Neon Leviathan by T.R. Napper

Author:T.R. Napper
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Publisher: Grimdark Magazine
Published: 2020-02-14T22:00:00+00:00

A Shout is a Prayer for the Waiting Centuries

2071

I’ll give you a roll of barbwire

A vine for this modern epoch

Climbing all over our souls

That’s our love, take it, don’t ask

“Any food?” asked Phuong.

“No food,” replied the woman.

“Rice, old rice, bamboo shoots. Anything.”

“No food.”

“I have a child; we haven’t eaten in two days.”

“We all have children. Here, take some water.”

Phuong reached out in the darkness, a smooth, cool wooden ladle caressed her hand. She fumbled for the bucket, filled the scoop with water, and held it out for her daughter, who grabbed it and slurped noisily. Phuong felt for Trung and passed the scoop to him. He rested his hand on her shoulder as he drank. Her skin tingled at his touch, familiar, yet always new. Then she took her turn, cracked lips and swollen tongue welcoming the cool stream of water.

Her eyes adjusted to the dark as they drank; further along someone had a battery-powered lamp, its thin glow enough to paint the outline of those hiding in the rough-ceilinged room underground. Women and children, not many men. Not many of those left. Not many young women of fighting age, either.

The woman who’d passed her the water had an AK-47 slung over her shoulder. The sheen of the polished metal gleamed in outline.

“How long has the bombing lasted, older sister?” asked Phuong.

“Hard to count,” said the woman. Her face was impassive, drawn. “Two days, maybe three. The freewave’s jammed, nanos unusable. Time’s different, down here.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, long, growing.

“They are coming,” whispered the woman. “Get down.”

They did. Huddled together, pressed against the dirt floor, covering the child with their bodies. Phuong hugged her daughter, who was so good, so quiet. Three years old, and never complained, never cried. Trung, his lean arms around his wife. Holding them both.

The storm came.

* * *

None of them could take their eyes off the meat. Sizzling, marinating, tantalizing, just lying there within reach, in rows on silver frying pans. The head chef, tall white hat askew, loitered nearby like a bull mastiff over a fresh bone, growling at any of the staff who came too close. Behind the chef, behind the others, all around, were invisible cameras with eyes cool and unblinking, watching the rows of real meat, ensuring the integrity of each rare, tender morsel.

George Duulngari let his eyes linger, like everyone else, as he passed through the kitchen. He straightened the white jacket they’d given him as he walked, too tight across the shoulders, too much room around the waist. He moved through the bustle, the swarm of waiters and waitresses and assistant chefs and despotic minor managers bustling around the gleaming cleansteel kitchens. They made room for him, back here, all of them.

Back here they knew who he used to be; out there they didn’t give a damn. George took a deep breath, face carefully blank, and walked out into the ballroom. From the heat and hustle of the kitchens to the leisurely orbiting souls in the cool, crisp air of the grand ballroom.

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