Pulp 004

By the time the endorphins and adrenalines settle—big words meaning the chemicals and humors that keep my lungs breathing and legs moving—I start to feel the dig on my leg and the sting on my side. I’m well into the caverns under this edge of the City. I also start to think, my body slowing down for my thoughts to catch up.

I’m far from the hovel now. If Bloody Ben followed me down into the sewer, either I lost him with the many twists and turns I took to wind me up in this knotted mass of brick and scumwater; or he is toying with me. But that’s not his style. Ben’s a killer but he’s not a fiend. I don’t think my blockhead is sharp enough to lose Ben, but if he was going to pull the knife on me, he would have done it by now. I can rest on that.

But now I’m lost. In the millions of miles down here, a man can easily slip and be taken by the poisons and fangs that grow up from the dank. I keep my eyes open, accustomed to what little light there is, passing with caution at the sight of a possible nest of pit vipers and with trepidations around a hive of arch-spiders that looks empty but damned if I go in to find out.

There’s the rustle of movement and the nearby air suddenly carries a warm scent of living bodies. There’s a faint sound of feet on stone, no louder than a scampering rat. I turn, raising my hands up to fight off my attacker–Is it Ben? No! I see only three children, two boys and a girl, each in dirty clothes and uncut hair. They huddle behind the legs of the teenager that has stepped out from one of the side archways, putting him in them and me. His shoulders rise and his fists clench. Gaunt and lean, his arms are longer than they normally should be, and his fingers seem to extend two inches longer than they should. He is a product of his diet, the food naturally harvested from the soil contaminated by toxic runoff from municipal waste sites. The pinhole pupils and fair green luminescence from his skin, I knew him and his wards to be of the Lost Family.
 
I lower my hands. They keep their distance. There is an exhaled breath between me and them before I speak. 

“I am Old Waylon and mean no harm.” My voice is the loudest sound this part of the world has ever heard. “I am friend of the Lost, of the Great Grandmother and her rat children, of the One’o’clock Hand Brothers and the mouths they feed.”  

The oldest nods very slowly. He sets himself at ease. The three children peer around his legs, one of the boys getting brave enough to walk up to look at me. I am friend to the Lost Family. They once sought me out four years ago when Snapscale of the Gator Clan saw himself a king, even if it was King of the dregs and drowned. I fought back the invading jaws with a fierce club that would grow lilies, watered by the blood of Snapscale and his men. The name ‘Old Waylon’ is recognized by the older boy, who must have been just a waif at that time. He smiles and doesn’t speak, but the Lost Family is mute to outsiders.

“I have lost the way,” I said, knowing what words I must speak if I am to call upon this youth for help. “Can you show me back?”

The teenage boy nods and turns to the three behind him. The unspoken language of his blood instructs them to go back through the passage. When my new guide steps in front of me, I start to follow after giving a look over my shoulder. Two pairs of lingering eyes watch me. If we are lucky, this might be the only time we ever see each other, these children and I. This is not my world and I know that. The Lost will always will be helpful but there is only a handful of hospitality that they can afford me or anyone. There are warm meals and days full of sun in my future. For these children, it is a life of midnights and small bellies, of running lean until they can’t run any more. I don’t wave good-bye. I simply turn my head back and follow my guide out.