Filaria - Brent Hayward [31]
“Phister, I tell you, boy, that theory is utter gibberish. I’m offering help. Of mutual benefit. Why would I need a vehicle?”
Yet Philip was actually climbing onto the car again, giving McCreedy clearance as he did so, though the old man only turned his head to watch. Holding onto his ribs, a little worse for wear, Philip settled as best as he could behind Phister. “Look, if you keep driving straight ahead for about a day you’ll be over the area of the basement where you’re from. I know where it is. I’m pretty sure. You’re from Public Works. I’d heard rumours about a backward tribe living there, in some remote dead end. Your ancestors were caretakers. Garbage men. Sewer workers. I’ll get you home, if that’s what you want. And you can rest assured I’ll warn you in advance if there’s going to be a change in the scenery that might incite a seizure in our friend here.”
McCreedy shook his head wearily. “More and more bullshit. Watch him, boy. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. But I’m gonna stop trying to save your ass now. Me and you never liked each other but don’t ever say I never tried to warn you.”
“Sure,” Phister said. He had actually begun to feel sorry for McCreedy. Pangs of guilt stabbed at him like stiff fingers. And he had never known that McCreedy didn’t like him. Not formally. Not in words.
The car rolled forward, moving into the massive space that Philip called the warehouse. Either side, stacks of crates gave the illusion of walls, yet when Phister looked at them he saw gaps between the stacks where more and more boxes and dusty crates were visible. Rows upon rows upon rows. Cobwebs and hanks of dust hung from these containers like streamers at a deserted party. So Phister asked what might possibly be the contents of all these boxes.
“Supplies,” Philip answered. “What else would be in a warehouse? Components. Nuts and bolts. Panelling and stones. Spare parts. Raw biomass. That sort of thing.” Seeing the blank look on Young Phister’s face, he said, in patronizing tones, “Look, when the initial engineering aspects of the world were completed — before the staff was hired, trained, put into place, or built, as the case may be — the engineer himself had this level packed to the rafters with supplies. I’ve heard say there’s enough material here to rebuild all the machines once over from scratch and re-grow all the organics.”
Some crates they passed had been broken into; foam-like substances spilled forth, exposing shadowed contents.
McCreedy said, “Which way now, lovebirds?”
The car had reached a junction between towering piles, where an intersection of aisles forming a clearing.
Philip pointed.
Chancing a glance behind the car, as they continued on, looking down an avenue not taken, Phister spied something small and smooth and silver duck quickly out of sight. His heart skipped a beat. Saying nothing, he watched closely where the thing had been but did not see any other movements. The aisle vanished. Were they driving into a trap? Were Philip’s strange little minions following the car, getting ready for an ambush? He squinted over at the man, trying to read him. As if for clues, he scrutinized Philip’s long hair, recalled a vision of those strange, square teeth. His palms tingled.
“Any food in these boxes?” McCreedy asked. “Any fucking canteens in this place?”
Staring ahead, Philip ignored the questions.
Over the next few moments, Phister tried to control his imagination: it was soaring. He scanned up and down the cliffs of crates and containers, peered into narrow aisles.
An ancient, alien landscape: shadowy, inert, mysterious.
And vast.
“When we, uh, when we first met,” Phister said nervously, to fill the silence, and though his voice broke and his words were whispered, they still seemed to echo and boom in