Filaria (10 page)

McCreedy snorted but held his retort.

“You can’t leave us,” Phister said.

“Listen. I fed you, and I tried to help you. All I received for my efforts was verbal abuse and a blow to the nose. I am unaccustomed to such treatment. I was doing you a favour. I am unaccustomed to the company of ill-bred men.
Adieu
. And
bonne chance
.”

“Go fuck yourself,” McCreedy said, peering out from under his cap with hooded eyes. “And stick your fancy words up your ass.”

“A clever comeback,” said Philip. “What else could I expect?”

Young Phister motioned with a sweep of one arm, indicating the stacks of boxes both near and far and the strange, seemingly endless areas that lay beyond and between them. “But
where
do we go? I mean, how
big
is this warehouse?”

Philip shrugged. “Nobody I’ve encountered in my extensive travels has seen
all
its extremities. Though logic dictates such borders must exist. There has to a north, south, east, and west to all places, no? Four boundaries, a top, and a bottom?” Clearly, Philip relished opportunities for impromptu lessons; he relished the sound of his own voice. “I can tell you one thing: there are thousands — possibly hundreds of thousands — of receptacles stored here.”

“Is there
another
layer of the world, Philip, like this one? Another one? Above?” Now that he’d encountered this place, and thought a little about it, the notion of a
third
layer, possibly even a fourth — piled one on top of the other — seemed to be a possibility. Anything did. Phister had pointed up, but warily, as if by aiming his finger at the high ceiling he might bring down some sort of wrath upon their collective heads. He felt the weight of the answer before he heard Philip’s response.

“Of course there is. More levels than you could imagine. They go up
forever
. Well, at least until they hit the suns. The whole thing is capped off with the blue sky. The top of the world.”

Despite anticipating this, the news was more unsettling to Phister’s already unsettled state than he had prepared himself for. Really, how could he assimilate this? Sitting there, stunned, he wondered if he ever would. Who would he be, this time tomorrow, if he were even still alive? Knowledge like this would surely change him. Change would surely kill him. Gripping the railing with one hand, and gripping the doorframe with the other, he said, “Don’t abandon us. Look, McCreedy has, well, he has problems. He won’t attack you again.”

“Like fuck I won’t,” McCreedy said. “You little freak. You fence-sitter. Listen to me.” One of those lifeless gloved hands lifted from the car’s rail but did not make it quite as far as Phister’s wrist. “This asshole won’t ever leave us, Phister. You know that?”

The first time McCreedy had used Phister’s name —
ever
. Just when Phister had been thinking he might not be able to get shocked any further. “What are you talking about?”

“He wants our car,” McCreedy said.

“
What
?” Philip sneered. “That’s absurd. Why in the world would I want a jalopy such as this?”

McCreedy set his jaw, as if it hurt to speak. “Think about it, boy. Think about how fast he climbed up onto this fucker, when he flagged us down in the corridor. Claimed he was looking for some twins and then right away he takes us here, to
this
place. Without a second thought. Right? What ever happened to looking for his friends? He
knew
we would be caught off guard here. It’s a trap. You think about it, boy. Don’t trust any hairy-headed motherfuckers. Not with teeth like that. You assholes want to tie me up and gag me, go ahead. Do what you want. But you think about what I say.”

Philip had opened his mouth in disbelief. “These absurd accusations! If you were not a sick, malnourished man, I would challenge you to a duel, right here on the spot.”

“Challenge away.” McCreedy glowered.

Young Phister furrowed his brow, staring down at the little grey tiles on the floor and thinking — as McCreedy had suggested. Maybe the old man did have a point. Maybe Philip was up to something. Certainly, the stranger was no longer as alluring as he had once been. But they needed him now, more than ever.

“Phister, I tell you, boy, that theory is utter gibberish. I’m offering help. Of mutual benefit. Why would I need a vehicle?”

Yet Philip was actually climbing onto the car again, giving McCreedy clearance as he did so, though the old man only turned his head to watch. Holding onto his ribs, a little worse for wear, Philip settled as best as he could behind Phister. “Look, if you keep driving straight ahead for about a day you’ll be over the area of the basement where you’re from. I know where it is. I’m pretty sure. You’re from Public Works. I’d heard rumours about a backward tribe living there, in some remote dead end. Your ancestors were caretakers. Garbage men. Sewer workers. I’ll get you home, if that’s what you want. And you can rest assured I’ll warn you in advance if there’s going to be a change in the scenery that might incite a seizure in our friend here.”

McCreedy shook his head wearily. “More and more bullshit. Watch him, boy. Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you. But I’m gonna stop trying to save your ass now. Me and you never liked each other but don’t ever say I never tried to warn you.”

“Sure,” Phister said. He had actually begun to feel sorry for McCreedy. Pangs of guilt stabbed at him like stiff fingers. And he had never known that McCreedy didn’t like
him
. Not formally. Not in words.

The car rolled forward, moving into the massive space that Philip called the warehouse. Either side, stacks of crates gave the illusion of walls, yet when Phister looked at them he saw gaps between the stacks where more and more boxes and dusty crates were visible. Rows upon rows upon rows. Cobwebs and hanks of dust hung from these containers like streamers at a deserted party. So Phister asked what might possibly be the contents of all these boxes.

“Supplies,” Philip answered. “What else would be in a warehouse? Components. Nuts and bolts. Panelling and stones. Spare parts. Raw biomass. That sort of thing.” Seeing the blank look on Young Phister’s face, he said, in patronizing tones, “Look, when the initial engineering aspects of the world were completed — before the staff was hired, trained, put into place, or built, as the case may be — the engineer himself had this level packed to the rafters with supplies. I’ve heard say there’s enough material here to rebuild
all
the machines once over from scratch and re-grow
all
the organics.”

Some crates they passed had been broken into; foam-like substances spilled forth, exposing shadowed contents.

McCreedy said, “Which way now, lovebirds?”

The car had reached a junction between towering piles, where an intersection of aisles forming a clearing.

Philip pointed.

Chancing a glance behind the car, as they continued on, looking down an avenue not taken, Phister spied something small and smooth and silver duck quickly out of sight. His heart skipped a beat. Saying nothing, he watched closely where the thing had been but did not see any other movements. The aisle vanished. Were they driving into a trap? Were Philip’s strange little minions following the car, getting ready for an ambush? He squinted over at the man, trying to read him. As if for clues, he scrutinized Philip’s long hair, recalled a vision of those strange, square teeth. His palms tingled.

“Any food in these boxes?” McCreedy asked. “Any fucking canteens in this place?”

Staring ahead, Philip ignored the questions.

Over the next few moments, Phister tried to control his imagination: it was soaring. He scanned up and down the cliffs of crates and containers, peered into narrow aisles.

An ancient, alien landscape: shadowy, inert, mysterious.

And vast.

“When we, uh, when we first met,” Phister said nervously, to fill the silence, and though his voice broke and his words were whispered, they still seemed to echo and boom in the space around him, “you told me you were a man, uh, a man made of cloth. What, what does that mean?”

“A man
of
the cloth.” Philip laughed, a scornful sound rather than one of amusement. “The cloth was actually a ribbon. Cut, in fact, during the grand opening ceremony. The engineer read from his notes and cleaved the ribbon with a pair of oversized scissors. People clapped, cameras flew about. Permanent residents, temporary guests, dignitaries filed in — staff was already in place, you see. Then events beyond the sky transpired, on the third day. The rest, as they say, is history. No one could ever leave. Only because I am representative,” he lowered his voice: this was secret, apparently, “I have a piece of that very cloth. Look here.”

A scrap of red fabric had been sewn into the inside of Philip’s dirty jacket, which he now held proudly open. The grubby, threadbare fragment hardly appeared to be a noteworthy artifact. Though Phister wanted to keep the conversation going, he could think of nothing to say about the rag. Instead he stared at it as if its significance were obvious and astounding.

Quietude closed in once more. Shadows took on ulterior motives and stalked the car. Phister had hoped to dispel these, and maybe discern what the stranger’s agenda might be, yet he understood very little of what the man had said and now felt no better for the brief discourse. There was a part of him that wanted to prove to McCreedy that he was not easily sucked in — that he didn’t buy, outright, the dandy’s slick lines and confidence. Another part of him suspected it was too late, that he had already blown his and McCreedy’s chance to get out of whatever situation they were in —

McCreedy shouted: “Holy shit!”

Swerving, tires squealing, the car fishtailed, bumped over something — front wheels,
bump
, back wheels,
bump
— before sliding sickeningly, sideways, to an abrupt halt.

Silence. Lingering, absolute silence.

“What the hell was that?” Phister asked, breathless, heart racing. He looked back to see settling dust. “Did we hit something?”

The other two men looked back also. Philip’s fingers dug into Phister’s shoulder.

Nothing. Boxes. Narrow aisles. Roiling dust —

There. In the murk, a dull glimmer. A silvery glare. Bigger than Phister’s forearm, trying to get to its feet, clearly crippled by the accident — hips, possibly spine crushed — a tiny silver man, struggling to drag himself away. Miniature legs trailed uselessly. No cries or moans issued from the resolute figure; for Phister, that was the eeriest part.

“A picker,” Philip finally said, letting out his breath. “That’s all. Just a picker.”

“What the fuck is a picker?”

“Workers, down here in the warehouse.”

“But what is it? Is it
alive
?”

“Alive? Like you and the boy? No. It’s like a machine, mostly. With a rudimentary intelligence. They work down here, in the warehouse. Like all devices with a little bit of a brain, they get told what to do by their supervisor. They pick items from crates when orders come in. You really shouldn’t have run it down.”

“The fuckin thing fell off a box right in front of me. It fell under the tires.”

Phister was half out of his seat but Philip pushed him back down.

“Leave it. There are multitudes. Others will come get it, reintegrate it. We should move on.”

“Look,” Phister said, pointing, “there’s two more.”

From the lip of a crate high overhead, the tiny pair peered down. The pickers did not retreat or pull back, though it must have been clear to them they had been spotted. Their heads were about the size of a rat’s egg: no features to be seen, no eyes to belie expression, no mouth, no nose. Nonetheless, the two aimed their dully gleaming faces down at the car with obvious intensity, and Phister knew, with certainty, that they were interested in
him
.

“I wonder what they’re up to,” Philip said, asking himself the question. “Making something? Changing something in the world? What have we stumbled on?”

Phister looked back once more to see the picker they had run over, yet only a trail remained, dragged clean through the dust.

“It’s gone,” Young Phister said. “The first one’s gone now.”

McCreedy took his foot off the brake. Above, the two watching pickers dwindled out of sight. Phister’s skin tingled. At least he no longer suspected that Philip was organizing an ambush: the stranger had seemed as surprised and tense about the accident as did he and McCreedy.

He hoped he would never see one of the little men again, not for as long as he lived, but this wish was quickly dashed when the car rolled past the biggest crate yet, and into a somewhat clear area, where dozens — maybe hundreds — of pickers stood shoulder to shoulder. They covered every conceivable surface. Swarming, the little men clambered over each other, heaped into a pile that glittered sickly in the diffused green light. But activity stopped as the car moved slowly into the clearing. And also came to a halt. Hundreds of blank faces turned toward the vehicle.

“Shit,” McCreedy said, and, fumbling, backed up.

Philip hissed, “Wait. Look.
Look
there.”

In the midst of the tiny men — what they covered, and had been working on — stood another figure, towering over the crates. A stationary black giant whose face, glimpsed now between the bodies of the pickers, was similar to those of the hordes, only bigger, and darker. Standing with arms at its sides, feet together, the vision of the giant coalesced as Phister gawked.

All those pickers, stilled in their toil, held miniature tools in mid-swing.

“They’re constructing some form of
soldier
,” Philip whispered, rising from his place, one hand on each of the other men’s shoulders. “Stop the car, stop the car. We’re witnessing something incredible, something extraordi
naire
. These are preparations for defense, a sign that the network is still functioning in some manner. What is it fighting? We
must
evaluate this.”

But McCreedy, without taking his eyes off the giant, continued to back up. Nor was Phister really interested in sticking around. In fact, the more he stared, the more pickers he saw. They really were everywhere, melting from the shadows.