A Cold Day in
Sanctum
The
Sanctum is cold.
Men
before me would describe the air as biting, say that it sapped your
energy making you dull and less impulsive. The streets are largely
empty of activity. The walk is lonely even when there are others to
share it.
I
pull my flat cap down over my eyebrows to spare my face some of the
Siberian routine, flip the collar of my pea-coat then force my hands
deep into the woolen pockets. These are the things I do to keep warm,
or at least the things I do to assure myself that I am doing all I
can.
I
glance back and see a woman behind me, her cloche hat low and long
scarf wafting in the wind. I feel a sort of camaraderie with the
lady; we each cut through the icy drafts to make sure our station
would remain functioning throughout the endless winter. Section 8
would not be the station that fails. We should have been a team but
are just two strangers fighting climate wrapped in composite thread
and apathy.
I
turn to get a better look at her; long
blonde hair tucked in to her jacket, a pale hand clutches the lapels
together. She wears long woolen pants and her legs move like engine
pistons, tap-tap-taps on the pavement.
I
trudge on, the buildings I pass uniform, just one level stacked upon
another several stories tall. It seems even the designers themselves
wanted no emotion evoked from the study of their craftsmanship.
I
could be a Sanctum Architect. Place red brick across a lot. Cement
it. Brick and mortar stairway to a pale blue door (the dullness of
primer). Two windows per level, spaced out equally. Separate the
ceiling and floor with a small ledge, not large enough to stand on.
Drop a flat roof on it.
There's
an abandoned play park in front of the facade, full of rusting metal
hanging rails. The paint is dirty, chipped and molting. I turn to
comment on it to the cloche, think better. On occasion I think
too much, not thoughts of great import but just the peculiar kind
that you hear rather than experience; and for it I feel a wash of
guilt.
A
bright yellow bell flower clings to life in the cracked asphalt
ahead. It pleases me to consider that even here nature might find a
way. It gives me hope that somewhere flowers bloom.
Movement
from the alley. I already know what it is, but I look anyway.
They
are standing just inside, staring out at us with vacant eyes. They
wear what they can forage, pale blue jumpsuits from the station
shredded and sewn to sate their urge for creativity. A mismatch, a
riot of fabric and many colored dyes.
A
girl at the front has a tattoo of a tiger across her right cheek, its
fangs bared and hovering over her eye while its front paws rested on
her upper lip. Almond eyes and skin tone and small in stature, with
long black hair tied in a ponytail. She has a club.
A
young man stands behind her. Gauges in each ear lobe stretch them to
a thumb's width. Spikes stick out the thin bridge of his nose and he
has short blonde hair. Tattooed down the length of his throat are
black plates like body armor. He holds a chain.
The
last boy is the shortest with dark skin and hair. He is a little wide
for a punk, but dressed and punctured all the same. His dark eyes
smolder, and tattooed across his forehead are characters of a
forgotten tongue in white. He has his hands tucked into the shredded
jumpsuit but I can still see the jagged frame of brass knuckles.
My
heart races. Punks. They watch me walk, watch me watching them.
Evaluating. Deciding. The blonde sneers.
“Run!”
I yell.
Flooded
with adrenaline I pound the pavement. Buildings rush past me, empty
alleys between, but I don't hear anyone else. My lungs burn and
muscles turn to steel cable, but still I run; each breath is fire,
each step pain.
Then
I'm doubled over and panting. I make it most of a city block before
realizing the girl isn't with me. The chain rattles in the distance.
I
look back and see the punks moving in like a pincer, engulfing her in
shadow. She makes a desperate noise as she limps away from them, the
injured fawn snapped at by hyenas.
I'm
running back. Why am I running back? Why does it feel wrong to
abandon her? A question every step. Everyone moves in slow motion and
I feel each moment pass me as I undo my escape. They surround her
more, she's inching toward being consumed. I have to save her, I have
to do something.
They
see I'm returning then stop and focus on me, the chain swings
uncertainly.
“Run!”
the cloche pleads.
I
stop beside her. “Get to the station.”
“Better
listen to her chav,” growls the blonde with the black metal plate
tattoos.
The
cloche grabs my arm and only wastes a second trying to pull me along,
the punks gather their wits and stalk towards me. I scan for anything
that could be used as a weapon. Nothing. And nowhere for me to run
without putting the girl back on the chopping block.
They
are scavengers and move cautiously. The blonde walks straight on, the
girl to my left and the dark boy to my right. I'm in their pincers,
and the chain is whirling.
I
have never fought anyone in my life. With fists raised, it all comes
down to this, surrounded by detritus and violent outcasts.
“Come
on,” the girl taunts in a high voice, “hero!”
I
feint at the blonde and all three take a step back. “Piss off you
brats!”
They've
almost surrounded me now, and when they have they'll regain their
confidence.
My
heart thumps.
A
bead of sweat drips down my forehead.
Now!
I
rush the blonde and punch as the chain lashes my arm. An elbow across
the girl's chin, but where's the-
My
rib shudders
“Feel
that chav!”
I
double over, choking down gulps of air, then throw a haymaker into
brass knuckle's gullet. He collapses, clutching at his windpipe, the
blonde sprawled behind him.
The
girl-
The
club strikes my back and I collapse.
“Fucking
hero!” Then giggles.
I'm
turned on to my back and feel a seizure of pain. All sound fades into
a low hum. My vision focuses and the dark boy stands over me
massaging his throat, smirking. He straddles me, then raises his
fist.
“I'm
gonna enjoy this, chav.”
The
first punch lands directly in my cheek.
The
second glances off my forehead.
The
third does not come. There's a scream but it's distant and quiet,
then another voice joins.
My
cheek feels swollen and I gingerly touch my face; the skin is pulped
and covered in blood. I wipe the humor from my eye and turn to the
source of the noise.
The
blonde has the chain wrapped around the dark boy's neck and he's
pulled it so tight that the others back is grotesquely arched. The
girl has her arms wrapped around the blonde's chest while she sobs
and screams. There's spittle on his lip and he's baring his teeth in
a twisted smile, pulling a one black plate edge over the crest of his
chin.
His
eye swollen shut, I meet his stare. We hold the gaze for an
interminable length then he drops the chain, still staring. Eyes on
me, he drags the dark boy away as the girl pleads with him.
Then
it is the street and I for a time, the usually silent building faces
howl as the wind whips between them. A bitter zephyr dances between
the walls and flows over me, warmth wicks away and my senses dull. In
this moment, it spares me some pain.
The
familiar sound of helicopter blades reach my ears and I shakily crane
my neck. A round, rotored metal Eye camera floats over the street; a
ball of metal suspended between two hoops of banded steel. It rolls
implacably fast and bobs wildly before zeroing in and approaching me.
It hovers there and stares – if you can call it that – with
perverted solemnity.
I
lay on the ground feeling the creeping pangs of agony wash over me as
the wind chills my bones. The Eye, apparently satisfied that I would
not be moving, leaves me to myself after a minute's long
consideration.
Finally,
some peace.
I'm
drawn back to consciousness by the sound of the segmented Protector
boots meeting concrete, like momentary chatterings of metal teeth.
I
look toward them through slits, the Protectors dark blue metallic
armor draws light into it. Cut like muscle contours, the torso flows
into the hardened metal legs and arms. They carry comically oversized
jet black GT1120 assault rifles, safety always off.
My
chest shakes along with my heart, but I stay on the ground and hope
for empathy. The sound of static follows a gravelly growl. “`Are
you awake?”
Ironic
question. With great effort, I reach a hand in to the air.
“Collect
him,” the Protector says.
Two
Protectors walk to either side and lift me off the ground. Pooled
blood runs down my forehead and drips from my brow to the street
below. I feel like I've been run over by a truck and it's all I can
do not to cry out in pain. They carry me over to the captain who
produces a small machine that blinks bright lights in my face then
dings.
“Hmm.
You're supposed to be at Section 8 monitoring station. What
happened?”
“Punk
attack.”
“Did
they take anything?”
“I...
didn't check.”
“Why
didn't you run?”
“What?”
“According
to your physical profile you could have outrun them. Why not?”
It
was a good question, one I had no answer to. The only thing that's
understood here is self-preservation, and I wasn't sure what
motivated the return. I remain silent with my head hung.
“Bring
him to the Station.”
It's
warm. I look up, we're inside the monitoring station. I must have
passed out during the trip. The foyer is decrepit and dirty, covered
in torn posters exalting the Sanctum. Everything is tan with brown
trim except for grated metal security doors that block access to the
upper floors. Before us are two steel portals and the Protector
swings the doors open.
The
security checkpoint's walls are covered in embossed metal
criss-crossed with raised scars, the halogen bulbs and white marble
floors make the blood dripping from my face a bright crimson. On the
left side recess sits three monitors behind a protected desk, all
staring at me with wide eyes and while whispering amongst themselves.
The
Protectors wave a security badge at the checkpoint reader and one of
the monitors makes a slight movement, the door buzzes and they
continue through.
The
marble transitions into riveted metal plates and catwalks. The room
has opened up into an expansive suspended open floor, a series of
floating administrator/observational units above us accessible from a
stair on the right. Near the top of the building are a series of
skylights and windows set into a vertical section of ceiling, casting
the main area in dull light.
Machine
cases rumble on the lower ground floor, each the size of a train car
and covered in the industrial grease/dust mixture that's created over
years of maintenance. Not many monitors get mechanic duty among the
machine casings, so the one access to the lower floor is set off to
the opposite side of the administrator stair.
I
groan as the warmth that welcomed me to the building eats away at the
numbness that makes my injuries tolerable. The monitoring stations
branch off around the periphery of the cavernous room, small
platforms haloed by brown metal railings, a single console at the
rear of each. I can see my station looming, empty.
They
throw me against my console and I cling to it, pain wracking every
fiber. I can see a needle in the red and reach out to make an
adjustment-
My
stomach convulses, I vomit at my feet and nearly collapse. They
struck me.
“Stand,”
one commands.
I
hold the console and slowly drag myself up until I'm perched upon it,
the pain unbearable. I try not to shake as they crowd around me,
breath raspy with artificial taint.
“You
have a job to do citizen.”
I
look over at the panel, only able to see one gauge at a time. There's
another indicator in the red and I try to adjust it, miss the switch
one... two... three times. I hear the rubberized glove tighten on the
rifle just as I manage to hit the switch.
“Carry
on.”
They
do not care what state I am in, nor should they; Protectors are
apathetic as any of us. The only difference is that it is their job
to keep things running smoothly as much as it is my job to monitor
these machines. Just jobs and identities, one monster. Another wave
of nausea overtakes me, I lean on my damaged arm and it collapses.
I'm
falling but then there's arms wrapped around my chest. A soft voice
whispers in my ear, “I can't hold you up, you need to help!”
I
grab the console and pull, slowly rising.
“Are
you okay?”
I
shudder, the feeling of knives in my spine. “No.”
“Why
did you do that?”
“What?”
“Why
didn't you run?”
I
turn and see the cloche, now cloche-less, holding me. Her eyes are
the most striking pattern of green and blue I've ever seen, her face
is soft and pale, her lips full and red. Perfectly straight blonde
hair falls to her shoulders.
“Unask
the question.”
“You
can't work like this”
“I
have to. Why do you care?”
“I...
you saved me from those punks. I owe you.”
Rotten
nonsense. “Do your job and we'll call it even. You should get to
your station before something goes wrong.”
“I
only need to press those buttons once in a while, you know that. I
checked everything before I came over.”
“How
did you know where I'm stationed?”
“I've
seen you walking here before. I was going to talk to you this
morning. You seemed... like you were in a hurry.”
“I
was late meeting some punks for a fist fight.”
She
stays quiet for a few seconds. I can feel her arms around my rib
cage, supporting me as I breath shallowly. “I... I'm... sorry. I'll
go,” she mutters, releasing me.
“No,
wait,” I start, but I can't hold myself up and slump over the
console. The sound of her shoes striking the catwalk echoes lightly
as she walks away then abruptly stops. I look to see what stalled
her.
She
has not stopped suddenly without reason, there was nothing stopping
her from going further. In fact, she had merely reached the end of
her journey. The station right next to mine.
The
girl whose name and face I did not know, the relative stranger I'd
risked my life for, was practically my cube-mate. She had neither
hunted nor trekked to find me; we were strangers in a three-meter
bubble, I ignorant of her entirely. She was right there, every day?
My stand against the punks had crossed a chasm of indifference. Now a
person three meters away, one I never noticed, had real concern.
I'd
crushed it, damning her with my aggravation.
This
is not normally one of my concerns. It is not of us to invest in
relationships to one-another. Yet I feel... regret.
“I'm
sorry,” I push myself up until I am leaning heavily on the console.
“I'm in a lot of pain.”
She
half-turns towards me with a look of surprise as her hands glide
across the console to the edge of the railing and grips it with pale
fingers. “Do you want help?”
There's
a tingling sensation on the nape of my neck, and I nod.
Her
teeth sparkle in the dull room, hands come together. “I'll be right
back once I've checked everything.”
I
watch her as she operates the panel and double-checks the console.
Time passes slowly then, the throbbing pain radiates in my back and
arm. If only the wind would chill me again, but then the girl comes
and is standing beside me, and her warmth is more inviting.
The Estate itself is a sprawling stone fort on the road to the Temple and is easily one of the coolest things I saw in Northern Ireland. We tromped around the grounds. There was a wild viking running about on the walls trying to scare us as well, always a pleasure.
The bridge leads to a smaller island with practically no safety fences; for the most part it’s just you and your finely tuned sense of balance (further honed by lingering hangover symptoms). The island, however, is beautiful and peaceful, we laid out on a grassy knoll and just soaked up the rare sunshine for a good half hour before turning back and snapping our last pictures of the fabled rope bridge.
It’s a small parking lot with a dilapidated 3 story building flanking it which opens a hike at a worse grade then the ride down. You’ll be in for a good stagger up to the bungalow at the top, but if you make it there on a clear, cool day it’s worth every step.
