Between cracks and crevices (Leon)
Posted: 01 Jul 2019, 12:38
Night has fallen fast. The moon hangs low in the sky; a bloody sash against the deepest ink of night. There are no stars to be seen as they hide behind a wall of foreboding red cloud that moves at a lazy crawl and casts malevolent shadows against the backdrop of the forest. The skeletal branches of the trees extend to the sky in prayerful worship and sway in the strong breeze. The sempiternal-winter air swirls around Lance, too, and steals every lick of warmth it can. He wraps his arms tighter around himself, pulls his sandy coat closed, and tucks his chin down into his pullover. His breath is visible under dim streetlights – the few which still light up the decaying city – from a freakish heat being strung out of him. As he walks from the south end to the north, Lance feels the sidewalk beneath his mud-laden boots for the first time in hours. The rich scents of pine, earth, and blood, which have been assaulting his senses unimpeded, now compete with the rust and grease-soaked stench of civilisation. With many hours left before dawn, and the air now smelling of overdue rain, Lance quickens his pace.
As he walks, his hair falls loose about his face; tousled and tangled. Under the fading light it appears brown; the honeyed-blond streaks lost to the night. Between the purple welts and raw pink marks, his skin is greyish peach. Lance’s grey-blue eyes are blood-shot too; hooded and dilated as he follows the barely lit path down empty streets. Every step is a nail bomb exploding in his innards. The pain throbs – deep and warm – a contradicting sensation of being both skewered and gutted. When it wanes and the pressure lapses, Lance can breathe and takes clumsy, hurried steps forward. He can’t go to a hospital and he can’t get mixed up with the wrong crowd at this point either. Lance’s only option is to seek a rudimentary first aid kit and patch up his injuries before he passes out and exsanguinates. A veterinary hospital or pharmacy would have what he needs, but, Lance hasn’t seen anything but boarded up buildings, commercial properties, and warehouses for the last mile.
Lance begins to accept the hopeless of his situation until he happens across a cemetery. Moss-laden marble pillars stand as despairing guards on either side of the cemetery threshold. Behind the ancient wrought-iron gates are rows upon rows of crumbling gravestones; their engraved epitaphs bathe in the light that spills from the ashen moon. The boughs of the graveyard twist like contorted bones as if writhing in a silent scream. Gnarled trees and a funeral home hunch over most of the expanse; their proud figures plunge the rest of the scene in shadow. The building is old stone and stained glass that has weathered so perfectly with its surroundings that, if it weren’t for the glow of light peeking out from one of the windows, then Lance would have walked by without a second thought. He hurries to the door and listens. With a touch of willpower, he slows his breathing – his pulse calming despite the rancour of pain – and when the wind is the only sound to be heard as it lashes against the loamy earth, Lance pushes his weight against the door and enters.
Moving into the passage, Lance wonders whether this quiet air tinctured with the scent of incense, candles, and the more solidly Anglican smell of musty prayer books, metal polish, and flowers also holds the promise of sanctuary. The dimly lit passage with its floor of encaustic tiles and its white-painted walls runs throughout the building. The little vestry is the first room on the left. Next to it, with a connecting door, is a small kitchen about ten feet by eight. There is a closeted staircase that leads to an attic, and then the building divides into a series of large rooms: one is an office space, another room displays a range of coffin models and their interiors, and the final room is where the funerals are held. The drab 1950s décor suggests that the building hasn’t been upgraded in a very long time, which is why the steel pair of elevator doors behind a green velvet curtain, at the very back of the chapel, catches Lance’s attention.
Caution applies weights around his ankles as Lance approaches the out-of-place doors; there are tracks scratched into the floor going to and from the elevator chamber which signifies the passage of many gurneys. By following the tracks with his eyes, he can see that they lead to a back exit, which is concealed from the front of the room. This must be where they bring in the bodies and downstairs is where they must examine them. It’s not exactly the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that he’s been looking for, but, he’s in no position to pick and choose. He calls the elevator and hopes that it doesn’t disturb anybody who’s working down there.
As he walks, his hair falls loose about his face; tousled and tangled. Under the fading light it appears brown; the honeyed-blond streaks lost to the night. Between the purple welts and raw pink marks, his skin is greyish peach. Lance’s grey-blue eyes are blood-shot too; hooded and dilated as he follows the barely lit path down empty streets. Every step is a nail bomb exploding in his innards. The pain throbs – deep and warm – a contradicting sensation of being both skewered and gutted. When it wanes and the pressure lapses, Lance can breathe and takes clumsy, hurried steps forward. He can’t go to a hospital and he can’t get mixed up with the wrong crowd at this point either. Lance’s only option is to seek a rudimentary first aid kit and patch up his injuries before he passes out and exsanguinates. A veterinary hospital or pharmacy would have what he needs, but, Lance hasn’t seen anything but boarded up buildings, commercial properties, and warehouses for the last mile.
Lance begins to accept the hopeless of his situation until he happens across a cemetery. Moss-laden marble pillars stand as despairing guards on either side of the cemetery threshold. Behind the ancient wrought-iron gates are rows upon rows of crumbling gravestones; their engraved epitaphs bathe in the light that spills from the ashen moon. The boughs of the graveyard twist like contorted bones as if writhing in a silent scream. Gnarled trees and a funeral home hunch over most of the expanse; their proud figures plunge the rest of the scene in shadow. The building is old stone and stained glass that has weathered so perfectly with its surroundings that, if it weren’t for the glow of light peeking out from one of the windows, then Lance would have walked by without a second thought. He hurries to the door and listens. With a touch of willpower, he slows his breathing – his pulse calming despite the rancour of pain – and when the wind is the only sound to be heard as it lashes against the loamy earth, Lance pushes his weight against the door and enters.
Moving into the passage, Lance wonders whether this quiet air tinctured with the scent of incense, candles, and the more solidly Anglican smell of musty prayer books, metal polish, and flowers also holds the promise of sanctuary. The dimly lit passage with its floor of encaustic tiles and its white-painted walls runs throughout the building. The little vestry is the first room on the left. Next to it, with a connecting door, is a small kitchen about ten feet by eight. There is a closeted staircase that leads to an attic, and then the building divides into a series of large rooms: one is an office space, another room displays a range of coffin models and their interiors, and the final room is where the funerals are held. The drab 1950s décor suggests that the building hasn’t been upgraded in a very long time, which is why the steel pair of elevator doors behind a green velvet curtain, at the very back of the chapel, catches Lance’s attention.
Caution applies weights around his ankles as Lance approaches the out-of-place doors; there are tracks scratched into the floor going to and from the elevator chamber which signifies the passage of many gurneys. By following the tracks with his eyes, he can see that they lead to a back exit, which is concealed from the front of the room. This must be where they bring in the bodies and downstairs is where they must examine them. It’s not exactly the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow that he’s been looking for, but, he’s in no position to pick and choose. He calls the elevator and hopes that it doesn’t disturb anybody who’s working down there.