Filaria - Brent Hayward [20]
The passenger’s fingers described delicate motions on the steamed window.
“It’s a terrible disease. Horrible,” Mereziah whispered. “My father’s and my mother’s insides turned slowly to liquid and drained right out of them. They coughed up blood for months. They shat out blood, if you’ll excuse me saying so. In the end they shat out little bits and pieces of themselves. And, shortly before they died, chunks. They shat their guts out. During it all, as they went crazy and their minds fell apart, they said the most awful things to each other, and to me, and to my little brother. They accused us, well, let’s say that if someone you’re close to contracts this ailment, it’s a blessed relief when they draw their last breath and finally plummet down, out of sight.”
Mereziah had not mentioned his parent’s death in decades, not to anybody, not even Merezath, and as these words left his constricted throat he felt a sense of unburdening building inside him, as if he might actually be able to float away from the wall and rise up, possibly even to the top of the world. In shaky tones, he continued, expecting rapture now, epiphanies, redemption.
“My, my brother and I were too young to be left alone, but we knew the meaning of duty — we had been well trained, if nothing else — and even though traffic has never been heavy here at our station, we attended every pod that ever stopped. And we sent them on their way. Most of them. Some we had to refuse and send back up, or down, as the case may be: underage passengers without a parent, or those who appeared infirm or unable to make a lucid choice of their own — ”
Mereziah broke off; this passenger’s mental state was obviously similar to the ones he had begun to describe and he did not want to upset the man inside the pod, should he — by some means unapparent as of yet — understand what Mereziah was saying and consequently become belligerent or otherwise hard to deal with.
“We were children,” Mereziah said, removing his torque wrench from his belt and getting a good grip on the pliant handle. “Children. We knew the meaning of responsibility, of duty, and we quickly learned the meaning of loneliness. But there were times — ”
He reached behind the pod and fumbled with the wrench until he heard the head mate wetly with the reversal nut. “There were times, it’s true, when Merezath and I turned to each other for comfort. Boys will be boys, after all. Now he’s a crusty old bastard and I despise him.”
From the netting below, as if Merezath had heard his name, rose an ululating wail; inside the lift, the mad passenger quickly pulled his hand back. When Mereziah surveyed below, he could not see his brother. He waited, holding his breath, one hand in the netting and the other on his wrench. There was no second shout but soon he did hear another noise, a quiet noise. From within the pod. Looking through the window once more, he saw the passenger’s lips move. The man repeated something, barely audible, his expression belying urgency. The words Mereziah made out when he put his ear close to the speaker were, the engineer, the engineer . . .
Mereziah torqued the wrench. He did not unfasten his safety belt from the lower rings of the pod, though they struggled feebly and tried to convince him to do so. He held his cable in place until both rings surrendered. Coming free, the reversal nut made a squelching sound and the entire pod quivered, rumbling.
Oddly, it came as some surprise to Mereziah when he fully understood what it was he intended to do: break the sacrament of the attendant, the first fundamental rule.
The lift began to ascend.
Below, Merezath called out again. Perhaps he assumed that Mereziah had fallen to the bottom of the shaft. Was there a slight chance he was looking up, watching the red glow of ascension as the pod cast its broadening