Gabriel’s Watch - Book One: The Scrapman Trilogy (15 page)

“Indeed. Well, you can believe whatever you want, Alice. None of it really matters anymore.”

“And now we finally agree on something.” She smiled for the first time in a long while. I took it in like a breath of fresh air, letting it fill me up until it felt as though I might burst. “So what do you think of when you look at all those ruins up there?” she asked, tilting her head upward.

I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. Pain, I guess.”

“Exactly!” she exclaimed, poking me hard in the chest. “I knew you would say that. And do you know what I see?”

I took a step backward, sparing myself any further prodding. “What?”

“I see a beginning, a fresh start.”

I shook my head in wonder, only half smiling. “I wish I could see the way you do.”

Alice motioned toward a large black book that had been slumped open amidst the collage of digital display devices. “Well, have you found your answers in there yet?”

The book was the Bible, our religious manuscript dating back a couple thousand years. Unlike Zeke I hadn’t read my book cover to cover, but rather thumbed through its countless stories, and was instantly taken aback by the peculiar dialogue in which it was written; I had later deemed it a quite tedious and impossible task. Alice must have caught me flipping through it at my leisure as I’d waited for something to leap off the page and smack me right in the face, some miraculous footnote with my name printed on it, but I’d recently concluded that no such text existed.

“No,” I said, shaking my head.

“That’s because you’re looking too hard,” Alice said, leaning toward me. “If you had your eyes open, Miles, you would never have made it past Genesis.”

I felt my brow furrow. “What do you mean?”

“It’s so obvious. I’m Eve, you’re Adam,” she lifted her finger toward the roof of our enclosure, “and that land of ruin that you can’t bear to look at, that’s our Eden.”

Her words twisted through me and solidified into some frightening form of logic. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it really was that cut and dried.

“Oh yeah?” I pointed to Zeke. “I guess that makes him the snake then.”

“Wrong again.” She shook her head. “It’s your own feverish ambition that’s the snake, and he ... ” Alice glanced back at the robot, who’d just applied an energy drink sticker to his chest, smoothing it out and nodding in approval. The sticker was comprised of three parallel slash marks, coming together to form a gruesome letter M. The letter, if I’m not mistaken, had stood for
Monster.
“And he ... ” she continued. “ ... he’s the apple.”

“Wow, you’ve been thinkin’ about this for awhile?”

“Only recently,” she said, taking a step away and changing the subject completely. “I’ve got a surprise for you tonight, Miles. It
is
your birthday, after all.”

“My birthday?” I asked, scratching the top of my head. “How do you know it’s my birthday?”

I had long since lost track of the days and weeks and months. I wasn’t even quite sure what year it was anymore, let alone the exact day. Before the entirety of this scenario, I might have envisioned myself much like a captive, etching each rising sun meticulously into a stone wall. I instead had let them slip away undocumented, melting into the past without the addition of any discernable or chronological order. Time had just become a series of nameless waves and ripples, just an abrasive force that would gradually wear a man down to his defining core.

Alice turned slightly away as the length of her black hair, resting on her shoulders, accentuated the perfect curvature of her body. “We’ve tasted the forbidden fruit, Miles,” she said, almost flirtatiously, “and now we’re privileged to all sorts of neat information.”

“Ah, I see.”

Zeke twisted its head in our direction. “A man approaches from the west,” it advised.

Alice stepped into the hallway, her eyes still locked on me, and that unusual smile spreading like liquid atop her lips. “Your westward man approaches, Miles,” she said. “Best not keep him waiting.”

I watched as she disappeared behind the slab of earth that signified this side of the hall, leaving my mind absolutely swimming with the possibilities of her claims. There was a new dynamic at work here, I was sure of it. Our relationship was moving, evolving into something else entirely. And I found myself excited by it, truly excited. I was somehow unaware of the ridiculous grin that had formed over my face—until the robot had pointed it out, that is.

“What’s gotten into you, Fritz?” it asked.

Fritz was a character from the novel’s screen adaptation in the early twentieth century. He was the Doctor’s cruel, hunchback assistant, the guy tasked with the dirty duties of grave-digging and body-snatching. It seems that I bore a striking resemblance to this character, seeing that it had been me bringing home the mechanical bacon during Zeke’s tedious construction.

“Nothin’, Scraps,” I answered, addressing it with a moniker of my own. “Can’t a guy be in a good mood?”

But Zeke didn’t respond. The robot instead tapped gently at the side of its head, letting me know I’d be well under surveillance once I reached the surface. I don’t believe this action was designed to be threatening, rather an ill-attempt to put me at ease; but—something the machine had yet to learn—the awkward knowledge of being watched isn’t always a soothing or pleasant one. There are times when we seek the silence of solitude for self-reflection, self-loathing, or just the judgeless freedom to feel sorry for ourselves. But privacy had soon become a virtue, a very precious commodity, since the Zeke had come to stay.

I gave the robot a sideways salute before venturing up the steps and out into the humid afternoon air. I found a bright red sun staring back at me, bearing down on our unfortunate little planet, and spilling its steaming heat out onto the streets like some gigantic solar cauldron. The edge of the horizon shimmered with clear waves, making the darkened figure walking the westward road appear more like a wispy spirit than a man. I lifted my hand in greeting as the figure did the same, and then walked to the perimeter fence to meet him there.

“Tell me, Miles,” Mohammad started, nearing the gate, “how is it that you always seem to know when I’m here?”

“Just luck, I suppose,” I lied.

But the way the man eluded my gaze, averting his attention instead to the junkyard beyond, led me to believe the Fijian had been drawing his own conclusions.

I watched as he studied the piles of debris on my side of the fence in a way he’d never done in all his many visits. It made me increasingly uneasy with each passing moment. I felt eternity unravel before he finally turned to look me dead in the face again. He squinted at me, further inquisition taking form in his brown eyes.

“Sounds like fiction to me,” he said, wiping his nose with a rough and weathered hand. “I’d say you had spies on the lookout.”

I smiled and let out a small chuckle, but the man didn’t join me in laughter like I’d hoped. So I cleared my throat and went on to more meaningful matters: “So what’s the word out there, Mohammad?”

The man didn’t answer right away, apparently seeing fit to hold me in his scrutiny for just a while longer.

I was truly saddened to find his trust in me beginning to fade. Mohammad had been the closest thing I’d had to a friend in a very long while, and feeling that bond starting to weaken was much like witnessing the construction of an invisible wall—the slapping of mortar and the drop of each individual stone—as it ascended between us. He’d been becoming increasingly agitated with my brevity the past couple weeks, along with my ability to dance around each leery subject.

But Mohammad still did me the great favor of being my eyes and ears as Saint John continued to assemble his militia, keeping me informed of his intentions. Mohammad was one of many men that could venture into that part of town, and he was well known there. The word was spreading, he’d told me, and unfortunately it was my name on the lips of the people.

According to Mohammad, Saint John still had no idea that he even knew who I was, let alone where to find me. And I trusted, despite his ever-present irritation, that his integrity would never waver, and that he was still someone I could trust.

“Saint John is still looking for you, Miles.” Mohammad’s voice had grown terribly monotoned, lacking that spark and energy I used to know; he seemed almost bored with the topic now. But still he continued, “Says he wants to talk about your little escape back there. And, speaking of which, I’m hearing some strange stuff, Man— hoping you could shed some light on it.”

I would have liked nothing more than to be an open book for the guy, but given the outrageousness of the actual truth and the responsibility I had to keep that truth safe, I was well aware of the fibbing I’d be obligated to engage in instead. All of my life, lying was never my strong suit; that used to be something I was proud of, but as of now, it was just another burden.

“Shoot,” I said.

“At first I heard that a man had come to get you, but—somehow—more than a man,” he started. “The way they describe him, he almost seems supernatural.” Mohammad paused there for just a moment to study me, then continued, “And now I’m hearing about a woman, too, a woman ... with a knife?”

“It’s all lies, Mohammad,” I huffed at him. “They let me go—plain and simple. They’re just trying to stir up a little superstition to get people to join their ranks.”

“Then how do you explain the marks on Claire’s neck?”

“I don’t know. If none of it’s true, then I can’t have an answer for everything you’re hearing.”

“So you’re telling me you don’t know anything about a demon or a woman?”

“A
demon
, really? Can’t say I do, Pal.” I turned to briefly inspect the junkyard. “I think I’ve got Bigfoot stashed away in here somewhere though, if you want to take a look.”

Mohammad was visibly unimpressed; I could tell by the way his jaw had clenched together. “I should have known better than to expect a straight answer out of you, Miles,” he said, removing a bag from his shoulder. He tossed the thing to the ground and knelt to open it.

“What you got there?” I asked.

“If I’m not mistaken, last time we traded breakfast you went and got yours stolen by a truckload of nasty agents, right?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“So I thought we’d try again—for better luck.” Mohammad proceeded to pull a number of pigeons from the grey sack. “What do you have back there, anyway?”

“I dunno, haven’t checked the trap yet,” I said, tilting my head to listen, “but judging by the silence, I’d say I caught a big, fat goose egg.”

“A goose egg sounds delicious.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What say we have a look then?” Mohammad offered, motioning for me to unlock the gate.

I popped open the lock and let the man in, much like a gentleman who had nothing to hide, but in reality, quite the opposite was true. We made our way past the skeletal Monte Carlo and came to the trap. And there, suspended by the thin wire about four feet or so in the air, was a pearly-white rabbit. It kicked furiously once we’d rounded the corner upon it, but didn’t let out so much as a peep.

“Beats the heck out of a raccoon!” I shouted, scaring the poor thing into a small seizure.

“Allow me.” Mohammad retrieved a hunting knife from his jacket, gripped the sprightly mammal by the ears, and sliced it just below the jaw line. A couple expertly executed incisions later, and he’d managed to slip the entire skin off like a winter coat.

“That was pretty incredible,” I said, in awe over the man’s obvious skills as a hunter.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Mohammad said, freeing the naked carcass from the wire, “start up that grill, Miles.”

“Sure thing.”

After finding something suitable enough to pass as a seat, we both enjoyed the cooked rabbit, along with tasty bits of bird. I was mindful to keep a generous portion off to the side for Alice, while Mohammad had packed some away as well, no doubt thinking ahead to when the pangs of hunger would surely return. We spoke of many things, but not of the diner. I think there had been some kind of unspoken agreement between the two of us that morning, a silent deal made for the sake of breakfast, to just give Dingy Pete’s a rest for the remainder of our visit.

We instead conversed about anything else—the way he would climb coconut trees in Fiji as a child, and all the mischief he and his band of misfits would get into. The stories were wonderful, so wonderful in fact that I hardly had one with which to compete. But I’d felt his trust in me returning nonetheless.

Something I believe most humans have in common (or had in common, depending on when you’re reading this) is this unshakeable affinity for a barbeque, and the end of the world only seems to have intensified that truth. A meal such as this was something you would—quite literally—kill for, if given no other option.

Luckily no killing was deemed necessary, except—of course—for the rabbit and pigeons.

I watched as Mohammad looked up into the clear, blue skies and fixated on something in the distance. He raised his hands to block the sun.

“What the hell is that?”

I looked up and out into the same direction. “What the hell is what?”

“That,” Mohammad pointed, “right above those hills.”

It was then that I saw what he’d been talking about, glistening there in the sky like the North Star in the middle of the day; its silverfish gleam an immense blemish beneath the sun.

“Oh, that,” I said. “Looks like a plane or something.”

“Yes, but when was the last time you saw a plane?”

“It’s been a long time.”

“Right, so what the hell is that?” he repeated.

I knew what I wanted to say, but was afraid to. I think we both were, which is probably why he was trying to get me to say it first. I said it looked like a plane, which was semi-true. The fact that it was defying gravity, had a reflective surface, and was too far away to observe any substantial detail, were three legitimate reasons to bring up an airplane. But, upon further inspection, the thing really didn’t seem to be moving in any given direction. It just insisted on sitting there like a small silver lump in the sky.