Trent Jamieson - Roil

Margaret did not like the look of them, nor those they made obeisance to. Tall sombre-faced men, all of them, chewing and chewing, on what Margaret guessed must be Chill. Anderson’s warning returned to her. They had to be Vergers.

They’d driven that particular cult of violence out of Tate well before Margaret’s birth, but she was familiar with them. As a rather ghoulish child she had read twice, from cover to cover Simmon’s Torture and Torment or the Road Cruel Travelled: Confessions of a Man and his Knife.

There was no way that she would give herself up to a Verger.

Instead, tired at last of that ceaseless, useless industry and wary of staying too long and being caught, she followed Anderson’s directions to the house of Medicine Paul’s allies. But there was no happiness there. It was a smouldering ruin. Someone had painted a red V on the footpath before it.

She left the burnt old house and found another place nearby, deserted and smelling of dust and urine and things, like hope, gone rotten. There she lay down and, fighting it all the way, fell asleep.

“I hate queues,” the man in front of David said, brushing dust from the top of his hat.

Mr Whig’s warnings had proven true. There were guards at all the gates; big, frightened looking men gazing down at the crowds lined up to get in – order on the knife edge of chaos. All of the sentries were armed with odd-looking weapons. The man in front of him caught his gaze.

“Ice pistols of some sort,” he said then pointed to the walls. “And up there are ice cannon. Not that they’ll do them any good, shooting cold pellets into the storm, might as well throw a handful of ice cubes. You’d need to surround the city in ice. Moats and cannon twice the size of that, and even then it would only work for so long, there are many different ways to storm a fortress.”

Guards stared at them suspiciously, David tugged at the fellow’s arm.

“I don’t think it’s that wise to look too interested in the city’s defences,” he said.

“Oh,” the man said, sounding quite surprised by the thought. He laughed, and brought his gaze back to his hat. “I suppose you’re right.” He popped his hat back on his head.

“Rob,” he said and put out his hand. David shook it, not particularly enjoying the sensation of the man’s sweaty palm against his own.

“David,” he replied, and wiped his palm on his pants.

They stood at the back of the queue, moving slowly down towards the city’s gates.

“What’s happening?” David asked.

“What isn’t happening?” Rob said and started counting down with his fingers. “Quarg Hounds, of course, and Roilings now, you heard about the Dolorous Grey?” David nodded his head. “And all when the city is filled with strangers for the Festival of Float. They’ve started testing the visitors for, you know, infection. This will be the last Festival, I’ll wager.”

Rob pointed south, and David stared across the plain. The horizon was much thicker than it ought, as though it had smudged; only it was a smudge that moved. Even as David stared at it, it seemed to swell.

“The Roil is getting closer. Why, it crossed a cemetery last week and the dead rose up. Roilings, their minds filled with grubs and dust, started shambling towards the city, so I heard. Gets people’s nerves on edge. We all knew it was happening, just couldn’t believe it.” Rob’s lips split with a grin. “But credulity or not, let me tell you, boy, it’s going to be one hell of a party this year.”

The line moved slowly, and the man chatted away. Finally, David discovered why it was going at such a glacial pace. People that entered the city had to plunge their arms into a large bucket of ice. An armed guard stood by it, looking at once bored and paranoid. A winning combination, David thought.

When it was Rob’s turn, he hesitated. “Looks cold,” he said.

The guard tapped the side of the bucket with his gun. “That’s the point. Now, if you don’t mind-”

Rob shoved his hands into the ice and screamed.

Moths fell from his eyes, rushed down his face. The entire crowd stumbled as one – a clumsy terrified creature -but they need not have. The moths were weak and fragmented senselessly before they even hit the ground. Rob growled and pulled his hands from the ice, the skin blackened and smoking. “Getting stronger,” he said. “Getting so much stronger. I-”

The guard fired his gun, rolling with the recoil, and a spear of ice drove into the Rob’s chest. Rob, looked down at it, brought a hand to the icy shaft, then fell to the ground, body quivering, ice sheathing his chest. Another guard, face twisted with disgust, walked over to the corpse and dumped a bucket of ice on its head.

When the Roiling had stilled, a couple of guards, covered from head to toe in protective clothing, dragged the body away.

David rubbed his hand furiously on his pants leg.

“Next,” the guard said, lifting another bucket of ice on to the table.

David smiled weakly and shoved his hands into the bucket.

The guard nodded absently and clicked a stopwatch. David shivered, the ice stung, and the chill ran up into his arms.

“How long?” David asked.

“Twenty seconds,” the guard said, watching him closely. “Most Roilings reveal themselves upon contact with the ice, but we have to be sure. You did seem to be having rather a nice chat with that fellow.”

It was the longest twenty seconds of David’s life. He was intensely aware of the deep level of scrutiny that he was now under, not to mention the ice pistols aimed at his chest. They may launch ice but David was certain they could pierce his heart just as well.

There was also that nagging doubt. Was it possible to be infected and not know it? Of course not, he knew who he was and what it felt to be him.

The crowd held its breath, including David.

Then the guard nodded – pulling the ice bucket away and resetting his stopwatch.

David considered taking a bow.

Ladies and gentlemen! I am still a human being, you need not be alarmed.

But he did not. Just stood there, unsure of what to do next.

“Have a pleasant stay,” the guard said at last. He coughed, when David still hadn’t moved. “You can go in now.”

“Thank you,” David said, in a voice that was anything but thankful, but the guard was already focussing on the next visitor.

David shrugged. His arms, dripping water, shook. He had passed the first stage at least. He took a couple of steps into the city.

Another guard stood there, just past the gates his mask dark with sweat. David did not envy him the humid cage of the mask, its rough material tight against his face.

“Where’d you take the Roiling?” David asked and because the Guard was nervous and bored – obviously anxious for a little distraction – he told him.

“We’ve a cool-room. All the Roilings are delivered there and frozen solid to make sure they’re really dead, and then we burn them. There haven’t been too many of the bastards, just enough to keep us on our toes.” He watched, with professional interest, as the next person plunged their hands in the ice, David noticed his grip change on his gun. “The protocols were only laid down a few days ago, the problem’s but a week old and it’s already becoming difficult to police. You heard about the train?”

David nodded, though he said nothing about his involvement in that incident. He had heard about it all right, he was never likely to forget it. “Who hasn’t? From all accounts it was terrible.”