Chapter 1 - Smoke Sigils (redux)

"The mark of your ignorance is the depth of your belief in injustice and tragedy. What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls the butterfly."
- Richard Bach

      Outside the city slept.

      Gang walked across the room, naked and drenched in sweat, leaving wet footprints on the dusty floor. Two bare bulbs dangled from the ceiling on frayed wires, hanging from crooked nails pounded into the rafters. Every window was closed, the seams and gaps sealed with gray tape several layers thick, as was the door. The air in the room was stale and still. The day had been hot and the day’s heat now remained, though Gang seemed not to notice. His heart did not race. His hands did not tremble. His breath remained steady and slow even in the stifling air. Drops of sweat beaded and fell from every inch of his slender frame, leaving a trail of perspiration behind him as he busied himself with his final preparations.

     Carefully, he made one final adjustment and surveyed his work: a seemingly random array of some two dozen electric fans, ranging in size from the tiny, desk sized variety to larger, commercial models, no two alike. They sat on the floor or on tables or hung from ropes and chains, pointed up and down and every angle and direction in between. The largest of them hung from the ceiling, a monstrosity cobbled together from an industrial motor of unknown origin and five lengths of ply wood as long as a man. Electrical cords covered the floor in snaking, multicolored lines that wound their way through metal boxes, each filled with an engineer's nightmare of exposed components, before terminating at a large, Frankensteinesque, toggle switch bolted to the floor.

     Gang nodded at the scene and made his way to the center of the room, careful not to so much as brush against anything along the way, and seated himself on the floor in the middle of a large, chalk circle. Before a him was a small bowl of dull metal with a pile of black, paper strips in it and a single wooden match lying on the floor next to it. Next to him sat the switch. Gang crossed his legs, took a deep breath, held it, and waited. Around him the air, briefly stirred by his passing, settled back to stillness. Slowly he reached over and eased the switch into it's “ON” position. Sparks erupted around the room and the stench of ozone tickled Gang's nose. A dirty plastic fan atop a slightly bent pole began to turn, followed by beige box fan, it's dial set to “LOW”, followed by a bright red desk model that creaked faintly as it's aging motor cycled. One by one each fan came to life, filling the air with motion, until a hundred conflicting air currents whipped and curled around Gang's seated form, the motors droning a white noise chorus in his ears. Goose flesh covered him and he fought back the urge to tremble. Finally the huge ceiling fan began to crank around, slowly at first, gaining speed with each pass. As it achieved full velocity Gang sensed a change in the flow of the air as the currents around him died away. He picked up the match, struck it against the side of the bowl, and smiled at the steady, unwavering flame, before dropping it into the bowl. The paper flashed and burned quickly to ash, releasing a ribbon of black smoke that drifted slowly upward and slipped into a current of rushing air. The tendril followed the current around the room, looping and turning, leaving one current and entering another, fed by an endless drift of smoke from the bowl. Black lines crisscrossed the room, joining and splitting, growing increasingly intricate, until the room was filled with a mass of smoke-drawn swirls. As Gang watched the ever shifting patterns in the smoke he felt his focus begin to waver, his thoughts becoming hazy like the smoke around him, and he clamped his eyes shut with a shudder.

 

      Mustn't watch, he thought, not for me to see. Not yet.

      Gang reached into the bowl, collected a handful of the black ash, and smeared it across his bare chest. With his eyes closed, he placed his finger against his chest and began tracing symbols in the mixture of sweat and ash. His muscles began to twitch and writhe beneath his skin. His back arched and the tendons in his neck drew taut as his head flew back. His lips peeled into a terrifying rictus and split, spilling trickles of blood down his cheeks and across his teeth.

     Slowly another sound crept in under the hum of motors and the rushing air, growing louder until it challenged the din of the fans and then overtook it; a terrible, ceaseless moan that seemed to come from everywhere at once.

     Gang sensed something approaching.

     All around him the fans began to whine as their motors revved beyond capacity. Sparks and smoke belched from within their housing. The humming chorus rose to an ear splitting scream of grinding metal. In the air the pattern began to falter and warp as the current fell out of balance. Finally the lights flashed blindingly and exploded, showering Gang with sparks and glass, as the whine of the fans slowly died.

     
     The air stilled.

     The smoke dissipated.

     Out in the street the lights died and the city plunged into darkness.

     Gang fell back on the floor, panting heavily, and waited.

     In the silent darkness of his room something moved, heavy and wet. Gang remained still. He listened to the sound as it drew closer, inching along side of him, causing another violent shiver to roll through his body. Slowly something damp and slippery slid across his chest and neck. It flowed up his chin and across his mouth, pausing for a moment on his bloodied lips, and covered his face. The smell of it crept into his nostrils, thick and cloying. Images filled his mind, sense memory visions that were not his own. Great, pillared cities buried deep in the earth, where nameless. shapeless things dreamt terrible dreams, and black winds howled through endless caverns forever. His lips parted as something thick and cold dripped into his mouth and slid down his throat, gradually twisting it's way inside of him, until it reached his stomach. A sudden bolt of excruciating ecstasy slammed into his mind and every muscle in his body stretched to capacity and then beyond, ripping free from bone and tendon, producing a level of pain Gang had never imagined possible.

     In the dark the crawling chaos slid off him and moved away, thumping and sloshing and dragging across the floor. Gang heard the room’s door open, then the door to the outside. The dragging sound drifted away but, as Gang slipped into unconsciousness, he imagined he could still hear it, like some gruesome lullaby, sliding through the midnight streets.

     Outside the city slept and its nightmare stalked the darkness.