[Urban Fantasy] Fist Full of Clay [Scene Four]

Whatever Grid Eight used to be, it was long forgotten. Some speculate it was a service center where the early diggers slept and lived while working this deep. Some think it’s the remains of a subway station that was abandoned half way thought construction. Whatever it was, it wasn’t anymore. What it became was my domain, my piece of solace. A place where people lived with simple ignorance of their status up top.

I brush past the small bazaar, everything from food to junk being bartered, and offer a wave towards the trio of old men who sit slumped in their rocking chairs. The three of them offer nothing but a silent nod as I continue along my merry. I pass families laughing, music playing, dogs barking- Mind you, I also pass through the coughing, the pained, and the simply hungry. But what can I say? I’ve decided to wear my rose tinted glasses today. Grid Eight is a pocket of humanity in the Underneath which means you get the good and the bad.

I start my rounds. I move from huddled mass to huddled mass, my haul growing lighter as I ‘share the wealth’. Please, don’t take this as a sign that I’m a nice guy. Really, I’m not. But in Grid Eight, you don’t survive when you’re greedy.  Grid Eight is beautifully communal or beautifully socialist depending on if you watch Fox News. I get the traditional slaps on the back, a few cheers, maybe a hug or two from some rugrats before  I finish my wade through Grid Eight. I move to my little corner in the station, slip into my tent, and drop what remaining loot I have.

Max is sitting in front of television, a bowl of beans balanced on his stomach as a shoeless foot attempts to adjust the rabbit ears on top of the set in order to get a clearer picture. Max isn’t exactly what you call the peak of human perfection. In truth, he’s a rather shitty side kick. He is about forty pounds over weight, smelled like the end result of a carnival’s port-o-john, and seemed content with wearing the same torn jeans and flannel shirt. And that is just touching on his physical flaws. You know when someone says ’atleast he has a good personality’? Well, they wouldn’t say that about Max. He doesn’t. He’s an old, cranky, and some-what insane man. However, Max was one of those rare norms who could see through the Veil which means that he made for a good middle man. When  the ‘Magic-Kin’ wished to know something mortal or do something in the mortal realm, Max was their man. Plus, given the man’s age, he was an encyclopedia of knowledge when it came to the unknown.

‘How’d it go?” Max asks as his toe nudges the  rabbit’s ears just enough to allow for a woman’s moan to escape from the speaker before the static returns. He looks towards me and shovels a spoonful of beans into his mouth. I don’t give him anything verbal. I just open my jacket to show the signs of buckshot. Max eyes the damage, notes my anger, and the belches. “Well, I did warn you about shotguns.”

“No, Max. You didn‘t,” I shoot back as I move towards the television. I take hold of the rabbit ears and the screen suddenly breaks into perfect clarity. Whatever went with building me involved electricity which allowed little tricks like this possible.  “You warned against the sprinkler system but said I had nothing to worry about as long as they didn’t start a fire.”

Max turns his focus back towards the television and shrugs his shoulders. Apparently, the skin-flick on the television held more interest. “Then watch out. I hear they might have shotguns. Happy now? Sheesh, you big baby.”

“I was shot, Max.”

“And I have crabs, your point?”

I let go of rabbit ears and move to where I had thrown the bag of loot. After the run through of Grid Eight, it was lighter than it had previously been. I pull out the remain stacks of bills from the bag, pull open the loose panel from the floor, and slip it all away with the rest of my ‘horde’. Technically, this isn’t all mine. A third of it belongs to Max, but Max isn’t good with money so I helped monitor it for him. Insert Jewish stereotype here.

Afterwards,  I grab one of the many cans of spackle and a putty knife and flop down into the arm chair next to Max. I pull my shirt over my head and begin to work repairing the damage. I’m not exactly Michelangelo but I’ve down this enough to fill in the hole, even it out, and maybe attempt a redefinition of muscles.

“Any deaths?” Max asks as his foot abandons the top of the set to move to the dials below. He does some fancy foot work to turn the set off and turns his attention to me. I just shake my head. I splatter another glob  of spackle onto my chest deciding that the silent treatment was best used on Max.

He seems to get the point and focuses on his beans. He brings his beans midway to his mouth before freezing. And when I say freezing, I mean a solid freeze. Statues could take pointers from him. My brow wrinkles as a I stand, unsure if this was serious or if Max had been working on this act for awhile. If he had…too much time on his hands. A bum with time on his hands? I know, imagine the impossibilities.

Then I notice the sounds around me. There isn’t any. That music and laughter and coughing and barking? All gone. All silenced. Mute.

I walk out of the tent and look around. The entire Grid Eight stood frozen around me. The only movement involved the trio of old men swaying in their rocking chairs. The dogs are even still. It was like everybody just decided to stop and freeze for a portrait. One thing is different about them all, however. Their bodies might be frozen but their eyes sure aren’t. As I pass them, I see their eyes dart towards me in panic. Some simply look around, confused and lost. And I know that look. It’s the look I saw in the eyes of the security guard I punched out earlier. It was the brain unable to handle all this. This was Veil work. No doubt about it.

I move down the isles of tents, tables, anywhere. Every place I go, people seem stuck. I find a father holding his child over his head. I find a couple in the act of making love. I find a few rats who seem to have decided to join in the party and remain still on top of a hunk of unguarded cheese.

The lights flicker once before shutting off completely. And in the blanket of darkness, I hear what can only be describe as the sound a cat makes when you skin it alive. A horrible shrieking that would rupture my ear drums if I had any. What’s worse, the shrieking isn’t just coming from one spot. It’s coming from multiple spots all round me. I wasn’t just dealing with one thing. I was deal with -a lot- of things.

Oy vey.