Edge

Edge

Copyright © Wolf Sherman. All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means electronically, electrostatic magnetic tape or mechanically; including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the author. Although this is a fictional work, some locations, organisations and events are factual. The characters and times in the storyline are fictional — therefore, all resemblances to actual people present or past are purely coincidental.

Synopsis

After decades, it's the beginning of the end. 3 am on the day of the last visit to what had been destined to be a colossal architectural fete; glaring down over the city of Hedon - an old man with what seems to be a death wish, and who is strapped to a wheelchair, debates the fate of a horrified young girl abducted on the evening of her birthday. Add to an otherworldly mix of events, a semi-senile old fortune-teller toiling to make sense of the two versions of reality that she's caught in between. All they needed was for the carnival to visit the peculiar city of Hedon and its eccentric residents - or not. A story; if you want, of stolen love, revenge and greed.

Foreword

I read somewhere that fear SCREAMS.

I suppose that it could be true, and that fear would cover a myriad of unsettling prospects. For some, the possibility of drowning or facing spiders square on, or even snakes, would likely fill the void between holding onto dear old sanity and losing one's mind altogether. Or maybe for a few of us the worst would be labelled staggering on-stage and feeling seven-hundred pairs of eyes in a packed hall blazing at our half-preparedness. We've almost all, I would imagine, at some point or another feared something. Or, maybe still. The dark — on a personal level — was what bothered me severely when I was small. And although there is; on closer inspection, a distinctly higher level of fear we refer to — as horror, I'm however in disagreement that even horror is the worst of things that you can bump into at night. Or it, into you, inside an unfamiliar cold place draped in uneasiness. Particularly when you're not yet convinced that there's at least a small window to break with something, to cry out for help. Or worse, to discover a locked and keyless steel door, hampering your plunging onto the floor and scamper out, but having to wait your turn with your back towards it. But even that, is to be merely a layer that is sandwiched in-between. In-between what, you'd well wonder? Terror. Of all the things read and said — about terror, one thing is for certain. Unlike terror; whether it's fear that screams — or horror; laughing, as it pulls your hair, in both cases, you can almost always close your eyes and wish them gone. Or face away from a horrid collision with fate and the awful unsettling likes of it. Chances are with both fear and horror, at least you'd still wake up. Only, stiff or sore. At most. 

I'm suggesting that slight or medium DISCOMFORT in a psychological or physical sense would accompany imminent anticipated fear; say between zero and four, or five out of ten on the scare-meter. Had such a device even existed, and had you not fully managed to circumvented fate. Horror, I've always seen somewhat different from fear. With horror, I would put the dial on between five and nine, maximum ten. Of which, the results could pose long-term metal scarring or physical wounds that may battle to heal. 

Terror, however, can't be measured. Terror, is by design the very black gluey soot that had been applied when evil was birthed, and it needed to be painted; hiding it in plain sight, precisely for when the lights go out. It is said that hell at the time, had barely been constructed, and its pillars were still drying. Unlike with fear and horror, hell was not nearly ready to chain back and bolt down terror. Not that terror deserves to be put on a pedestal or has earned itself the very right to stand out above fear that screams, and horror that would laugh while it pulls your hair when the lights go out. But then, this was the coastal city of Hedon. Is it not ironic that it's so simple to describe terror? You see, of all things, terror doesn't do screams. Terror is shrewd in its muteness. It wants to be your friend first and hold your hand to lead you away from what you perceive as danger. It even gets you to love it.

Terror, WHISPERS...

Prologue

3 am on the day of the last visit to what had been destined to be a colossal architectural fete; glaring down over the city of Hedon.

Oh, I miss my thumb! If he could he'd be shouting it out. But with no voice, that wasn't to be. The other thing eating at him for days and now in the shape of claiming his sleep, was that the rest of his fingers weren't as nimble as when he was a younger man. He considered what a simple thing it was connecting the detonator, and certain that it could be accomplished with his eyes closed. Unlike ensuring total destruction of something this size... He admitted as he mentally scrolled down the list of the target's features. Something I haven't planned in decades. He could feel how his whole body was tensing up. I've never been this jumpy... not even then. He allowed his mind to run back to when his freedom of movement wasn't hampered. As he lifted the device and while turning it around after setting the time to 22:15, with his other hand he dragged the large magnet nearer over his desk and poured the epoxy glue over the magnet. Slowly he lowered the device onto the magnet till it just barely touched the glue, then pushed it down and kept it still while he waited for the glue to dry and firm up. Wheeling himself back, from a distance he admired his great work and decided to go lie down for two more hours. It's going to be the longest day. Ever. He whispered to himself, thinking what he'd designed would take down the average building. But then, this is not average, neither is it a building.

*** *** ***

As a week that at first glance appeared to be riddled with morbid strangeness and danger, it eventually presented itself with pure insanity. And it would seem the last few hours of the day didn't prove any less taxing on his mind. Franklin's search for meaning in all this proved fruitless. But if he could take a snapshot, he'd only have a single way to frame it. Fate's runaway locomotive of macabre rituals of nights gone past was still on track... As Franklin's phone alerted him, he was distracted from the horror that the ones were experiencing many floors down, and he let his eyes climb to what he assumed was just under two-kilometres ahead of where he was. Pocketing the phone, he decided, rather than replying, he'd focus on the man in the wheelchair.

Franklin quietly declared as he listened intently. The frail whisper had returned. But Franklin knew that the old man, who he'd served; maybe unlike his voice, was by no means frail.

Please, would you mind, Franklin? Move me closer. I really can't see from here. Strangely for a whisper, it had a deep bass echo that reverberated endlessly and eerily in the dark that had engulfed them, away from those far down at the bottom. Franklin assumed that their desperate earlier pleas that were now muffled screams, would be dragged into and through the realm of muteness any moment now. Due to the rising level of the wet concrete. He was sure. Tempted to lift his one hand away from the back of the wheelchair where he stood, and turn his wrist slightly to glimpse the time, he let the idea go. For the moment it didn't matter. He was suspended in time on pause.

Chapter 1

As whispers go, or at least how he perceived them, this one, featured more prominently now than back on earth.

Can you see whether they are still moving? The whisperer needed to know from inside what he referred to as his favourite wheelchair.

Well I'd say that there's a lot less wriggling going on... He thought, but for now kept it to himself. A thought that hadn't come to visit him in a while - told him to wait first before he replied on the status of the tied ones who were sardined-in next to each other into the deep hole. Many people collect something. For some it's stamps or art, and others are somehow attracted to extravagant shoes or cars. He regarded who he was staring down at, with an intense sense of curiosity. And then, there are the ones who collect wheelchairs. He thought. The overwhelming smell of drying concrete was everywhere. Not sure sir. But, If you wish I could go down and check? Not that he had a wish to go check, however, but he assumed it would be expected. Franklin realised that it might not have been the best idea. When leaving the ground earlier, what had served as an elevator, was in his mind little more than a make-shift meshed-cage contraption that he highly doubted had been the proud design of a qualified — and experienced engineer. Having considered its features, safety too — probably was never delineated across a page and discussed at any particular length. While the two of them were hoisted away from the rubble'd surface on the ground, during their nervous crawling ascent, both of them had decided to remain quiet. Franklin imagined himself as far away as possible and thought that he'd be part of the wedding on the horizon, and indeed it would be a great honour. But then, And he was back at the present dilemma, Funerals trump weddings. And this is where I find myself now.

Earlier, when the noisy machine started puffing diesel fumes, and the whining pulley somewhere far overhead protested against their weight with its uneasy metallic creaking, the building it had seemed, was yet to be done with Franklin's already stretched nerves. Still perplexed, he recalled how at the time he'd been searching blind in the dark for a firm place to hold onto to keep his balance, and he'd reached above his head in a reflex motion; grabbing onto whatever there was. Soon enough, he discovered that about a quarter of the attenuated steel cable that had literally been their lifeline, had frayed at some point in the past. Possibly due to overuse in this harsh environment, having left it with small sharp bristle-like pieces of metal poking out. He decided. And of all places, right where the metal clamp tied the cable to this unstable enclosure! He realised as he felt with his hand up and down the cable where the separated cable bristles were poking into his hand right through his glove. The nerve-racking experience made up his mind to rather hook his fingers into one of the two protruding loops of the long plastic cable-ties, which he realised during his panic, had kept a sign attached on the outside of the — thing. He promised himself; rather not to find out what the battered sign meant, as he foresaw the possibility that the haphazard cage had not been designed with human transport in mind. He was filled with relief when exiting the unstable swinging mesh capsule, too many floors up for comfort. The relief he experienced made him feel lighter in some way. That was until he illuminated the rough concrete floor with his mobile phone's camera flash. He needed to cast light on the floor to enable the whisperer in the wheelchair to exit behind him. Inadvertently in the process the seemingly tortured sign was also lit up; glaring at them with its faded warning. Suddenly the calm feeling he was savouring was shattered. The meaning of what had been placed on the awkward sign, he had no doubt, remained just as valid as when some worried hand had painted the select few short words on it. As directed by site management. Whoever site management was, he was sure, was more concerned about the financial consequences of a civil claim for injuries, or worse, than the actual value of the life of a contracted employee. So, that's what it says. Interesting... Not that was 'interesting' at all. More, deeply unsettling, as there was no other way down to dear mother earth again. Bricks, tools, and cement only. Do not exceed 100 kilograms. Franklin swallowed hard and for a moment left the need to estimate his employer's weight. Just Franklin's weight alone, was 110kg. Rather than activating his mobile phone's torch application again, and blazing the flash over to the cable which toiled hard to hoist the two of them away from dear mother earth, he breathed deep and waited for someone to shake him hard to wake him up from the nightmare. Feeling the blood drain from his face, he continued pulling the wheelchair from the cage; swinging it around on the firm concrete floor. Again it was impossible not to swallow hard. While ascending up in the dark past the many other floors, the whisperer had wondered what occupied Franklin's mind, guessing that Franklin wasn't quite comfortable with what he'd just witnessed down below, mere seconds prior to his reluctant agreement to go up for a birds-eye view for a last look over the city's night skyline. But he'd hoped that Franklin understood that the city of Hedon could only function