Noir (11 page)

“
Nooooooo
, please!” My head hits the steel back wall of the wagon and my vision blurs. I scramble to my feet and rush blind at the barred door. The guard slams it shut before I can reach it. “Please . . .” I press my face between the bars, sobbing quietly. “For the love of God, let me go.”

“Shut up,” the guard snaps and trips the lock. “Ain’t listening to this all the way.”

The other guards disperse as he rounds the front of the wagon and takes the mount. The inmates behind me howl. I look back at their harrowing faces and I fall to my knees. This can’t be happening. This can’t be real. This can’t be the end of my life.

The carriage lunges forward and I loose my balance. My eyes find C.L. through the bars. He’s crouched in the doorway of the factory, his face wet, tears pouring. My mind fills with images of Urlick locked in his own cage, kilometers away.

I’ve no way to save him now.

Part Two

S
eventeen

C.L.

Save him
for me.
Eyelet mouths to me and I’m overcome with ’elplessness. They’ve taken ’er and there was nothin’ I could do.
I will, I promise
, I mouth back to her, and sink to my knees, me ’eart squeezing in me chest so tightly, I swear I’m suffocating.

’Ow am I ever gonna free Urlick now? Me of all people. A simpleminded, armless bloke. And ’is band of broken idiots. Let alone find a way to rescue poor Eyelet.

I reach up and blot the tears from me cheek with me toe, cords pullin’ in me chest, as something lands hard on me shoulder. I turn me eyes up. “Pan! Yer ’ere.” And just in the nick! We sent ’er on a’ead to check on Urlick. She must ’ave doubled back when we were late.

“What’s wrong?” she caws, half in human, half in bird. She tilts ’er ’ead to and fro.

“I’m afraid a terrible thing ’as ’appened.” I drop me chin and roll me toes. Worry fills ’er eyes. I look up and blurt, “They’ve taken Eyelet.”

“Whaaaaaaat?”
Pan lifts from my shoulder.

“There! Up the road.” I point. “They took ’er away in the Loony Bin wagon.”

Pan’s eyes flit between the horizon and me. She circles me ’ead, frantic.

“Just loaded ’er up in the wagon and drove away, before I could think to do anythin’. I shoulda tried to stop ’em, I know I should, but I couldn’t. Not wifout givin’ up the rest.” I turn me ’ead toward the freak train, ’idden in the woods. “I shoulda done more, I know I shoulda—” I turn back to see Pan wingin’ off over the trees, a mere dot in the sky already. “That’s it, Pan!” I jump up and down, cuppin’ me ’ands to me mouth, shouting. “You go after ’er! We’ll be along as soon as we can!” I lower me voice. “As soon as I figure out what to do without ’er.” I grasp at breath, closing me eyes. “Oh, good Lord, please, watch over our Eyelet.”

I open them again, seeing Masheck still cowering in the corner of the factory, dipped in shadows. “That’s it!” I power back through the doors.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, seein’ me stormin’ toward ’im, eyes brimmin’ with frightened tears.

“Never mind all that now.” I eye ’im sharp. “We’ve more important things to attend to. And quick. Does that thing work?” I flick my gaze toward the golden beast that lured Eyelet into the factory in the first place.

“The elephant?” Masheck says. “I believe so, why?”

I train me eyes back on ’im, me stomach sparkling with a plan. A wry smile creeps over me lips. I hunker closer and stick out me chin. “I doubt them bolts ’olding yuh to that wall will be a match for ’im.” I tip my ’ead toward the elephant. “Do you?”

Masheck looks first to me and then to the elephant. “No, no, they won’t!” His eyes shine with promise.

“All right, then,” I say. “Supposin’ me and me friends was able to free yuh with the ’elp of the elephant there, you be game then to ’elp us go and get Eyelet back?”

“Absolutely, sir!” The boy rattles to the end of his chains. “What friends?” he asks, moving his head around.

I give a whistle and the freaks come running—Martin first, then Wanda, followed by a tottering and stunned-looking Sadar.

Masheck gasps as each new face appears in the shadowy, weak light of the doors at the back of the factory.

“We ’ave your word, then?” I strong-eye Masheck.

“Mine and the word of the Lord, sir.” ’E crosses ’is ’eart, tremblin’.

“Very well, then.” I tip me ’ead. “Group. Masheck. Masheck. Group.” They nod. “Good. Let’s get on this, we ’aven’t time to waste.” I start off toward the elephant, then double back. “One more thing,” I say, staring into Masheck’s eyes. “’Ow do you feel about a little prison break?”

“They’s my favourite.” Masheck smiles wide enough to show a mouthful of less-than-stellar teeth.

“Good!” I leap into action.

“Just a little more tension, sir!” Martin yells. The elephant’s gears slip and strain, and Martin changes them on the fly. With me feet, I work the three rubber-handled levers at the controls inside the chest of the massive elephant, yanking the levers forward and backward, unsure of which moves what. The oil has worked, but the age of the flywheels ’as rendered their teeth dull. They’re not gripping as they should. Slipping every second. We needs to find some new ones that aren’t so chipped and rusty. And we needs to find ’em quick.

“Flywheels? Where will we find flywheels?” I say to Masheck, jumping down from the elephant.

“In the workshop in the back. There should be some in a box on the top shelf. Careful, though, they’re pretty ancient.”

“Not as ancient as the ones inside ’im, I ’ope,” I say back over my shoulder, slinking into the other room. I gulp at the sight of the massive steam-elephant brigade lined up before me, shuddering at the thought of the damage they could do. It’s a good job they’ve just been left standing there.

For now.

I walk past them into the workshop, get a wrench, then sneak over and filch a flywheel or two . . . or three . . . make that five . . . from the hearts of the killing machines.
I’ll get ’em back to yuh.

“Again, sir!” Martin hollers above the noise of the straining gears inside the beast. The elephant falls back. I yank on another throttle. The elephant lunges forward again. Masheck’s chains ring, metallically singing, as they pull taut and stiff. The bolts in the walls creak and jitter.

“That’s it, sir, press him onward!” Martin cups his hands and shouts.

“Masheck, are you all right?” I look back, seeing a frightened, gulping boy inside a young man’s shaky skin. ’Is eyes are wide as washbasins, fixed on the giant, wobbling bolts above his head. “I’m all right, sir!” he shouts back, cringing, gnashing his teeth tightly together.

I yank the throttle back as far as possible. Flywheels whirl as the beast thrusts, attempting to raise a leg. The bolts on the wall wail and pop. The elephant’s weight shifts abruptly as the first bolt gives way. It leaves the wall like a Chinese firecracker, tearing past me ’ead, lodging into the wall on the opposite side of the room like a bullet. “Down! Everybody down!” I scream as the others give way.

Masheck ducks. Wanda, Martin, and Sadar fall to their knees. I press myself as far back inside the chest cavity of the elephant as possible, so as not to get stung. Bolt after bolt snaps loose from its fittings with deafening
thrwops
,
sailing the length of the room at ferocious speeds, clamps and all. I flinch as each one whirs past me, jumping when each meets its target. Others clank off the buttocks of the great elephant, spraying like shrapnel in every direction, pinging off other objects, and burying deep into the dirt floor. When the dust finally clears, it’s like the Brigsmen have held shooting practice. Bolts pierce every wall.

“You all right?” I turn back to Masheck, standing spread-eagled, still attached to the wall by ’is chains.

“I believe so,” ’e says. ’Is eyes are full moons. ’E lowers ’is ’ands, and ’is shackles tumble from the wall to the ground around ’im, landing with a spine-jerking
thunk
. ’E moves forward and the chains move with ’im. “I’m free!” ’E smiles.

Wanda jumps to ’er feet, clapping.

The rest follow, applauding like fools. I grin back at ’im, ’eart beating warmly in me chest.

Masheck raises his arms, cuffs still round ’is wrists. “What are we gonna do ’bout these?” ’e says. “Please don’t say the elephant.”

I laugh; so does Sadar. “Of course not.” Sadar waddles off toward the freak train. “That’ll just take a bit of butter magic.”

“I’m afraid butter won’t do it,” I holler after Sadar. “Bring the steam-powered ripsaw, you’ll find it in me pack.”

Masheck’s eyes flash. ’E stares at me stubs.

“Not to worry,” I say. “That’s not ’ow I lost ’em.”

Ei
ghteen

Eyelet

The Loony Bin wagon weaves up a path of the escarpment at the back of the city. I stare out through the bars at Brethren’s dissipating oily streets. I wish I could walk them again. This time I wouldn’t complain. I wipe a tear from my eye, remembering my last walk to school, as we rumble round a corner and through a set of iron-spear gates. A Madhouse Brink sign laughs at me from overhead, and I shiver.
What’s to become of me?
My fellow wagon-mates writhe and cry out when they realize what’s happening. I shudder at the thought of being locked up with them forever.

Clutching the bars of the cage, I press my face between them, watching the last of civilization fade away. I sob.

The Brigsman at the helm laughs. “Say good-bye to it all, little missy.”

I push back from the bars, catching my face in my hands. I’ve got to pull myself together. I cannot give up now. I have one last chance to escape this reality, when he opens the bars of this cage. I need to be ready.

I sling myself back at the bars and survey the grounds for any possible means of escape. The cloud cover up here rolls so dauntingly thick it’s almost impossible to see anything. But at last there’s a break in the mist through which I see . . . something very strange. The trees around the Brink appear to shift in position. Huge, towering,
leafless
skeletons dart here and there like ghostly apparitions, planted first in one place and then another, their movement concealed behind a wafting, foggy veil. I blink, watching it happen again and again. “What’s going on here? Why is this happening?”

“You needn’t concern yourself.” The Brigsman’s voice haunts me from the mount. It’s then I realize I’ve spoken my thoughts aloud. “You’ll never be outside again,” he cackles, and a cold, clawing chill chatters up my spine.

“What’s that? Over there!” An old woman behind me points at the sky through the bars.

I look up, squinting. A tiny blotch of black appears in the mist, just a dot at first, and then . . .

“Feathers,” I gasp. “Pan!” I lurch forward, angling my face through the cold bars. “Over here!” I reach out, waving my arms. Pan’s eyes glint red. She lowers her head and drops in on us, moving fast like a bullet toward the wagon, then cuts away. “Hold on!” she shouts as she circles up and around the guard, gaining speed and swooping down again.

I lean out, seeing feathers flying, her maw wide open. She caws, slamming into the side of the driver’s head.

“’Ey!”
he shouts and swings, defending himself. The whole wagon wobbles under his weight.
“Wha’ the . . . ?”
the driver shouts as Pan cuts around again, clipping him hard. “Bloody ’ell!” The driver falls back, yanking the reins. The horses slow to a near-staggering stop. “You’ve drawn blood, you bloody bugger!” The guard shoots up to his feet. “What’s the matter with you, you nutty bird!” He shakes his fists in the air.

“That’s it, Mum, give it to him!” I risk it all, pushing my face out between the bars.

Mother comes round again, a black, bombing, shrieking streak. My heart flies along with hers.

The guard throws up an arm, whip in his hand. Slowly he draws the whip back.

“NO!” I scream, climbing the bars. “
No!
Don’t!
Don’t, please
. . .”

The guard follows through. The lash snakes through the sky, cutting Pan right out of it. She tumbles, twisted up in the whip, and falls to the ground.

“Mother!”
I scream.

“Stupid bird,” the guard curses, then spits. He brings the reins down over the horses’ backs. The wagon lunges forward. I hold my breath as we roll overtop of her, wheels carving through the mud, narrowly missing her, nearly crushing her skull.

“Oh, Mother!” I fall to my knees, seeing her lying there in the mud, sliced and bleeding, her body unmoving. “No, Mother,
please . . . pleeeeease get up
!”

I cling to the cold bars of the wagon as we rattle away. I am soft-kneed and swaying, tears trailing down my face, watching for signs of life in her body, until at last the fog grows so thick I can no longer make out her shape on the road.

I think my mother is dead.

The wagon pulls to a jagged stop, knocking me off balance.

I brush the tears from my eyes and peer out, through the bars, at the door to my future—a massive black beast of a thing. It must be twelve or fourteen feet high. It towers over both the gates and the carriage, made of wood one moment and cast iron the next. I blink, not understanding how that’s possible. The surface of the door changes again, from dull to glistening. It shines like an oil slick atop a pond one moment . . . then solidifies to black ebony the next. Steel arches round its top and reinforce the bottom, which appears to sink below the building’s foundation line.

I shudder, my eyes fixed on the strange iron handle bolted to the middle of the door, as it lifts from its position and divides into slithering tentacles. One by one the octopus-like arms stretch out from the face of the door, tentacles splayed and groping, as if in search of something. As if it’s sensed we’re here.

Below the handle is carved a message, incised deep into the face of the shifting oily wood. The letters are indiscernible—in another language, perhaps? Or from another world.

I rub my arms, trying to calm my prickling skin, struggling to keep my head together
,
my mind floundering between Urlick’s fate and my own.

What will become of us? Of me? Of him?

Of my mother, back on the road.

I need a plan and I need one quick.
What on earth am I to do?

Frantically, I scan the premises as the guard moves in, his face a white flash of moon against the dark, steaming sky. The prisoners behind me shudder and scream, pasting themselves to the back wall of the wagon in a feeble attempt to escape him as he works open the bars.

“All right, ’oo’s first?”

There’s a shunt of an engine. Grey mist purges up from the building’s footings. Beyond it, faces emerge from the door. Silhouettes, in human form. Cheeks and noses, chins and foreheads, shrieking, howling, desperate hands clawing—pressing in and out of the door’s oily surface, as if there were humans trapped within the door itself.

I gasp and fall back. My heart a drum in a cage.

“It only gets better from here,” the Brigsman laughs. He drifts forward, undoing the locks, swinging the cage door open. “Ain’t no use strugglin’ now,” he warns in a low growl, reaching for us.

The other prisoners scream. I wait to see a space between the door and his shoulder, then leap out and over his head, stretching my legs as far as I can, but it’s no use—he catches me midair. He reels me in. “Guess this means you’ve volunteered to be first.”

“Let go of me!” I struggle, falling into his arms.

He laughs and smacks the cage door shut and drives down the pin, locking the rest of the screaming inmates in again.

“No!” I punch and kick as he drags me toward the ominous black door. My heel strikes him hard in the shins.

“Ain’t gonna do yuh no good to struggle,” his bitter voice
thwangs
in my ear. “Only gonna make yer journey worse.”

“You have no right to put me here!” I slam my fists against his chest. “I’ve done nothing wrong!”

“That’s what they all say.” He laughs and flips me up over his shoulder, hanging me upside down by the feet. “’Ere’s ’oping yuh ’ave a pleasant stay.”

“No!” I squirm. The door handle’s tentacles reach out for me. “No,
please
!” I bat away their suction-cupped arms.

The guard trips a lever and the door starts to spin, revealing a giant black hole. I fling myself upward, bending away from it, but it’s no use . . . the guard stuffs me through anyway . . . I’m swallowed whole. Razor-sharp fangs bear down on me. I squeeze shut my eyes and scream.

“Tuck your ’ead,” the guard shouts, letting go of my legs. “Yuh dun’t want the pins to hit yuh anywhere but in the back, trust me!”

I fall, screaming, spiraling, into the building, falling, falling, through some sort of wall-less chute. Everything is dark and hot and hideously loud. Voices shriek in agony as I tumble past them. I bring my hands to my ears, trying to shut out the noise. But I can’t. It’s as if their screams are inside of me, have become a part of me—or maybe,
just maybe . . .
it’s not them.

It’s me.

I pull my knees to my chest and tumble head over heels now, out of control, praying the end is near and quick. I land with a
thunk
on what feels like an unforgiving bed of needles. Pain pierces through me, up my neck from my back. My arms go limp and numb at my sides. I can no longer feel my legs, my toes, my fingers, my lips.

It’s as if I’ve been injected with some sort of anesthetic.

The thoughts in my mind grow dizzy and blur . . . and then wipe away altogether. I struggle to hold on to what little fragments I have left.

“Welcome,” a woman’s voice says over me. Fractured lines of a face wobble into view.

“I’m not supposed to be here,” I whisper. “There’s been a mistake.”

“You and the other eight hundred and fifty inmates,” she says.