“Zero” said The Behemoth holding a steadfast eye on Marcos whose own waited on the locked door in the back of the room.

  The three men; followed by the old man, left the room and made their way out into the open day where the rapid change in temperature chilled the centre of their bones. The old man shuddered and complained while the three Collectivists remained at their readied state of war; alert and responsive.

  “Tis a lot o movement dis morning. A lot o important and big men for a wee shop. Sumtin goin on?” asked The Old Drunk Bastard.

  “We’re looking for a girl; red hair, blue eyes. She responds to Safrine. I trust you’ll inform us if anyone tries to palm her off to you” said Marcos sternly.

  “Aye. Wouldn’t want to piss in me own swill I wouldn’t. Ya can be sure, if I see or hear anytin, I’ll pass on da good word, for a good price o course” said the old man with a cunning smile holding back a nervous grin.

  “Sure dis will be da last for a while. I’m shuttin da shop in the morn. Had enough o da city. I’m takin Ma out ta da country. Famine’s good business but I tell ya, tis a funny business we’re in, the swapping o wee ones. Just cause it is, it don’t make it right, ya know?” he said.

  They shook hands; the old drunk sliding his hand down his thick beard in a pensive state as the three men walked off surrounded by a guard of White Hearts. He rushed back into his building with a sense of hurry at his feet, the black tarpaulin falling off its hinges, no longer hiding the old man as he rushed down the hall waving his arms and cursing loudly.

  The movement in the background went unnoticed as the three men followed by a guard of White Hearts took the east road from the centre of town past the old industrial buildings where large monolithic cranes hanged their heavy heads high above the flight of birds; their long mechanical tongues reaching down to a heap of twisted metal and corrupted earth below and the pistons that extruded from their belly; rusted and immotile like the teats of a dead cow; preserved in a perpetual fustian state.

  In the distance, a team of White Hearts sat preparative in a semi-circle; their ears trained inwards, their bodies and eyes inflected at every angle covering the colonel at their centre. Still under heavy guard, Marcos, The Behemoth and The War General halted their path and waited in observance of the team as they strategized their entry into a building near to their position.

  “It’s one of several locations we think the girl may be kept. The team will enter through the grating there; below the side entrance, and access via the ducted air systems. Once the area is contained and threat neutralised, they will signal their position with a white flag in the upper right hand window just there, and with that we will make our entrance through the front of the building. Unless of course you wanted to participate in the initial push, I just assumed that uh…” said The War General trailing off to an incomprehensible mutter.

  “It’s fine. My days of crawling through open sewers are behind me” said Marcos dulling The War General’s apparent self-discomfort.

  The three men stood at arm’s length watching as in the near distance the small team of White Hearts fell to their bellies and dragged themselves along the crooked road holding tight to the shadows that lined the base of the building until they reached a large metal grating that consumed part of the path. One of the men pulled a tool from his belt and commenced the undoing of screws from the grating and the removal of the object closing their accessibility. The three men slid into the hole like water down a drain and they were gone.

  “Shouldn’t take too long. We assess a low to medium threat level in this region; completely containable” said The War General in confident song.

  He was right. In less than a minute, in the top right hand window a white flag appeared; the signal of pacification. Under a guard of White Hearts, the three men approached the front of the building and the smallest of the three; The War General threw his weight on his back foot and propelled forward, breaking the door open.

  The three men entered the lobby where; next to the reception, five men sat whimpering; bound and gagged on the floor. Marcos looked around the room. Whoever these Famined were, they were not spending their days picking sores and begging for weather forecasts. There was something far more cunning and active happening within these walls and as he gazed out the newly broken window flooding light into the room; staring at the industrial might all about, he realised that this may not be an only occurrence.

  “What do you know about this?” asked Marcos to The War General.

  “Sir, this is a first. I never thought… We never thought that this was possible, not this close to The Nest. These crude mechanics sir, they couldn’t put them together, they’re just building blocks. Sir, I stand by the Intel we have, this is a low threat, no reason for concern; obviously a new famine, one that keeps the hands busy; nothing of concern sir, nothing at all” said The War General talking to none but himself as Marcos toiled through the shards of glass, springs, pulleys and metal shafts that lay strewn about on the floor.

  “What are they constructing?” he asked to The Behemoth.

  “Could be anything; probably nothing, exactly as our general here just said. Seriously Marcos, these Famined can hardly string together a complete sentence, do you really think they have the intellectual capacity to plan anything greater than their next bowel movement. Your mind is inventing tragedy old friend. That woman of yours, she is a burden, she keeps you At Distraction. You’ve not been yourself of late” said The Behemoth in a low voice to Marcos keeping The War General out of their honesty.

  “Tell me you don’t see smoke. In ten years we have suffered no greater threat than the violent scavenging of information junkies whose capacity to build only drew upon on their noxious hunger wanting more and more and more. And now this, this clandestine fashioning of tools, more than simple cutting and hitting weaponry, this is the account of a trade. You tell me you look at this and you don’t see smoke, because I don’t see desperate addiction here, I see careful planning and that to me is proof of a fire somewhere down the line. Tell me you don’t see smoke” he screamed to The Behemoth.

  “I don’t see smoke” The Behemoth replied simply.

  While the White Hearts, commanded by The War General, engaged in brutality against the five men bound and gagged on the floor, Marcos and The Behemoth exited the building and entered out into the daylight onto the street once again, being no closer to finding the girl.

  Marcos looked over his shoulder but through the light of day he saw only darkness looking back at him. His nerves were shot, his blood boiled, his senses were less sharp and less defined and his face grimaced as The Behemoth took the road back to the west.

  Marcos followed suit and the two men under heavy guard found a new path heading towards the outskirts of town on the north eastern road that bridged from the centre of town and would take the men far from perceived pacification to the link between zero and one; a bridge that crossed the fetid black river and fell upon the tracks the led to the old station and from there, perceived nothingness; the void, zero, fear.

  Behind them, The War General and his men took to the blackening. They had in large metal tins a thick black tar that they smeared over metal finishing, removing any reflection whatsoever.

  The Famined grew hungrier when they lingered upon their own reflection; this self-adulation made them unpredictable and dangerous so The Collective took to smashing all windows and blackening all surfaces that provided a point of admiration; a link to distraction and a fountain for The Famine.

  The Collective administered the supply of endorphin and serotonin to The City’s Famined ensuring the levels were controlled and containable. Thus they had to remove anything that could heighten their mood or stimulate the pith of their Famine; that being, anything that could reflect their image, any items of outlandish colour which tweaked their subconscious emotive irrationalities and repressed memories, and print images from the post information age which made their way perpetually over the cobblestone bridge and into The City; smuggled in and traded in the underbelly markets, working outside the influence of The Collective heart and far from the grasp of its fist.

  The War General and his men tore up every board looking for objects of distraction and when they found nothing of value, they took to torturing the men bound on the floor, beating them into submission; like disobedient dogs of an old age.

  Marcos and The Behemoth maintained their focus as they walked along the line of industrial buildings. On the path in front, the ground became less fixed with loose gravel swimming under their feet and its sound abating their secrecy.

  The road was littered with burnt out wrecks; piles of metal twisted upon itself, wrapped over and over until the beginning and the end met somewhere in the middle.

  Marcos’ mind felt something like this.

  He tried to focus on the path ahead of him but his concentration was slipped by the sound of The Behemoth’s boots crunching the loose gravel and as he started to consciously drift, his eyes fell on the mangled metal and they too stole his immediacy.

  Before long he was back behind the wheel of his baby and beside him, The Woman screaming in joy to the heavens as the wind rushed through her lush black and lilac hair, taking with it the flower that dressed behind her ear; high up into the air, back over the top of the car and up along the winding mountain road.

  She tried to reach for it with her free hand but the lift in the flower was too great and Marcos watched through his smiling eyes in the rear mirror as it took flight, dancing upon channels of warm and cold air, fluttering up to the height of the sun with the brilliance of the day magnified behind the colourful shape, creating a heavenly glow as it poised to and fro in the warm coastal air.

  The road was thin and winding; the massive cliffs looking out over an endless horizon where the light blue sky met the deep blue ocean with pools of bright green luminescence spotted throughout the irenic sea.

  The sound of the roaring engine thrilled him as he accelerated hard out of every corner, racing through the gears; over four hundred horsepower screaming to the heavens as The Woman beside him gripped one hand desperately to his right leg and the other still waving in the air for the travelling flower.

  As the car weaved around every bend, he gazed quickly to the rear mirror, catching his own reflection. He was young and handsome, his face striking. White teeth, sun soaked complexion, piercing blue eyes, trimmed beard that curved to his features highlighting his masculine beauty, a smile that could close any deal and a stylish new haircut.

  He looked back at the winding road and fixated on the tight curves; so like a woman’s body he thought, touching the pedals delicately, hugging the contours of the road, slowing for every bend and driving hard and deep into every straight.

  The Woman to his side screamed in fear and delight as the roar of the engine deafened her ears and the power etched at her feet, vibrating her entire body. His cell rang and colours lit the dash. His eyes fell on it for a moment; work. He smiled and accelerated more, pushing the car further into the warm air.

  The phone rang again.

  The woman looked nervously at Marcos who was trapped in focus, his eyes barbarous and his veins pulsating. The phone continued to ring. He looked down to the cell that sat vibrating in the centre console. He leaned his right hand to follow his eye to silence the sound.

  When he lifted his eye to the road, the road was gone.

  The Woman beside him gripped his leg profusely and her right arm hanged behind her head as her eyes jumped out of fright and her hair swished about in the mix of breeze and headlong descent as the car careened over the edge of the mountain; the sun reflecting off the ocean, onto his bowing bonnet and into his eyes filling him with warmth and eroding the fear from this mount of inevitability; the suddenness of death of whose embrace he found himself diving headstrong into.

  As the subtle wash of wind wisped through his ears like a kettle coming to a boil, tranquillity attended his reign.

  He sank into whatever was to come, the gentle blue flooding his eyes, the touch of The Woman’s hand on his leg, the fancy of momentary flight, the relief of leaving and no longer having to play this role, to wear this mask, to bed with this burden.

  “I love you” she said, as for the moment he felt completely alone.

  A black hole descended upon their sight as dark red meet with dark blue, the two colours colliding to bring their sight, closer to black, closer to zero. Marcos touched The Woman’s hand with his own in a last grace and let his final breath fall upon the shrinking dash, following it into a cold and grey August morning.

  At the end of his breath came calm, lucidity; he exhaled deeply; the charred air on this cold grey August morning and wiped the sweat that had formed on his brow, still at the heel of The Behemoth; his eyes drawn on the metallic monstrosities with his concentration morphing in and out of realism. He focused on the light that drank of his sight and less of The Famine that crept upon in his mind.

  As they neared the end of the road, the carnage about them seemed to escalate. There was a haunting silence that echoed one’s breath loud and pervasively. Marcos focused on slowing his rapidly beating heart pulling long controlled breaths until both his body and mind found their centre.

  They came to the foot of a long bridge that stepped up into the sky and carried out over a black raging torrent. The men neared the river and Marcos took a long stick from the ground and lowered it to the moving water. The stick fell in to the blackness as the violent currents ripped it from his unprepared hands.

  “Is it always like this?” Marcos asked to The Behemoth.

  “I’ve never seen it in any other state. I respect its ferocity” replied the Behemoth.

  “Let’s cross” said Marcos focused yet impatient.

  The two men backed away from the river onto the gravel path and made their way along the magnificent cobblestone bridge; their feet never holding flat; struggling to the maintain the slippery surface. The thin leather consoling their feet was easy to bend and contort to the uneven surface making coming unstuck a less probable result but still, the hands and eyes in their toes saw and felt their way over the long sky road.

  They couldn’t see the end in their sight; the horizon still dangling on massive wires that fed to gargantuan poles that shot from centre of the earth, piercing through the soft white cirrus and onwards to where not even birds knew how to fly.

  The men walked; still guarded, and they kept their sight firm and ready. As they neared the centre of the bridge they passed a pile of bodies burned and apparently ravaged; lying across the centre of the road. Pieces of them were missing, namely their faces; probably eaten and the smell from their scorched skin hanged in the air making the men gag somewhat; except for The Behemoth who lowered to his knees and rested his hands on one of the corpses.

  “Still very warm. They were left, no more than an hour ago. It could be a big pack, maybe fifteen to twenty; could be more. It’s not safe for us to go any further” said The Behemoth his hand still pressed against the charred open chest.

  Marcos looked around. He could see nothing, but it was exactly that nothing which caused him uncertainty and his stomach twisted and turned; telling him to leave.

  “No, we continue. I need to see for myself. If we are to pursue new grazing, then we need to cross this frontier” he said.

  The men continued along the road keeping their eyes tuned to the horizon for any false shape at all; any shifting shadow that could alert them to trouble. Along the rest of the bridge there was nothing more than the sight they had just passed lingering in the back of their thoughts.

  “Why are they coming so close now?” asked Marcos.

  “The same thing that’s drawing us out is drawing them in. There’s your fire old friend” he said.

  “The Old Drunk Bastard, he knows more than his wits would let us have” said Marcos running over the old man’s words in his head.

  There was a likeness in the old man’s ramblings which struck a chord in Marcos; a string vibrating somewhere at his quantum centre, to a different tune. Maybe it was always singing but for the first time in a long time, he was starting to listen.

  The men, surrounded by a guard of White Hearts, left the bridge and surveyed the surroundings. There was an open field of which nurtured black and repugnant earth. A horrid stench sat just under their noses and as they kicked the dirt from under their feet, the horrible smell worsened.

  “Do not stray from the tracks. We get no closer to the madness than we need to” said The Behemoth.

  The men continued onwards more alert than before, The White Hearts making a semi-circle around the backs of the two men, facing out into the distance, holding their cruel instruments sharply and one of the men; inside the circle; walking too in back step, his arms retracting a projectile in a small sling, moving left and right across the horizon, his sight acute, the tension in his fingers; primed.

  It wasn’t long before, in the distance, they saw a blackened shadow develop from a microscopic dot to a colossal structure that grew out from the tracks and seemingly out of nowhere.

  The station had a large shell shaped roof that pointed in different directions out into the sky. The colours were magnificent; bright reds, luscious greens and vivacious yellows, and the station itself, its walls were the colour of calm, tranquillity and gradual flow; a beautiful light blue that set the men’s minds at ease as they neared its position; still alert but becoming more at ease.

  “Focus White Hearts. Be at war!” yelled The Behemoth sounding rattled.

  The men continued; their senses under fight; an unsettling calm washing over them. Their training prepared them only for a physical threat. In the blandness of The Nest and under the blanket of every cold grey August morning, they had never imagined this.

  As they came to the entrance of the station, one of The White Hearts collapsed to the black soil, his hands pressed against his temple, squeezing hard. His focus shuddered inside his mind’s eye; the bright colours perforating through the cold plain rationale that conditioned his state of one. His heart beat faster and his head flushed with warmth as his mind flooded with imagery; thoughts he couldn’t control, lashing at his sense of reason.