’

Wolne stayed silent, looking at the floor. ‘Fine.’ He agreed uncertainly, looking up to Philes’ line of sight.

‘Good.’ Philes grinned and motioned Wolne to follow as he continued walking. ‘Now it is time for your training.’

The rest after we all returned to our wizarding castle was weapons training, motivational speeches, planning for attack and eating oranges and broccoli soup every day. Your honour, please excuse me from recounting all of this, as it is rather boring. Allow me to skip ahead.

Ten months passed and what a change. Young Wolne grew into a muscular youthful warrior adorned in shining armour, long flowing blonde hair, and a red shield adorned with a painted sun, similar to his birthmark. It was his twenty-first birthday present from me. On the anniversary I brought him to the Wizard’s Fortress, I stood in the Coronation Room; a dark cobblestone room lit only by candlelight that surrounded the room’s floor in a circle, Wolne stood by the door to see the three of us inside.

‘Wolne,’ Philes announced, ‘enter the Ring of Fire.’

Wolne entered and bent his knee to three of us. Philes walked towards him with a glowing white broadsword in hand.

‘What is your destiny?’

‘To kill the Dark Lord, Oblivion,’ Wolne sternly stated.

‘And what will this bring?’

‘Peace and prosperity to the land.’

He smiled. ‘My boy, you have trained more diligently than any noble knight of Greymane. You have proven yourself worthy of this, the Oathkeeper. An ancient sword whose blade can reach the temperature of the sun!’ He bestowed the glowing broadsword to Wolne, who looked shocked at the old man, whom merely smiles back at him. ‘Arise, Wolne.’

Wolne arose and Philes hugged him as a father would his son. ‘I am proud to call you my disciple.’

Gendry and I looked at each other concernedly and motioned Philes forward for a private conversation.

‘We have to admit, Philes, you had us worried. Taking ten months to prepare Wolne for the greatest evil Scotia has ever faced,’ I admitted.

‘That is quite uncalled for!’ He protested stubbornly. ‘We needed to be with him to make sure his training and our plan is foolproof!’

‘No, I must admit,’ interrupted Gendry, stroking his black beard, ‘we don’t know how many towns have fallen from the Legion. All we have done is spy upon the castle, nothing else!’

‘Fear not, my friends,’ He smiled at us confidently. ‘Our patience shall be rewarded.’ He walked back to Wolne. ‘Come, dear friends, let us ride and defeat Oblivion once and for all!’

With a hearty cheer as we left the room, the four of us mounted our horses from the stable and rode the countryside towards Oblivion’s castle.

It was a freezing night as we trotted through the fog, which covered the grassy plains of the castle. The Dark Lord’s castle was made up of four watchtowers connected by twenty-foot walls and was surrounded by a moat. Guards of the legion patrolled the castle grounds inside the watch towers and outside the castle walls.

Wasting no time, my friends and I used our magic to launch fire, ice, and lightning at the guards as Wolne galloped his way through. Wolne did his fair share of slicing guards heads off and stabbing them through their armour with Oathkeeper, but in hindsight, it was us that cleared the area of any other lifeform but Wolne.

We swung the front door open and marched into the main hall. It was dimly lit with the full moon emanating light from the glass dome on the ceiling. A woman in a green regal dress and crimson, red, wavy hair sat relaxed on her onyx throne atop a platform. It was Oblivion.

‘How did you get in here?!’ she barked at us. ‘Guards!’

Wolne, as the guards came rushing towards us, pointed Oathkeeper at Oblivion. ‘Your reign of terror ends today, Dark Lady Oblivion!’ he announced ferociously. ‘I am Wolne the VI, the Chosen One and rightful heir to the throne! Once you are slain, Scotia will be at peace!’ He then charged at the guards, screaming at the top of his lungs.

‘Wait!’ Oblivion held her hand out, and both Wolne and the guards stopped and looked at her. ‘Wolne, did one of your villages get burnt down by my army?’ She asked.

‘Yes, yes they did! You left Marbletop, my home, in ruins!’ Wolne replied, gritting his teeth.

‘Oh goodness…’ She held her hands to her head. ‘My dear boy, I am so sorry for your loss. In my conquest, I never wanted the massacring of your land, its people, and nobles.’

‘What? But you gave the order to have my village slaughtered!’

‘Yes, my early Legion was comprised of those of dubious background and acted on their own accord. Rest assured, they were publicly executed for their needless pillaging. In fact the, new Legion is comprised of men inspired to follow me after this display.’

Wolne lowered his sword. He puzzled at this lapse in knowledge that was new to all four of us.

‘But… what of the other villages and castles?’

‘The new Legion army have been helping to reconstruct the villages that the old Legion has done and continue trade along your roads once again.’

‘But… What of the Chosen One story? I’ve been training my whole life to bring Scotia back from darkness!’

‘Listen, young Wolne, I know my sudden usurpation of your government was more bloody than was intended. It was my mistake to use criminals in the first place. They were the only ones who wished to join my cause. All I can say to convince you that I am not the Dark Lady that you think I am, that I only want to make up for the suffering I brought, and help Scotia become a great power that can rival even the Greymane kingdom.’

‘So… so this whole time, the ten months I have been training in the Wizard’s Tower has been—’

Suddenly, Gendry interrupted by shouting, ‘A complete waste of time!’

Wolne then walked over to us, his face scrunched in anger.

‘Gentlemen, it was a desperate time! We had to act fast!’ Philes justified to them all.

‘You could have acted by observing what was actually going on after all this time! How could you have not seen those soldiers get executed while we spied on the castle?!’ I questioned to him.

‘I never got a chance to see my wife’s grave in Cadun,’ Gendry protested in tears. ‘Because we were on this fool’s errand!’

‘You all are just as guilty! You didn’t see it either! We must have missed it!’ he protested.

‘Don’t you push the blame on us!’ Wolne shouted and poked his finger hard at Philes’ chest.

As we bickered, Oblivion blinked and looked over to her guards. ‘Rodrick, can you please send them to prison? We will set up a trial in the morning.’

‘Yes m’lady,’ Said Rodrick, the commander in red, black and gold armour. He and the four other soldiers pushed us towards the cellar door as we continued to squabble. Now did we jump to conclusions? Yes, definitely. But in those desperate circumstances, even the sanest of minds can be swayed by the most ludicrous of notions. So if you have any mercy in your heart, at least go easy on the boy, Gendry, and I. Lock up Philes, I beg of you, for starting this whole mess. He’s in his seventies now, so he wouldn’t be serving a life sentence for long. I rest my case.

Download a PDF copy of The Chosen One

‘I’m sorry,’ the lady said, not sounding sorry at all, ‘but you’re not what we’re looking for in a candidate.’ The interviewer looked at Shauntelle through false glasses, Hathaway-style eyes taunting her. They must have been a CRISPR job; replicating patterns and colours in eyes with such precision needed genetic engineering. The rest of the interviewer’s body displayed more of the same curves Shauntelle had seen a hundred times. She had barely glanced at Shauntelle’s resume and university scores, only at her slim appearance. Shauntelle certainly was what they were looking for, at least according to the job description.

‘Next candidate, please,’ the lady called out, as Shauntelle opened the booth to leave. Of course a disease prevention laboratory wouldn’t accept someone unmodded, despite her actual ability.

In the lobby, the next candidate stood up, rolling his Jackman shoulders. He was definitely modded, like the other two women waiting for their interviews. They boasted the same curves as the interviewer. The genetic material was probably from the same source. The candidate took his hand from his pocket and patted Shauntelle so hard on her back she lost her breath. ‘Tough luck,’ he leered, walking through the doorway. Her back stung. Maybe he’d gotten those arms recently and was still adjusting to their strength? No, the leer told her he was definitely a jerk.

‘Look at her clothes!’ Shauntelle heard one woman sneer to the other, who giggled. She channelled her anger into walking faster. As if they knew how hard it was to find business clothes that were made to fit people who didn’t have genetic material taken from celebrities. Shauntelle had to tailor the clothes down to fit her. She’d done a good job of it too. She stepped down the stairs, passed the lobby of the office-lab and stepped into the smog outside.

The skyscraper across the square loomed over her. ‘Jackman style, Ford style, Bergeron style!’ its billboard read. ‘All these arm styles and more! That’s not all: legs, busts, torsos, even facial and eye styles! For a limited time, you can get a CRISPR disease prevention package too! BioKurz Modifications: Realising the YOU that you always wanted to be.’

What a crap tagline, Shauntelle thought, though, the disease prevention would be good. She’d practically memorised that ad from how often it played here; she almost always saw it on the way out from job interviews. She’d learned from her studies that CRISPR immune system treatments for diseases were very effective. Not that she could afford them. Or had the opportunity. She wished at least that her brother had had it. Not now, she thought, she needed to focus on the next job. She walked past the bioluminescent jacaranda and a girl with glittering purple hair.

The door to her home creaked under Shauntelle’s hand as she opened it. Her father was inside, repairing the sink.  There was a bucket placed under the leak in the roof. On the table, cards were set out for blackjack. The neighbours must have come over. On the end her father always sat, the first two cards were five and seven. The third card was a Jack. Twenty-two points. Shauntelle hoped they weren’t betting.

‘How’d it go? You’ve been out for a while,’ he said.

‘I went on a walk afterwards. No luck,’ she said. ‘They said I’m “not what they’re looking for.”’

He sighed. ‘Let me guess, all the other candidates had modifications?’

‘I don’t want to talk about it…’

He shook his head, then winced. His hand cramped and he dropped his spanner.  ‘That’ll be a yes. Someday it’ll get through their skulls that you’ve got your biology degree too. Probably with better scores than theirs.’

‘Why’d you say that? They’ve got intelligence mods,’ she said.

‘But I doubt any of them worked as hard as you did. Intelligence mods or not, you’ve earned it,’ he replied, cradling his arthritic hand.

Her anger flared. When she went to interviews, they looked at her like she was a bad joke. Among twenty-seven interviewers, those who didn’t immediately tell her to get out made a lame excuse about how she wasn’t suitable for the job.

She scowled, then sighed. ‘What does it matter when they don’t care?’

‘I’m sure you’ll get ‘em next time,’ he said.

‘Isn’t that what you said last time?’

He looked at her. ‘You’re too nit-picky.’

She sighed, opening the door to her room.

Shauntelle felt a headache developing as she arrived at the gate of the Manor at 2:55 pm.

‘State your name and business,’ the intercom at the gate crackled.

Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Shauntelle Penther, here to see Mr Sardon about his offer for advising him in biology.’

‘Of course, come through.’ The gate opened. She walked down the driveway, past the garden maze and the flowerbeds. Private gardens were rare. This was the biggest she’d seen. The manicured hedges and the flowers boasted their life. It was oddly relaxing, walking down the long pathway. She had only ever had a succulent as a gift for her twelfth birthday, a resilient thing, a gift from her brother. She felt a pain in her chest at the thought.

After the interview, she had been preparing for her next application when someone delivered a letter on behalf of this Sardon. A letter, in this age? It was a job offer. Why would he offer her a job? The job was an advisory role for his business ventures in genetic engineering, CRISPR and biology. The letter requested she meet him the next day.

It was too convenient. It could be a trap, or a prank. She’d had too many of them, promising a job, just to trick her. Maybe it was luck. Could it be her hard work paying off? No, that never happens. She’d done some quick research and found out Sardon was an accomplished entrepreneur, one of the investors behind VitoGreens. That stuff basically got her through University because it was so cheap.

As soon as she arrived at the oak door, it opened. Behind it was a woman dressed in black servant’s uniform. It would be prim and proper if it didn’t have a little skin showing.

‘This way, please.’ They walked across a Persian rug and up a staircase to what was presumably a study. The woman knocked. Anxiety punched Shauntelle in the stomach.

‘Come in,’ was the reply. The room was like stepping back in time—upholstered Victorian chairs, wooden cabinets, and a mixture of stained and clear glass windows. The man to whom the voice belonged was relatively tall, without obvious modifications, though he had flawless skin and a finely-groomed moustache.

‘Ah, you must be Miss Penther.’ His eyes looked warm, although that could have been a modification too.

‘Good afternoon,’ she replied, trying to ignore her headache.

‘I am Arthur Sardon,’ he said, ‘and I believe you have met Mika, one of my servants.’

The woman stopped cleaning the bookcase that she had started and curtseyed.

‘Ah yes,’ Sardon said. ‘You would be interested: Mika here was part of a CRISPR gene expression experiment my father ordered, to increase her industriousness and mildness. I’d say it’s rather effective, wouldn’t you, Mika?’

‘Of course, sir,’ she said, resuming her cleaning. She was only a little shorter than Shauntelle, with full brown hair and unblemished skin. She was slimmer than the usual modifications done on women; she was almost like a doll.

‘I suppose there wasn’t a control group, and I’m not knowledgeable enough about biology to know the full details.’

Is that even legal? Shauntelle thought. Even if it is…

He continued, ‘And that is what brings you here today. I want you to help inform me in my business dealings when they regard biology, which is happening more and more.’

‘Oh! I… am very flattered, sir, but why would you choose me over someone who has intelligence modifications?’ She bit her tongue to stop herself from saying anything else stupid. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.

He smiled. ‘I received word that the Nova and Wellington lab in the city were hiring. They are long-standing friends and business partners of mine, so I asked them for a list of the applicants. Of those I investigated, you had exceptional ability, especially since you had a scholarship on academic credit alone. Of the applicants, you had even higher grades than many with intelligence modifications.

‘You can tell that?’ she said, a little light-headed. How did he get that much information? That shouldn’t be publically available, she thought. Did she really do that well?

‘Of course. I must say, I’m disappointed intelligence modifications have proven to be only a small boost thus far. Ultimately, I don’t particularly care whether or not you are modified. I suspect…’

‘You suspect?’

‘I suspect that you’ll do well.’ He smiled, then turned to gaze out the window.

What does that even mean? she thought. I won’t have to be a guinea pig, will I? I won’t have to be like… them, will I?

He continued, ‘The job, should you choose to take it, will have a good salary and access to research journals so you can keep up to date to keep me informed.’

Those journals were not cheap. It sounded like an acceptable deal, provided the business wasn’t shady… Well, provided it wasn’t too shady, Shauntelle thought. On the other hand…

She glanced at Mika. Mika smiled back at her, then continued to clean above the filing cabinet.

Starving is much worse, she concluded. Her headache was up there, though. She’d have to do it, wouldn’t she?

‘As for responsibilities… Miss Penther?’ Dizziness overcame her, and she collapsed.

Shauntelle struggled to open her eyes. The ceiling was patterned with stars and she was lying on a very comfortable bed. A doctor was off to her right. Oh God, what happened?

‘I’m telling you, they’re the same hallmarks as all the other cases. Flu symptoms in an HPV virus, with the infection spreading from the back,’ a deep voice said.

At the foot of the bed, she saw the owner of the voice, a policeman, talking with another policeman. The image of her little brother popped into her mind, telling her how he wanted to be a policeman, so he could help people. And so he could have big muscly arms. If he had only been old enough to be a policeman, maybe the leukaemia could’ve been… Not that they’d had enough to apply for the exam anyway.

She groaned. They turned, noticing her. They were built in the same muscular fashion, like toy soldiers fresh from the cast.

‘Ah, you’re awake,’ one said.

‘Where…’

‘You’re in Mr Sardon’s Manor. He called the doctor here instead of having you taken to hospital,’ he said.

Her stomach fell. Why? What was going to happen to the job?

The first deep voice spoke again. ‘It appears you collapsed because of a particular modified strain of HPV, which we believe was deliberately spread. It was probably injected though contact with the back, since we found traces of painkillers like those used by leeches there. While we can’t be sure, we believe it to be a prankster’s doing, since it isn’t that serious or as damaging.’

Human Papilloma Virus? As a prank? Forcibly injected? Who would… Shauntelle checked her skin. Sure enough, there were blemishes and small warty bumps all over her body. What did they mean HPV isn’t that serious?

‘Don’t worry,’ the doctor said, looking a little too proud. ‘It shouldn’t do any lasting damage thanks to my treatment.’ He was synthesising antibodies that would fit her immune system to inject into her. At least, she hoped that was what he was doing.

‘Am I… allowed to stay here?’ she asked. She bit her tongue again. She blamed her stupid questions on her exhaustion.

The policemen looked to the doctor, who shrugged. ‘We don’t know,’ he said.

‘Regardless, the doctor tells us you displayed flu-like symptoms. Numerous other cases have occurred recently with the same strain of HPV modified to use genetic material from influenza.’

Sardon heard the policeman’s voice through the wall, commenting that the victims were from low socioeconomic areas and had little access to vaccines or genetic prevention treatments. He’d found it interesting that they were the ones who needed it the most.

Sardon had meant to test if she would be scared off by Mika in the interview, but this… Was it really a prankster, or was it sabotage?

A week ago, one of his business associates, Jonas, indulged in too much wine and was ranting about how useless the poor were—his favourite hobby.

‘But harsher conditions can end up with more adaptability, no?’ Sardon interrupted.

‘You’re a riot, Arty,’ Jonas snorted, ‘They’re weeds in the rose garden.’

Sardon was annoyed at being referred to so casually. Jonas swallowed another scone.

‘A wager, Arty,’ Jonas said. ‘You said you want an advisor. Since you’re so keen to defend those insects, put your money where your mouth is.’

Sardon tilted his head. ‘What are the terms?’

‘Get an unmodified advisor. If it’s as you say, your profits go up in six months and I give fifty percent on top. But if they don’t, you give me fifty percent.’

Sardon accepted, but he couldn’t remember Jonas making any promises that stopped him from interfering in the bet. He needed to ensure Jonas didn’t in the future, at any rate. Surprisingly, Shauntelle almost recovered within an hour of treatment anyway. She was certainly as tenacious as a weed.

He heard them questioning her about who the culprit might be. She eventually said something about someone forcefully patting her on the back as she left a job interview the previous day. He decided he may need to ask the officers for the name of the perpetrator later, to investigate.

Shauntelle did her best to answer their questions, just dreading the medical bill in the back of her mind.

Eventually, the policeman asked, ‘I suppose we should confirm you have not had HPV vaccines?’

‘No.’ She’d needed to eat that month.

‘Health insurance?’

‘None.’

The policemen fell silent.

‘I’m not sure that standard healthcare will cover this,’ the doctor said. ‘It’s not likely, but can you convince your employer to pay for the treatment?’

Mr Sardon seemed to choose that moment to walk into the room. He stood silently a few metres behind the policemen.

Shauntelle was also silent. After a time, the policemen wished her well, told her he would notify her family, and left.

Sardon wasn’t her employer yet. She hadn’t accepted the offer before she collapsed. She didn’t even know if his offer was still on the table. Still being in the Manor was a good sign. Aside from the fact that he was… a little strange. Still… Her stomach fell. What now? So close.

Just like always. It’s only natural, she thought, it’s just my luck.

Download a PDF copy of Just My Luck

Emmeline Chilcott did not like running.

She had never really grasped the extent of this distaste until she found herself running from three enormous men who, upon bursting into Pam’s Tavern snarling her name, made a distinct impression that they did not just want to chat. Her breath came in short, concentrated bursts—the pressure on her lungs so immense she wondered whether she was inhaling actual fire and not the sharp salt of the sea air. Her fitness level was such a joke it was almost laughable… could people die from running?

A bullet whizzed past her head and ricocheted off a metal lamppost before embedding itself into an empty wooden crate, shattering the waterlogged wood and sending deadly splinters in every direction.

‘Stop running you fuckin’ brat. We won’t hurt ya! He needs you alive!’ the call echoed behind her, ringing in her ears. What the hell was that supposed to mean?

Trying to regulate her breath so the fire in her chest would subside a little, Emmeline barely noticed the vivid lights of the theatre district disappearing as she took a sharp turn and found herself on the infamous Bronze Docks of Markthaven—named for its hundreds of piers accented in a mottled blue-orange blend of salt-rusted bronze. Long wharves stretched out from the main dock like vines from a tree every hundred metres or so, with enough room in-between to house the hulls of two of the enormous trade ships. Tall masts stretched into the air, the ends disappearing into the low hanging fog that suffocated the city during the rainy season.

Emmeline’s options for escape were becoming fewer with each laboured step as she spied the impenetrable void of the Zwart Cliff in the distance.

The sound of gunpowder igniting in her pursuers’ pistol and the feel of the wind against her cheek were enough to tell her that another bullet had just ripped its way through the air. Waves of panic crashed through her, spreading out from the vice on her heart until her steps were so stiff it felt like she was freezing from the inside out.

She veered left; half jumping half falling onto the lower level wharf stretching out into the ocean. An enormous ship was moored at the wharf though there was no movement on board – the crew was probably in town, enjoying their limited time on land, seeing a show or drinking themselves into oblivion. Emmeline made quick work of the ropes as she climbed on board, ducking low beneath the side of the ship. She watched as the men carefully walked along the dock, peering into the darkness in search of her.

A blinding white pain thumped at the base of her head, spreading until she felt it behind her eyes and suddenly she couldn’t see or hear anything.

She heard the sound of rope moving against wood and a shout from below,

‘You guys check the end of the wharf. I’ll start on this ship!’

Jolting upright at the sound of a man’s shout, Captain Jules Navarre nearly hit his head on the low ceiling as he raced up from the bowels of the ship to the main deck.

He was supposed to be on watch.

Curses fell from his lips as he ran, hand clutching at the small dagger strapped to his hip before he burst through the door. Jules’ eyes locked on the huddled form of a woman who was pressed so tightly against the bulwark she almost camouflaged into it. Her heavy breathing increased as her eyes flashed open and she spied Jules looking directly at her. With one final strangled breath, her entire body disappeared completely into the wood.

Stepping forward in surprise, Jules made to move towards the girl when a fat hand slapped against the rail, grimy black nails digging into the wood, attempting to haul himself onto the ship. Walking calmly over, Jules pressed the tip of the dagger against the man’s splayed hand and lightly pressed down. With a shout, he let go of the rail, grabbing a piece of rope in time to stop from falling onto the wharf.

‘Can I help you, mate?’ Jules asked as though he was enquiring after a friend. The man howled as though he’d been stabbed—Jules hadn’t even drawn blood.

‘What the fuck did ya do that for?’ he spat the words like Jules was in the wrong.

‘Why are you attempting to board my ship?’ he kept his voice civil, looking down at the seething man.

‘We’re looking for a girl? ‘Ave you seen ‘er? She owes our boss money.’

Jules shook his head.

‘I believe it’s just me down here tonight. Although my crew won’t be far off coming home if my memory of their drinking stamina is correct.’

He placed the dagger on the rail once more, a small threat.

‘I wouldn’t be here when they return.’

‘Sure, sure! No problems mate! Raff, Wilm… come on she’s not here!’

The other two men shouted in acquiescence from the end of the wharf and Jules watched as they ambled back towards the main arm of the dock. Once they were gone from sight, he sheathed his dagger, shifting his gaze to the spot where she had disappeared. Slowly, he reached his hand out and felt around in the air.

From the opposite side of the ship, Emmeline watched the man feel around blindly. Hadn’t he seen her crawl away? Why did he cover for her? He continued to slowly walk through the spot she had been in, feeling around blindly until he stood up straight and turned around.

‘Alright sweetheart, they’re gone, but you need to show yourself again. I know you haven’t left, I was watching the ropes for movement.’

He yelled like she wasn’t right across from him. Eyes so dark she couldn’t tell if they were brown or black scanned the area and swept right past her. Why was he acting like she wasn’t there? The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon; the docks would wake soon.

Looking down at herself she inhaled sharply. Her entire body and all of her clothing was covered in the mottled swirling greys and browns of the wood that formed the ship. Blending in seamlessly, she watched in shock as the pattern moved with her to match exactly with what was behind it. She felt a kick against her side and was shocked out of her position on the ground, scrambling to stand as her stiff legs screamed in agony.

‘Found you!’ The boy smiled at her as her skin rippled back and forth in time with the rush of the waves below; blue and grey and brown as it struggled to find its original colour once more. Her skin finally settled into its normal tone, and Emmeline tore her eyes from her own skin, to observe him.

‘How did you—my skin—my skin—they were, I was…’ Her mouth opened and closed silently as she struggled to pull her thoughts together.

He bent to look her in the eyes and grabbed her hand gently.

‘It’s alright… I can do it too, look.’

His hand slowly seemed to melt away, mimicking the colour of hers beneath his and the floor beneath where his hand touched nothing. His hand camouflaged flawlessly into her own. It was only the shadows cast by the slowly rising sun, draping everything in a faint crimson glow that showed her truly where it lay.

She withdrew from him and watched as his fingers, and then his palm returned to the deep tan of the rest of his body like it was soaking up the soft colour that fell over the silent docks.

‘What are you? What am I?’

He looked at her and grinned, a dark curl flipped in front of his eye, and he pushed it away mindlessly. Ignoring her question, he looked her straight in the eyes,

‘My name’s Jules—you didn’t mention yours.’

‘Emmeline Chilcott.’ She drew herself up in the way she knew made her look taller and deepened her brows into a scowl, ‘Explain this. Explain yourself.’

‘Well, I don’t know if you know this Emmeline Chilcott but… you’re a mimic.’

‘And what, exactly, does that mean… Mister?’

‘Navarre. And it’s Captain Navarre, not Mister. But also, it’s not Captain Navarre you can just call me Jules,’ he winked, ‘Or I suppose Captain Jules if that’s what you’d prefer.’

Emmeline silenced the man’s chatter with a hand against his mouth.

‘Right, well Captain Navarre, what exactly does “I’m a mimic” mean? I don’t know if this is normal for you, but this is not exactly my every day!’

‘Of course! Sorry. I’m just so glad to finally meet another of Vanderan’s that made it. You have to be one of his, your abilities are so similar to mine—although mine doesn’t extend to clothing, now that is really impressive. That you could have control over matter that isn’t your own flesh is just incredible.’ He wasn’t even looking at her now, just rambling out loud.

‘Vanderan? Who is that? What are these abilities?’ releasing an exasperated sigh, Emmeline clicked her fingers in front of Jules’ face, ‘Mr Nav—Captain Navarre! I am trying my best not to freak out and you giving me an explanation would really be very helpful.’

‘Oh! Yes! Well, Vanderan was a Doctor, who worked for the Capital in my country—Floitá. He birthed children and every hundred or so babies he would administer a shot he created that was designed to enhance the child’s natural defence mechanisms… there was a plague at the time that was devastating my country, your parents would have told you of it, he wanted to trigger a biological defence to the plague in infants so they wouldn’t get sick in the first place. It was effective, but there were side effects… this was one of the good ones. See how you can camouflage—like a butterfly when it senses danger, you can mimic your surroundings!’

Emmeline gaped at Captain Navarre in shock. She looked down at her hand and concentrated for a second. Her fingertips began to adjust once more to match the deep grain of the wooden ship beneath her. Okay.

‘I’ve never been to Floitá how would I have received this shot? This seems like the story of a madman. There must be opiates in the air. This cannot be happening!’

There was too much to think about. How could this insane Doctor Vanderan have injected her? Surely such a man had to have a God-complex. Had he administered cures for the plague to select children as some sort of sick experiment to see who lived and died?

She knew of the plague Captain Navarre mentioned. It had desolated Floitá, a once powerful nation brought to its knees by the loss of seventy percent of its population. The spread of the plague had only been stopped by the complete cessation of trade and travel; Markthaven had taken years to recover from the loss as the Bronze Docks had lain unused for over a year.

‘Doctor Vanderan was forced to leave Floitá in disgrace after some of the side effects on the surviving children were revealed… children who grew spikes that shot from their skin when startled. Babies whose saliva produced poison and killed their mothers as they breastfed. Imagine not being able to breathe air as your lungs collapsed from within; when your only way to breathe oxygen into your lungs, is to inhale water like a fish.’ He spoke with a soft intensity. She felt the pain in his words and knew that he had seen these things happen.

‘Almost all of the children who were injected died. It is a shameful secret that Floitá does not speak of in fear of endangering the lives of the survivors. Imagine if your government here found out there were children who could change their skin like you or me? It would be chaos, we would live our lives on the run.’

‘But how could I have received the injection? I’ve lived in Markthaven my whole life!’

Jules grasped her chin between his thumb and forefinger and spoke slowly,

‘You did not listen. He was exiled from Floitá. There were rumours of his whereabouts, none were ever confirmed, but most people believe that he settled somewhere in this city—in Markthaven. It is very likely that he continued his career as a doctor here, treating children carefully so he could monitor them and take care of unsuccessful subjects. I’m sure there was a time when you were young that you were incredibly sick. Do you remember being taken to a doctor?’

‘No I—I never saw Doctors when I was younger,’ Emmeline ran her hands through her hair tearing loose a handful of strands which whipped around her face in the salty breeze.

‘We were always just treated within the orphanage there was a professor who catalogued the library and treated us when we got sick I—’

‘Orphanage? You’re an orphan? Emmeline think… what became of the man who treated you there? What was his name? Were there any children who went missing?’

Her mind skimmed over hundreds of memories of her time in the orphanage, thoughts churning with the new information. Of course, there had been children that had gone missing, but it was an orphanage, that happened.

They could have been picked up by trade ships as crew or even taken from the streets to be trafficked as slaves. A few missing orphans were the least of the nun’s or the other children’s worries. And the man that had treated her when she’d been sick… he had taken care of her for weeks, insisting she stay in bed to recuperate, though she’d felt fine after only a few days. What had become of him? He’d left the orphanage abruptly, and the children had been instructed to take care of their own ailments.

‘His name, I think he went by Professor… Nared? I’m sure that was it; he went on to a job in the Heidspur working with the Governors. He has some sort of job in the Council, oh my God! He might be still doing this—what if the Governors know?’

Overwhelmed, Emmeline found her bottom lip start to tremble as she choked back panicked sobs. She had assumed that Mina and Klaus had been adopted or had found jobs when they’d disappeared but how many of the orphans had really died at the hands of this man? Captain Navarre put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed.

‘It’s okay Emmeline. He can’t harm you. He is in your past—’ Jules’ soothing stopped abruptly at the sound of three heavy thumps on the wood behind them.

Both Emmeline and Jules looked in dismay at the same three men who had chased her earlier that night as they ambled casually towards them, pistols aimed directly at their chests. Emmeline straightened her spine defiantly. She was surprised as she found herself automatically beginning to mimic the look of the wood beneath her; the feeling so natural already as she tried to escape the beady glare of the men’s eyes. Captain Navarre attempted to do the same as they moved to run from their position, however, unlike Emmeline’s, his clothing did not also begin to mimic the wood from beneath so they somewhat ridiculously appeared to be nothing but a pair of floating breeches and a dark shirt.

‘Isn’t this lovely. The Doctor sends us to collect one of ‘is brats and we find two of ‘em. He really will be happy with us this time.’ He took a step towards the spot where they stood and raised his pistol,
‘Don’t do nothin’ stupid alright?’

Emmeline looked at Captain Navarre’s faint outline—his body barely visible in the watery morning sun. Grabbing onto his shirt, she pulled herself close to where she estimated his ear was and whispered,

‘Captain Navarre… I do hope you know how to swim.’

Then, grabbing his waist with all her might, Emmeline Chilcott pulled the Captain backwards over the railing of the enormous ship, directly into the deep blue water below.

God, she hated swimming.

Download a PDF of ‘Emmeline’

The following are excerpts from the journal of the renowned cartographer, Jonathon Montes (2197-2248).

Day 1: 8^th Welna, 2247

Basecamp

The day has finally arrived. Today we begin our expedition to uncharted lands. I am with my trusty team: Marsha Wilkins, my geologist; James Parton, my assistant; and Samuel Bertolli, my botanist and lifelong friend. We have also befriended a local guide, Helor, who will take us through Anson Forest and even further if he is able. I believe we will find the valley in approximately eight days on foot.

The purpose of this expedition is to find a hot spot for the rare, superconducting mineral, loxite, which is rumoured to lay in the untouched jungle land beyond a valley which no other explorer has been able to cross. This particular mineral functions as a superconductor at room temperature, making it an extremely valuable find indeed! Think of the reduction of our global footprint and the potential for a sustainable future.

My father had dedicated his life and finances to this project. As today is officially one year since his passing, I cannot think of a more appropriate time to begin. I can barely contain my excitement.

Day 9: 16^th Welna, 2247

Anson Forest

Nine days ago, we began our trek on foot through the depths of Anson Forest. I had expected to have found the valley by now, but something is causing our equipment to give us inaccurate readings. The air gets thicker every day with a stinking heat and my maps seem pointless at this stage. Helor seems to think he knows where he’s going, but right now it feels like the blind leading the blind.

This trip was almost like a wedding gift to both Samuel and Marsha, who remain ever-optimistic about our future with this project. James and I, however, don’t seem to share the same positivity, although we do not voice it. He assists me with my maps and knows that we don’t seem to be getting anywhere in particular. He’s a quiet chap, but I can see his emotion in the way his hands shake and his fingers fumble with my papers.

I keep thinking of my father. Have I let him down?

Day 15: 22^nd Welna, 2247

The Valley

We have found the valley. It appears as though both mine and my father’s calculations were incorrect. It was not exactly where I had predicted it to be, but perhaps that could be blamed on my useless equipment. I saw the disappointment in my fellow explorers’ eyes, and I was afraid that I, too, shared some of their emotion. As I eyed endless, barren lands covered with a smog so thick that the other side of the valley could not even be seen, only one thing came to mind. The Valley of Mortiro; a word in the ancient language meaning death.

Day 16: 23^rd Welna, 2247

The Valley of Mortiro

Due to our inability to fit the schedule and find the place within eight days, we have limited resources. We had expected to find a natural source of sustenance by now. The water harvester keeps our thirst quenched, but the others are starting to get anxious. Marsha believed we would be able to find some traces of loxite within the valley itself, but so far, she hasn’t been able to identify anything remotely close. It’s too late to turn back now, and if we don’t find a source of food in three to five days, we may be too weak to travel on. This land takes its toll on our bodies.

Day 18: 25^th Welna, 2247

Last night we set up camp and huddled around a fire. We shared our rationed food and many gave up hope. Samuel held Marsha close as silent tears fell down her cheeks. This trip has started impacting their relationship to the point where sometimes they can’t even look at each other. James sat with his back turned to us, pouring over my inaccurate maps, trying to make sense of where we are. Helor sat beside me silently, staring up at a make-believe sky beyond the pungent smog, and praying with his hands pressed to his chest. His foreign words had an almost soothing effect on our dampened spirits.

I want them to be remembered for their strength and courage; their ability to follow me blindly to their certain deaths. I told myself I would not be angry if one of them betrayed me because I simply could not blame them. So why? Why did I wake up this morning with a fire in my chest when I found our remaining rations missing along with Helor? All he left was a single note with the words ‘fero si’. Forgive me.

Day 19: 26^th Welna, 2247

We grow weak. Marsha’s skin has reacted to the thick air and our first aid is running low. Her fingertips are always bloody from the scratching and she claims she can see and feel something moving just beneath the surface of her skin. Something about shining eyes. The sound of her jagged nails against wet, infected skin is starting to make James nervous. I’m too weak to hold my pencil. There has been absolutely no trace of loxite anywhere. Was it all just a fantasy? Everything about this valley—the razor-sharp rocks, the air, the dirt, the lack of vegetation—seems almost designed to kill us. I am losing hope.

Day 20: 27^th Welna, 2247

The Jungle

Today as we were walking, I saw a figure in the distance. There were tendrils that reached up to the sky and loomed over us. Upon closer inspection it was a tree, but even Samuel, our botanist, was unable to identify it. It was the strangest thing. Its vines grew upwards and appeared to sway in a non-existent breeze. He was over the moon, with Marsha leaning close to his side. After moving in a hopeless mess through the valley for days, finally he was alive again, he was my best friend again.

We continued to approach the strange trees until we were standing in the depths of a wild jungle. The smog still penetrates this area, but not as much. I can see clearer now. The Jungle of Sanctoria, offering us sanctuary from the Valley of Mortiro. We have made it.

Day 22: 29^th Welna, 2247

The Jungle of Sanctoria

Samuel was able to find us some edible bark. Our strength is returning. These trees offer shelter and a comfort we could not find in the valley. The nights are worse, however. We hear sounds; guttural and unnatural screeches. James has not slept in three nights and the hot days and frozen nights are starting to get to all of us. Marsha found a piece of rock in her leg. She was able to identify that one of the elements within the mineral from the valley was toxic to us. I know an infection when I see one. I grow tired, but I know the loxite must be close. This was where it was supposed to be all along, wasn’t it?

Day 23: 30^th Welna, 2247

I have found something. Something that could make this all worthwhile. It’s a girl. But she’s not like us; she’s different. It’s in the shape of her eyes and the length of her limbs. It’s in her hair that flows like teardrops down her delicate back. She is weak, but I will fix her. Today is my daughter’s birthday. I have found a girl in need of a father.

Day 25: 1^st Narto, 2247

We will make it through this, I know. When I am with her, she makes me feel strong. I see my own daughter in her eyes and I know I must protect her from the others. They started complaining about her the moment I let her join us. She could not walk so I made a little stretcher for her and dragged her along.

I never asked the others to help, but still they complained. They said they couldn’t stand the way she smelled, but all I could smell was roses. In my eyes, she is what I came here looking for: the real treasure. Who gives a damn about some precious mineral? I have asked her if she knows where the loxite is, just to put the others at ease. Her eyes fill me with promise and I know she will lead me to unimaginable riches, but right now, I just don’t care. I’ve decided to name her Doe. I love the way she looks at me with those eyes.

Day 26: 2^nd Narto, 2247

Samuel was able to find a plant with antibacterial properties for Marsha’s leg. We all know that it’s far too late as she’s showing signs of septicaemia. James is slowly losing his mind. I found him last night trying to, well, take advantage of Doe. He had lifted her and was carrying her into the bushes. I took her back from him. His eye is swollen now, but healing fine. My knuckles have started to itch. The complaints of the smell of Doe are getting to the point where I’ve had to set up camp a few meters away from the others tonight. It has even made Marsha throw up a couple of times. Last night I saw Samuel whispering to Marsha while constantly glancing over at me. He held her in his arms and stroked her face, stray tears sweeping down his cheeks. She constantly weeps from the pain. Doe is getting stronger and happier. She does not speak, but I can see it in her eyes.

Day 29: 5^th Narto, 2247

Last night by the fire, Doe kissed me. She seems to have grown over the last few days. She looks like a woman now. But still, something about her is just so inhuman. Her skin has changed colour and her scent is growing stronger by the day. She’s beautiful, yes, and last night I could not help myself. We have all accepted that we will never see our families again. The life that we knew is gone. We will spend the remainder of our days in this godforsaken jungle.

Day 31: 7^th Narto, 2247

Marsha is dead. Something about her discoloured skin reminds me of Doe.

Day 32: 8^th Narto, 2247

I was lured here under promise of a better future. Now one of us is dead and another is presumably lost. Has it been worth it? My heart begins to clench when I see how the others are not coping. But, when I look at Doe I feel like it was all for something. She is more valuable than any amount of loxite.

Day 33: 9^th Narto, 2247

Samuel does not talk anymore and James continues to cry into the cold nights. Doe is getting bigger and heavier and she still cannot walk. She kisses me every night and I feel content sleeping with her in my arms. I can hear running water nearby. The smog gets thinner and then heavier depending on the thickness of the trees. Samuel has stopped documenting new species of plants. He’s found enough for us to survive on a daily basis, but he’s lost his passion. He buried Marsha on his own and did not let anyone touch her body.

Day 34: 10^th Narto, 2247

Scarlet Falls

We woke this morning to find James’ sleeping bag empty. We went to the river, assuming he had gone for a bath. There we found the shallow waters tinged pink. His body was floating face down with blood still leaking from his wrists. Scarlet Falls. I sat with Doe under a tree as Samuel dug a hole. I told him to remove the scarf that was covering his mouth and nose so he could breathe better, but he just ignored me. I held Doe closer to me as Samuel kept shouting something at me. ‘Let me bury the body!’ he screamed again and again. Doe was scared, and I wasn’t stopping him from burying the body. Except when he got too close to me.

Day 38: 14^th Narto, 2247

Jungle of Sanctoria

Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe Doe, eyes of glass, skin of pale… (illegible)

Day 39: 15^th Narto, 2247

I feel his eyes on her body. I know he wants her. I won’t let him have her. She is mine and I will bring her home no matter what. I want to… (illegible)

Over the next three days, Jonathon has lost all coherence in his words. There are simply random phrases and crude drawings of eyes. This figure was repeated numerous times throughout the journal:

Day 42: 18^th Narto, 2247

The trees are growing thinner and the smog has been clearing for the last day and a half. An aroma follows me and it makes me want to throw up. I feel sick and a pain in my head is erupting. I cannot look at my paper, let alone anything else.

Day 43: 19^th Narto, 2247

We are back where we started. I could not believe my eyes when I saw that horrid little tin shack sticking out of the ground like an overgrown weed. Within hours of our return, the paramedics and cameras had swarmed the area. I can barely breathe.

Day 49: 25^th Narto, 2247

Basecamp

The smog in the valley appears to have been some kind of hallucinogen. We found traces of it all over our clothes and supplies. It took me a few days to get it completely out of my system, along with the splitting headaches of withdrawal after being on the gas for almost two months. The Jungle of Sanctoria was simply Anson Forest under the influence of the hallucinogen. It seems as though we had accidentally made a loop somewhere in the valley and never really made it to the other side. The smog somehow followed us back through the forest. Everything we saw, it was all a lie. Samuel had discovered the effect of the smog and covering his nose and mouth appeared to help. Apparently, he had tried to cover mine but every time he did, he said I would become violent. Their deaths weigh on me, all three of them. Samuel has vowed never to see me again and I don’t blame him. I will never be the same again.

Doe, the girl, the body: it was Helor’s.

Day 55: 1^st Verti, 2247

It has been a while since my last journal entry. I am alone at basecamp now, ruminating over the mistakes I have made. The smog approaches every night, its pungent odour seeping into the cracks of this damn shack. I saw a beautiful and familiar set of eyes glancing at me at the edge of the forest, beckoning me to come closer. Who am I to refuse? Father, I’m sorry.

Jonathon Montes’ journal and a series of illegible maps were found at the edge of Anson Forest. His body was discovered three months later, unclothed, near basecamp with his skin covered in weeping boils and what appeared to be deep, self-inflicted scratch marks. His finger and toe nails had all been chewed or torn off and placed in a straight line beside his body. Scratched into a rock beside him was the phrase, ‘eyes beneath the skin’.

Transcribed by Ryan Montes, 2249.

Download a PDF copy of The Valley of Mortiro.

The Pampil residence was a shotgun house, a one-story, two-door house, one in the front and one in the back that looked like the barrels of a shotgun. A little thing New Orleans was famous for. Like the rest of the neighbourhood there were no dull colours anywhere. Royal purple on the walls and bright yellow windowsills, lifted above dry grass. Even as the sun set the colours stayed bright from the lights in every house and lamppost.

Jackson woke up as soon as the sun had set. It was an instinct at this point. Something inside him forced him to life as soon as the sun’s glare had left his room. Grumbling, he crawled out of bed and headed straight towards the bathroom. He took a long look in the mirror above the sink and winced. Grey skin was torn wide open in places along his face and neck. Bright, glowing green eyes stared at the mirror from sockets that were bigger than they should be and there was nothing beneath his left elbow, just a stump.

He grabbed a skeletal arm from his bedside table and placed it by his elbow. A horrible shrieking noise came from the stump as green mist came out and wrapped around the arm. The shrieking got louder, then suddenly stopped as the mist pulled the arm into the socket and smacked it into place. He wiggled the boney fingers and flicked the hand twice.

‘Thanks Billy,’ he muttered under his breath. This was the first day he would use a borrowed hand. He put on a black blazer and suit pants with a white dress shirt. Only things that matched with his skin and eyes. There was a knock on his door.

‘You headin’ out?’ said a voice. Jackson opened the door to see his brother, Jean-Paul standing there. He nodded, leaving his room and closing the door behind. As they stood in the small hallway, Jean-Paul held out his hand. Jackson grabbed it, pulling him into a hug. After that he said goodbye to his father and left the house. This was a daily routine for him ever since he started working at Lafayette. He may be one month dead but that was no excuse for not chipping in on the rent.

It was a normal night for Trafalgar Street. Some boys in gang colours chilling on a backdoor porch, a boy practicing his trombone late into the night while the neighbours gradually lose their mind at the same tune constantly being played, slow, loud and painful. Jackson reached the streetcars station and waited, listening as an argument broke out between houses. There was a man with headphones rapping loudly to himself and another man, unwashed and breathing heavily. The streetcar came clanking in, completely empty.

As the car approached Lafayette Cemetery, Jackson picked his head up, looking out. Jackson had been working the midnight graveyard shift ever since he came back. From there he could see a batch of tourists and a guide, one of the ghost tours the city had. Standing at the entrance, there was no way around them. With no other option, Jackson walked through them, in the middle of the tour guides speech.

‘You see folks, back in the day, they had to bury quick, but the people weren’t always dead. So they tied some string on their toe connected to a bell and if they were still alive and thrashing, it’d start ringing. It didn’t always work cause—’ He stopped, eyes wide, as Jackson forced his way through. He walked past them as quickly as he could, hearing some of them gasp. He thought he heard one of them trying to say something to him, but chose to ignore it as he moved on.

He went into a small shack, grabbed a flashlight, punched his card into a clock on the wall and then went on his nightly patrol. It wasn’t the most exciting job in the city. There was the odd stranger trying to break into a crypt, but they tended to run for the hills the second they saw the 6’5” dead man stomping towards them. He was offered the job partly out of sympathy, partly because a living corpse patrolling your graveyard really keeps the weirdoes away.

Jackson had a quiet night before finishing his shift. He said his goodbye to the next guard and walked back to the streetcar stop, heading home. He waited for the next pick-up, just him and a skeleton wearing sweatpants, a worn-out hoodie and a pinstriped fedora, taking a long drag of his cigarette; smoke billowing out from his eyes and chest. He looked at Jackson.

‘S’up man?’ he said. His voice sounded like he’d been gargling gravel and whiskey then got run over, chest first, with a busted down car.

‘Hey, all good.’ Jackson replied, thumbs up. He examined the skeleton a bit more.

‘Does that even do anything for you?’ he asked. The skeleton put out the cigarette in the palm of his hand.

‘Not anymore,’ he replied. With that the morning trolley came clanking by the stop. The conductor had Boney M’s ‘Rasputin’ playing at full volume on a personal radio beside him.

Jackson still had an appointment with his witchdoctor in Frenchman Street before he could turn in for the day. He stopped by his home to rest, check on his dad and pick up a few things. His dad was sitting on the couch watching TV, giving Jackson a nod as he came in. Jackson nodded back and stood behind the couch. He immediately scowled as soon as he saw who was on screen. Celebrating his forty-eighth year as dictator of Haiti was another corpse, more rotted, the skin a dark sickly green, the face unmistakable: Francois Duvalier, better known as ‘Papa Doc’. The news feature was on the ‘Haitian problem’ and if he was connected to it. Throughout the whole world, the only places where the dead were coming back had a Haitian Diaspora.

Papa Doc was always known for practicing voodoo. In fact, he was the man who revived the practices for the people of Haiti, but how far he had gone into Juju, its darkest, blackest side, nobody was expecting. He had gone from sucking the life out of its people metaphorically to physically. Yet the world would never do anything. It didn’t matter how many people he had killed in sulfuric acid baths, or how many bodies he had defiled. Not as long as he was aligned against Cuba and Dominica.

Jackson looked down at his father. His face was still and unmoving, but Jackson could see the sadness in his eyes. His dad turned to look at him as he spoke.

‘Your Mother named you. She knew we shouldn’t stay there and she wanted something that sounded American so you would fit in,’ he scoffed. ‘Should have got better at English first.’

Jackson was fourteen when his family left Haiti. He couldn’t remember a single detail. Not his mother’s face, or where they lived or how she died. Whenever he tried, there was a green mist blocking the image and then he’d feel cold, so cold his body demanded he stop thinking. He placed his right hand on his father’s shoulders. His dad stopped for a second, before putting his hand over it. After that Jackson told him where he was going, grabbed what he needed from his room and went back to the station.

Jackson got off the streetcar just before the French Quarter, New Orleans’ most famous neighbourhood. He walked around it, headed to Frenchman Street through Decatur. He caught a familiar face on a street corner. Hunched over an instrument made of a mop handle, three washing lines and a half cut bucket was ‘Vulture’ Andrews in a tattered and worn out wool coat, a big rucksack by his side. Grey skinned, one eyed, with massive buck teeth protruding from an exposed jawbone and balancing on his only leg, his appearance got one or two twitchy glances as he belted out Bessie Smith’s ‘Devil’s gonna get you.’ He used to be big in the Quarter and Frenchman Street’s clubs, but his old fans were as dead as he was. He didn’t remember his name, the few friends he had that were still alive or even the songs he was famous for. Nothing but muscle memory had brought him to his second home but he wasn’t allowed to play the quarter anymore. ‘Scared the tourists’ they said.

Jackson gave a sigh and walked straight to Frenchman, trying to push the whole scene out of his mind. Unlike the Quarter, Frenchman street only came alive at night. If the Quarter was where most tourists went to get their drink and music, then Frenchman was where the locals preferred to head. It may not have been as famous, but it still had everything that the world thinks of when you say New Orleans. Narrow streets, colourful buildings and balconies decorated with Christmas lights. He walked past tattoo parlours, cheap deep-fried food joints and closed bars before he finally reached his destination: Marinette’s Voodoo shop.

There were two sides to Marinette’s shop. At the front was a fake as can be tourist trap, fake charms and voodoo dolls. In the back was the real workshop. There were a dozen tables and desk scattered around the room. Some of them had jars of herbs and animal parts, while other had blocks of wood that Marinette was carving into masks and talismans. On the walls were the sigils of the Loa, Voodoo gods and spirits. For Jackson, Marinette had set out the signs and tributes to the Ghede, the barons of the dead. At the centre of the room was, according to Marinette, the most important tribute she could offer for Jackson: a bowl of white rum with herbs simmering inside it, a favourite of Ghede Nibo, the Loa of unnatural death.

Marinette didn’t even look at Jackson as she spoke, pacing around her office, grabbing Jars and books.

‘Sak pase?’ she said, crushing something in a mortar and pestle. ‘How are you?’

‘M ap viv.’ Jackson replied. ‘I’ve been better but I’ve been worse’, but literally meaning; ‘I am alive.’ She chuckled at that.

‘Ki sa kit e jou ou renmen?’ she continued. ‘What happened in your day?’ He placed a hand on his chin as he spoke.

‘Te ale nan travay. Le sa a…’ He spoke slowly, stuttering. ‘Mwen te… Moun… moun… Shit!’ he muttered under his breath and looked down at the ground, scowling. The word’s meaning left his head as soon as he spoke them. He used to be fluent when he was alive. More than anything else on the body, your mind isn’t meant to last past death. The salves, talismans and blessings could keep Jackson from rotting but none of them could stop his memories from fading. Marinette hoped constantly testing his memory would keep it fresh. Well, fresh as can be.

Her face softened as she looked at Jackson. She sighed and grabbed his skeletal hand.

‘How’s Billy-Ray’s hand working out for you?’ Jackson shrugged. He rotated his wrist with an audible click.

‘It’s working. Can’t say I know how well. Never used someone else’s arm before,’ he said. She scoffed, then continued asking him questions: anything rotting off? Does it still feel like you’re breathing? No wounds getting bigger? After making sure there was no trouble with his un-life, she gave him two bottles, which he put in his coat, and a Gris-gris, a type of talisman.

He bid ‘a pi ta’ to Marinette, went to the front counter to pay for what she gave him and left the shop, going back to the streetcar stop. On the way back he saw the skeleton again from the streetcar, same station, still smoking. The thought he had been fighting since he saw Vulture Andrews finally punched its way through. That’s you someday, it said. Nothing left to rot, no more family, no more memories. Just a bad habit you can’t remember starting. He closed his eyes and rushed off the streetcar on the next stop, trying to out-run the thought or find something else to put his mind on.

He walked from a stop he’d never seen before; letting his feet take him wherever they wanted. Trying to shut off everything but the urge to walk, he found himself walking towards the music of a second line parade. The sound made him focus again. There were no events or parades, or everyone would be there, he thought. So it must be a jazz funeral. He stopped. It would be wrong for a dead man to go to a funeral. It’s a time to grieve and move on, not horrify mourners. He turned around; letting his instincts guide him home. As he turned a corner, there on a lamppost was a bouquet of flowers and a picture beneath them: his. His thoughts went back to that night.

He was coming back from Frenchman’s street. As he turned the corner, he heard screeching tires, followed by a blaring police siren close by. Suddenly, a worn-out green Sudan shot out from the corner, slamming into him, arm first. He flew out, hitting the concrete hard, scraping the left side of his face. It wasn’t slow as his world faded. He took one look at where his arm should be and saw the bloodied stump. The reality of what happened hit him. It was like the nerves of his spine had exploded into barbed wire and were quickly making their way up his brain stem. He struggled to breathe, gasping for air and spitting out blood. As he lay there, failing to catch his breath, snap! The world went dark.

When he was forced back to life the blackness turned to green. He saw six figures, blurred, looking over him. They were tall, strange… inhuman. His vision went sharp white as he jolted upright, suddenly back in his room. He saw his family and a woman he didn’t know standing in the doorway. Her eyes were wide open. He huffed and panted, feeling wind rushing through his neck and out a hole in his cheek. He looked at the stump that was once his arm, mouth agape. He turned back to the doorway.

‘Why am I still alive?’ he asked the women. She closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head.

Download a PDF copy of Dead Man Walking