the aberration

chapter seven

Was he asleep? It was impossible to tell.

Silence. And then, on the edge of hearing, sounds of struggling. Slight but persistent movements. A pause, a sigh of anguish, and then it continued. A sigh of relief.

Beef opened his eyes. He watched from his position slumped against a tree several metres away as the marine flexed his shoulders, brought his arms around the back of the tree trunk he was bound to, and unclipped the belt. He issued a half-wheeze of constricted elation, hovered on the spot for a brief moment, and then took off, pattering lightly across the grass.

Beef retrieved the gun from his side, got to his feet and watched the man hold up his combat trousers as he ran away and clipped the belt in place again. Beef quietly trailed him from a short distance, running low and using the cover of the trees.

* * *

Amelia Muse lifted her mobile phone into the air and walked a lazy circle with her eyes on the screen.

'I already tried that,' Simon told her.

'Oh really,' said the detective, making her way over to a tree and hitching herself up with her arm still outstretched.

'Yes, really,' Simon replied. 'You won't get a signal.'

Amelia tried angling the phone as if she might still catch one. No network, however, was available. She sighed and put the phone back in her pocket. 'I'm hungry,' she said.

'Come and look at this,' Simon called back, having walked some way ahead. Amelia hopped down from the tree and fixed her deerstalker before running after him.

Almost concealed by the trees were two large copper tanks issuing numerous pipes that fed into the earth below.

'So what?' said Amelia. 'What are they, water tanks?'

Simon shrugged and crouched down, his black trenchcoat folding around him, by a metal plate set into the ground at an oblique angle. It might have been a door, only there was no handle. He tapped it with his hand. 'Three of these, I've come across,' he said. 'Each of them exactly the same.'

'You think that leads somewhere?' Amelia asked.

He stood up again. Then he kicked the plate twice with his booted right foot. The clang of the metal echoed and resounded like it had been cast down a well. 'Yes,' he said. He kicked it again, harder. 'I don't think it wants to be opened.'

The detective circled and examined the tanks.

'So far, they're the only things I've come across, besides you,' said Simon.

'How long have you been here, did you say?'

'About a day, I guess.' He idly kicked the ground. 'Speaking of, you don't happen to have any food on you, do you? I had one chocolate bar and I ate it. I don't know where we're going to get our next meal.'

* * *

'Why are you hiding in that tree?'

Mike peered through the branches at the floating kitchen appliance, which had as yet not gone away. For every backwards step he had taken from the thing, it had followed until it had him trapped. He opened his mouth, but failed to organise his questions into a single orderly line. Instead, he blurted a strange noise, closed his mouth again and looked around to see who was playing tricks on him.

'I must say,' said the microwave, 'you are acting rather strangely.'

'So are you, for a microwave,' said Mike, his eyes lingering for a moment on its large, rectangular gaze, a dark-tinted screen behind which glowed a faint green light. Then he resumed denying its existence. 'Where am I?' he added.

The microwave inclined. 'I don't understand,' it said. 'Are you perhaps being philosophical? Metaphysical? Humorous?'

'Where are the others? Is this a dream?'

'A dream? I don't think so.'

'Then why are you talking?' he demanded, turning back to it. 'How are you talking?' It was a microwave. A fairly large one at that. It had all the buttons. The plastic white casing. It had the semitransparent door with, Mike now noticed, the glass plate rotating endlessly inside. But it had no wires. No apparent propellors or wings or anything to explain how it was kept floating in the air. Or how it was talking to him.

'For someone who seems so intent on denying my existence, you are asking me a lot of questions,' the microwave pointed out.

'Maybe I'm mad.'

'Maybe.'

'Maybe I'll just stay in this tree.'

'I wouldn't recommend it,' said the microwave. 'It's not safe here.'

'Here? Where is here?'

'It's not safe,' the appliance repeated. 'Soon they will be here again. They will churn up the earth and rake the trees with metal. There will be shouting and screaming and death. There always is. Please, come this way.'

* * *

Beef paused and waited as the frantic marine stumbled and cried out up ahead. Then, as he scrambled to his feet, Beef set into motion once again, ducking out of sight as the marine span clumsily around to check that he was not being pursued, before launching with no less fervour in his determined direction.

The chase continued at length, Beef almost slipping into a choreography of motions as he moved swiftly and silently. He was only feet away when the marine began shouting wildly and gesticulating back in Beef's direction.

The trees suddenly stopped and gave way to a clearing. The marine careened forward, still shouting. Before reaching the edge, Beef paused and withdrew. Crouching low, he saw the man running towards a large concrete structure, its curved, sloping wall running parallel to the wide arc of the trees that surrounded it. Two embedded sets of steps wound their way symmetrically up to the top. Along the top of the wall, a couple of marine sentries looked down as the escaped captive approached. Behind them, a tall, round concrete building like a stunted tower loomed formidably, encircled at intervals with thin slit windows.

At the foremost point of the wall, where the narrow flights of steps met, were large metal doors. There was the sound of a heavy latch being pulled back and slowly, laboriously, they ground open. More marines marched out, rifles in their hands. A handful of them treaded cautiously towards the trees, bringing their weapons to bear.

Beef checked his pistol and quietly circled the clearing, keeping the marines in view. The pale light of day was failing. Soon it would be dark.

* * *

'My feet hurt,' said Amelia. 'And I'm still hungry.' The ground sloped gently downwards below their feet as they trudged on. 'Shouldn't we be looking for higher ground?'

'No,' replied Simon.

Amelia looked at him. 'Well, why not?'

'Look up ahead,' he said. 'Can't you see it?'

'See what?' The detective craned her neck. There was little light to see by, and the canopy of the trees obstructed her view.

Simon picked up his pace and began to skitter down the hill. 'Water!' he called back.

'Oh, finally.' Amelia held on to her hat and hurried after him. They stopped at the shoreline of a small lake. The water was as dead and silent as everything else in the place, but it came as a welcome change of scenery. Trees encroached all around it, rising over a small elevation of jagged rock on the east side.

Amelia took off her deerstalker and crouched beside the lake, cupping water in her hands. Small ripples expanded out into the water as she drank and washed her face. Simon scaled the edge partway, then walked back and did the same as the detective. Amelia, feeling somewhat refreshed, leaned back, took off her shoes and socks, and wiggled her aching toes.

'We should probably sleep here tonight,' Simon said over his shoulder, between splashes.

Amelia thrust her hands into the pockets of her brown coat and pulled out half a dozen slim volumes, each a different colour, which she then spread out before her and opened up. They were each filled with untidy scrawl, sketches and diagrams.

Simon stood and turned. He looked at her, sitting cross-legged and adding something to a red one. 'What's all that?' he asked.

Amelia glanced up. 'My notebooks,' she said.

'You have a lot,' he observed.

The detective nodded. 'It's how I figure out stuff,' she told him. 'Each notebook is about something different. Different people, different discoveries, different clues. So then I present myself with all the information like so,' she explained, resting her hands on the pages before her, 'and then I jumble it all up in my head. You see, Mr Hyde, the mind is like a giant stew.'

'It is?'

'Yes. You mix up everything you know about the case and then try to make something out of it. It can take a while, but if you keep mixing and just let it all stew, eventually you'll get something edible. Something that might just work.'

'You mean you make stuff up as you go along?' asked Simon.

'I have a working theory, yes,' she replied.

'So you might come up with some really, ridiculously farfetched story, and for as long as it includes everything you think could be a part of it, that's your working theory?'

'Don't diss the improbable, Mr Hyde.'

'And your current theory is...?'

Amelia began to close her books. 'I don't think I'm willing to share with you just yet.'

'So you won't tell me what you've written about me?' Simon asked, with a sly grin.

'Nope,' Amelia replied, stuffing her notes back in her coat pockets.

'Shame,' he said, lowering himself to the ground and lying back with his hands beneath his head.

'Although I do wonder why you are still wearing those shades.'

Simon grunted. 'Well, goodnight, Detective Muse,' he said.

'Yeah,' replied Amelia, rolling onto her side. Her stomach grumbled.

* * *

The marines appeared reluctant to venture too far out from their base. They swept the area with torchlight; crouching low, Beef had retreated far enough not to be seen until the men turned and headed back.

For a while Beef waited, until the dark and the stillness had completely set in. Then, gripping his firearm, he crept through the trees and watched the small tower just short of the edge of the clearing.

The sentries did not have their torches on, but he could see their dark figures once again patrolling the top of the wall, guns in hand. There were only two of them, and they marched the complete circumference of the wall, one half each, constantly moving back and forth along it.

Beef held back until their varying paces finally synchronised and at the same time they were both facing away from his direction. Treading lightly and staying low, he then moved swiftly across the clearing and pressed himself against the wall. He listened for the sound of the sentry's footsteps as he moved and edged silently up the left set of steps. Staying hidden from view, Beef waited and judged the man's proximity, and as soon as the sentry was close enough, Beef shot upwards, grabbed him around the throat, his other hand tightly wrapping around the marine's mouth, and heaved him back down the steps.

The marine struggled, still overcome with surprise. When his eyes had rolled back into his head and his body went limp, Beef let him go.

He stepped over the man and peered over the edge to see the other man still walking obliviously in the other direction, a conclusion Beef had already come to as the man had not yet reacted to his compatriot's disappearance. Wasting no time, Beef climbed up and dashed along the top of the wall before the other sentry could walk back. The man heard his steps as he approached and turned, but before he could act or cry out, Beef grabbed his rifle and rammed it into his chest. The man groaned and stooped, but Beef had not yet let go of his weapon and brought the butt of the rifle up to the marine's chin. As his consciousness was knocked out of him, Beef took his rifle and threw him off the wall.

He quickly dropped low and looked down into the shadowy enclosed space behind the wall. He could see no one else. Identical stairs ran down the wall's opposite face. Beef glanced around, slung the rifle over his shoulder and, with the pistol still in his hand, began to make his way down.