Psychopomp

A weathered building of resuscitated ancient stone and mortar looms, the blue-lit rail their carriage follows leading toward broad timber gates. Stained glass windows etched with the symbol of a human skull wrapped by a serpent eating its own tail reflects the many lights of the surrounding district.

Booming, bellowing grumbles announce the opening of the gates. The swaying green torch flames and bands of orange gas lights inside the bay pale considerably to the illumination outside. Other carriages are docked along the sides, separated by hydraulic disembarking ramps. They rock and sway, even with the ramps clamping them from side to side.

In the cave-like dimness, the stoked embers of a pipe give away the Consul, seated upon an uncomfortable stone bench. His sullen face, sewn deep with wrinkles and puffy bags, glances at the entering carriage and he rises to his feet. An errant breeze sways his faded and chafed surcoat.

The carriage glides into an open bay. Metal prongs lock into its underside, a firm knock reverberating through its wood and metal skeleton. A hydraulic hiss opens the hatch and as it slides open, a crisp cold greets Ewain. Among its waves ride a mechanical orchestra, horns of trains and factories in the distance, subdued grinding of belts and gears in the myriad of mechanisms embedded throughout this building alone.

Ewain grimaces at this hectic scraping of his ears, “Art, tune down the extraneous ambience.”

Immediately the cacophony fades to a whisper, “Good?”

“Adequate,” Ewain replies as he pulls on his black bolero hat and exits the carriage.

The Consul stiffly approaches. His celestial eyes, truly lustrous amidst the dimness, connect with Ewain’s, “Psychopompos.”

“Consul,” Ewain nods in response, noticing the rubies on the tarnished silver buckle of the man’s belt.

“Good to see you,” the old man says with gruff relief. “Your eyes are dulled,” he notes, “Any problems I should be aware of?”

“None. Suppressant drops I took as the carriage passed over the Ashen Zones. You understand.”

“Yes. I see the glow still over the walls each night. How many drops?”

“One in each eye. Should wear off by the time we are ready for the trauma site. No cause for concern, Consul. Your sensory eval,” Ewain pointedly changes the subject, “however, concerns me greatly. Forty-eight. Tell me that is not the last one conducted.”

“Follow me,” his older counterpart says with a puff of his pipe and prompt turn and step.

They walk through a horn-framed archway whose polished slate door slides open with a hiss. The Consul puts out his pipe and stores it in his pocket. “Eval-48 is the most recent one.”

Tall, vaulted halls greet their entrance. Ashen stone panels cover the walls and between them run bands of ember-colored lights like molten metal of a blacksmith’s forge that bathe everything in a sunset glow.

“Then I still need to view it, for whatever value it may possess. Why have you done no further ones?” Ewain’s question comes aggressively.

Large canvases etched with immaculate paintings hang from every other panel.

“It has been ten years since I have had anything to do with a trauma site,” the old man grunts as he limps forward. “I knew whoever they sent would have questions. Rightly so.” He wheezes, “As you will experience shortly, 48 pushed my body to its threshold. If I had attempted Eval-60, I would not have gotten far.”

“The Consul’s condition is poor.” Art affirms. “This Mission’s health reports show deteriorating cardiological state, but it was sufficient given the ward’s…unique circumstance.”

“I thought it better to avoid risking another death to complicate the site. Disagree however you may.”

“How long have you harbored this doubt about your abilities? Is it a recent realization?”

So hard the old man tries to remain unfazed, but his hesitation to answer, the energy his body gives off betray him. “It is. I had no idea how much my body atrophied until the murder.” The Consul leads them into a large stone chamber, the entirety of its smoothened surface awash in orange light, save for the closely held green radiance of a crackling hearth. Toward the chamber’s back end sits a padded aluminum chair deep and broad enough to swallow a body whole. Numerous devices extend from the wall and along another side runs an ovular, domed Ashwood table.

“Perhaps you can elucidate how this ward has gone so long without murder.” Ewain follows behind and automatically heads toward the seat without prompt. “Twenty-nine years since the last killing here, I understand.”

“Categorically,” the old man approaches the table and pulls out a radiant yellow card. “I’ve attended more death here than I ever did as a Psychopomp.”

“And how long were you a Psychopomp?”

“Must you continue to antagonize?” Art’s words slither in his bones.

The Consul glares at his young counterpart, the orange panel lights glistening off both their irises. “Far longer than you’ve been one, I assure you.” He motions for Ewain to sit, and when he does, he pushes him back into the seat, “I was not an early retiree, some craven or oath-breaker exiled to an obscure ward.” He begins attaching various wires to Ewain’s torso and face with surprising gentleness. “Psychopomp augmentations and pharmas enable us to sustain and survive so much damage…. That also means we must live with it all when our bodies can no longer keep up.”

“If your body cannot endure consistent evals, Consul, then it is a problem that goes beyond yourself. Did the victim attempt communication with you from evals 0 to 48?”

The Consul inserts the card into Ewain’s right cranial slot, “Yes.” His tone told him he knew where this was going.

Ewain’s body tingles, yet his eyes refuse to break their contact with the old man’s, “Then she has been without any contact from then to now, any human connection to this plane. Girl was desperate, terrified in all your evals?”

“Each of the four times I went,” The Consul matches Ewain’s gaze with however much resolve he has, though it fails to conceal the sullenness bulging from his wrinkles.

“Did she think you would return?”

“I didn’t tell her otherwise.”

“Don’t say it,” Art counsels. “He already knows.”

Ewain bites his lip and turns to fully recline himself into the seat, “Let us see what you did do.”

“Forty-eight,” The Consul begins after some thought, still clutching to whatever sternness is left, “will hit you hard on the start.” He pauses with what Ewain guessed was embarrassment, “You’re going to feel like you’re suffocating…distressed…. It will take a moment for you to gather your wits. Be ready.”

Ewain nods.

Near total darkness creeps through the chamber, shrouding the lights until only residual radiance remains. All noise is suffocated and overcome by a hypnotic hum. A hum which woos the eyes shut and summons from the mind a state inaccessible when they are open. All thoughts are cast into a vacuum, all senses and consciousness stripped away to turn perception into a prism.

Sound is always the first sense to manifest, yet the hush of this dark bides its time, lulls him into an eerie calm. A stench bombards him like a charging aura. An odorous torrent of iron and soured vinegar simmered together over days whirls as incense, seeping into the pores and lapping onto the tongue. So pungent, so ripe is the odor it nauseates him at first, wrapping all thought in fuzziness.

Heaving, choking gasps wring his throat, swallowing air that thickly slides down like crystallized syrup. Panic burns and screams through the heart, and he gives in at first. Letting thoughts be but rudimentary particles blown away by terror. Sight fades in from the blackness, yet it yields scarce light, appearing in a gray hue that brightens shade just enough to see. Thought speaks through feeling, and now it demands urgency. Act, or die like a pitiful old man with no fight left.

The underside of a forearm tenses and quivers, track marks condensed just around the crease of his elbow. A syrette’s needle adds another mark as he pushes its amber content into his vein, the nerves around bursting with pain. He leans against the wall, heart so resounding it could shake the very building.

Patiently the air thins, inviting itself more pleasantly through the trachea into the lungs. Easily now it fuels words, “Forty-eight hours from time of death,” the Consul’s voice mutters, pushing himself off the sticky wall. “Four bolster shots are required for me to securely move about the site. Physiological effects are profound. Unassisted respiration is impossible. Unassisted cardiac stability is impossible.” He wipes his forehead, leaving his fingers dripping with sweat, “Extreme, erratic bodily reactions occurring immediately upon entrance.”

Silence rules here. Absolute, deafening silence.

Beads of viscous, scarlet mush perspire and accumulate upon the walls and not a thing else moves, “Tartaran growth beginning to manifest significantly beyond site.”

He trudges forward, through the narrow hall flanked by numerous doors, all closed. His hand moves to the handle of his revolver holstered upon the hip and stays fixed there.

Gas lights flash from their sconces, just enough to hamper night sight before retreating to darkness.

He stops. Not a move, not a sound.

Something scurries far ahead of him, nails or claws scratching against the wooden floor. A slamming door punctuates the noise.

Knock, knock, knock. It echoes from some floor above.

A handle rattles then stops immediately.

He stares at it, watches as it turns then loosens. Turns then loosens.

Once his sight adjusts and grayscale vision returns, he inches forward, staring holes into each door. Perspiration soaks his clothes and thunder clamors within his chest. Respiration comes and goes shakily.

Step by creaking step he ascends toward the third floor. The walls grow more and more organic, appearing the inside of a gangrenous body.

Lights flicker, thrusting his vision back to black.

Quiet as a crypt all stand, himself most of all.

Floorboards creak from below, stalking up with patient creaks.

He looks back, the walls and rails behind him groaning and bowing. Nothing more appears, yet a chill like sharp icicles nails into his bones, a deep burn tightens the flesh of his arm and fades as quick as it came.

Knock, knock, knock. Straight ahead it echoes. A door groans open…and groans shut.

Again…again…see your end. An insidious voice cackles, coarse and shrill.

See. See. It beckons.

He draws his weapon, compels himself forward with cautious steps that roll from heel to toe.

Trembling breaths soon materialize in frigid mist, crystallizing into droplets against the flesh all around. Unit 313 comes before him, and he freezes.

A sharp thud emanates from the room…the erratic quaking of wood. Something pounds the floor, a shrill shriek grates along.

Sluggishly, as if even cutting through the air too quick might make a sound, he grabs the door handle. Its freezing cold metal sticks to his clammy hands. Little by little he twists, cracking the door just enough to push its edge from the seeping doorframe.

Through the widening crack, not a thing can be seen. Lights that before came through the glass doors at the end of the room are denied now by a viscous pus smeared all over. When he pushes the door open, its hinges groan down the halls.

His feet sink into the moist carpet whose wet suction clings to his boots. Fermenting decay saturates the air to near strangulation, and he can taste it through his nose, like a stew of rotten milk and meat.

The springs of the bed huff and huff in sporadic tempo beyond the corner of the foyer. Some beats are hard, straining the springs and grinding the floor, others more timid and elicit mere whimpers from the coils.

Shushed sobs follow. -o mor-…-eal. N-…dea-….

Again…Again… See…you can see.

Revolver at the ready, hammer cocked, he rounds the corner. A bulbous, fleshy mass consumes the victim’s abdomen. Its bloody, mucous-covered tendrils root deep into the floor and weave throughout the room, connecting to sacs as large as his chest on the wall.

Her arms flail and ghastly white face swings back and forth, as if fighting an invisible intruder. No -eal….Plea-…I -old hi- no deal…. She screams.

Uneven layers of bleeding pulpy flesh coat the walls, piling up against the membranous sacs.

Waves ripple across the disheveled, bloodstained bedsheets, undulating with every rough bounce and sway of the mattress. Suddenly they rip and swirl with panic…curt and desperate strokes yank the sheets in every imaginable direction before a final thrust toward the foot of the bed.

Mercy! MER-!

A gargled voice so insidious it pricks the spine chants in bone-chilling utterances.

Irat Ve Namtu Septa. Irat Ve Namtu Septa. Every syllable is harsh, guttural.

KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.

He whips his head and gun back to the door.

Again…. Again…. See…. See…. This is your end…. End…. End….

The door glides open, the faintest silhouette stands outside.

He steps back toward the smeared glass doors, away from the dresser when the silhouette casually waltzes in. Around the room it looks, and Norma’s face tightens in frightened quiet. The deeper into the room it comes, the more the silhouette fades until blending into air.

Suddenly Norma screams and chokes, her wan face animating with petrified vigor. The dresser thumps against the wall. Once, twice, its drawers rock in their frames before a heavy thud drops onto the floor. The glass coffee table twitches in exact symphony with the thud, bringing his eyes to the crusting scarlet coat upon its edge.

He shakes his head in disgust…and an exasperated sadness aches within. All the death he’s seen, yet it has truly been a while since he found one so destructive.

Blackened blood is spattered across the floor, streaked across the rug. Folds form in it like an accordion toward the bed, heavy and kicking footsteps.

NO DEAL! NO MORE DEAL! She screams with emaciated vocal cords, sucking the air out of his own lungs.

See….

The bed sinks in the middle at its foot and waves once again ripple across.

Her arms drop dead, motionless now, but her face contorts and twists with her wails.

Irat Ve Namtu Septa.

Irat Ve Namtu Septa.

No more…I said…. Sudden silence. Her face straightens. Is someone there? Please…please…please…

He remains still at first, unsure what to do, what to say.

She cries…

He steps forward, just enough to enter view.

And she gasps, her dead eyes like blood marbles cling to him…help me….I-I-I don’t understand what is happening…her words crack through sobs…h-h-help me…Gods, please…

“Soon…” What the hell do I say…. “You will be saved soon….”

When? Will I see you again? Soon?

“Yes.”

Quick now he exits, clasping at his chest. Outside the air is so thin and fresh it is difficult to inhale, a fork through water. He swallows and swallows, only to keel over and vomit it all back up.