Whispers From The Abyss (4 page)

I'm not a religious man, but: altars, statuary, robes? Clearly this was some kind of cult situation. Had they gotten trapped down here when someone locked the sea chest shut? Or was it a sort of suicide cult thing? Or –

The skull that fell out of the robe I'd picked up rolled against my foot. I can't even describe the sensation. Imagine a spider walking across your exposed eyeball, maybe. I played my light on the skull and saw the back of it was crushed, like someone had cracked an egg in their fist. A quick glance showed the other bones were cracked and splintered, too. I'm not an expert in violent death – I don't even watch those forensic cop shows – but it looked to me like they'd been
squeezed
to death, bones cracked in the process.

I shaped the dead man's cloak into a half-assed sack and swept statues up, moving as fast as I dared, shivering as I touched the weirdly greasy-feeling stone objects.

I knew there'd be a market for them.

The pool rippled. I caught the movement from the corner of my eye. There was a sound, like a splash, and then...

I know this sounds crazy – crazier than the rest – but I swear I heard a
chuckle
. When I try to sleep these days, I tell myself it was just a bubbling aquatic noise... but deep down, I know it was a laugh.

I left half the statues behind and ran, sack in hand, the bones of dead cultists cracking under my boots. I climbed up that wooden ladder a lot faster than I'd gone down. At the top I slammed the chest shut and hammered in the pins to seal the hinges with no regard for damaging the hardware. Then I fell back on the floor, on my back.

I rolled to the side when I puked, though, so I wouldn't choke to death.

*     *     *

I knew I could sell the idols for a lot -- hundreds, thousands. There were probably other members of this nameless cult dying for the chance to own the relics. And the chest? For that, I was sure I could get more, if I posted an ad in the right places online. Maybe
millions
. For the faithful of any religion, money is usually no object.

Then again, I might get murdered. Religious people are unpredictable. And I thought about that chuckle. About something laughing at me. Laughing at what I
am
.

In the end I spent the night prying gems out of the statues' eyes with a chisel and hammer and screwdriver. I opened the chest again, long enough to drop the de-jeweled idols into the pit. Then I closed the chest, smashed it to pieces with a sledgehammer, and burned the wood in the backyard, until nothing remained but the brass hardware and the black padlock. I buried those.

I made a bit of money from a jewelry dealer I know. He made a lot more, but that's okay. I took the money and moved far away, to a place that's flat, and wide open, and desert dry, where the sun shines so much it makes some people crazy, and keeps me sane. I take showers, never baths, and I don't go swimming. When I moved into my house, I took all the doors off the closets and cabinets, and I use shelves instead of drawers.

I still can't pay my rent these days.

But I don't get too curious any more.

“I’ll always love you,” he tells her.

Of course, there’s no reply. He wonders what has brought about this confession. Maybe it’s the noise he hears, a shuffling sound from all around. He reaches in the dark for his matches and, with trembling hands, strikes one off. What he sees in the moment before the flame burns low and dies he does not like at all.

“Help me,” he pleads with her, knowing she can’t.

As he tries to shift position, pain shoots along his leg. He has to bite down on the scream. The things he saw were sleeping. He does not want to disturb them. For a few seconds he rolls, his knuckles pressed against his lips. The ground beneath him is hard and slippery. He can hear another sound:
drip, drip, drip
.

Stilling himself as the pains subside, he listens again for that first sound, that sound like the fluttering of great wings. He knows from what he saw in the match light that he is surrounded. They cover the walls with their bodies. Do they dream? He finds it ludicrous to be thinking such things. But what would they dream of? And what could inhabit the nightmares of something apparently born of his own?

He does not know. All he knows is that he must stay still and be very very quiet.

Suddenly he hears a voice. He hears his name called to him from above. It echoes down the throat of the well to the place where he lies. It’s her. She’s back. He knew she would return. He feels a wave of relief go through him, but then he’s aware of an increase in the shuffling sounds that surround him.

They stir.

Silently, he pleads with her.
Please be quiet, love. Get me out of here, but don’t make a sound. You don’t know what’s down here with me.

Unknowing, she hollers that she’s brought help.

A flock twitches its wings.

A man’s voice joins the girl’s, louder still. There’s humour in it. If only they knew! The man asks, laughing, how he managed to fall into a well. The man tells him they’ll have him out in no time. The man has too much to say, too loudly, and the creatures are waking now.

His hands scatter to the ground in search of matches. He finds the box, is about to light one when he halts and freezes, turning his head slowly in the dark.

Very close to him, he can hear their breathing.

Voices from above tell him they’re throwing down a rope.

It’s too late. He wants to tell her he loves her again, despite this, despite everything, but he doesn’t even have time to scream.

“You can’t expect to return alive.” The words run back and forth through my mind as my feet sink deeper into the murk with each passing step; as the bloody sack I drag behind me, now soaked by the rain, becomes heavier and heavier in my hands. I repeat it like a mantra as the grinding sound in my chest begins to slow, little by little.  “You can’t expect to return alive.”

The storm bears down on me like a wild beast with ill intent, waiting for a sign of weakness. I take a momentary reprieve beneath a row of thin metal overhangs that sit bolted into an outcropping. The raindrops bouncing overhead pound out strange, ominous rhythms; like something you’d hear deep in the jungle, something primitive men would play while circling a fire, scent of blood in the air. The water running down from the overhang mixes with the rust and grime of countless years of neglect; forming an oily mixture which runs down my face and arms; leaving black spider-web trails across my skin.

I tilt my head down to keep the water out of my eyes and press on. Eventually, to the relief of my aching muscles, the ground beneath my feet changes from thick mud to cold steel. Through the haze of the storm I see a long, sloping incline; here I decide to pause for a moment and catch my breath. The rain is cold, and the metal walkway colder still; but I worked up quite a sweat hauling the sack through the swamp. I remove my damp cloak and wring the water out of it as best I can.

I briefly contemplate stopping to rest for the night and giving the storm time to pass, but I hear that all too familiar clicking from somewhere just out of sight; a sound like the impatient tapping of a finger on a desk, and I decide to hurry on.

The going here is much easier despite the incline, on account of having solid footing. Not much time passes before my ascent is complete, and crouched like a coiled serpent in the valley below I see the Morgue.  Even through the mist and the rain I can make out the ruined spires and crumbling monoliths of that ruined city. Looking at it now you’d never know, but once this place was lit up brighter than the sun, day or night. Now only a few lights shine weakly in the face of tall shadows. Lamps run the length of barren streets, occasionally flickering just for a moment before fading out completely, as though they’ve realized their own uselessness.

I make my way down the other side of the steel mountain, careful not to lose my footing. I keep my ears open, but it seems quiet. Whether that means they haven’t seen me yet, or they’re already watching me; I can’t say. I don’t suppose it matters much now. Before long I’ve reached the smattering of small huts that encircle the ruins and the skyscrapers of the Morgue loom before me; twisted and broken spires slowly succumbing to gravity and time, heads low, propping each other up as best they can.

Huge screens like the type you’d see in the old theatres look outward from the faces of the few buildings that are still standing upright. Time was, not as long ago as you’d imagine, they’d show news reports, or advertisements. Now the ones that are still on either show white static or the face of an automaton.

That’s the name we gave them; Automatons. The replacement for the human race; a being designed to withstand the passage of time better than our bodies of flesh are able. We meant to inject our consciousness into them and use their bodies to become immortal.

They didn’t like that idea.

As I make my way as quietly as possible their faux faces glare down at me with unblinking eyes. The wind howls through hollow canyons that only vaguely resemble the streets that used to be. Scraps of paper and other debris swirl aimlessly, caught up by invisible gusts of wind. Rat carcasses are pulled down drains by the rushing water; cast down into the darkness. The rusty skeletons of old buildings groan and sway under the force of the storm raging around them. Flashing neon lights in abandoned shops still blink on and off to either side of me, casting the streets in shades of green light, which change to purple, then to red. Posters of long dead people written in languages I can’t read line windows and walls, hanging there like obituaries.

Here I keep my head low; not to shield my eyes from the rain, but to keep myself from fleeing in fear. I know that if I were to peer into the alleys, into the dark corners, I’d find hundreds upon hundreds of lidless white eyes staring back at me from the shadows. I know that if I look up, the dead faces on the screens above would seem to be following me, turning just ever so slightly as I pass.

At the center of the city there’s a building not like the others. It’s not very tall, especially when compared to the buildings surrounding it. It stands out more because it’s utterly featureless. There aren’t any windows, only one door. If you were to walk through that door, you’d find nothing but a staircase leading upwards. No rooms, no other doors. Nothing. If you managed to reach the top of that staircase, somehow oblivious to the sounds of footsteps on the stairs below you; you’d discover that the stairs run right up to the ceiling, and that there is no exit other than the same door you came in through. By that point, of course, the door would be locked, and there would be an automaton standing right behind you.

Don’t ask me how I know this.

What I’m looking for is underground. Directly in front of this building is an open manhole. It’s easy enough to spot if you know where to look. I find it easily enough, drop down, and take a moment to let my eyes adjust to the absence of light. I also take the opportunity to warm myself, burning the last few scraps of kindling I have bundled in my pack.

Suddenly I become aware that I haven’t eaten in almost a day. I search my pack and find a few stale crackers. I waste a few more minutes rummaging for any other scrap of food, all too aware that the automatons had to be aware of my presence by now and their curiosity could turn to annoyance all too quickly. My search proves fruitless. No food left for the trip back home.

I sigh, staring down at the bloody sack I’ve dragged all this way; through the swamps, the mountain, and down to the Morgue. Shouldn’t be this tired. Running out of food might be the least of my worries. I’m running out of time.  And in my chest, that ticking grows ever slower, like a timer counting backwards to zero.

I hunch down over the flame, down the crackers as best I can with no liquid to wash them down, and wait for the fire to die. Given the small amount of kindling I was able to keep dry, it doesn’t take long. I should hurry along, but the weariness has slowly seeped in and at this point it’s all I can do to keep my eyes open.

That tapping sound again, from just above me, on the streets. Barely distinguishable from the rain, but it’s a sound that sticks in your mind once you’ve heard it. Footsteps. It seems erratic, fading in and out; closer then further away. But it’s deliberate. They know exactly where I am. Time to move.

The staircase leading down isn’t hard to find. If I didn’t know better, I’d say the automatons almost wanted stray travelers to stumble across it. Heh.

As I descend the steps the sounds of the storm above become muffled, and the heavy thud of my footsteps echoes up into the deserted labyrinth of sewer passages. My arms become too weary to hold up the sack, so I drag it down the stairs instead. It makes a sound like a wet mop as it strikes each step. The scenery changes the further down I go, the perfectly carved and measured steps of the buildings above ground gradually turn to large, misshapen chunks of rock carved out of the earth. Shaped by almost human hands.

A faint green glow radiates from below. My relief at having a little bit of light to guide me down is tempered by the knowledge that those lights are only ever on when the automatons are working; and I have no desire whatsoever to gaze upon their “works”.

As I draw closer to my destination, the temperature drops rapidly. Coupled with the dampness of my clothes I begin to shiver uncontrollably. The automatons have no use for the comfort of heat, or much care for anything that does; and prefer a kind of freezer-like sterility to the metal boxes that they live in.

Before long I reach the end of my descent. The lights here are so bright compared to the darkness of the building above that I’m temporarily blinded, and I have to squint to make my way forward. Seconds later I hear the first scream. Equal parts rage and terror, loud enough to drive me to cover my ears. Another scream follows that one, from a different direction, closer and louder than the first. Before long there’s a chorus, so many cries of anguish overlapping that they all blur together, not a multitude of cries but one massive entity speaking through a thousand individual mouthpieces. And it doesn’t have anything good to say.

This was the true face of the Morgue, not the barren husk above; this was the blood and guts and heart of it. Here things that had long since died were routinely awakened from their eternal slumber by mechanical puppets that looked and moved like men. Here dead bodies were pumped full of chemicals and fed electrical currents so that machines might coax from them the secrets of the grave.

The automatons knew that there was no other life in the universe; they’d searched for centuries. That stood on the shoulders of scientific giants; split apart the very building blocks of life, even shattered suns. They found nothing. And they refused to accept humans as their creators. So all that was left was to pervert the cycles of life and death, to learn what, if anything, comes at the conclusion of the human life cycle. To find God. And then, presumably, to find a means to die themselves.

At least that’s what I’ve heard.

I move as fast as I can manage, which is to say I move slowly, down one lifeless metallic hallway after another. Past doors I dare not open and panes of glass I dare not gaze into. Most of the unfortunate dead that suddenly find themselves alive down here can’t understand how they’ve come back to life; and their crying and begging is awful to my ears. Even worse, though, are the breathy whispers and soft chuckles of those dead who were all too anxious to share their secrets.

A sudden wave of dizziness passes over me, my vision grows dim. Dammit, I’m out of time. Battery is wearing down.

I walk on, despite the fact that every part of me is screaming to turn and run. I pass row upon row of white rooms until I emerge from the pale translucence of the Morgue-cubes into a cave of sorts. Just in front of me is a vast, unlit cavern whose shape and size I can only guess at; the lights behind me cast out just far enough to reveal a haze of misshapen objects in the distance; boulders teetering on the brink of nothing, tunnels that lead off into a dark extending far beyond what my eyes can follow.  The path I walk ends suddenly; dropping off into a yawning black pit, the bottom of which is not visible from where I stand.

I crane my neck up to the top of the cave and I see what must be thousands of human forms hanging from the ceiling. Some are wrapped in cables and hang in bundles much like flies caught in a web, others sway silently like a condemned man hanging from the gallows. I know the bodies aren’t human, but they’re close enough that I can’t help but be unsettled. These are what they call the unfinished ones, only partially covered in flesh, not yet ready to leave the womb. Below them, in that deep pit, far beyond the extent of my vision; sleeps the womb machine from which all of these monstrosities have sprung.

I stare down into that abyss, and the world around me seems to grow still. Past the sound of my heart pounding in my ears I can hear the turning of massive gears, the pounding of pistons. I can almost see glimpses of the thing in between fiery showers of sparks, a brief flash of one of it’s many tentacle like appendages busily birthing more machines.

An automaton descends from the ceiling of the cave on a thin cable, the spider come to invite me into it’s parlor. It moves slowly, but purposefully, until its low enough for its lidless eyes to meet my down-turned gaze.

It speaks to me with what seems like great strain in a series of hurried gasps. “The Trader?” It asks. Here it attempts to smile, but it’s face is incomplete; skin hangs loosely from the sides of it’s mouth, exposing the metal underneath. “We have no need of you now.” It’s voice grows low, it’s cadence slows. “Leave.” Then it yells suddenly, tilts it’s head back and expands it’s chest as though it were inhaling deeply, much like an animal that’s caught the scent of prey. “Wait! You haven’t come empty handed?” It points to the sack at my feet.

“I’ve come again to trade.” I shout over the din of the machine writhing in the pit below. I see the automaton watching the sack, lowering himself to better inspect it. “It’s a body.” I tell it. “Fresh. I don’t have to tell you how rare that is.”

“How long has it been dead?” The automaton asks.

“It’s the body of a man I only came across yesterday.” I lie.

The automaton rubs it’s hands together like a greedy fly. Then it raises itself right next to me, close enough I almost retch from the scent of the decayed flesh draped over it’s face. The thing’s eyes glow red, and in the dark of that cave it’s a piercing glare; the fiery sword of an angel of vengeance. “What’s to stop us from taking what you’ve brought, and taking you as well? Why trade? Perhaps you should stay with us, here.”

“There's two more bodies, no older than this one.” Another lie. I hope I tell it convincingly. “Only I know where, and you know from experience that no amount of torture will make me talk. You let me go, with what I ask for, and once I’m sure I haven’t been followed I’ll bring the bodies to the edge of the steel mountain.”