“Money talks. Talks us into working.”
Fran managed a weak smile. Michael picked up his sample containers. “Go home, Fran.”
“I’m going, I’m going. Just have to finish these last few…”
Her voice was lost as Michael strolled out the lab. He passed the supervisor’s office. Rob was still there, droning into the telephone. Michael sighed and continued to the roll floor, where the din of the machines greeted him before he entered the miller’s office. Guy sat in front of one of the computers, his dark eyes intently fixed on the screen in an almost feverish trance of concentration.
Guy was as polarizing a person as he'd ever met, but the man didn't unnerve him like he did others. They'd been working on the same shift for about a year, and he'd gotten used to Guy's somber and abrupt personality. Work was nothing but business, and he'd never had any complaints about Guy's work ethic. The man was nearly a fanatic.
"I see Rob the Robot is still in his office."
Guy grunted without taking his eyes from the screen. "Probably making sure that it’s legal to keep us imprisoned here. I wish he'd go home. Things run better that way."
“Why did you tell him that it was better to shut the plant down?”
Guy turned slightly. “I don’t like the feel of this place right now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s nothing.”
Michael rubbed his eyes. “I get you. I mean, I’d be creeped out too if I had seen Reese falling like that. I’m surprised you volunteered to stay.”
He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “Did you get a look outside? Those clouds seemed to be moving pretty fast. Hope we don't have another power outage. That would be the last thing we need right now.”
"Yeah. Lot of ravens out there too. Never seen so many around here."
Michael gave Guy a sidelong glance. There had been only pigeons flying around like always when he pulled up. If Guy was seeing pigeons as ravens, he had to be on something serious.
The radio clipped to his belt crackled.
"Mike, you got a copy?" No one ever called for Guy. The rest of them happily pretended he didn't exist unless they had to.
Michael gripped the microphone on his collar "Hey, Drake. Shouldn’t you loading trucks instead of talking to us?"
"Ha. Yeah… hey, was that you on the stairs a minute ago?”
Michael and Guy exchanged puzzled glances. "Not me, buddy. I'm in the office with Guy."
There was a long pause. "I could’ve sworn… Anyone else here?”
"Just us, you, Roger and Fran. You sure, Drake?" He looked at Guy, who remained stone-faced.
"Naw, I just thought… never mind, man. Never mind…"
"It's cool, Drake. We’re all on edge right now. You need someone to come down there?" He held the receiver to his ear, but there was no response.
"Uh… Drake?" He looked quizzically at Guy, who stood up with a tendon-popping stretch.
"His battery probably died. Happens all the time with these cheap radios. I was about to walk through the mill anyway. I'll see if I can find him."
Without waiting for a response, he walked out into the roar of angry machines.
Esoteric Chaos
The mill was a living organism. Guy had gradually come to understand that. It breathed, it fed, it shat. The raw wheat that whisked in the spouting was the blood in its veins; the filters its lungs. It needed love and attention, and suffered from neglect. If not given proper care, it would turn on you.
Floor by floor had separate machines that ground, sifted, and processed the flour. Spouting ran along the wall and through the spacious floors, lifting various stages of product to their destination by powerful suction.
He walked each floor, scanning the massive rooms for any sign of Drake. He probably just had a bad battery, but all the same… Guy’s eyes narrowed. He couldn’t explain the feeling; it was as muddled as the sky outside. But the feeling of unease only grew as he walked the mill, his muscles tensed as though preparing to spring into action.
On the fourth floor the purifiers sifted in time, creating a harmony of their own that blended smoothly with the existing melody. The instruments rose in volume, the sound reverberated into his chest, his vision distorted…
Everything was slightly blurred, the colors faded.
The foreboding castle appeared to be cut from onyx rock. The ramparts were warped and covered with disfigured gargoyles, the towering spires lost in low hanging clouds that flickered with smothered lightning.
Sir Guy gazed at the castle, sword in hand. His armor was battered and spattered with black blood. Another knight stood with him, silver-haired and eagle-eyed.
Guy’s eyes never drifted from the dark walls of the castle. “Are you sure this is the location, Antenor?”
Antenor’s gaze was sharp, his long hair rustled in the wind. “Positive. The resonance is almost overpowering. The Others are near.”
“When does the Aberration begin, then?”
Sir Antenor unsheathed a two-handed longsword. “It has already begun.”
At the castle, massive iron doors groaned as they slowly opened. A towering black-armored figure strode out of the gloom. It was humanoid in shape, but the deeply shadowed face appeared to be anything but human. It hefted a rusted, jagged blade over its massive shoulder.
The reverberation was deep as it thumped its armored chest and roared in some guttural tongue. Vapor billowed from its mouth, exposing jagged, uneven teeth.
Antenor turned to Guy. His voice was cool as though he was relaxed in his garden back home. “As we practiced.”
Sir Guy answered with a wild yell and charged with his sword pointed at the looming creature. It roared in anticipation.
The savage swing from the grotesquery almost split Guy in two, but he managed to spin away at the last second. As the creature tottered off balance, Antenor dashed in and stabbed at the giant’s midsection, right between the joints in the armor. The bestial figure toppled, crashing heavily to the earth. Sir Guy swung his blade downward viciously.
Black blood spattered his chest and face as he stabbed again and again…
Guy’s chest heaved as he leaned against the railing of the inside stairwell. His breath punched from his lungs in slow gasps and his vision flickered like a faulty television as he sat down and cradled his head. It took a few moments before the world coalesced to normal again. He took a deep breath and blinked open his eyes.
It was only by chance that he saw the drop of crimson beside him.
Hesitantly he reached out and dabbed his finger. It was wet and looked suspiciously like blood as he smeared it between his fingertips. He shakily stood and examined the stairwell. Higher up he spotted another drop, then another. He rounded the corner to the sixth floor.
Drake huddled into the corner of the wall as though he meant to burrow through it. His fingers were painted red, haphazard lines streaked his face from hysterical clawing. His shoulders shook uncontrollably as he stared from a waxen mask.
Guy took a hesitant step forward. "Drake?"
Drake gave a wild start and pressed himself even further against the concrete wall, mewling incoherently. His bloodied fingers left crimson stripes from his torn and jagged nails.
"Drake, are you hurt? It's me, Guy. What happened to you? I saw blood…"
Drake's lips trembled. "It's not… it's not…"
"Slow down, Drake. It's not what?"
"It's not… not… my blood." He pointed a torn, quivering finger.
Guy followed the gesture, as a sound like splattering slop assaulted his ears.