Beyond the Pale -Part 137
Hola, faithful readers!
We're back with yet another installment of Beyond the Pale. New chapters will go up on Monday. Stay tuned!
*****
The Steel Sky was not a place for the faint of heart, nor for the claustrophobic. Vicky lost sight of the real, soot-covered sky soon after they made their way across the first catwalk. It looked as though the factories had been built first, with huge exhaust pipes and smaller ones for pumping water and whatever else went in and out of the huge plants. The rickety wooden shacks in which the residents of the Junkyard lived out their lives had been built under and around the fantastically-shaped metalworks, and the whole structure appeared to rise and writhe in and out of itself like a living creature.
“It’s not too far now,” Ferguson was saying, ducking into another alleyway.
It might have been a street for all Vicky knew -they all looked like alleyways to her. From somewhere that sounded as though it might be extremely far away or just around the corner came a terrible cry and a thick splashing sound. Monroe instinctively reached for his gun, and Vicky glanced around involuntarily, looking for the source of the disturbance, but Ferguson waved them down.
“Some poor sod fell into the Sludge. It happens every few days. Don’t go looking for’m, it’s too late the minute you’re in there. People fall in, and nothing can save them.”
“Doesn’t anyone try to help?” Blanton was indignant.
Ferguson shrugged. “Sure, some try. You can always find some poor bastard willing to be a hero who’ll jump in after them. We never see the heroes again either. It’s toxic in that water. If you don’t drown or choke to death, the chemicals’ll get you, sure enough. Living in Junkyard’s like that. You live here until something gets you: the Sludge, lung rot from the ghost rock soot, or something worse.”
“Worse?”
That got them a wicked grin. “There’s the Lurkers, of course. No one knows exactly who or what they are. They come out at night and attack people, leave them all black and blue in the alleys. I heard tell it was a gang of men, but others say they’re monsters. Mind you,” he added, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking more mischievous than ever, “I never heard of a monster that was so keen on rifling through people’s pockets. Here we are.”
They had stopped in front of a small two-story building that looked sturdier than most of the others. It had clearly been one of the first buildings erected in the Junkard, and the builders hadn’t had to make bizarre architectural allowances for it the way most of the others had. It was clean and whitewashed, with green paint on the front door and windowsills, and looked homey and welcoming compared to the rest of the soot- and grime-covered Junkyard. Above it Vicky could see a patch of soot-filled sky. Monroe rummaged in his pocket and produced a quarter, which he handed to Ferguson.
“There’s the rest of it. Will you wait for us?”
Ferguson pocketed the coin so quickly they almost didn’t see his hands move. “I’ll do ya one better and go in with you. Doc Yates is good, but maybe I’d better introduce you first.”
They stepped into a well-scrubbed entrance, which would have been light and airy if there had been any real light outside to filter in through the windows. Two sturdy benches lined the walls, and a portrait of a well-dressed young man with a small boy on his knees hung on a far wall. Monroe settled Vicky down on one of the benches.
“Stay put, and we’ll see if the doctor’s in.”
Ferguson, less inclined to stand on ceremony than Monroe, had already barged through a door leading into the rest of the house. “Doc!” he yelled. “Doc, it’s Ferguson! I got someone to see you!”
A moment later a voice called back. “Gracious, Ferguson Mullins. You’ll wake the dead, yelling like that.”
The voice was gentle and deep, and seemed filled with warmth and humour. When the owner of the voice appeared, Vicky guessed immediately that this was Yates himself, and not an assistant or partner. He was an older man, dressed soberly in a grey suit that was well-kept but was clearly old and worn. His black hair and beard were shot through with silver, and small gold spectacles sparkled on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a startling bright blue, and gazed intelligently at them.
“What’s this, then? Ferguson, who have you brought?”
Ferguson shrugged. “I dunno their names.”
“I suppose that means we shall have to introduce ourselves. I am Victor Yates, and I have the dubious honour of being the best -and only- doctor in these parts.”
Yates smiled and extended his hand. Monroe took it in his own firm grip, and Vicky was amused to see Yates wince a bit as his fingers got crushed. Monroe had never been a very good judge of his own strength, and the doctor’s hands looked delicate beside Monroe’s large paws. Blanton also shook his hand enthusiastically, and even Stone returned the handshake. Vicky started to put out her own hand, then flinched as a jolt of pain lanced through her side.
“I take it you’re the patient?” Yates asked, not unkindly.
She gave him a rueful smile. “Actually, I think all of us got banged up a little bit.”
“You first.” Monroe said firmly. “The rest of us just have sprains and bruises.”
Yates gave him a mildly disapproving look. “I’ll be the judge of that, shall I? Nonetheless, on the surface I agree with your triage. Ladies first.”
He offered Vicky his arm, and helped her into a small antechamber with a desk and a bed. She tried not to squirm as he examined her, wondering at her own sudden discomfort: she’d never minded being examined by a member of the medical profession before, although it occurred to her that the last few times she’d been treated she’d been mostly unconscious. Perhaps that explained it. His touch was firm, confident and professional, probing to see the extent of her injuries.
“So you were trampled by a bull?” Yates was asking, obviously trying very hard not to sound incredulous.
“It was more like the bull tried to crush me against a train, but essentially yes. There was a stampede. Cattle cars. It sounds more bizarre than it was,” she lied.
Yates made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and busied himself bandaging her ribs. “Well, you’re not in any condition to be traipsing around town. You’ll need at least two or three days of complete bed rest. In fact, if I weren’t the only doctor in town willing and able to treat non-Mormons, I would be lecturing you about performing acrobatics in the middle of the Steel Sky.”
“Your office is out-of-the-way,” she agreed absent-mindedly.
“I can put you up in one of the spare rooms I have for patients. You’re lucky: one of my patients just left yesterday.”
“I hope you mean that he left on his own?”
Yates laughed, and after a moment she joined in. “Yes, have no fear. Besides, your injuries aren’t life-threatening. At least, they won’t be if you don’t move around for a few days and give your broken ribs time to mend. I can recommend a good hotel for your friends to stay at in the meantime. I hope you weren’t in a hurry to get out of Salt Lake City?”
She shook her head. “No. Stone… that is, Reverend Stone, said he had something to attend to in the city, and we’re going to be here at least until the thirteenth of the month.”
“Your friend is a priest?”
“Uh, we’re not trying to advertise that while we’re here.”
Yates barely concealed a smirk. “Yes, I can imagine. Your friends can leave their weapons here while they’re in town. I imagine that with all the excitement of the, erm, stampede, that you didn’t notice the local gun ordinance that was posted up on the wall of the station.”
She grimaced. “No guns?”
“It’s frowned upon. I wouldn’t go out at night unarmed, mind you, but then if you get caught by local law enforcement, they’ll confiscated your guns and fine you.”
“Noted. Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here?” she glanced around.
“Of course. When you’re recovered, I can have Ferguson show you the way back out.”
“He’s not your son, is he?” Vicky glanced up at a smaller portrait of a young boy with Dr. Yates that was also hanging on the wall in this room. It didn’t look like Ferguson, but sometimes portaits weren’t true to life.
Yates looked surprised. “What? Oh, no. Ferguson is an orphan, poor boy. What you’re looking at is a portrait of my son, Cal, but it was painted many years ago. He’s about your age now. Or would be.”
Vicky was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he’d passed on.”
“He hasn’t, exactly,” Yates suddenly looked impossibly tired. “He disappeared six years ago.”
*****
We're back with yet another installment of Beyond the Pale. New chapters will go up on Monday. Stay tuned!
*****
The Steel Sky was not a place for the faint of heart, nor for the claustrophobic. Vicky lost sight of the real, soot-covered sky soon after they made their way across the first catwalk. It looked as though the factories had been built first, with huge exhaust pipes and smaller ones for pumping water and whatever else went in and out of the huge plants. The rickety wooden shacks in which the residents of the Junkyard lived out their lives had been built under and around the fantastically-shaped metalworks, and the whole structure appeared to rise and writhe in and out of itself like a living creature.
“It’s not too far now,” Ferguson was saying, ducking into another alleyway.
It might have been a street for all Vicky knew -they all looked like alleyways to her. From somewhere that sounded as though it might be extremely far away or just around the corner came a terrible cry and a thick splashing sound. Monroe instinctively reached for his gun, and Vicky glanced around involuntarily, looking for the source of the disturbance, but Ferguson waved them down.
“Some poor sod fell into the Sludge. It happens every few days. Don’t go looking for’m, it’s too late the minute you’re in there. People fall in, and nothing can save them.”
“Doesn’t anyone try to help?” Blanton was indignant.
Ferguson shrugged. “Sure, some try. You can always find some poor bastard willing to be a hero who’ll jump in after them. We never see the heroes again either. It’s toxic in that water. If you don’t drown or choke to death, the chemicals’ll get you, sure enough. Living in Junkyard’s like that. You live here until something gets you: the Sludge, lung rot from the ghost rock soot, or something worse.”
“Worse?”
That got them a wicked grin. “There’s the Lurkers, of course. No one knows exactly who or what they are. They come out at night and attack people, leave them all black and blue in the alleys. I heard tell it was a gang of men, but others say they’re monsters. Mind you,” he added, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking more mischievous than ever, “I never heard of a monster that was so keen on rifling through people’s pockets. Here we are.”
They had stopped in front of a small two-story building that looked sturdier than most of the others. It had clearly been one of the first buildings erected in the Junkard, and the builders hadn’t had to make bizarre architectural allowances for it the way most of the others had. It was clean and whitewashed, with green paint on the front door and windowsills, and looked homey and welcoming compared to the rest of the soot- and grime-covered Junkyard. Above it Vicky could see a patch of soot-filled sky. Monroe rummaged in his pocket and produced a quarter, which he handed to Ferguson.
“There’s the rest of it. Will you wait for us?”
Ferguson pocketed the coin so quickly they almost didn’t see his hands move. “I’ll do ya one better and go in with you. Doc Yates is good, but maybe I’d better introduce you first.”
They stepped into a well-scrubbed entrance, which would have been light and airy if there had been any real light outside to filter in through the windows. Two sturdy benches lined the walls, and a portrait of a well-dressed young man with a small boy on his knees hung on a far wall. Monroe settled Vicky down on one of the benches.
“Stay put, and we’ll see if the doctor’s in.”
Ferguson, less inclined to stand on ceremony than Monroe, had already barged through a door leading into the rest of the house. “Doc!” he yelled. “Doc, it’s Ferguson! I got someone to see you!”
A moment later a voice called back. “Gracious, Ferguson Mullins. You’ll wake the dead, yelling like that.”
The voice was gentle and deep, and seemed filled with warmth and humour. When the owner of the voice appeared, Vicky guessed immediately that this was Yates himself, and not an assistant or partner. He was an older man, dressed soberly in a grey suit that was well-kept but was clearly old and worn. His black hair and beard were shot through with silver, and small gold spectacles sparkled on the bridge of his nose. His eyes were a startling bright blue, and gazed intelligently at them.
“What’s this, then? Ferguson, who have you brought?”
Ferguson shrugged. “I dunno their names.”
“I suppose that means we shall have to introduce ourselves. I am Victor Yates, and I have the dubious honour of being the best -and only- doctor in these parts.”
Yates smiled and extended his hand. Monroe took it in his own firm grip, and Vicky was amused to see Yates wince a bit as his fingers got crushed. Monroe had never been a very good judge of his own strength, and the doctor’s hands looked delicate beside Monroe’s large paws. Blanton also shook his hand enthusiastically, and even Stone returned the handshake. Vicky started to put out her own hand, then flinched as a jolt of pain lanced through her side.
“I take it you’re the patient?” Yates asked, not unkindly.
She gave him a rueful smile. “Actually, I think all of us got banged up a little bit.”
“You first.” Monroe said firmly. “The rest of us just have sprains and bruises.”
Yates gave him a mildly disapproving look. “I’ll be the judge of that, shall I? Nonetheless, on the surface I agree with your triage. Ladies first.”
He offered Vicky his arm, and helped her into a small antechamber with a desk and a bed. She tried not to squirm as he examined her, wondering at her own sudden discomfort: she’d never minded being examined by a member of the medical profession before, although it occurred to her that the last few times she’d been treated she’d been mostly unconscious. Perhaps that explained it. His touch was firm, confident and professional, probing to see the extent of her injuries.
“So you were trampled by a bull?” Yates was asking, obviously trying very hard not to sound incredulous.
“It was more like the bull tried to crush me against a train, but essentially yes. There was a stampede. Cattle cars. It sounds more bizarre than it was,” she lied.
Yates made a noncommittal sound in his throat, and busied himself bandaging her ribs. “Well, you’re not in any condition to be traipsing around town. You’ll need at least two or three days of complete bed rest. In fact, if I weren’t the only doctor in town willing and able to treat non-Mormons, I would be lecturing you about performing acrobatics in the middle of the Steel Sky.”
“Your office is out-of-the-way,” she agreed absent-mindedly.
“I can put you up in one of the spare rooms I have for patients. You’re lucky: one of my patients just left yesterday.”
“I hope you mean that he left on his own?”
Yates laughed, and after a moment she joined in. “Yes, have no fear. Besides, your injuries aren’t life-threatening. At least, they won’t be if you don’t move around for a few days and give your broken ribs time to mend. I can recommend a good hotel for your friends to stay at in the meantime. I hope you weren’t in a hurry to get out of Salt Lake City?”
She shook her head. “No. Stone… that is, Reverend Stone, said he had something to attend to in the city, and we’re going to be here at least until the thirteenth of the month.”
“Your friend is a priest?”
“Uh, we’re not trying to advertise that while we’re here.”
Yates barely concealed a smirk. “Yes, I can imagine. Your friends can leave their weapons here while they’re in town. I imagine that with all the excitement of the, erm, stampede, that you didn’t notice the local gun ordinance that was posted up on the wall of the station.”
She grimaced. “No guns?”
“It’s frowned upon. I wouldn’t go out at night unarmed, mind you, but then if you get caught by local law enforcement, they’ll confiscated your guns and fine you.”
“Noted. Are you sure it’s all right for me to stay here?” she glanced around.
“Of course. When you’re recovered, I can have Ferguson show you the way back out.”
“He’s not your son, is he?” Vicky glanced up at a smaller portrait of a young boy with Dr. Yates that was also hanging on the wall in this room. It didn’t look like Ferguson, but sometimes portaits weren’t true to life.
Yates looked surprised. “What? Oh, no. Ferguson is an orphan, poor boy. What you’re looking at is a portrait of my son, Cal, but it was painted many years ago. He’s about your age now. Or would be.”
Vicky was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize he’d passed on.”
“He hasn’t, exactly,” Yates suddenly looked impossibly tired. “He disappeared six years ago.”
*****