T H E D U M P
2 1 2 1
"Damn!"
He had kept to the darkened streets like a shadow: he had his head low and hands buried deep within the pockets of his black trench trying not to draw attention to himself. And now the rain began to fall, but he dared not use a spell. He had found the man tailing him for several blocks now. Didijio, was his first thought, and if that was true—then it was over. He took out one of his hands to brush aside some hair that fell before his eyes and dared a look back. The man was gone. His head shot up and his heart pounded with relief. He didn't move for second, just to see if the man didn't duck down an alley or something. When his nerves told him it was safe, he moved on.
He walked past the alleys between condemned buildings with their shattered windows and decaying walls of a world long forgotten. Hobos slept in filth, and rats were as big as cats. Lightposts dimmed off and on, and if you looked up and tried with all your might to see through the thick fog that never left places like these, you could see the world of electric lights: buildings of steel that touched the sky, and the stratosleds which dominated the skylanes. The world where the people were always rich and powerful and pleasure was the name of the game. There, life was lived on the edge, and nobody would shed a tear for those lost in the rush. That was the world of Boom City. He was part of that world once, but had to flee due to betrayal. That was long ago. But the pain still stung never-the-less, and he found that no matter what, if it was making him strangle the life out of her, or for making him flee here to the filth of the Dump, that he still loved her. But that was long ago. He moved on.
The biggest rat he'd ever seen ran across the street. And the rain began to burn.
"Damn!" he said again. He lifted his hands to the sky and said, "Shemokk! Telek! Tosholler-teck!" and the rain stopped just short of hitting him. He put his hands into his pockets again and moved on.
"Dumb move, Therill." The voice came from nowhere. Therill stopped cold, his heart about to burst out of his chest. No! There in the alley, a man—the man—was leaning against the wall, his arm crossed. His jet-black hair fell over his face due to the burning rains. His goatee-beard, like the rest of him was dripping wet. He wore the traditional didijio uniform: boots and baggies, a red top with clasps of steel and the didijio insignia, twin almost intertwining S's, one on top on each other on the chest of his black trench. "Gotcha."
Therill panicked. His hands shot out of his pockets, he yelled, "Mochesj!" He held out his right hand and cocked his thumb. It made a clicking sound. He aimed his fingers at the didijio and fired.
The didijio's eyes grew wide as he leapt out of the path of the mystical red bullets. The bullets missed him by inches, instead hitting the wall with a big boom! Big chunks of brick slapped the didijio on his head, neck and back. He fell hard on the ground, the wind knocked out of him; he couldn't get the damn spots out of his vision. He rolled into the dark alley and was swallowed by the dark.
Therill didn't know if he should finish him off or run. Valuable seconds ticked by. Therill ran. He could always lose himself in the Dump again, this time be more careful—more cautious. But if he killed a didijio, they'll hunt him down to the ends of the Earth. Yes, he will disappear and they will never find him. Never!
His feet ran on dry sidewalks, his spell still held. The didijio could never catch him now, he thought, not with his wounded state and slippery ground. He could—
Therill saw movement in a dark alley from the corner of his eye. He saw the flash of flickering light as steel clasps caught the light of a lightpost and a trench flap through the air as the didijio leapt out of the shadows and slammed into Therill's midsection. The didijio wrapped his arms around him and they both fell in the street like lovers. The spell was shattered and burning ran sizzled on Therill's flesh. He threw his arm without aim and hit a side of his attacker’s face. The didijio's head was snapped back and his ears began to ring from the force of the blow, and for a second, his body went limp. Therill threw him off and quickly got to his feet. The didijio tried to get to his feet as well, but Therill kicked him in his face, and again snapped his head back; blood flew from his mouth and nose to be mingled with the trash and rain of the street. Therill went to kick again, but the didijio caught his foot and with his other hand swept Therill's leg. He came crashing down with a thud. This time, it was the didijio who got to his feet first. He spit out blood and moved back with his arms raised like in a boxer's stance. Therill realized what he wanted. He wanted a fight.
Fine, Therill thought. He knew all didijios had had training in many fields—hand-to-hand combat being one of the most intensive, among others—but Therill had had training too. And unlike the didijio, Therill fought to live, if it be in the Dump or anywhere else. Life was still life.
The moon had been full that night—though, you could not see it through the poisoned air and burning rains—and Therill got up to fight for an audience of rats and bums. He assumed a mimic-stance and threw the first blow. It landed on the didijio's jaw with a loud crack and Therill was convinced that the didijio gave it to him. He threw again, but the didijio ducked under the blow and came up with a blow of his own. It crashed into Therill's gut and literally knocked him of the ground. He staggered back, but caught his balance before he fell. He stayed hunched, his back wouldn't straighten. He heard the other man coming and threw a round-house punch, but it hit nothing but air. Therill heard a kick slice through air and felt his nose shatter. He went blind with pain and tears and began to throw out punches randomly—not to hit the other man, but keep him at bay. On his third random swing, he got lucky and hit the didijio's neck and heard him gasping for breath. He opened his eyes, still blurry with wetness, and saw the man two feet away holding his neck. Therill snap-kicked and the blow almost broke the didijio's shoulder. He cursed under his breath; if he wasn't tired, the shoulder would've shattered. A tell-tale-sign to stop fighting and run.
"Teghertij! Drteds, drteds!" Therill shouted; his most powerful spell. All was silent, almost as if the atmosphere was cracked open and every thing was sucked out into space. Garbage began to fly in circles, and the audience of rats and bums ran from the play that was getting too weird for them. Some of the slower rats got caught in the pull of the circle, being tossed around as if a rag doll. Soon the air took the form of a hand as big as a car. It was made up garbage, burning rain, and the unfortunate rats which continued to spin around and around. It continued to grow as more stuff got sucked into it.
"Shit!" the didijio said, as he felt the pull of the circle get stronger. The hand was as big as a trunk now; a bum was snatched of the ground and thrown into the circle. It was over for him instantly. "Shit!" he said again, as the hand suddenly solidified, grabbed him. It threw him into a wall. He blacked out with pain for a second, and when he came to, the hand was on him again. It lifted him high off the ground and threw him into the dark of an alley.
During all of this, Therill was sitting on the ground, his eyes closed shut with thought. He fought in vain to keep the shape of the hand fresh in his mind. Pain from his shattered nose shot through him again, and the image of the hand was gone. In the street, the circle broke and the hand fell to the ground, breaking into garbage, rain, and the dead bodies of several rats and a bum. No matter, Therill thought as he got off the ground, the didijio was most likely dead anyway. And if he wasn't, Therill would finish the job. He didn't care about the other didijios coming for him now. Let them come. He was sick of running. Yeah, let them come!
Rats could still be heard scarring into their holes as Therill looked down into the alley. He saw nothing but darkness as he realized for the first time just how much power he must have put into that last throw. Then he heard the raspy breathing coming from the alley's end. So, the didijio still lived, Therill smiled with satisfaction—he expected no less from a didijio. But the sounds of raspy breathing slowly turned into sounds of ragged coughing with puddles splashing and garbage being kicked about, as if he was thrashing madly. Therill realized what was happening back there in all that darkness: the rats were eating him alive, ripping him to pieces. He could hear bones being popped out of sockets and cloth being torn apart savagely. Therill wished he could see, then was shocked by his own blood lust.
Then it stopped.
The sounds of the mutilation became just a ghost—one of many in the Dump. Therill became aware of burning rains again, how it burned his flesh. He had to find shelter to heal his open cuts; to get an infection in the Dump was a horrible thing. He moved on, holding on to the walls for support.
Then he heard puddles splash in back of him.
He turned to see the Beast, as big as a truck, staring at him with eyes as red as fire.
And the Beast stood on all fours, and had very sharp teeth.
Therill tried to run, but his legs wouldn't obey—its eyes kept him locked in Dark Fear. The Beast began to walk towards him, its long muzzle opening and clamping shut snapping at the burning rains. It had a large mane of black hair that seemed, like the rest of the hair on its body, almost metallic in the way it reflected light off the lightpost. It walked more like an ape than a dog; its forearms were long with paws that looked humanoid, while the back were hind legs and more paw-like. Its black tail swung back and forth bouncing off light.
The Beast stopped two feet away from Therill, its back straighten and it tipped its head to the night and howled the Beast's howl as it stood on its hind legs with perfect balance. Therill lost all color in his face as his knees buckled and the world spun. He would have fell, if not for the now nine foot tall monster catching him around the collar of his black trench with humanoid hands, effortlessly lifting him high off the ground. Therill let go of his bladder, his head swimming. It turned its wolf-like head from the night and snapped its jaws inches away from Therill's face, jerking its head from side to side as if Therill was the one that didn't belong there.
Its needle-sharp steel teeth grew an additional six-inches.
And Therill's life flashed.
The Beast lifted him higher to the sky in offering. And before Therill's world went dark, the burning rains had stopped, and for the first time in a very long time, Therill was able to see the stars that hung high in the sky. He wondered how his life had come to this. He felt the Beast's jaws rip across his midsection, drenching his twitching legs with his life blood as tears fell from his eyes. He felt the Beast's muzzle by-pass muscle and stomach as they fell out and splashed in the pool of blood at his feet with a splut. He felt the Beast burrow in his insides and open its jaws wide as it snapped his spine in two. Therill's bottom half fell to the ground as flesh, muscle and tissue ripped apart due to the weight; he felt so very light, his body burning with heat and freezing with cold at the same time. But his last coherent thoughts were of her . . . if only he could remember her name . . .
Therill saw the moon, full and as big as ever stare down at him, but that didn't mean a thing.
Chapter One coming 3-4-98.
1 .
T H E S E C O N D B I R T H
O F B A B Y T R U U / W E L C O M E
T O B O O M C I T Y
Truu dreamt. He dreamt of a time long ago, when a light hung high in the sky. He reached for it. But it was too far away. His hands were too short. He cried a banshee's cry at this but was drowned out by the cries of others—so many others. His voice became just another part of the dysfunctional chorus of others who sung when and how they wanted to. He tried to see the others, but he was boxed in on all four sides with gray walls. He looked at his naked plump body of four-months': his limbs still jerked and kicked with uncontrolled movement due to his brain and body, who were just now learning to work together.
But there was no top, and the light hung high.
He reached for it again and cried when it could not be reached. Still, the dysfunctional chorus of the others drowned him out. Truu cried louder; he would not be denied the light. He began to kick madly as he laid on his back on white sheets, thrashing his head from side to side, arms reaching. Crying . . . louder and louder . . . reaching . . . reaching . . . Then something within Truu's young body snapped. His body was rapped by pain, pricks of black hair exploded throughout his body which felt like he was being stabbed repeatedly by tiny needles. His back constricted as his head was snapped back. His mouth gabbing open and close as sharp teeth broke through gums two-months too soon. Muscle and bone stretched as the dysfunctional chorus boomed in his now sensitive twitching ears. The light . . . the light . . . Truu reached for it with arms and a body twice as long and large as before. But still, the light could not be reached. And the other's crying began to hurt his head. Truu opened his muzzle large and wide and let out a cry which came out as a fierce howl. It bounced off walls and overshadowed all of the dysfunctional chorus who now screamed with fear.
Truu smelled the fear.
He got off his back and stood on hind legs, again, months before he should. He was taller than the gray walls now. He looked over and saw a plump body, much like his was before, kicking and screaming, its eyes closed shut with fear. The plump body moved too much, screamed too loud. Truu crouched and leapt at it, over the gray walls, jaws opened and claws out.
Then something caught him in midfall around his waist and held him away from the plump body. He was lifted high and Truu saw a room full of hundreds of gray boxes, each one having plump bodies that moved too much and were too loud. Every movement caught his eye. Every sound caught his ear. He turned to see a giant dressed in white hold him up with arms so long, its mouth opened. Behind it, more giants came running up.
Truu smelled the fear in them also.
He growled a warning and slashed the giant's face with his claws ripping off half. Red liquid sprayed every where, over gray walls, on white sheets, on plump bodies that still screamed with fear. The giant's hand went limp and it screamed out with pain. Truu fell and crashed into one of the red/gray walls; the world blacked out for a second. He felt many of the giants' hands clasp around his body, pinning his arms and legs down, shouting. One clamped his muzzle shut. They picked him up and ran past the giant on the floor screaming in a pool of blood trying to cover the exposed muscle and bone on its face. One of its eyes popped like a punctured red egg yoke and dangled freely from the socket still connected to the optic nerves.
Truu tried to growl, but only a small hiss came out.
As they ran with him out into a hallway, Truu saw the light dangling back and forth on a metal coil that hung from the ceiling . . .
. . . the pretty, pretty light . . .
. . . turned into flames that blacken all the open sky and its beautiful moon.
And Truu ran. His body of fourteen took him far from the burning Boxed House. He ran over fire lit grass that stretched out so very far in every direction. His lungs burned from the black smoke. His eyes were wet with tears. The others, now his age, ran along with the giants that were no longer giants in the eyes of a fourteen year old. There was no order as people scattered, running and screaming out in the open field of grass like flies to a corpse. Some wore nothing, while others wore nothing but pants. Some fell, and did not move again. And nobody stopped for those who that fell, they just ran over them and kept going, their own personal safety was all that mattered.
And with all his jack-hammering heart, Truu agreed.
Behind him, the Boxed House gave up its fight with the raging inferno and collapsed upon its own foundation. Truu gagged for breath. His stomach turned as his lungs burned and his arms became useless heavy sacks of bone and muscle that dangled back and forth. A boy Truu once knew as a friend collapsed dead in front of him. Truu saw it, but had no power to act on the information. His foot hit the still body, and his face slammed hard to the ground. He was still for a minute as others ran and jumped over him. None looked back. Truu turned to see his friend's eyes wide with shock and fear, little gray metallic hair stuck out over his nude body, blood gushed from his nose and opened fanged mouth like a river. His hand had been clawing at his chest and Truu knew what had happen to him: his heart had burst during the awakening and the run. What was he, eleven?
Truu looked ahead of him, through running legs, he saw the safety of the forest miles away. He smelled the pine through the poisoned black smoke. It called for him. And he would not be denied.
He let the full Change take him.
He felt the needles stab him and the muscles and bones stretch. He felt the power wash over him, as he saw, felt, smelled the world through the eyes of the wolf. He finished his Change to the lupus—the form of the true wolf—as he got up and he snapped at those who got to close. And he sensed so many of the others take to the Change as well.
And Truu howled with hatred for the Boxed House, for in his fourteen years of life, they took his birth-gift to Change and probed it, tinkered with it, till they made it less than a gift. Coating his black fur with chemicals, metals, and nano technologies till it was no longer fur. They did this to so many of the others as well, perverting the Gift.
Truu howled again as he got up and ran with the lungs of the wolf, past others—both human and those who have taken to the Change—away from the remains of the Boxed House and into the freedom of the forest and the night. He never looked back.
There was no love lost between the two.
The dream ended. Truu woke with a chill in his bruised and naked body. He had slept on his back in an alley covered with a blanket of blood and gore. The morning sun was blacked out by bums who could do nothing but stand over him and watch. The smarter rats kept their distance and watched from afar. Truu threw his waist up and rested on his arms. He let out a growl, scattering the bums and rats. He looked to his left side and saw the top half of Therill's body, his eyes opened wide with fear, mouth gaping . . .
. . . so much like his friend in a life long ago . . .
His spinal-cord was left disregarded like a fish bone. His fleshless ribcage had collapsed and had been cracked open. Spots of lung and blood shone in the sun. The copse's left arm had been torn out the shoulder socket and there was no trace of it. His right arm was still clothed and untouched though covered with dried patches of blood and a few missing fingers. Truu got up off the ground and stood on unsteady legs. He tried to look for Therill's lower half. He couldn't find it.
His legs gave in and he almost fell if not for the support of a blood stained wall. He held his ground for a minute, waiting for his brain and body to work in harmony again, then stepped out onto the damp streets of the Dump and started his long walk to Boom City.
The sun washed down on Boom City, forcing the evil of the night to scurry into their holes to make way for a different evil: ones that wore business suits and smiled their hollowed smiles. Boom City was a metropolis of steel buildings and illuminative skyscrapers that rose above the clouds; a nexus of technological breakthroughs that was rival only to that of Millennium Tokyo and cyberpunk-culture dominated London-Cyberbia. It was where fashion and fads ran high and words could assassinate as surly as a bullet. A place where money and power showed dominance over the crumbling religions. Where ghosters who hacked the Ghost, the world-spanning web of cyberspace and the tribus, the syndicate families who controlled the underworld of organized crime and information thrived. Here, the crowded streets were home to the weird of weird; home to every race, sexual orientation and followers of the Triibes who have abopted many styles of fashion as their Nationality. It was home to jack-heads, who lived in their own little VR worlds, and in the deep shadows, just out of sight, boomers.
In the year 2015—fifteen years after the Black Millennium—English scientists told the world of a science they had kept to themselves for the past four years. They called it the boom—a type of artificial magic that let the user, through spoken words, warp the substratum and rearrange matter into any form they wished. It was a fad for awhile, being used by children and soon became prominent among the drug exploring cultures which dotted the United States and Europe like a plague after the Black Millennium. In a nearly contradictory effect, the artificial magic help make a quantum leap in both science and technological breakthroughs; theories were able to be mapped out and technological models built without cost and little time. Like a spark to a flame, the boom took the world so fast, no one knew what had happened till it was too late. People became too depended upon it. It became too much the way of life. People became fat off the power of the boom, became lazy. But nobody cared at the time.
Then it happened, little by little.
Rivers began to flow upstream, and waterfalls wouldn't fall. Dogs gave birth to cats. Things began to moved themselves. People began getting phone-calls from those long since dead. And many began receiving postcards from children they never had from parts of the world that suddenly popped into existence. Boom City was one such place.
People tried to laugh it off at first, denying what was happening right in front of their eyes. But things started to get scary—the dead wouldn't stay dead. The sun would come up black. People found it hard to laugh at things like these. The Interval was over. Reality was crashing.
The boom had to stop.
The English were used as scapegoats and they silently prepared for the witch-hunt the world was about to take. The Boom Wars broke out throughout the world, and in the end the Crown crumbled as a superpower which, in itself, meant little. The governments of the world had started to crumble all together under the chaos-called people who would not be calmed at such a blatant, desperate display of finger-pointing. The politicians all but realized the very possible threat of world-wide governmental collapse at the hands of global riots that sprouted with unnatural speed. They hastily banded under the joint designate of the World Governs, a global confederacy in hopes to calm the public; the street-called Establishment. The boom was outlawed with its users being burned at the stake. That was in 1981. But the boom still flourished in the shady corners of the underworld, in the circles of high society, and the darken streets of trippers and filth. The House of Boom City trained special agents from all around the world to hunt down the boom users—or boomers.
They were called Didijio Prime.
Chapter Two coming 4-5-98.
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