The New Weird - Ann VanderMeer [177]
The terrorist came abreast of a large humming factory of pleasant aspect, set behind an iron fence: an immaculate, sprawling, sand-colored building of some three stories, its open windows affording fine ventilation to its workers, the whole complex, including a plashing fountain, shaded by tall pipal trees.
After a second, the terrorist recognized the sound of scores of sewing machines, powered no doubt by a stomach in the basement. His trained eye soon discovered the fart-pipe venting that stomach's exhaust, as well as a chute for biomass deliveries. It was well to pay attention to the details of the enemy's infrastructure.
A plaque on the factory read:
VALVAY’S GARIAL HIDES
FINEST QUALITY
12000 POONMA WAY
In one window on an upper floor, just a few yards from the street, a self-important-looking man could be seen sitting at a desk, shuffling papers and string-bound folders. A beautiful woman entered the office and addressed the man, and he replied. But their words were lost amidst the factory hum.
Possibly, thought the terrorist, that man was the proud owner Valvay himself, one of the class of commercial exploiters who had so oppressed Dardarbji. What would it be like, to command flocks of people ― including such a splendid woman?
As the terrorist passed the building, a piercing whistle blew. Workers, mostly other young women, began to pour out the doors. End of shift already! The afternoon was well advanced. The terrorist could feel his hours of hypothetical leisure slipping away. He determined to forget about seeking directions to his rendezvous until tomorrow, and concentrate on finding lodgings, a bath and food.
But now a few hundred yards further on, Poonma Way was all industry, with no signs of what he needed. Reluctant to backtrack ― he was constitutionally averse to ever overturning his own decisions or retreating, a trait which had worked in his favor during the tough competition to carry out this mission ― the terrorist instead looked for a cross-street that would bring him to livelier commercial precincts.
Ahead, a dim alley loomed between big windowless warehouses. The terrorist hesitated at its mouth. Light and almost abstract colorful motion at its distant far end betokened another avenue. No other obvious route toward what he sought offered itself.
He ventured down the dimly lit narrow passage.
A heap of noisome rubbish halfway down the alley urged the terrorist over toward the far wall.
As he sought to navigate past the midden, three four-legged shadows arose from the pile.
The terrorist's heart skipped ―
But they were just dogs ― middling yellow-furred mutts. Wild dogs, yes, but surely no real threat ―
And then he saw the salps.
Clinging to the fur of each dog at the base of its upper neck was a gelatinous translucent blob, inside of which an embryonic entity could be vaguely seen. The terrorist had been warned in his briefings of such amphibian threats, to be encountered in some of the city's canals less well tended by cleaning squads.
Its nervous system intertwined with that of the dogs, the parasitic salps were the true predators, sentient and merciless.
The lead dog growled puppet words: "Man, lie down and feed us."
"No!"
The terrorist lashed out with an expert kick, but the salp-driven dogs were even wilier than their feral natures normally allowed. They ringed him just out of reach, then began to close in.
The terrorist leaped high over one dog, landed, stumbled, and felt teeth graze his calf. Then he was up and running, back the way he had come.
He almost made it to the alley