Filaria Read online

  FILARIA

  a novel by brent hayward

  ChiZine Publications

  FIRST EDITION

  Filaria © 2008 by Brent Hayward

  Jacket illustration © 2008 by Erik Mohr

  All Rights Reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  CIP data available upon request

  CHIZINE PUBLICATIONS

  Toronto, Canada

  www.chizinepub.com

  [email protected]

  Edited by Brett Alexander Savory

  Copy edited and proofread by Sandra Kasturi

  Converted to mobi and epub by Christine http://finding-free-ebooks.blogspot.com/

  For my family growing up, and for my family now.

  Thanks to Bob Boyczuk and Peter Watts for their help with the manuscript. Special thanks to Brett Alexander Savory for his editing prowess. Produced with the support of the city of Toronto through the Toronto Arts Council.

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgemetns

  Epigraph

  1. THE ENGINEER

  PHISTER, L32

  DEIDRE, L2

  MEREZIAH, L23-24

  TRAN 50, L20

  2. SOLDIERS

  PHISTER, L31

  DEIDRE, L1

  MEREZIAH, L17-18

  TRAN 50, L12

  3. LOVERS

  PHISTER, L19

  DEIDRE, L1A (SUPERSTRUCTURE)

  MEREZIAH, L8-9

  TRAN 50, L14

  4. THE ANCESTORS

  PHISTER, L15

  DEIDRE, BEYOND

  MEREZIAH, l1

  TRAN 50, L32

  About the Author

  Babar finally dropped off to sleep, but his sleep was restless and soon he dreamed: He heard a knocking on his door. Tap! Tap! Then a voice said: “It is I, Misfortune, with some of my companions, come to pay you a visit.”

  — Jean de Brunhoff, Babar the King

  “What,” she’ll say, “no little bones in your mouth? And you have the impertinence to love me? Get out, you wretch, and here’s a kick to help you on your way!”

  — Albert Cohen, Belles du Seigneur

  1. THE ENGINEER

  PHISTER, L32

  Shotgun, eagle-eyed, Young Phister spotted the power outlet, just ahead, mounted on the wall nearest him. Yet travelling this strange, vaulted hallway with McCreedy, he did not immediately recognize the outlet as such and said nothing as the car trundled toward it, nor as the car passed it, but when he could no longer deny what he was now looking back at, he managed to whistle low and point a long finger over his shoulder; hunched at the wheel, McCreedy could not (or would not) see the receding outlet, even with Phister gesticulating and saying in hushed tones, “There. Right there. Look! McCreedy, I swear.”

  The type of hall might have been almost familiar but neither man had been down this particular stretch before, despite McCreedy’s assurances over the past few hours that now he knew where they were. Possibly, Phister thought, no man had traversed these halls since genesis. Power outlets were located near old service centres, or sometimes directly under those smooth, glassy portions of the ceiling, forever matte and dark, like trapped rectangles of night. Outside doorways, too, especially ones marked with yellow and black stripes. Always on the driver’s side. Located in odd places here? Did that have special meaning, offer clues? Any portent?

  Sleeping in the car had been cold and uncomfortable. No food, and water dwindling. Dearth of canteens — full scale or standalone — had been the first sign things would be different.

  They’d started out once more when daylights came on. McCreedy had told him all morning they were headed home while Phister grew increasingly sure they were getting more hopelessly lost. Though Phister had no sense of direction. He admitted that. Hallways opened where previously there had been none. Rooms vanished overnight. Walls materialized as he turned his back, shifting positions in the periphery.

  Now, seeing the outlet here, on the passenger’s side, in an open stretch of this oddly vaulted hallway, in which no one might ever have set foot, thoughts of chaos and insecurities back home — and in his own mind — managed to bring little comfort.

  “McCreedy, I’m telling you, stop if you want to fill this thing.”

  Between stained dark lips, opening slowly — for they were sealed with gummy saliva — McCreedy’s wet voice, at last, assenting: “You’re the eyes. I don’t see fuck all but what do I know? Shut you up, we’ll stop.”

  So they stopped.

  Reversing, a long, smooth arc, brought the wall on Phister’s side closer. Rubber tires crunched lightly over dusty flags.

  “There,” Phister said, pointing again. “See?”

  Square, black, showing signs of polish through the grey clinging growth and marked down one side with copper script: clearly an outlet. Overgrown, unused for centuries, perhaps, or never, but for all appearances the same as others mounted in more familiar locations, back home.

  The car was near exhausted. It had another hour or two left, at most. Phister suspected that old man McCreedy would have kept on driving until the vehicle ran out of juice, then got out and walked, then crawled, claiming until they both collapsed dead that he knew all the while where they were headed, home was just up ahead.

  “We’ll reach a junction soon,” he said, as the car idled. “I remember. I was here as a kid. We take a left and come out at an air skirt, down a back hall for a few klicks and emerge in the secondary pipe room. Then home.” Gesturing with a slow sweep of his hand, meant to reassure, but Phister imagined the two of them lost forever. He pictured his own grisly corpse.

  In the tiled gutter on the other side of the hall a small creature scurried. Young Phister kept his keen eyes peeled. Some of the older folks said that, like Reena. Keep them eagle eyes peeled, she’d say. You was born with good peepers. He wished Reena were here with them now. She would know what to do.

  McCreedy motioned with his chin but Young Phister was already climbing down to unravel the plug from its stand. Winding the cord around his forearm and fumbling with the plughead against the cool power plate, he felt like a child again, helpless against lurking monsters, waiting in shadows to slash out and take him down, bloody, at the knees. He looked both ways before starting to scrape lichen and the deposits of time from the contacts with a gnawed thumbnail. How far did the world extend anyhow? Hallways and more of these deserted hallways, changing subtly, going on forever?

  A mist of sorts lingered over the flags and a dank smell tainted the air, one he had not perceived seated in the car. Light was a little more yellow than he had grown up under, a flickering, sickly glow. Perhaps conduits had broken in the vicinity, long ago. Humidity was cloying and had damaged the ceiling.

  “. . . charging . . .”

  The car’s whisper startled Phister. The outlet was live, at least. Contact had been made between the plug and the plate. Not many outlets enabled the car to talk —

  Phister looked up. He thought he had heard something else, aside from the vehicle’s weak voice. Something out there. He took a deep breath.

  He tried to stop conjuring threats to his life but as a kid those monsters had filled his cold-sweat dreams. Now, as a man of sixteen, they were hard to shake.

  He saw no source of the sound.

  He did not hear it again.

  The car, meanwhile, had reached sufficient power to address them: “Sirs,” it began, as it always did, when it had these opportunities, “my need of a tune-up and overhaul is dire. I implore you to seek the nearest member of MMG. You are — if
I may be so bold — grossly abusing a vehicle belonging to the Department of Public Works.

  “Are you ill-trained staff? Rogue guests? My i.d. reader seems to have been disabled. Renegades? Or perhaps there’s a problem with your comprehension? Complaints have been logged with my supervisor. I assure you, as soon as network links are restored, you will hear about this. If you are staff, your departmental budget will be charged. You will be suspended, pending a hearing. And if you turn out to be guests, you’ll be apprehended, incarcerated, and quite possibly evicted . . .

  “Do your parents know where you are?”

  With a ghost of a grin Young Phister glanced at McCreedy, but the taciturn expression on the older man’s face — staring forward, jaw thrust from under his mouldy cap — made Phister doubt whether the driver had even heard the car’s rant. Beyond ironic, he thought, to end up like this, with a miserable old man I’ve never liked, hopelessly lost in hostile halls, driving to our mutual demise.

  Nausea flickered in the abyss of Phister’s empty stomach, while, on the dashboard, the little battery icon, half-full, flashed steadily.

  The car, having said its piece, waited.

  McCreedy took some dried moss from an inside pocket of his vest, pushed it into his maw, and chewed. He offered none to Young Phister. The driver was an addict. A damn addict. Phister liked the stuff, sure, but he didn’t have a problem like McCreedy’s: he could stop any time. He watched McCreedy’s mouth moving, watched the old man squint and nod to himself, and mumble. All Phister wanted to hear now was the old man admitting, before they both died, that he, McCreedy, had no clue where they were and never had.

  “Mad old car,” Phister said quietly, after a moment. “Filing your unheard complaints.” He patted the scarred quarter panel. “And there is a problem with our understanding. You’re right. We don’t understand half the stuff you talk about.” Trying to smile now, and looking at McCreedy again, but of course he got no reaction, so he flushed, fell silent, cursing himself for trying once more to break the barrier between him and the driver. The insane car would be better company. Phister wanted to apologize to the vehicle but would never hear the end of it if he did. He touched it once more.

  “You know,” the car said, “I nonetheless feel an obligation. To fulfill my duties. Whoever you are. You asked about the weather outside? Well, let’s see. Today, the weather outside is. The weather. Today? Outside? The weather?”

  There was a quick burst of static from under the hood. Phister yanked his hand back and McCreedy’s laugh was cruel. With a motion of his head the old man spat, dark fluid spattering the flags and strands of moss sap running down the stubble of his chin. Wiping these away with the back of one hand, McCreedy stared into the haze ahead. “You hear that garble? Sure shut the fucker up. Weather outside always do that.” His voice was dry, his eyes glassy with moss.

  The car, indeed, remained quiet.

  The hallway, too. Deathly quiet.

  Phister tugged at the plughead, breaking contact. He stowed the plug quickly and regained his seat.

  “Always wants to tell you about the weather,” McCreedy said, leering horribly as he put the car into gear. “Wants to talk about outside this and outside that and the fucking weather and it never can.” He laughed that unpleasant laugh again.

  Screw you, Phister thought, holding onto the brass handrail with both hands as the car, fully charged now, picked up speed. Screw you. Mists, like cobwebs, whipped through what few strands of hair Phister had on his head. Moisture cooled his exposed skin. They passed a puddle reflecting light up at the poorly illuminated ceiling — a silver scale — and then it was gone.

  These hallways did go on and on and on.

  Despite his better judgment, Phister soon said, “McCreedy?”

  No response.

  “What do you think it means, anyhow? The car, when it says that. This old machine?”

  Still nothing.

  “About the weather. About outside. About staff, and guests and parents.”

  “How the fuck should I know.” McCreedy flicked across a quick glance, glazed eyes narrow. He shrugged. “Things it remembers. Things it thinks we give a shit about. But I don’t really have a clue and I don’t really care. So shut up and let me drive, all right? There’s a canteen coming up. You’ll see. We’ll eat there and be home by nightfall.”

  “Yeah. Home . . .” It occurred to Phister that he and McCreedy could, with the car now charged, continue driving for another three days. Farther away. Farther away from home. What would the halls be like then? The same? Changed in even more subtle ways? Without water, he and McCreedy would be dead anyway. They neared that final cul-de-sac. Should have kept mum about spotting the outlet in the first place, he thought, and we’d be out of juice soon, maybe talking about turning around, or walking back in the opposite direction. Better yet, maybe we would have split up.

  “McCreedy, I was just asking. I was thinking.”

  “Well don’t.” McCreedy shifted gear and the motor hummed. “They tell me you’re the lookout, the eyeballs. So look out. Eyeball. That’s why you’re here. I do the thinking.”

  Young Phister leaned back. He closed his eagle eyes. He felt sick. Sicker than usual. More than just hunger and general malaise — those he was accustomed to. This amplified degree of unpleasant sensations had begun with the onset of the present predicament, three nights prior, a lifetime ago:

  Milling around the entrance to the moss room, dazed people stood listless in the dark there, while inside the room itself, Young Phister — among others — got quietly wasted.

  A night like any other.

  But at some point in the hazy chronology — the point when the night became unlike other nights — Crystal Max and her boyfriend, Simpson Lang, started to fight. Reclining together on a dark green hillock near the corner of the room, the couple had been chatting, chewing — like everyone else — when their voices suddenly rose. Simpson had said something that caused Crystal to scream: I’m so tired of your suspicion!

  And Simpson: You don’t understand anything I say!

  Stoned, huddled by himself on his own mound, Phister heard the tirade of venomous spite that quickly followed, each lash of words cutting deeper than the previous. He listened, his back to the pair before turning openly, to stare, as the argument escalated, becoming louder, more animated, until it flayed every personal aspect from Crystal and Simpson, everything that made them human, until there was nothing left of either to tear down, only an ugly, empty beast that coiled the two spent bodies and rose up, twining, to the ceiling. The nasty tones and tense postures had fractured the night, sliding it into an unwelcome place, aggressive and tumultuous.

  Phister’s buzz was totally wrecked.

  Holding onto Simpson’s sleeve, Crystal shrieked hysterically, tearing at him, and Simpson tried to pull away from her, one hand held up —

  In his petrified state, Phister was unsure if he should interfere. Perhaps go fetch someone more decisive than he? He told himself he would wait to see if Crystal started in with her fingernails: she’d been known to. Then he would go for help. Or hold her back himself.

  All around, paired or in small clusters, the others in the moss room chewed, dozed, talked. Somebody sang. No one else seemed to notice the fight. Phister could not understand this. For him, time was charged, poised.

  Just as he assured himself that he was finally about to try getting to his feet, to do something — anything — Simpson Lang broke free, stumbling backwards, his shirt torn. There was blood on his face. He stood livid for a second.

  Then time resumed with a crash, and Crystal’s shouting; Simpson turned and stomped away, across the crests of moss as a wave of relief broke over Phister. No action had been required of him. He could tell himself he would have acted, if the fight had continued.

  Crystal stood very still. Quiet now, watching Simpson recede. Only when the gloom had swallowed him altogether did she sit down, hard, crumpling to the green hump and holding her face
between cupped fingers. She shook.

  Recalling Crystal’s misery, Young Phister wished, for an instant, that he could be someone else, or that someone else might move into his skin and take control of him. Get things done for once.

  He caught his breath. And let it out again.

  The car rumbled on.

  Phister harboured sentiments for the girl. Undisputable. These lurched up in him from time to time, veering perilously close to what he suspected might actually be love. Yes, to see her cry was painful, rending his insides, but to watch her laugh, Simpson Lang at her side? Tenfold worse.

  When Phister was even younger, fourteen or so — before he had been called Young Phister — he and Crystal had nurtured a relationship. Of sorts. Seeds of one, anyhow. He was sure of it, with the hindsight that two years had given him. He had certainly liked her — though they were only kids — but he had hung around her too much, she’d said. At that age, he had little of interest to say. She had told him he was getting pesky. Too small, besides. Too young. She liked men, not boys.

  Crystal Max was a full year older than him. A head taller. At seventeen — spotty and pale, toothless and bald — she was the most beautiful girl Phister had ever known. He’d actually kissed her once, but their faces inappropriately canted: their noses met, squashed, and he’d had to break away for air.

  He never got a second chance.

  Should he have tried harder to keep the relationship alive? Maybe things she’d said to him were meant to be tests, to see if he would pursue. He reasoned this now, as he often had, as he watched Crystal grow older, as he sprouted and then promptly lost a hair or two on his chin, as he gave up trying to decipher her, and surrendered his cherry to another girl, Simone, very sweet and nice and tiny and who had since succumbed to the Red Plague. He thought about the lost relationships, and he thought about the inordinate amounts of time he’d spent thinking about them, trying to come to terms with the fact that he might never find anyone to spend his days with. Not that there were any days left to worry about now. His shot with Crystal, if it had ever existed, was certainly long gone, diminishing into the past just like his hopes of reaching home were diminishing right now. How many countless nights had he dreamt of Crystal: the smell of her skin; the grime on her hands; the sneer of dismissal that set her beautiful lips thinner when he tried to be funny?