Tim Waggoner: Nekropolis

She pointed at my empty, ragged left sleeve. “Your arm!”

“Don’t worry about it. Occupational hazard. Papa’ll fix it up for me.” I hoped.

She regarded me for a moment, and I could see the confusion in her eyes.

“Something wrong?” I asked.

“I…I don’t know what to do now.” She shrugged her massive shoulders.

“You’re alive-do whatever you want.”

She grinned, and even though I knew it was Lyra inside the body, the sight of all those teeth being bared still unnerved me. “You’re right.” She came forward and gave me a hug that, if I hadn’t been dead, most likely would have killed me on the spot.

“Thank you, Matthew.”

I wanted to respond, but I couldn’t pull any air into my dead lungs to do it. She released me, and then with a wave she left the bar for whatever her new life held in store for her. I couldn’t help but envy her.

Everyone watched her go, and then Skully said, “All right, show’s over,” and his customers returned to drinking, talking, laughing, the incident well on its way to being forgotten. Just another day in Nekropolis.

I walked up to the bar and sat on one of the stools.

“Looked pretty hairy there for a minute,” Skully said. “Pun intended.” He grinned at that, but then he always looks like he’s grinning.

“You know, I can never figure out how you talk without lips or a tongue.”

“Just talented, I guess.”

“Right.” I got off the stool. “Thanks for letting me conduct my business here.”

“No sweat. What’re friends for?”

“Gotta go. Papa’s waiting.” I started to leave.

“Matt? Don’t forget your arm.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” I bent down to retrieve it, more than a little embarrassed, and then continued toward the door. I was half aware of some of the bar-goers watching me as I left, especially the blonde in leather.

However, it wasn’t until later I learned that as soon as I left, she got up and followed.

Papa Chatha’s shop was on the other side of the Sprawl from Skully’s, and while navigating the maze of cramped streets was never easy, this time of year it was a nightmare, both figuratively and literally. It was the anniversary of the Descension, and the Sprawl, always party central for Nekropolis, had become a mix of Las Vegas and Disneyland (assuming the Haunted Mansion had exploded and taken over the entire park) during both Mardi Gras and New Year’s Eve. Beings of every description-and quite a few who defied description-choked the streets, drinking, shouting, singing, groping, slapping, hitting, dancing, screwing…You name the verb, they were doing it. It was Halloween as scripted by Franz Kafka, with costumes and set design by Salvador Dali.

Umbriel, the shadowsun, hung motionless in the starless sky, fixed in the same position it holds day in, day out, its strange diffuse light maintaining the city’s perpetual dusk. And directly below Umbriel, rising forth from the ground like a gigantic obsidian talon, visible from anywhere in Nekropolis, rested the Nightspire, home to Father Dis, founder of Nekropolis and its absolute ruler. And in many ways, its God.

Over three hundred years ago, the Darkfolk, rather than deal with an increasingly populous, aggressive, and technologically advanced mankind, decided to leave Earth. Led by Father Dis and the five lesser Lords, they traveled to a distant dark dimension where Nekropolis was born. This leavetaking, which the Darkfolk call the Descension, is Nekropolis’s most sacred holiday.

As far as I’m concerned, it’s a gigantic pain in the ass.

The Sprawl was crowded at the best of times, but this was madness. Normally, the streets were filled with traffic, vehicles of every type and description-and many that defied description-racing this way and that, drivers searching impatiently for whatever pleasures they’d come to the Sprawl to find. But because of the Descension celebration, the Sprawl was presently closed to vehicular traffic, and masses of partiers thronged the streets, as if determined to take advantage of the one day during the year when Nekropolitans could stand in the middle of the street and not risk getting run down by cars…or devoured by things only pretending to be cars.

The sidewalks weren’t much better, but I shoved my way through the crowds as best I could, past bars, clubs, restaurants, and establishments offering more esoteric-and often stomach-turning-entertainments. I’d have kept one hand on the few darkgems I carried to prevent pickpockets from taking them, but I needed my good arm to carry my detached one.

I was passing by Sawney B’s, a fast-food franchise established by descendents of the infamous Scottish cannibal, when a trio standing outside the restaurant’s cave-entrance facade turned to look at me. A bald man with large spider legs growing out of his head held a container of lady fingers, while his friends-a being who looked like a lobster in a leisure suit and a well-built woman with pythons instead of arms-sipped a marrow shake and nibbled homunculus nuggets, respectively.

The bald man was about to pop a lady finger with cherry-red nail polish into his mouth when he stopped and pointed the finger at me. “Hey, check it out! The guy’s been disarmed!”

The three gourmands laughed. I stopped walking and turned to scowl at them.

“I only need one arm to yank those legs off your head and shove them where Umbriel doesn’t shine.”

The laughter died in their throats and I continued on my way to Papa Chatha’s.

The architecture in the Sprawl is a mad conglomeration of styles-Art Deco, Tudor, Baroque, Victorian, Post-Modern, Frank Lloyd Wright, and buildings which look like structures made from regurgitated insect resin. The whole place is like an M. C. Escher fever dream. But the Sprawl is Lady Varvara’s Dominion, and zoning isn’t exactly high on the Demon Queen’s list of priorities.

After struggling through the drunken, drugged-up throngs for what could only have been an hour or so but which felt more like a handful of eternities, I saw the greenish tint against the sky which told me I was nearing the flaming river Phlegethon and the Bridge of Nine Sorrows. Papa Chatha’s was close by-finally.

And then I felt a hand on my shoulder; or rather, I felt the pressure of a hand on my shoulder, as that was all the sensation my dead nerves were capable of conveying.

“Excuse me.”

The voice was soft, feminine, and nervous. But while I’d been in Nekropolis only a couple years, that was long enough to know that in this place appearances mean jack. So I stepped forward, and whirled about, body tensed, ready to fight, holding my detached arm out before me like a weapon.

The woman-the leather-clad blonde I’d seen at Skully’s-took a step back, startled by my action. But then she regained her composure, or at least a good portion of it, and said, “I watched you handle that lyke in the bar. A most impressive performance, Mister Richter.”

She was barely five feet tall, slim to the point of being model-thin, with pale porcelain skin. Her short hair was bright blonde, almost white. Her eyes were large and red, as if from crying. Or perhaps too much celebrating. “Yeah, well the next show isn’t till midnight. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have to go see a voodoo priest.” I turned to go.

“Wait, please!”

The urgency in her voice, almost panic, made me hesitate. “Look, whatever it is, can’t it wait? I’m no expert, but as I understand these things, if I don’t get my arm reattached soon, I’ll lose it for good.”

“I…it’s just…” She looked around, as if afraid someone might be listening, though how anyone could overhear us talking in the din of celebration, I didn’t know. Hell, I could barely hear us. She leaned forward and mumbled something.