Prologue: Terrible Things

Prologue:
Terrible Things

The sands in the Wastelands were the colour of ash and bone, and contained glassy fragments, which glittered under the blazing sun. The ash and bone were said to be human remains, or more specifically those unfortunate exiles who couldn’t stand the torment the Wastelands provided, and perished wherever the exhaustion had finally taken over.

The other fragments however, were said to be something else entirely. Something which had supposedly come before. But, of course, nobody from the City knew what exactly, although it didn’t stop their gums flapping loose with ideas. There were simply some who argued this was myth, and others who’d argued there was always a grain of truth to myths - a starting point, if you like.

Click.

The metal man trudged onward. His legs were the width of tree trunks, and the sand ruffled around him, like water frothing behind a very large boat. He had little notion of time or distance, but he knew he’d been walking for ages, covering many, many miles. But he hadn’t travelled far enough, and part of him doubted he ever would.

The shadow of it; a vast City which wept rust and wheezed steam still crept along the Outer Region of the Wastelands. The fine filaments of bone, which crunched beneath his feet was a good measure of how far he’d travelled. It was rumoured, that when drawing free from the City, the sands would slowly turn yellow, and then burn golden, before filtering away completely, like the vestiges of some terrifying nightmare.

The metal man had heard such things when he’d worked - no, visited? No, that wasn’t right either. He’d heard this when he’d been patrolling outside a pub (most likely The Burning Banshee, which reportedly served the best black beer in the City, and bred the most trouble), and had caught a snippet of drunken conversation. Of course, when the men had seen him, or more likely, his ugly bulbous head peering round the corner, they’d jumped, spilling half-filled pints of foamy black beer in the process. And then they’d cursed.

Some things were forbidden in the City, although he couldn’t quite remember why.

Speaking of not remembering things, he couldn’t even recall why he’d left, or where he was headed for. It hadn’t been a particularly clever idea; he’d made no preparations for his leave, or even told anyone about it. He’d simply had the notion, and walked out between those tall, rickety gates and fought through snarls of wire.

At least, that’s how he thought it had gone. It was like someone had reached in and plucked the memories from his big empty head. He looked down at his gigantic chest, where the ghost of the City emblem lay under streaks of grime. His joints were crusted in blood, and squealed when he moved. A slither of wire still curved around his foot.

Most of these terrible things begin with violence, a voice cut into his thoughts like a razor blade. It was familiar, but he met it with revulsion.

A low wind howled through his armour plates, and he brought himself to a stop, gazing across the vast, sculptured landscape.

His shoulders slumped. He needed something to trigger off his memory - a person, or a place, anything. But hope was fading fast. Just like the sun, which was now setting behind the dunes, casting fingers of gloom across the desert floor.

Time was trickling by. He had to keep moving.

One morning, a few days later, he stumbled upon a curious sight. The sun was at its peak in the sky, and the sands were sparkling like a vast sea. It was difficult to make out anything, but he spotted a shape - something tall, stretching out from the sands in the distance.

The metal man tried to move faster. He hadn’t seen anyone out here, aside from ruins of settlements long gone, and clumps of unmarked graves held within circular patterns of shimmering whitestone. The closest he’d come to any form of recent civilisation had been the tire marks he’d spotted along some crumbling highway. He’d avoided the obvious roads since. Apparently the Wastelands changed people.

It brings the wild out for the world to see, the familiar voice echoed with a hint of amusement. Sometimes you see dwellers turning up in freak shows. Or even cage fights. All illegal, of course, and not recommended.

What he’d seen now did resemble a person. A person hanging against a wooden cross. Its thin arms were splayed apart, and sagging.

A scarecrow?

Perhaps this area had once been used for farming and a scarecrow was the only thing that had been left behind? No, that didn’t sound quite right. In fact, it was a downright stupid idea. There weren’t any ruins nor even any birds in this area and what exactly would they grow around here? There wasn’t even brittle grass or purple mounds of dragon weed. Nothing.

No, getting closer, he discovered it was a corpse. It was a repulsive sight, but he couldn’t turn away from it - not from morbid fascination or curiosity, but because he couldn’t actually believe - couldn’t actually fathom that --

Of course, the familiar voice echoed, they kill their own out there. What do you do when you find yourself in a world where there aren’t any rules, or food? And under a merciless sun where there isn’t even the barest hint of water?

There was a dull ache in his chest, and it felt like there was something clawing inside his throat.

The corpse was of a young man. His school blazer blew gently in the wind, rippling like a tattered flag. On the breast pocket, there was a familiar pattern; he wore the City emblem too. His skull, still patched with clumps of meat and dark hair, was facing the sky. The jaws were unhinged. He wore no shirt, and the metal man could see his ribcage, twisted and black. The metal man stared at those ribs, and then, deep within them, something stirred.

The skull snapped forward with a sickening crack. ‘Halt. Don’t you know whose territory you dare tread on, flesh?!’ A wet, slippery voice came from the bowels of the skull.

The metal man stumbled backwards, almost tripping over his long legs.

A yellow eye, cupped in a metal socket seeped through the skull’s previously empty right one. Stringy pink flesh wormed behind it, propelling the eyeball to the metal man’s level. It blinked once, almost incredulously, its eyelid composed of the same disgusting metal surrounding it.

‘You’re not succulent flesh. What do you want? This is Scrapnil’s territory. If you want it, you’ll have to prise it from those cold, stiff fleshling fingers.’ The creature called Scrapnil gestured to the corpse’s hands. ‘Otherwise, SCRAM!’

The metal man shrugged, and pointed lazily behind him.

‘City sent you then?’

The metal man shook his head.

‘Hmm, City wouldn’t exile a metal man. No, no, no, no!’ And then Scrapnil said quietly almost with a tinge of awe, ‘you escaped.’

The metal man said nothing.

‘Ooh, isn’t you naughty? But, even so, nobody get past without giving Scrapnil a gift. That’s right! One gift, metal man from the City. And shiny, pretty things are my most favourite. Second only to tasty flesh! So, choose wisely!’ He paused, sucking in a raspy breath. ‘Well, come on then, what do you have? Metal man from the City must have trinkets or other pretty things.’

He thought for a moment, and slowly shook his head.

‘Very wells, since you’ve scared away all the succulent fleshlings, and didn’t bother to bring a gift, then perhaps you can do something else for me?’

The metal man braced himself. It seemed like Scrapnil had been building up to this all along.

‘Metal man from the City has travelled very far, seen lots of sand. Tell me, did you happen to stumble across any of my parts?’

The metal man scratched his head and Scrapnil just stared at him, his yellow eye unblinking and beginning to water. Eventually, the metal man put his hands back by his sides, and simply stared back.

‘My parts!’ Scrapnil suddenly roared, his yellow eye had grown wider, and was practically squished up against the metal man’s visor. ‘Tell me, have you seen them? City scattered them through out this wretched desert, and made Scrapnil stay out here . . . Even though I didn’t do anything! Must believe, metal man.’ Scrapnil pulled away, chuckled nervously, and then added offhandedly, ‘I only ate the fleshlings that wandered my way . . .’

The metal man shook his head, and began to step away. This creature wasn’t helping him. And worse - it had killed people.

‘What? You’re a friend-to-the-fleshlings, metal man? That’s okay, Scrapnil can be too!’ It called out desperately as he drew further away. ‘Come on, anybody can change! Look at you - no longer soldier, toy of the City! Very wells then. Maybe metal man doesn’t need friend in Wastelands. Fine, go! Leave Scrapnil alone . . .always alone anyway, so it MAKES. NO. DIFFERENCEEEE!’

The metal man’s shoulders slumped. Maybe he was being too hard on the creature? He trudged back towards it.

‘Scrapnil had something wonderful to share with metal man, too. Something that would help him escape forever.’

The metal man stepped forward.

‘Come closer. . .Scrapnil not bite . . .’

He took another step.

‘Closer still.’

The metal man took another, shorter step. Up this close, he could see chunks of flesh still clinging to the ribcage and flies buzzing about the arms. Apparently Scrapnil wasn’t fond of devouring arms or legs. It’s yellow eye was in his face again, and he could see the blood vessels across its watery surface. The metal lid closed halfway, as if in a smile.

‘Good. See that wasn’t difficult, was it?’ Then Scrapnil’s voice became so low, it was barely a whisper. The metal man had to crane his stubby neck forward to listen. ‘One day, if I prove myself, City will give my parts back. Then I’ll be strong, and I’ll leave this perch. I’ll eat all the fleshlings I want, but not if metal man leaves.’

A flurry of tentacles burst out of the ribcage. Bones pelted against the metal man, spraying him like a shower of bullets. Before he’d even registered what was happening, Scrapnil’s tentacles were around his arms and neck, pulling him closer. The corpse was heaving now, and for one terrifying moment, the metal man thought it was coming back to life. Instead, a deep, raspy laugh came from it as more tentacles filled the air.

The metal man felt the strength leave quickly. His long journey had weakened him considerably, but now he couldn’t move at all. Scrapnil’s tentacles were under his armour plates, pulling at wires, wrapping around him.

‘City will find you, yes,’ Scrapnil rasped, putrid breath coming out of the skull’s gaping hole of a mouth. ‘Oooh, then what will happen, I wonders?’

And then the metal man felt a surge of strength, the likes of which he never knew he had. Large hands shot up, and snatched a bunch of Scrapnil’s tentacles. He wouldn’t go back there. The creature gave a roar of anguish, but it was no use. The metal man had broke himself free.

He ran then, and only turned to look back once he knew he was beyond the reach of the creature. His body was shaking and spluttering. He sounded like a boiler about to explode.

Scrapnil’s tentacles were writhing through the air, like the legs of a dying spider. Some of them were bent at odd angles. ‘THAT’S RIGHT, RUN Y-YOU STUPID METAL MAN! RUN! TRIED TO MAKE IT EASY FOR YOU!!’ He roared across the desert. But the metal man stepped back, and it was almost as if he’d stepped into a large bubble. He felt safe and secure. Scrapnil’s rantings sounded so small and so feeble. ‘DON’T COUNT ON MY MERCY EVER AGAIN!! TELL THEM, SWEAR I WILL. AND THEN THEY’LL COME. THEY’LL COME FOR YOU!!!’

After the incident with Scrapnil, the sands did indeed change to yellow, and then some time afterwards, gold. The sun was constantly beating down on him, and the damages he’d sustained while tearing away from the creature was slowing down his progress.

Steam escaped between the copper plates of his shoulders. And there was a hiss, as if something was deflating. The metal man’s rickety body shuddered to a halt, and when he looked down, he saw a thick, tar-like fluid pooling onto the sands, dripping from his left leg.

Shoulders slumped, he shook his head sadly. His leg was getting worse, and he had no way of repairing himself. He didn’t have any knowledge about how to repair himself. Heaving his chest, he limped forward. He had to keep moving. He wouldn’t let an injury like this stop him. He wouldn’t--

His leg gave way suddenly, and he went tumbling down the side of a sand dune. He tried to grasp onto something, but his hands simply raked through the coarse grains. He landed with a thud, arms and legs sprawled everywhere.

Urgggh.

Crawling forward, he gripped onto a rock, and managed to pull himself to his feet. Steam was now hissing from his knee too. And his other leg was now drenched in sticky black fluid. He stumbled forward, and realised that if he left the rock, he’d end up loosing his balance.

Always pushing and always failing. The familiar voice said, not mocking now, but tinged with melancholy.

The wind was picking up around him and it had gotten dark. He was having difficulty seeing anything, or knowing which direction he was now facing.

Then they’ll come. They’ll come for you, Scrapnil’s raspy voice echoed in his head.

He had to move.

One . . .step . . .

. . .Two step.

They’ll come for you.

Three . . .step . . . Four . . .

There was a high-pitched squeal and he fell backwards, lying on his back across the sandy floor.

Above him, the sky was like a vast canvas, flecked with stars and swirling wisps of silver. He told himself he could be anywhere now - it didn’t matter. The sky was untainted by the pulsating lights of the City and so, for him, this was as close to freedom as he was going to get. No, this was freedom. And if this, his home, was to double as his resting place, then so be it.

Home.

He sighed, and felt the ache in his chest again, a cry bubbling up in his throat that wouldn’t ever be released. But it could have been worse; he could have landed on his stomach. And then he’d be left with nothing, nothing but his sad, lonely thoughts and a mouthful of sand. No, it was better this way, having one final, beautiful image before his body--

Died?

Did machinery like him “die” as such? The ache intensified, and then it began to slip away. In fact, everything was now beginning to slip away.

What do you do when you find yourself in a world where there aren’t any rules, or food? And under a merciless sun where there isn’t even the barest hint of water? You die. You die because that’s the only thing you can do. When the odds are stacked so high against you, there’s no point in fighting back.

No, he thought, there was a purpose - even if he couldn’t remember it. There had to be.

But now that probably didn’t matter; it was time to rest. He could feel the wind dragging the sand across him as the Wastelands began to claim him. Thoughts - the could-have-beens and the might-have-beens flittered across his mind, but he pushed them aside. Above him, he watched the stars as they slowly winked out, like candle lights in the darkness, and the sands took him completely.