Paragenesis: Stories of the Dawn of Wraeththu (3 page)

There was much activity in the
air nearer to the city core. Choppers roared through the skies, and
once I saw one crash. People emerged from the jumbled ruins like
cockroaches and swarmed all over the wreckage, picking it clean. I
did not look like an enclave boy any longer. My head was thatched
with lice-infested hair, my clothes were tatters, to which I was
forever adding more layers, whatever I could find. I had learned to
snarl in the way that meant, ‘stay away if you value your health.’
I also learned much about myself. Because the convenient utensils
of life were no longer available, I was forced to live on my wits,
and in this way discovered that the boundaries of my difference
were much further than I had imagined. It began this way. I’d been
going through the belongings of a dead man on the street, who had
died of a sickness rather than murder. He had many treasures, which
I was greedily transferring to my own pockets. Then a group of
tearaways came slinking along the spiky walls around me, uttering
low, hooting cries. Their message was for me to leave, to abandon
my find. I do not think they would have attacked me if I’d simply
obeyed this request. But there was too much for me to leave. I
growled back. They must have thought I was mad; there were at least
seven of them. Their leader dropped down from the wall and
sauntered toward me, looking to either side all the time. I
remained hunkered down beside the corpse, my hands dangling between
my knees. I did not feel afraid at all. It was as if there was
someone else inside me, far wiser than I knew; someone fierce and
confident. An arrow of indignation flew out of me, and somehow
touched the crumbling substance of the wall behind the gang leader.
There was an explosion, a gust of dust and rocky debris, and then
my would-be attacker was on his hands and knees before me, his head
hanging down. He shook his hair and drops of bright blood flew out.
At once, I jumped to my feet and snarled. My eyes felt full of
sparks that I could shoot like bullets from a gun. The gang just
melted away, dragging their fallen leader with them. After this
incident, I felt so much stronger, safer.

Perhaps I overestimated my
strength.

Some days later, I found a hole
for myself deep beneath an old department store. It had been
cleaned out thoroughly years before, but some people must have
lived there for a while, because I found a few mattresses, some of
which had not been burned. Rags had been hung from metal beams in
what remained of the ceiling. It was a musty labyrinth full of
silent ghosts. I imagined it had once been home to a whole
community, who had either been smoked out or died from some
contagious infection. There were no bones about as evidence, but
the wilderness scavengers are very thorough, so that meant little.
In this place, I made myself a nest. I did not think about the
future, but took simple pleasure in surviving from moment to
moment. The wilderness was the garbage heap of the world, yet I
learned to see beauty in it: the different colours of the sky at
various times of day and how they conjured sculptures from the
rubble; shining through blown out windows; making a cathedral of
light of the starkest structure. The passing of civilisation in
itself was a wondrous thing. I would walk the cracked streets
marvelling at the way stringy vegetation was slowly reclaiming the
land. Mother Earth had learned the saying that revenge is a meal
best eaten cold. She was implacable, eternal, and the green tidal
wave of her reclamation was evidence of humanity’s frailty and
insignificance. The people had regressed, but in their barbarity
possessed a startling innocence. The complex rituals of life had
been pared away, and if the people were dying, at least they would
do so with swift dignity, rather than being hooked up to machines
in a long coma of slow decay. Those who lived in the cities, the
enclaves, were deluding themselves. They should give themselves up
to the inevitable. I thought I too would soon die, and these were
my last days. Each one dawned fresh and vital. I wanted to
experience life through my senses to the full, and because of this,
learned how my touch was death.

He was older than me, yet
seemed younger. We met when he strayed into my lair, and after a
few warning shots of snarls and aggressive gestures, realised we
were not enemies at all. He was like me: a runaway from the theatre
of luxury. His mother had been a pill-head, who sometimes had not
even recognised him, while his father, a scientist, had hardly ever
been at home. I tingled with empathy as he described his former
sterile environment: the ceaseless hum of domestic appliances, and
the automata who kept the place running, while his mother lolled on
the couch, living in some better world. He explained to me the
phenomena of why people like us ran away. ‘We know it is over.
Society is dead, but some of us know we can still exist beyond it.
It is like a sinking ship. We have to jump overboard with faith and
hope, otherwise we’ll just be dragged down with the wreck and
drowned. This is the age of the individual; the age of the hive has
passed. We are all floating in the sea, clinging to our bits of
wreckage, but eventually we’ll become sea creatures ourselves and
learn how to breathe its element.’

How could I not love a person
who spoke like that, with such passion and optimism? He did not
know about my difference - especially the physical aspect. I did
not want to tell him because he was my first real friend. If he
knew, it would change things. He might be disgusted or, worse, full
of pity.

Some girl he knew gave him a
flask of alcohol. We flavoured it with the remains of a bag of
sugar substitute we’d found in our basement, and one night sat
across from one another and drank it. It felt shamanic, the
rhythmic passing of the flask from one to the other. We both knew
we wanted to be drunk, for there was business between us that the
barriers of a sober mind inhibited. I was acutely aware that before
the night was over he would know about me. I felt nauseous with
nerves, eager for the intoxication that would free my tongue and
allow me to speak the words that must be spoken.

He began to talk about the
future again, rambling on about some faraway utopia that could be
constructed from hopes and dreams.

Something about his vision made
me uncomfortable, and I said, ‘This is the end, not change. We are
dying.’

He crawled over to me then and
put an arm around me. ‘No, no, you are wrong. This is not death at
all. You are living in the past. Look forward, not back. Don’t let
the past become your future.’

I wanted to believe, and partly
did, unaware of how he spoke the most ultimate of truths. He put
his head against my hair and said, ‘I have to ask you something.
Don’t answer if you don’t want to but... are you really a
girl?’

I laughed a little, more out of
embarrassment than amusement. What could I say? The answer was
neither yes nor no. ‘What makes you think that?’ I asked.

I could tell he wished he’d
never spoken. ‘I don’t know. The way you walk and talk. Just body
language, I guess. I’m sorry. You must think this is just an excuse
to...’

I touched his arm to silence
him. ‘I am what you say.’

He grinned in relief. ‘I knew
it. You want people to think you’re a boy because people will leave
you alone then.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry. That sounded
patronising.’

I shook my head. ‘No, don’t
apologise. The thing is, I’m male too.’

He frowned. ‘In your heart,
your head?’

‘No. In some ways, that would
be simpler.’

‘Then what
do
you mean?’
The puzzlement had swept back; the tide of delight and anticipation
had receded.

‘It would be easier to show
you,’ I said and stood up.

The only light came in from
outside, but then we of the wilderness rarely craved artificial
light at night, other than a fire for protection. I peeled away all
the layers of my tattered clothes, feeling as if each discarded
item represented a year of my life. It was all being sloughed away.
When finally I stood naked before him, he sat with his chin in his
hands and said, ‘You look male to me.’

I squatted before him and took
one of his hands in mine, guiding him to the truth of the matter.
He didn’t say anything then, but kissed me. I felt his fingers
digging into my shoulders like spikes. I could feel his heart
racing. He’d wanted to do this for some time, and now felt he had
been given sanction. I welcomed it too, but some part of me became
annoyed that he looked upon me as a female and took it for granted
that I must be dominated. Did women ever feel this way? It might
sound like justification, but I feel that he was partly to blame
for what happened to him. We should have come together as equals,
but then I didn’t know he was not equal to me. I was stronger than
he was, and forced him into submission. It was only a game, I
swear. I just wanted him to realise what we were, or could be.

It took him a day to die. I was
helpless. I tried everything, but whatever mutant substance lived
in me was poison to him. Not all the water in the world could wash
away what I had done to him. My essence ate into him like acid,
devoured his being. The only blessing was that he did not realise
what was happening to him. With my hands, I was able to stroke away
most of the pain. With my thoughts I willed his mind to a far
place, that idyll he had spoken of, and there he died.

I set fire to our home and
emerged from it into the night against a backdrop of flames. I had
been right and he wrong. Humanity was dying and I was one of
nature’s weapons. I could never love, for to love me was to die.
Could anything be crueller than that?

If only I had known the truth
then. He could still be here now. The one who discovered that truth
with me was but a pale spark to his radiant sun, but perhaps that
was all part of it, the great lesson I had to learn.

For days, perhaps weeks, I
roamed the wilderness, feeling more drunk than I had on that
hideous night. I truly wanted to die, and even climbed the high,
broken towers to think about throwing myself over, but even in my
grief I was too afraid of being broken, dying slowly. I kept seeing
his face, hearing his laughter, and then an image of his death
would come to me, the terrible writhing, the whimpers. I was more
of a monster than even my mother had imagined.

I came to an area that had been
inexpertly flattened; a plain of rubble, from which rusting spikes
rose like the bones of dinosaurs. Here, I collapsed and stared up
at the sky, watching the colours change and the stars reveal
themselves. I could move no further. Here, it would end. I felt
strangely at peace, and numb. I could not feel my body.

When I saw the stooped shadow
gliding towards me over the stones, I barely raised my head. Death
had come for me. It loomed over me, breathing heavily, and dark
greasy hair brushed my face. I saw a glint of metal and heard
muttered words. ‘Be still, my pretty. Do not fear. I shall come to
you without pain.’

I did not know he meant to eat
me. I just thought of sex and murder, but he opened a vein in my
arm and began to drink, nibbling the flesh at the edge of the cut.
He was a modern vampire, human and reeking, not at all the romantic
vision I’d seen in old movies. As I lay there, feeling the pull as
my blood pulsed into his diseased mouth, I was not sickened or
afraid, but amused. It is not easy to find food in the wilderness,
and some will do anything to live. If my death meant the life of a
debased creature like this, then so be it. There was some justice
in it, I thought.

But I did not die. I found
myself awake with raw morning light falling down upon me. Beside me
was a wretched creature who squirmed upon the ground, clutching his
belly. His hair had come out in clumps and lay upon the stones. I
felt weak, but also vital. As I looked at him, I laughed. Not only
was my touch death, but it seemed I was also very difficult to
kill. Part of my new role, I decided, was to stay with my victims
until they found peace in death. I would do what I could to ease
their agony.

Unlike my beloved, this one did
not die after the first day. Sometimes, he was raving and
hallucinating and became violent with a preterhuman strength. At
other times, he wept and mumbled about his childhood, his fingers
over his face. His body was hot and bloated. He must be strong. How
long would it take him to die? After two days, it began to rain,
and I dragged him into a ruined office block. The rain itself can
be toxic. Here, I built a small fire, and then went foraging,
killing four bedraggled pigeons. I came back with two birds, and
some welfare rice I’d haggled for with a band of oldsters I’d come
across. My attacker, my victim, could not eat, but I cooked the
pigeons and watched him as I fed. There was no feeling within me,
merely a faint sense of curiosity. His skin was peeling.

On the morning of the third
day, I woke up and found myself alone. I thought my companion must
have died in the night, and some scavenger had come in and taken
the body. Then I heard the words, ‘what am I?’ and turned to see an
angel in the doorway. As his skin had peeled, so had all the filth.
He stood before me, holding out his arms, looking at his smooth
flesh. I could not give him answers. There were none. I felt that I
had made him into something more and above me. He shared my
difference. I had birthed a daughter-son.

I had thought him the most
degenerate of beings, yet I quickly learned that he blazed with
vitality and intelligence. Perhaps this was just another aspect of
the change he had undergone. He asked me questions constantly and
experimented with the force of his being. Unlike me, he was curious
about the way he could affect reality; make inanimate objects move,
heal pain, hear the whisper of others’ thoughts. He was proud of
what he’d become, and did not hide it, but the shadow community to
which he’d once belonged were now afraid of him. They did not want
his healing power, his radiance. They saw not an angel, but a
freak.