Filaria - Brent Hayward [27]
Tran so gingerly shook his head to clear it — unsuccessfully — and did not respond.
“Visitor? Have you come to help me? Are you a man in uniform? Are you staff? Are you guest? By that, I mean, do you represent the engineer?”
Hugging himself, Tran so tried to stand. “My name,” he said, grating out his words, “is Tran so Phengh. I am here on my wife’s behalf.” His teeth chattered. “She has the Red Plague and soon will be dead. Your remedy is not helping her.”
“You did not come here to repair the damage done to me? I have been plundered, man. Pilfered.”
“Are you the lake god?”
The reply might have been a chuckle. “It seems we are both disappointed. I am no god, and you claim to be something other than a maintenance worker. My title, Tran so Phengh, is supervisor of the seventh reservoir. I’ve been waiting many years to return to full service.”
Tran so did not understand this. He said, “A crab told me that gods didn’t know how to fix people. Is that true?”
Again, laughter, though it was not mean. “For some reason, guest, I feel very proud about my crabs being able to talk. You might not be able to comprehend the challenge, with regards to the creature’s tiny neural mass . . . I’ve been bored here over the years. Lonely. That’s another story. I can’t help you, human. I can’t. I wish I could but I function minimally now. The network is down — ”
In Tran so’s peripheral vision there was motion, aggressive and quick. A moment later, when a powerful knee pressed into his back and something cold and solid jammed flat against his temple, he realized he should have asked the voice who or what had been doing the plundering, or if he was in any danger. Clearly, it was too late for conjecture and regret; two giant gods, in blue, twice his size, had easily subdued him before he had even a chance to think.
His cheek was crushed painfully against the floor. His arms were bound behind his back. Recalling the glimpse he’d seen of the smooth, dark faces, eyes glowing angrily within them, Tran so Phengh was entirely certain that he would never see Minnie sue or his home in Hoffmann City again, and that his questions would go forever unanswered.
2. SOLDIERS
PHISTER, L31
With surprising speed — belying all appearances, for he had begun to look quite ill and immobile — McCreedy twisted in the driver’s seat, gloved fist darting off from the wheel to snatch at Philip — who stood, in the rear of the car, arms open wide and face upturned, oblivious to any dismay he might have caused. Old crooked fingers roughly caught the dandy by the lapels of his dirty jacket before he could begin whatever soliloquy he had been about to start, yanking him forward, to crash, aghast, face to face with a terrible, red-faced rage.
“Where the fuck are we?” McCreedy screamed, dark moss spittle spraying from his lips. “What was that fucking thing?”
On the passenger’s side, awed, eagle eyes wide, Young Phister had been pondering the exact same two questions.
“Unhand me!” Philip flailed. “Barbarian!” In vain, he tried to pull free, shoving against McCreedy’s face with an open palm. “I fed you bread! I tried to help you! Lunatic!”
Jostled in his seat by the scuffle, Phister swayed. How he wanted to lose himself in this open vista, suck it in, as if it were purest oxygen, though if truth be told, the place they had come to smelled musty and dry.
He did not interfere in the fight.
He tried wishing the other two men away.
The feeling was as if his mind had been once composed of tiny chambers and narrow halls, like his world, and was now expanding rapidly, bursting free of crumbling confines, expanding outward at increasing velocity.
A moment ago, upon rolling out of what Philip had cavalierly called ‘the lift’ — and McCreedy had just referred to as ‘that fucking thing’ — Young Phister’s jaw had dropped.
“Unhand me!”
McCreedy roared.
Pushing and shaking at each other, the grappling men attempted to gain advantage without much effectiveness. Thuds of various body parts off the car, off each other. A knee bone jammed against Phister’s ribs