Aphrodite's Hall - A Gothic Tale

Aphrodite’s Hall

It is with a disturbed happiness that I dwell upon the appalling scenes which I have committed; scenes which, for all their minute details, no after events have been able to efface in the slightest degree from my memory, and whose stern recollection will embitter every future moment of my existence. Her eyes shone up at me, yellow, deathly, desperate. Her cries counter-balanced only by the beating of my heart, ever strong. Her beats were numbered. My pores dilated in excitement, I knew the rush was soon at hand as my brain screamed in an orgasm of sensory perception, my arm inching toward her mouth, betwixt her teeth and down her throat

Down!

Down!

DOWN,

into the abyss. She choked, gagged; I could feel her bile stinging at the open cuts on my hand, the excoriations like the lashings endured by Moses at the hands of the Egyptians. We are one and the same, visionary leaders, caring not of class, but with eyes affixed upon only one cause. The child’s vomit mingled with my blood. She looked at me, imploring me, the pain evident in her globular eyes; naught more than six years of age; which is, in some cultures, too young to die, but not in this place. I stiffened my fingers and jabbed, again and again, down, down, until my slimy fingers perforated her stomach lining. Blood exuded from her eyes and mouth, her meagre body squirmed, and then was still. And so, I withdrew, as a mobster withdraws his gun from its holster. I raised the hard earned prize to my mouth and squeezed. The shapeless, ethereal creature pulsated slightly in my hand, like a cockroach pulsates in the egg of its incubation; I squeezed the slug’s beady head, retentive at first, then, with a slight groan, it came! The heavenly substance spewed forth, the beautiful excretion; a torrent of the warm, puce coloured gunk. I greedily lapped the substance up, groaning in pleasure as it spilled forth from my mouth and covered my clothes, staining my waistcoat a brilliant beige. I shuddered and keeled forth, my senses overloaded by the acrid taste. I felt it running through my veins, addling my thoughts and warming my blood to the tips of my fingers. And then there was iciness…a sinking, a sickening of the heart - an unredeemed dreariness of the thought which no goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime. I needed more. That was the problem with the macabre substance; the more you consumed, the more you needed, ADAM. Everybody needs it, everybody wants it, but how far are you prepared to go to procure one drop? I was once normal man, until my first drop of the veritable substance, whence I fear I became quite insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.  Now I sit, waiting for my next prize. Another girl whose substance can become mine, whose essence I long to consume, whose light I yearn to extinguish. Every thread, no matter how miniscule, has a beginning, as does every story, so does mine.

Tales of so magical a substance would have shocked me many aeons ago, but now, brought to this conclusion in so unequivocal a manner as we are, it is not our part, as reasoners, to reject it on account of apparent impossibilities. It is only left for us to prove that these apparent ‘impossibilities’ are, in reality, not such. The girls I seek are husks, mentally conditioned and genetically altered to reclaim the ADAM from the dead. The mental imag’ry of one of those devilish fiends desecrating my body with a needle sharper than the wit of Lord Verulam leaves me speechless. The substance I love so, ADAM, is excreted by a sea slug, found in the depths of the darkened sea, hidden in a detestable trench, meant for the eyes of no one but those of God. The minds of my city soon found the means to use and exploit the terrible excretory substance, denouncing it to the public as ‘mere unstable stem cells’, whilst whiling away their time wiping their dirty hands on one-hundred dollar bills. The cataclysmic substance came into use for all types of detestable experiments, aforementioned cells could partake in such incomprehensible errands as the revitalization of the lifeless limbs of a stately veteran and the alteration of the human genetic structure in such a way that one, with correct doses of the stuff, could snap their fingers and generate a blaze of conflagration, hotter than the hottest kiln, and more deadly than a desert adder. The great minds found quite soon enough though, that the ungodly substance could not be produced in large enough quantities for their business prospects, and, as a solution, they created THEM, the hosts…the girls. They would take a pure, unblemished baby lass and implant the pulsating roach-like slug deep within the cavernous pits of the slowly churning stomach. They called the place the Orphanage… makes it sound almost benevolent. Nothing could be further from the truth. The slug, whence implanted into the host’s abdomen, wastes no time in gorging itself on the filling of the host’s stomach, growing corpulent and obese, veins bursting and rupturing as its frame distended, growing large, dependent, warm, slimy. It was in this way that they elucidated their major hindrance. Supply and demand. Slugs implanted within a host generated almost thirty times the yield of a lonesome creature and once the heavenly fluid had touched the hairs of the tongue, you needed more…

GRIME... ! FILTH... ! SEWAGE!... cover me like the fleece coat of Satan. I strip forth my bloody waistcoat, encrusted with the filth of a scavenger, I discard the silk undershirt, once the mark of a man of high society, now blackened and stiff with blood. But nay! She’s waiting for me! I hear thee Aphrodite! She calls my name. Nay! She calls again! I wait, peering deep into that darkness, listening, long I stood there, contemplating, fearing, hesitating, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. As I stood, I became wary of the grime covering me, much akin to a coat of paint…such paint though, no such paint you could ever delude your mind into seeing, a beastly reverie of the cortex, no such nightmare could match the nauseating horror of said covering…the horrible curse they call skin! But the divine one can help me! They are all benighted! They treat stupidity as a talent for misconception! I am the clever one! But NO! She tells me my talent will only ever be unleashed if I remove the covering! No gentleman would be menial enough to eat the steak whilst it still throbs deep within the cow, and, as such, I will not be able to unleash my genius upon the world until every last flap of skin is sliced and torn forth from my body. I tried oh goddess! Every night I tried, and every night I found myself devoid of the triumphant satisfaction which I yearn to embrace so much. Forgive me Aphrodite! Forgive me! Every night I retreat to my darkened cloister to commit the clandestine acts I am known for. All for you! I scream, the pain is good, cleansing. I take my sharpened nails to my abdomen and dig, dig my nails deep into my flesh; I yearn to gain grip, but the filth is layered! Your task cannot be impossible goddess! You told me, you found me, so I do all you say. Everything that I do is done for you! Hence, why do you not deal me the same gratitude? Repeatedly I try, I claw! This was the mundane ritual of my every night, cleaving, slashing, slicing off layers of my sickened skin, the underside of my fingernails drizzling blood and flesh, my ruptured and torn vessels creating gaping holes in my body…then silence…the air of failure…I could never stand the air of failure, FAILURE… my mind can consider nothing more…the asphyxiating malfunction…I curl up and sob, cry my feelings to an unseeing and unknowing deity. But I still believe, with every one of my failures comes true reverie to strive. The true genius may shudder at incompleteness - and would usually prefer silence to saying something which is not everything it should be, but I do not! I believe there is certain eloquence in true enthusiasm. Perhaps I have misinterpreted the conundrum of the everlasting skin. Perhaps I need to accede to the position, to learn the proper decorum in order to earn the right of purity. One does not become a deity in one night. I hear her! She endorses me! I must be right! I must help others. Help them remove their skin. Help them become pure…

Aphrodite informs me. She tells me things. Things of great matter and importance. Tonight the first rung shall be scaled. I begin my ascent. On the orders of the goddess I skulk the decaying halls, until, a light! It bobs, up and down, a hypnotic pattern, splendidly fascinating, until, I see one of them, ADAM dependent monsters. A woman, wearing the remains of a once splendorous lime-green cocktail dress, now hanging off her like the flesh on the ribcage of a long dead corpse, mouldering, maggots lolling through its tongue, out of its ears, consuming it, taking it back to whence it originated. I looked down; the once feminine stockings had ridden down her legs, exposing an abundance of fur like hair. I assumed the woman was of French origin…not that it mattered…she would soon be pure. Her visage, a portrait of former beauty, now horribly mutated. But I could help! Without her horrid skin she would look beautiful. Imagine! All of those lovely, shapely tendons, muscles stretching betwixt bone and matter. A bead of saliva dribbled forth from my mouth. I stopped; there would be time for ardourous thoughts later. I gently walked forth from my makeshift lair, taking time and care to make sure my footsteps reverberated loudly from the marble-like walls, almost loud enough for the spirits of the departed to hear! Finally the menacing figure whipped around, her cocktail dress flying threateningly in her wake, finally in realisation of my presence.  I drew forward. Up close the full horror of her visage struck me. I have not a weak stomach, in fact, the ability to claw ones own flesh from bone requires very little in the way of squeamishness, but I must profess, this woman was a revolting, repulsive excuse for a human being. Whatever she once was, the original claimant to her body, the original woman, was long ago deceased. As I approached her, her horrible inflictions were brought to my light; I could plainly see why creatures like this never ventured into the sun. Her mouth hung open slightly in a vacant expression which I could only take to be surprise, all four of her teeth could be seen, blackened stubs in a mouldy encasement which would once have been gums, between which, every so often, a small movement would give some evidence to the idea of the inhabitance of small, maggot like creatures that had taken up residence in the gums of this obsolete human shell. Her body wore the remains of what would once have been costly finery, a green silken dress clothed the body, a strand of pearls swathed her malformed neck, the beads now stained and blackened by the soot of many a fire. Her multi-fingered hands adorned in black lace gloves, and whence the fingers numbered too many for the meagre five-fingered shape, holes had burst, and the new fingers had made room for themselves, creating the ghastly spectacle before me. A misshapen sac cut a horrid sight, bulging from the abdomen, pulsating slightly, exuding an unknown slimy substance, spewing forth form the prominent, protrudent veins and the lopsided umbilicus. All features of the face were misshapen, a flap of unknown flesh, possibly fat, swathed the face from the bottom of the eye to the top of the jagged mouth hole. Hair sprouted in places hair should never have been, and, nary ever would without human intervention. In short: a monster, a misshapen and deformed creature, wrought by the sweat of Satan’s brow, and the misinformed hammer of ever delusional man. Not wishing to startle it, and my eyes quite wary of the glinting machete in its left hand, I decided to go for the approach of concern. I could convince anyone, with the goddess of love on my side.

“How are you madam?”

Nary to my surprise, I received no answer, not even a glint of humanity in her bottomless eyes. I steeled myself. She chose me, I thought. I have been imbued with powers of persuasion. I will complete this for you Aphrodite.

“The streets are no place for a pretty young woman like you”

Lying through my teeth was also an ability, thankfully imbued upon me long ago. During this attempt at friendly speech, however, I sensed I had gleaned success, her mouth opened, and a guttural sound emanated from the pits of her being, as if her voice had not been used since the days of yore, as it probably hadn’t.

“What is your business?” she rasped

“I seek only to help” I replied

“Help is but the petty excuse for men with too much time and far too much promiscuity of the loins. A pretty young woman such as myself cannot be seen in the company of such an ugly being.”

Stunned, I persevered;

“I may be ugly madam, but your radiant beauty could more than make up for my hideous visage, if only those small abrasions on your cheek could be banished”

The crone seemed slightly abashed, and I could see I was steadily gaining her trust;

“Got any food?” she croaked

I quickly fished around in my pocket, only to find something that, in a far distant time, may have resembled a tenderloin steak. What it was doing in my pocket however, and when I had put it in said pocket, was a mystery. Perhaps it was a reward from the good Aphrodite…however, with no other fodder on me that could possibly be labelled as food, and not wishing to seemingly insult the creature, I eagerly handed it over. She eyed the foodstuff for what seemed like two eternities, and then finally;

“You call these tenderloins? If you served this at any respectable restaurant in New York you’d be laughed out of town!”

She coughed. This attempt at human speech had seemingly overwhelmed her, and, cackling like a hyena she gobbled the maggot infested lump down, juices of the horrible creatures living within the meat dribbling white between her lips as saliva drooled from her mouth and down her chest as she desperately gummed the food.

“I haven’t eaten such a meal in a long time.” She exclaimed, once she had finished consuming the filth

“I take it then, madam, you are happy with my donation, and, as such, would kindly allow me to perform a small rearrangement of the skin. It will allow for such purity, purity unbeknownst to humanity…until you.”

Flattery…I was always good at flattery. Whether it was my smooth tone or my  making sure to put a polite emphasis on ‘you’, she giggled, an unearthly sound, the sound of a million maggots humming in unison as they consumed rotting flesh.

“I suppose I can help you. After all, no one else is beautiful enough for such a procedure, and perfection is, after all…most desirable.”

My excitement mounted, Aphrodite had not mislead me after all. I had seemingly misunderstood her instruction, but now…NOW, I can begin to repay my failures. I beckoned the creature to follow me, through dank halls and darkened pavilions we perambulated. I had long since learned to navigate my path through the muck without encountering a problematic situation, and today was no different, with the small exception of my creature friend striding along beside me. As we walked, I notice we were very alike, our swaying gait, our heights, proportions, exact! Amazing! This soon-to-be cadaver would make for excellent observation, lucky woman, soon to be free of her skin! Thankfully her proportions were a perfect match to mine! She can act as a set of instructions! Then it will be my turn. We made to the right, and then to the left, and then suddenly, there it was! My crypt! My mausoleum! The woman knows not though, it is better like that, she should not know what is coming… she is not nearly enlightened enough! No one is as enlightened as I! I lead the crone to my table.

“Lie down!” I demand, excitement licking the tendrils of my voice, but no, she still trusts! Silly woman. I strap the creature to the table, and start to move to the outskirts of the room.

“Where are you going?” she demanded

“Only to retrieve my tools!” I replied, though not entirely truthful in the plural. I would need only one tool, a scalpel, and perhaps the vision of Aphrodite! I retreated to my back room. Whispers following me.

“I can hear thee Aphrodite!”

And she could hear me! Response! A goddess, talk to a mere mortal! Her voice, lacy, silken, like a many layered truffle, covered in syrup, served in a golden bowl!
 “An intruder, Simon. She is ugly…but talented…how can we release her talent, Simon?”

“I know, oh Goddess!” I screamed to the room “I know!”

“How, my dearest Simon?” said the silken voice

“The skin. The skin stops it, goddess” I crooned

“And what do we do to cancerous growths that halt the very progression of talent, Simon?

“We rips them out, burn them, tear them…KILL THEM!” My voice petered out into the dank mausoleum as I waited, waited for an answer, peering out into the silence for what seemed like several ages, but, silence.  She had departed. But my task had been given. I knew what I had to do. Scalpel in hand, I stalked into my makeshift theatre. I felt otherworldly…god like…nothing could stop the chain of my progress. The woman was still lying on the table, seemingly talking to herself, ranting about something that could only have been a past life.

“Tell James that Maurice absolutely cannot come in tomorrow, yes, yes, dreadful head cold, and to top it all off, the flowers haven’t arrived yet! But when they do would you arrange them in that crystal vase Petunia sent me for Christmas, you know how I like them and…”she retched and spluttered

“… Beauty is all around us! I’m the top! I’m the king of the world! I’m the coliseum! I’m the top! I’m the Louvre Museum! I’m the mystery of a…a…”

Her voiced cracked under the strain of her dreadful screeches; her head shuddered, and then was still, all that remained of her flailing were her legs, as if she was walking on some invisible floor. I drew up beside the table and stood very still, and whispered

“Stop”

The crone ceased immediately, but oddly, repeated the same phrase back to me, in that raspy voice

“Stop”

Perhaps she had grown tired of my charades and had had enough. Perhaps she wished to depart this place. Perhaps she merely enjoyed the way the word rolled off her tongue. Regardless, it was too late now. I held up my scalpel, it glinted in the soft light; her eyes registered no fear, but a hungry enthusiasm. Perhaps I was mistaken. No, they still showed the same vacant expression I had seen when I confronted her earlier.

“I’m your Doctor” I whispered “Sometimes I have to hurt you”

Then suddenly, I brought down the scalpel, I made a careful incision into her breast, and down to her abdomen. Abruptly, my excitement was snuffed by an extreme pain, I doubled over, the crone struggled, but made no sound. Perhaps this was part of the initiation! Perhaps every loyal one had to make this sacrifice to the goddess before becoming pure. Guide me, Aphrodite! Help me help them! I clawed my way into a standing position, I spluttered, and, retching, I returned to the bench and brought my scalpel down, making my incision deeper, each time, encountering more and more pain. Until, finally, the incision was pleasing, all the way down to the stomach sac, all the while spewing forth blood that was attempting to clot, all in vain I might add. I moved up to the head. Sioux Indians used to scalp their victims. Perhaps Aphrodite had visited them too, but obviously had deemed them wallowing idiots, and as such, can’t be freed from their skin and know the whole secret. I lifted the scalpel to the soft tissue above her right ear, I could feel her warmth. Pulsating just below the surface of her devilish skin was her life-blood! But it would soon be free! I made a C-shaped incision in the section above her ear, but woe, at the same time I felt a terrible pain in my head, I doubled over again, the crone was struggling, perhaps she had awoken to her terrible destiny and was trying to escape. But if she escaped, she would never become pure! I had to end it. I picked up with the scalpel, and gripped it menacingly, brandishing it like a knife. I seized the crone woman’s horrible oozing head and held it in place, I was much more powerful. I had much more ADAM. She had no chance. I carefully lined the scalpel up to her temple. The soft fleshy opening underneath her ear. I could finish the job when she was dead. Then her spirit would be pure. I thrust, deep into her temple, I pushed, pushed. The scalpel buried itself deep within the crone’s brain, blood staining my hands and face, and then, a sudden realisation, a blinding pain in my chest, a white light…

***

“Lower City in Shambles: Ryan Passes Quarantine Act” read the headline. I skimmed the article, it was nothing but old news.

“…said Mr Ryan upon asking, “the quarantine will last for a period yet to be determined by the council, or at least until the rioting subsides. What the people must remember is that we are no longer on the surface. Do they miss the censor? Government seizure of wartime assets? No! We cannot afford this. What you must remember is that the Great Chain is only as strong as its weakest link. The quarantine will persist until order is restored in the lower town, until then, I declare a state of martial law…,”

I rummaged through the gilded box, tossing the refuse aside, yellowing newspapers, some crumbling into dust as I fingered them, others smeared with food and other, more bodily drivels, until, success, the one, disparaging article I had been searching for. My eyes slowly flit across the page as I further comprehended the writing in front of me, memories, most unpleasant, returning with every syllable.

“…the party will be comprised of seven personalities, handpicked by Mr Ryan himself for their negotiation and governing prowess. The group will include the popular doctor and ethical psychiatrist Dr. Eli Vance, as well as the renowned theologist and expert in Greek mythology, Simon Walker…” the next portion of the article was blocked out by a smudge, looking very much like a dehydrated dollop of faeces “…will extend over seven days, and will see the group descend into the lower town in an attempt to regain control of…” another dreg of aforementioned faeces had splashed itself across the paragraph, obscuring the last few sentences of the paragraph. The date? Where was the date? Then, finally, I spotted it, the last sentence on the page.

“The group will be armed with high-technology stun batons and tasers, and are expected to return to the high town, with a verdict, before the end of March.”

March! How painfully obvious it all seemed now. He was supposed to return in March! Simon, where are you?  The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who is to say where the one ends, and where the other begins? Who is to say my Simon is not still living and breathing? Who dares suggest any different!  Simon, my love, I am coming. Adelaide is coming.

***

They have been pouring into my office all day. All manner of things concerning them. Petty. All of them. Harebrained butter-munchers. “Andrew”, they always begin “Andrew, I know this city is your manor, but you might want to cogitate on this: ocean water is colder than a witch's tit. You don't heat the pipes, the pipes freeze; pipes freeze, pipes burst. Then the city leaks. Now, I realize you're a posh sort of geezer and, frankly, I don't give a toss if you piss or go fishing. But once she starts leaking, the old girl's never gonna stop, and then I'll be sure to tell the people who they’ve got to thank”. I care not of these trivial pursuits. Are all of the accomplishments of this city fated to be nothing more than a layer of broken plastic shards, thinly strewn across a fossil bed, sandwiched between the burgess shale, and an eon’s worth of mud? Once I regain control of the lower town, these, lesser issues may be addressed. Until then, I refuse to use violent means to recover the infected area. A man chooses, a slave obeys. These men, these rebels, are slaves to free will, and as such, will be disposed of. I have sent a party of negotiators into ground zero, to lull the rebels into a state of irrational calm, and then…we will see. I have sent Walker and Kleiner, and that Vance doctor into the infection, to see if they can, cauterize the wound, and staunch the bleeding hearts.

***

Something nudged his leg, and Doctor Isaac Kleiner awoke with a jolt, whipping his head forward. A loud snort escaped him as he was wrenched from whatever blissful rest he had been allowed by fate. It had been a doctor that had awoken him, but a somewhat different kind than the ones he was used to. He doubted the man that now frantically hurled himself down the corridor had a PhD in Theoretical Physics from MIT. Although, right now, Kleiner wished to God he had chosen to be a healer instead of a thinker. Maybe then he could have avoided the horror that he had just witnessed. Curled up in his arms, the baby shifted in her sleep before settling down again. Kleiner resisted the temptation to run a finger across her cheek; it had taken so very long to get her to calm down, and even longer to get her to close her eyes and sleep. He could see her being trouble when she was older. And he may be the one who would have to deal with it. The possibility that Eli may not survive through the day had occurred to Kleiner more than a few times. There had been so much blood…

"Izzy! The wall!"

Kleiner wasn't used to this much running. His slight frame had never really required much maintenance, and he ate so little when he was working that it was a wonder he didn't waste away sometimes. Only Eli or Simon with a well placed cup of coffee and a sandwich seemed to stand between him and death by malnourishment. The sole of his shoe flopped about incessantly as he ran, lab coat long since lost to that creature, partially reminiscent of a man that Kleiner had once known. He was a gene splicer, controlled by pheromones spread through the air by the unknown menace now controlling the Lower Town.  It was fortunate that whatever was controlling it ceased to be shortly after, as Kleiner doubted they would be living to run away from their ruthless attacks if it had not occurred. Eli had been wary of entering a hub of human activity, for fear of the reaction it would bring. No one had emerged from outside of the Lower Town since the riots, and the taking of the outer suburbs. Kleiner saw the regret in Eli's eyes the moment they had entered the city and come across the beast that was now mercilessly pursuing them through the aqueduct. Dirty synthetic clouds brewed up above them, foretelling nothing but the horrific incident that was to come. He reached the wall and looked up. It was a good few feet above him. Breathless and wheezing, Kleiner looked to Eli as he came hurtling around the tributary bend, splicer a sizeable distance away. Close enough to get the blood rushing in Kleiner's veins again, however.

Looking up, he sprang as high into the air as he could, grasping desperately for the ledge. It was no use. Whatever contact his fingertips made, his thin, gentle hands were in no condition to pull his own weight up. And then suddenly, he had something wrapped around his legs, boosting him up. Kleiner looked down to see Eli pushing him up the wall, his face a quickly deepening red as he struggled with the weight. The splicer was horrifically close now. Kleiner pulled on the ledge as hard as he could, his hands now easily reaching over the top. With a final tug, he managed to pull himself over, rolling until he was lying on his back beside the ledge.

"Izzy!"

Kleiner rolled over frantically, and watched as a blue, blanketed bundle was tossed in his face. He wrapped his arms around it in a panic, knowing full well what it was and how valuable it could be. The wailing face of little Alyx poked out, screaming at the entire world, and the horror of it all. Kleiner couldn't agree more. He delicately put her down as far away from the ledge as he dared before returning to Eli's aide. He thrust out a spindly arm, aware of how weak the gesture seemed, but not caring, for the creature was so close.

"Eli! Grab on!"

His friend leapt up for the proffered limb, latching on easily. Kleiner pulled, and Eli scrabbled his legs against the wall, trying to get some traction. Their eyes locked, but suddenly, the darker pair bulged, pupils dilating, and Kleiner watched his friend scream as he had never heard him scream before. That deep, gentle voice… to hear it pushed to such extremes, to hear it cracking and struggling in that way… The disgusting, crunching tug of war ended as Eli toppled down on top of Kleiner. They landed beside the baby Alyx, still crying her heart out, poor child. Kleiner felt something damp on his trouser leg. Looking down, he saw the blood that gushed from Eli's leg. Or rather, from where Eli's leg had once been. The pair lay their, prostrate, for what seemed like hours, or minutes, or days. Exhaustion of their kind lead to a complete indifference to the passing of time. The splicer below considered a juicy leg more than a prize, and could be heard trudging back down the tributary, and back to his hidden den in Pumping Station No.3.

Gradually, a shadow cast itself over them. Kleiner didn’t know where he was, or how he got there. He was completely famished. The man knelt down, and Kleiner recognised him. Simon?

"Dr Kleiner?"

That wasn't Simon's voice.

"Dr Kleiner?"

He snorted himself awake again. Alarmed, he looked down to the baby sleeping in his arms. Still asleep, thank God. Tired and haggard, Kleiner brought his weary head up to look at the equally sleep-deprived doctor.

"Yes?"

"I'm Doctor Marks."

"How is he?"

Marks ran a hand through his thick, long hair. To see such a young man so distressed was disturbing to Kleiner.

"He's… fine. We managed to stop the bleeding, and we're going to have to cauterise the wound. But with a little luck and a lot of rest, he should recover."

He glanced to the double doors he had seen Eli disappear through so long ago.

"May I see him?"

"Not yet. He's under a lot of sedation right now, as you can imagine."

Kleiner sighed.

"No. Not really."

The young doctor nodded, understanding.

"You're welcome to wait here. I'd tell you to go to a hotel, but every place I know of is bursting at the seams since the last attack."

Kleiner offered a smile which he hoped was indifferent, but probably came across as sad. It was horrible to think that this small, drab business district was once the economic centre of Andrew Ryan’s masterful city, and the only place to hold out during the Lower Town’s descent into madness. Kleiner raised his head to speak.

"I'm afraid I don't have the money, in any case. How long will it be before he can leave?"

"I'm not sure,"

Marks sighed, slipping hands in lab coat pockets. It made Kleiner angry in a very irrational way. Marks looked directly into Kleiner’s tired, grey eyes.

"We're getting people in every few minutes with dismembered limbs and mauled friends, bullet wounds…"

He rubbed tired eyes.

"It's…"

"It's like nothing you've seen before,"

Kleiner offered quietly, nodding. Slowly, the young man in front of him returned the gesture in agreement. His eyes flickered to the baby in Kleiner's arms.

"Is that-"

"Oh my God!"

The shrill female cry brought both of their attention to the glass doors at the front of the infirmary. A high pitched whine filled the air as the sound of the raid warning siren pulsated through the streets. Shouts echoed throughout the settlement, as people tore down the streets in panic, monstrous humanoid creatures galloping after them. Kleiner got on the floor and pushed himself beneath the plastic chairs. Marks was still standing, entranced by the approaching cavalcade. Dr Isaac Kleiner curled up, with baby Alyx completely contained beneath him. Glass shattered and people screamed as the rioters burst through the glass doors. Alyx awoke with a cry, and Kleiner clutched her tighter. He wished he had never volunteered to join Andrew’s peace brigade. Simon was missing, he had just walked off into the night without saying a word. His wife would probably die without him, perhaps join a rogue band and splice her sorrows away. Eli was injured, he would probably die. Alyx screamed again. The baby. A dying mothers gift to them. A poor pregnant girl who had become trapped in the outskirts of the central business district whilst  the lower town was segregated to prevent a spread of madness and panic. She had managed to survive, heavily pregnant, right up until they traversed along her route. Eli was the compassionate one, and he was the one to grant the woman’s dying wish.

“Take her...away from this place…take Alyx away.”

This meagre speech seemed too much for her, and she slumped backward, eyes rolling into her head, as she exhaled for the last time. And then, a gunshot.  Another explosion rocked the foundations of the infirmary, plaster falling from the ceilings.

"There, there. It will be all right. You'll see. Everything will be just fine. Ssh."

The lights flickered and went out.

The ceiling collapsed. Dust and plaster went everywhere.

And then all was dark.

At least it had been quick.

***

As I child, I hated water. My mother once asked me why water is considered so good for you, if the touch of its cold on the bare skin is such an unpleasant stimulation. These thoughts flooded through my mind as I trudged through the dank, dark, marsh of a front yard, long since untended. I thought back to the contents of that gilded box. Once my eyes had been cast upon the article, I knew what to do. Simon was not lost. I would find him. My darling husband and I will be re-united.

Of course I was scorned.

“The Lower Town?”

They would say

“To descend into those pits you would surely have to be as mad as those who inhabit them!”

Of course they mocked me, but when my husband is in my arms, I shall mock them. I trudged further through the muck. It was easy enough to get through the quarantine barrier I thought. The security weren’t very interested in stopping people getting into the dead zone, just out. And either way, they were underpaid mop-jockeys, who probably couldn’t care less. I walked on, darkness threatening to engulf me from all sides. Decayed houses glared at me from sides of the road, like angry eyes, staring into my soul. Then, a light! A single eye bobbing in the window of a decayed mansion. Irresistible. What insane person could possibly harness the power of something so beautiful, so entrancing. I stumbled up the verge, my senses titillating with every step, my feet, gallivanting over the pavement. I stopped. This isn’t rational, I thought. I shouldn’t be stumbling into any old house. But this wasn’t any old house. I felt a certain affinity to it. I felt drawn to it. It held answers for me. Then it struck me. It was Aphrodite’s Hall! Simon and I had ridden the ride as children, and as lovers. He loved the Greek references in the structures of the ride, and I loved the calm and serenity of it all. Fauns bearing golden apples, young maidens, a cardboard Zeus seducing beautiful young women. Simon always said that this was the place that inspired him to pursue a career in Greek mythology. What an apt place for him to reside now. Of course! If the expedition has been disbanded, as it surely has been, then this would be the only place that Simon would feel safe in, in this muck of a Lower Town. I quickened my pace, stumbling over the moist flagstones, mortar between them chocked with weeds and algae A cracked and broken Neon sign lay on the ground beside the flagstone way, buzzing feebly, as if still trying to advertise the wonders within. Suddenly, a sharp glint exposed itself in the very corner of my peripheral vision. I spotted a rusted machete, nestled comfortably between a decorative rock and overgrown grass.

“Simon might not be the only one in there”

I reasoned to myself, as I began my journey forth, into the caverns within. I gingerly pushed the front door open, hinges screaming at me to oil them. I stepped onto the landing, the carpet emitting a cloud of dust as my foot came to rest there. The air within the structure was damp and musky, with the sweet smell of rampant decay. The smell caused a certain stirring within me, and sleep rose up to claim me. My eyelids heavied and I was unconscious before I hit the dusty carpet. I woke up what seemed several hours later, lying prostrate on the maroon carpet I had last stood on. I had collapsed of exhaustion. I clawed myself into a standing position, resting my weight on the arm of a chair, shaped into the likeness of a hydra. This was once a beautiful meeting hall, but now, sadly, was being slowly reclaimed by the sea. Suddenly, I heard a noise, a footstep. I straightened my back, glinting my machete fiercely in the light filtering between the boarded windows. Another noise. A figure suddenly emerged from behind one of the columns in front of me, and stared, as if daring me to make the first move, and then

“How are you madam?”

That voice. I knew that voice. But where on earth from? I combed the depths of my memory.

“The streets are no place for a pretty young woman like you”

Again, that deep, rascally voice, but where had I heard it? This…thing, could be friend, but more likely foe. He stepped forward, and suddenly his visage was thrown into full relief. His body was clad from head to toe in a long surgical garb, stained around his midriff with an unknown brown substance, possibly dried blood, or entrails. His face was swathed in a protective mask, brown where the air had penetrated the cloth so many times. His hands sported dirty gloves, and his feet wore large, once black, now somewhat brown, loafers.

“What is your business”, I requested, in a voice I hoped sounded indifferent.

“I seek only to help”, he replied. One of those men, I thought, pithy buggers, offer to help you, then make off with your shopping bags. I will not be party to this miscarriage of intelligence before me.

“Help is but the petty excuse for men with too much time and far too much promiscuity of the loins. A pretty young woman such as myself cannot be seen in the company of such an ugly being.”

Suddenly, I realised the truth of his visage. That he was rather ugly. At a second glance, you could see his body was misshapen beneath his bloody cloak, and his eyes bulged horribly behind his lopsided mask. He continued smoothly.

“I may be ugly madam, but your radiant beauty could more than make up for my hideous visage, if only those small abrasions on your cheek could be banished”

At least the bottom-feeder had got something right. I am, as Simon would say, the ‘Goddess Aphrodite, in the flesh”. Then he would tickle me and we would laugh together oh so dearly, deep into the night. Fond memories. All of a sudden, hunger reared upon me like a beast from the depths of the Atlantic. Memories of food pushed their way into my mind.

“Wouldn’t happen to have any food would you?” I requested politely. He fished around in his pocket, and pulled out a nice side of medium rare steak, not quite cooked to perfection. What an odd piece of fodder to be carrying around. Nevertheless, beggars cannot be choosers, on the other hand however, a lady has got to have standards. I laughed inwardly at the line I was about to fling to this idiotic man before me.

“You call these tenderloins?” I screeched “If you served this at any respectable restaurant in New York you’d be laughed out of town!”

However, I was probably being a little harsh in my judgement of the food, and I soon hurried to sound appreciative.

“I haven’t eaten such a meal in a long time, my dear.” I exclaimed politely, letting out a dainty cough.

He rustled his throat.

“I take it then, madam, you are happy with my donation, and, as such, would kindly allow me to perform a small rearrangement of the skin. It will allow for such purity, purity unbeknownst to humanity…until you.”

I couldn’t help but let a small giggle escape me. This man was enchanting. He reminded me of my dear Simon. I am sure Simon would love the surprise of a new and more beauteous wife. I responded in the most humble manner I could muster.

“I suppose I can help you. After all, no one else is beautiful enough for such a procedure, and perfection is, after all…most desirable.”

The doctor (for that is what his odd garb suggested) took my response without question, and immediately turned around and sped of into the bowels of the mansion, passing candelabra’s, a line of overturned ride carts, a bust of Aphrodite, then, abruptly, his voice made a cut in the otherwise still, dank air.

“Lie down!”, demanded that suave voice. My suspicions were beginning to rouse about my situation, when, suddenly, I realised, the figure standing before me was Simon, my beloved husband! My tongue froze in the depths of my mouth, mind convalescing into a numb state of shock.

“Lie down!”, my husband demanded again. Still delirious with surprise, I lowered myself onto his operating table, as he pulled the restraints over my chest, and buckled them strong in place. Then, suddenly, he made to move to the other side of the room. I overcame my paralysis and quickly uttered a question.

“Where are you going?”

“Only to retrieve my tools!”, my darling husband replied as he backed toward the edge of the room, disappearing behind a pile of boxes, and an upturned cut-out of some kind of winged monster. When would he be back? I longed to tell him of the lengths I had been to find him, but I supposed that I must hold my tongue until his re-arrangement is complete. Then he can take me in his strong, masculine arms, and we can embrace, and update each other on the passing of each of our lives. Feeling a mounting boredom in my being, I shouted to Simon in the next room, bringing him up to speed on the situations at home;

“and you might want to tell James that Maurice absolutely cannot come in tomorrow, yes, yes, dreadful head cold, and to top it all off, the flowers haven’t arrived yet! But when they do would you arrange them in that crystal vase Petunia sent me for Christmas, you know how I like them and…”

I decided to give up recounting my tales up for a later time, as I didn’t think he could hear me anyway. I tapped a beat on the table, and hummed a nameless tune, which reminded me vaguely of a Broadway play Simon and I had attended several months ago, the play during which he proposed.

“…You’re the top, you’re the Coliseum, you’re the top. You’re the Louvre museum. You’re the symphony of a melody y Strauss…”

I muttered the lyrics to the various ditties until my voice tired of it and I became still. Suddenly, Simon burst out from a door separate to that he had entered. He drew up to my table, and lowered his head to mine, as if to steal a kiss from my lips, but no. He opened his mouth, and, in a rasp, more guttural than I had ever heard him before, he whispered;

“Stop”

I immediately relaxed my puckered face and repeated back to him

“Stop?”

But Simon seemed in no mood to discuss the matter, and merely backed away whilst retrieving something ‘neath the folds of his garb. He drew closer to me, this time brandishing what I knew to have once been a surgical grade scalpel, Simon’s own, for taking wax casts and other, mostly trivial matters. It was usually kept pristine, in a velour case in his bureau, but this was no longer the case. This scalpel was one of the dirtiest infestations of grime and rust I hade ever had the misfortune of seeing in my life. He brought the scalpel closer to me. I turned away, as if denying him the right to cut me with that thing, but, I had to stay quiet. It was my duty as a woman, and a wife.

“I’m your Doctor” he whispered “Sometimes I have to hurt you”

Then suddenly, he brought down the scalpel, making a jagged incision into my breast, and down to my abdomen. An intense pain washed over me. The feeling of every bone in your body snapping, and fighting their way through your skin through each one of your pores. I struggled, but made no sound. Perhaps this was part of the procedure! I yearned it to be so. Simon would never harm me, unless, unless he’s been splicing up with the same cocktail that sent the people of the Lower Town insane. God almighty, he knew I would never touch that deadly muck, and I thought the same of him. Simon  spluttered, and, retching,  redoubled his efforts with the scalpel, and brought it down again, making my cut deeper, each time encountering more and more pain. Until, finally, the incision was massive, the pain was so much that my nervous system was overwhelmed, and now I could feel nothing all the way down to the stomach sac. Stomach sac? That was not part of my anatomy! How could this be. I am not one of those drug addicted, spliced morons, I’m a lady! The jagged holes in my ragged body were all the while spewing forth blood that was attempting to clot. My love moved up to my head. He lifted the scalpel to the soft tissue above her right ear. I could feel the cold of the scalpel emanating, casting a deathly sheen over the river of life gushing beneath my skin. He stabbed me in the head, cutting above my ear. He had been claimed by insanity too I thought. Am I the only sane person here? I then realised the gravity of my situation. I still loved Simon, so I would go at this peacefully. I relaxed, and, looking down at my stomach, I realised I could see my intestines. Shuddering, I turned my gaze to the eyes of my beloved. He picked up the scalpel, and gripped it menacingly, brandishing it like a knife and, seizing my head, he gripped it tightly in place. I had no chance. My beloved Simon carefully lined the scalpel up to my temple. And thrust, deep into it, and pushed, pushed. The scalpel buried itself deep into my brain, but then, another flash of white light blinded me, as my brain fought for the right to live. I looked into Simon’s eyes and saw a flicker of recognition, then a scream, a scream which tortured me to the depths of my very soul. He knew.

“Adelaide!”

As my vision darkened, I cast my eyes to the edge of the room, to Aphrodite’s Tunnel of Love. Simon and I had once ridden that together. I looked into the mirrors flanking each side of the ride, and saw, not myself, but a hideous creature, virtually devoid of flesh, wearing a lime green cocktail dress, and sporting a hideous, now gashed, stomach sac. I couldn’t even remember doing it. The splicing I mean. I guess I was insane too. Another bright flash of light. The man beside me grasped my hand, and looked into me with those deep brown eyes.

“Forever”, he whispered, burying the scalpel deep into his own heart. And so, we left this world together.