For a moment, the sight of a child in a worn polo standing and staring cluelessly did plenty to distract the collector. Jude considered making a break for it. His muscles were already bunching up for a desperate dash when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t think I’ll be losing two rabbits in one night.” He gave Jude a side-long grin and turned his attention back to the girl. She hadn’t moved an inch. “Scram, rat.”

Maybe she heard him, maybe she didn’t.

“Didn’t you hear me, I said scram!” He waved his bulky arm in the direction she had come. “You little rodents should stay clear of the alleys.”

She stared at him. Clear eyes and a lost expression. The collector flexed his hand, clenching and unclenching, edging towards the girl. Jude had to do something. As much as he had no love lost on the peculiar child, the thought of this brute doing anything to a child made him shiver.

“Just ignore the_” His lip was split and he was face down on the damp floor before he had enough presence of mind to register what had just happened. Flashes of images ran past his vision. A large fist to his face and the floor rushing upwards. No sound. No pain. Just impact. The pain was most definitely going to come sooner or later.

“I really am a reasonable man, Mister Jude, but I hate,” He heard the collector’s voice. “I absolutely hate being interrupted. I’m sure you can understand that.”

Calmly, smiling as he did, he walked over to Jude’s struggling figure and brought a booted feet to his side. Hard. Pain shot like jagged shards through his body. What was left of Jude’s lunch made it past his mouth and unto the floor before he could shout. His head did a tail-spin and splotches of colored light exploded behind his eyes. This must be what they mean by seeing stars.

“Now where was I?” The jacketed figure turned to face the girl. “Hope that didn’t scare you, little rat, I would hate to scare you just yet.” The rings on his fingers jingled.

“No.” She said.

“No?” He took a step towards her, his figure towering over the girl. Beast and prey. In this case, Masochistic beast and ignorant prey. Jude thought. Even then, she really isn’t much of a prey.

“No,” She looked up at him, expressionless. “But you should be.”

The collector’s smile froze in place. The boldness in her voice made him falter. He laughed.

“Me, afraid?” He laughed again. “What on earth would scare me here?”

“Me.” Now she stepped closer. He took a step backwards.

“You’re one of them Voodoo junkies, aren’t you?” A slight frown creased his forehead.

“Voodoo?”

Jude had succeeded in pulling himself to his feet and hunched over, grasping his side and gasping for air. His lungs seemed to have shut down when the bull kicked him. Now they seemed to be performing an excruciatingly slow reboot. Colors still swarm behind his eyes, marring his vision of the alley. Even if he tried escaping now, he’d only manage stumbling over a thousand things before being caught. But as much as he wanted to get away, he was intrigued by the girl’s boldness. And her complete cluelessness.

Who on earth, much less Fall Town, didn’t know what Voodoo was? The single most addictive drug synthesized from the human psyche through processes that made your head ache just thinking about it. One purple pill was all you needed to get you hooked. The upside? You became more than human. Users manifested abilities ranging from precognition to matter manipulation. The down side? There was no detox for Voodoo. You either died a user or a schizo.

Jude watched her walk towards to collector without the slightest hint of fear. Who the hell are you?

“Get the hell out of here before I do to you the same thing I did to that, rat. I have business to wrap up.” The collector was backing up towards Jude now. His hands twitched.

“Are you afraid of me?” She cocked her head to the side.

“You don’t scare me you little rat.”

“No? But I think I do. You’re shaking.”

“No I’m n_”

Jude was sure the collector wasn’t afraid, he was definitely sure he wasn’t shaking in fear but the minute she said it, he could see the big man trembling. Maybe his eyes were just beginning to clear up and maybe the bulk of a man had actually been shaking.

“Now, are you afraid?” Her eyes were glazed and her voice seemed to resonate through Jude’s pores.

“N_No!”

“But you are. You’re trembling.” She began to circle him slowly. “You’re so scared, it’s hard to breath.”

The collector froze in place. Panic began to creep unto his face. Her small lips spread into a small grin. “Don’t you think it’s possible to drown in your fear? I think it is and I think you’re drowning in yours.”

She touched a finger on his ringed hand. “Can you feel it now?”

The collector’s hand shot to his throat. His eyes bulged and he retched and gasped for air. His blunt fingers scratched at his muscled neck, desperate to make an opening for air. His fell on his backside and his legs shot out in spasms, his expensive shoes rattling like a tap dancer’s on the pavement. Jude had no idea what was happening but he was sure of one thing. The collector was dying.

“Stop!” He shouted at the girl. He eyes were distant and her lips were slack. Her mind wasn’t anywhere she could hear Jude. He pushed off the wall and grabbed her by the shoulder.

“Hey!” He shook her as hard as he dared. “You’re killing him. Stop! Please!”

Her eyes suddenly refocused and a surge of vertigo washed over Jude again, more intense than the first time. The collector’s thrashing stopped and for a moment Jude thought he was dead.

“I didn’t kill him.” She whispered. “I would never kill anyone, but…” She looked up at Jude, his hands still on her shoulders. Tears filled her eyes and her temple creased. “He was hurting you.”

She sniffed and threw her hands around Jude’s neck. He froze in place, heart thudding hard against his chest. Then he heard her sobs, so quiet he might not have heard them, but the slight tremble in her body confirmed it. She really was just a little girl. Weird or not, she probably had just saved his life.

“Let’s go.” Jude whispered, picking her up in his arms.

“Where?” Her arms still circled his neck and she still shook with sobs.

“I’ll figure something out.”

Jude glanced at the collector on the ground; he gaped at them like an electrocuted child, breathing hard and fast. A sudden and intense urge to kick him in the groin came over Jude and he almost did it too but a little thread of empathy held him back.

“I’ll figure something out.” And he walked away, girl in arm and scared out of his mind.

set of cracks on the floor while its owner lifted a cheap lighter to her lips. She inhaled deeply as the red glow blossomed at the tip of the white stick and a familiar warmth and lightness spread within. Somewhere far off, a train wheezed noisily through the night but Naya’s mind had long since learned to block out the noise. With a sigh she fell back unto her mattress, sharing it with a heap of laundry and empty packets of cigarette.

She lay on her back, a slender arm dangling lazily over the side of the bed with the cigarette between two fingers, and she stared at the pattern of damp scars on the bulging ceiling. Each one different from the other according to the night’s downpour.

“Stupid rain,” she murmured. “Stupid room.”

She savored the stick for as long as she could, letting the nicotine work its way through her nerves and lighten her thoughts before putting it out on the same beverage tin that held the candle and pleasantly drifting off to sleep.

Minutes later, Naya awoke still feeling sleepy but the greater urge to relieve her bladder preceded. She lifted a hand to wipe her sweaty face, the room was getting stuffy. The atmosphere weighed heavily upon her, pressing upon her like a flat boulder. Her thoughts swarm with the sluggishness of walking under water. Limbs heavy as stoned lay as deadweight at her sides, unmoving and numb. Slowly, with the same drag of slowed time, she opened her eyes. They were the only parts of her seemed to move. In a heartbeat she became very aware and like a handful of roaches, panic crept in, one needle-sharp leg at a time. Her breath became frantic and she tried to call out but the words never made it past her lips. They stopped behind sealed lips that refused to budge. She lay paralyzed and frightened, hearing nothing but the rush of blood and the frenetic pounding of her heart.

Naya willed her body to move, begging and pleading wordlessly for the rest of herself to wake up but her body lay heavy and deaf to her internal screams. Then she felt the warmth at her feet. Fire! Was her first thought, The candle! Panicking even as her eyes searched for the candle on the tin. Maybe I’ve inhaled too much fumes and my body’s paralyzed. She tried to reason, expecting to see the jumping flames licking at her feet.

Naya’s scream almost made it through her lips. Flame licking at her feet would have been so much saner. What she saw went against all sense and reason. The fumes of the candle, now thickened into visible blue wisps, had formed an impressive torso complete with head and hands. Those wispy hands were now reaching for her legs, its fingers brushing lightly against her soles. Even as she screamed inwardly, slight tingles raced up her legs in gentle waves.

“Are you afraid?” A whisper drifted from the creature’s lips.

Naya ceased her screaming and fruitless attempts to trash and she looked at the creature still being exuded from the candle with twinkling silver etchings. Intense blue eyes glowed in an insubstantial face with strange beauty. It touched Naya and her body rippled with a myriad of sensations.

“Why are you afraid?” It asked, cocking its head with a dream-like blur. “When I am yours and you are mine.”

I must be high, She thought, I must have finally over dosed on the nicotine.
Her body shuddered, not in pain or fear, but in pleasure so intense, her eyes rolled up. She wanted to cry out, to dig her fingers into the creature before her. It rose like air to hang above her, giving her a moment to breathe. Then it touched its fingers to her toes and trailed it slowly upwards, rising and falling at every swell and dipping into every shallowness, feeling each curve and surface. When its fingers touched her lips, they unsealed and she gasped for air as her body burned with depthless heat.

“I am yours,” She said, trembling and heaving as her body craved for more. All sense of caution and reason melted like the wax that bore her strange companion. “And you are mine.”

“Yes, Naya, you are mine.” And its form enveloped her in the darkness.

The candle maker laughed to himself in his shack, stirring with his wooden spoon the red mixture in his calabash. An empty cup that had contained the blood of a dog lay discarded to his side. Congealed drops dotted the floor, glowing crimson as the candle light fell upon it and a mild wind rattled his cracked window.

“Are you ready?” He asked, “Are you ready to join the world my child? My pretty, pretty red child.”

He bent and took a deep breath from the calabash. “Ah… be patient, child. Tomorrow you will show their hardened hearts the color of our blood. My pretty… red child.”

Someone once made a commentary on the town and when asked to describe Fall Town he said; “Clear out some space in East Africa, put up a sign that says; ‘FOR ALL LOWLIFES AND UNDERDOGS WHO HAVE THE ILLUSION OF HOPE’, set up what passes for government with a handful of rotten politicians, throw in a few bible chapters and a vat of hard chemicals then let the brew ferment. In a couple of days, you’ll have your very own Fall Town.” In other words, Fall Town was not so named because of its huge waterfall resorts; it was Fall Town because it was a land of the fallen.

Naya was as awake as her town, fallen or not, and she clacked in purple heels through the ghetto with an almost burnt out cigarette and a cloud of smoke around her head. Her locks fell around her sharp-chinned face, sticking stubbornly to the side. Cheap hair cream and an annoyingly damp air would do that to your hair. She didn’t care. As long as she had her smokes, the rest of the world could go up in shit if it wanted. One of the only reasons she danced at Cannabis was because they let her have a free pack along with her pay after her performance. She puckered a purple pair of lustrous lips and tried to suck in the last heat in the stick when someone bumped into her, knocking the cigarette unto the street.

“Shit,” she said very quietly, almost inaudibly as she watched the red glow hiss dead on the damp ground.

“Shit!” This time pointing at it, she shouted, not at the tall robed figure at her side but at the stump she was now grinding passionately with the toe of her stiletto.

“I_ I’m really sorry.” The robed figure stuttered, scratching distractedly somewhere below the belt. “Really, really so sorry.”

Naya eyed him. First at where he was itching then at the bald head, the spectacles and then the prickles of hair that covered most of his lower face. He smelled like urine and ashes and he looked like what she would gladly have called a lunatic. She was going to scream at him but thought better of it.

“Sorry won’t change anything Mister, do you have a smoke?”

“Smoke?” He looked genuinely puzzled for a few seconds then snapped his fingers. “Ah, smoke. Smoke… no I don’t smoke.”

“Well, someone has to pay.”

His spectacled gaze shifted from her face to the bastardized stub on the ground. “It was finished. No money with me too.”

“Not my problem mister. Still had a drag or two before you hit me.”

“No money, but I have candles.” He said, holding out a thin blue candle with glittering silver etchings carved into its body. “I’m a candle maker.” He smiled like that was meant to explain everything.

“Candles, who uses candles this day and age,” she mused, “Catholics, yeah, but who else?”

She lifted the wax stick from his hand and rolled it in her palm, watching the shifting moonlight play with the silver.

“Pretty, pretty candle.” He said.

Strange symbols glittered beautifully on the pale blue candle. It was pretty. She threw the candle into her purple hand bag. A sudden smile broke out creases across the robed man’s face and he rubbed his palms together.

“Special candle,” he smiled and walked on. “Special, pretty candle.”

Naya eyed him again as the tatters on the hem of his robe swish-swashed on the damp street. She shrugged. A pretty blue candle for an inch of cigarette, not exactly what she had in mind but not a bad bargain either. Especially now that her electricity had been cut off. She turned and walked on, concentrating on getting home to her one room apartment at the end of the street. Already, the itch to light another stick was making her fingers twitch and she had to clench her hands into fists to keep from reaching into her pockets.

Home sweet home. That was the lettering on the floor mat in front of her door. She kicked at the doormat as she fumbled through her bag for her keys, staring blankly at the battered wooden door while she did. A loud creak echoed through the hallway and a dimpled face peed out the door behind her.

“You back, Naya?” The owner of the face said, coming out to lean by the door frame in her nightgown.

“Yeah, I’m back, Adi.” Naya sighed, turning the key in the lock. “Should you be wearing that out here?”

“I should ask you the same thing.” Adi smiled sleepily. “Cannabis?”

“No questions alright? Go to bed.”

“Hey,” She threw her arms up with a yawn. “Just worried about you, Naya.”

“If I got a cigarette for every time you worried about me, Adi, then I’d tell you to keep it up. But since no one’s paying or asking for it, shove it.”

“Here you can have this,” Adi stuck up her middle finger. “It’ll help you sleep at night.”

“Goodnight to you too.” Naya shut the door behind her.

Four candles burned slowly within the shack, one for each corner, coloring the walls shades of amber and black in places where the shadows clung. The smell of burning fat hung in the air, too heavy to ascend past the low shelf and out the cracked window. Hardcover volumes shrouded in wisps of smoke and woolly web stacked the three rows of the low shelf, the gold scripted tittles on their spines glinted through the haze wanting to be seen. The Art of Candle Making, The Mystery of Fire, Occult Sigils and Hermetic Symbols, Egyptian Hieroglyphs, Symbolism and Symbols sagged the weak boards of the shelf, silent and stationary as they bore witness to the night’s events. The quiet was permeated only by the bubbling sound of molten fat over a rusty stove by the wall. Inside a clay pot, lazy bubbles rose through the blubber, heavy and ripe with foul air which they gladly released with thick pops and splutters while a strong hand stirred with a large wooden spoon.

“Are you ready,” The man stirring said, “I think you are ready, my dear. I think you’re perfect. Yes, yes you are.”

Carefully he scooped a spoon full of the smoking fat and poured slowly into a calabash. The shadow of his thin frame fell across the floor stretching as wide as his smile to the far wall of the shack. His huge robe draped over him to cover the ground around him, tatters swishing as he moved and went about his business. Deftly, he slid a blade out of his right sleeve and punctured the scarred tip of his index finger, numb to a pain he had inflicted more times than he could remember.

“Burn red, my blood, burn with life,” He whispered, squeezing three drops of his blood into the calabash then stirring to even the mixture. Beside the calabash he picked up a small cup containing the mixture of fresh cow milk, the semen of an active bull and a little amount of blue coloring and poured it in, scratching at his groin with one hand and chuckling to himself.

“Spread your heated yearn you little beasts,” The added mix swirled, blue against the browned tallow, dissolving in bits before blending into one viscous solution. Lifting the calabash he emptied its content in a mold fitted with a wick held at both ends. And then he sat cross-legged before his mold, watching, smiling and chuckling as he waited for it to solidify.

“Harden like their hearts, my child,” he mumbled, “Harden and be like them.”

Time passed and the concocted content hardened as the night eased away. He picked the mold, placed it gently between his legs and opened it. A blue candle lay cradled in the wooden frame, crude, rough and hard.

“My child,” He whispered softly, stroking the length of the candle slow and gently. “My little, little, little child.”

He lifted the candle from the mold and retrieved the blood-tipped blade and began carving. Whispering as he carved.

The ankh for life…

the symbol of fire…

the triad of soul for the spirit…

the all seeing eye.

His narrowed eyes and lopping tongue glowed amber and black under the candle light as his hands carved ancient sign-combinations into the wax, the rest of him hidden within his dark robe blended smoothly with the shadows.

(It really would be so much easier to keep track of the fables if you just subscribed you know

“Stop following me,” Jude whispered harshly, walking fast. The sight of a little girl with nothing but a worn shirt trailing a man in his singlet was likely to attract the wrong kind of attention. Fortunately, the Yard, the busiest black-market in Fall Town was crawling with the usual crowd. Peddlers and buyers. Both stinking with desperation and need and too preoccupied to notice them. “Just go away, follow someone else.”

“Colors,” She whispered in awe. “So much colors.”

Jude glanced warily at her. The little girl shuffled along, always just a few paces behind. He wasn’t even sure she heard him and even if she did she ignored his whispers. Her eyes darted everywhere, her jaw hung in awe, taking in everything she saw. He realized he could use the distraction to his advantage, so he waited, glancing at her every few seconds and once she turned around to follow a speeding cycle he slipped into a tight crowd and dodged around a corner in a dark alley, bumping hard into something.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, gripping him by the shoulders. There was a sudden pitter-patter of feet, a loud crash somewhere far off and a crazy laughter. The fingers on his shoulder dug deep and he heard a light growl above him.

“S-Sorry,” He gasped, twisting away from the hand and turning around to see who it was. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Of course you didn’t,” A massive silhouette slowly emerged from the shadows. “Maybe if you were watching where you were going, you would have.”

“Yes, maybe.”Jude’s fist clenched and unclenched as he edged away from the huge fellow who most probably weighed twice as much as he did. If his size and tone wasn’t enough warning, the huge five-finger rings he wore on both hands spoke his profession. Jude had unwittingly run into a Collector in the middle of business and from the sounds he had heard earlier, he had given some lucky fellow a big break.

“A-Are you a collector?” Jude half-asked, half-whispered. His legs were shaking and his bowels were threatening to go funny on him. “I really didn’t mean to i-interrupt.”

“Interrupt what?” The Collector smiled. No humor, just plain predatory masochism.

“N-nothing.” Jude whispered, cursing his stupidity. Where’s all your machismo now, Jay? Got rid of the crazy girl, didn’t you? Well, get your bloody self out of this too! “Shit.”

“Yes, shit wouldn’t have put it better, Mister…”

“Jude”

“Yes, Mister Jude. Shit would be summing it all up, and I’ll say you’re about knee-deep in this particular one.” He barked a laugh. Sharp, short and definitely mirthless. “But you see Mister Jude, despite what you may be thinking, I am a reasonable man.”

The collector leaned casually against the wall of a building, still smiling.

“There’s this saying I heard once. Mind you, I’m not particularly fond of it but I respect its logic. It says, ‘When the desirable is unattainable, the available is acceptable.’ Or something close to that, but I’m sure you get the message, don’t you, Mister Jude?”

“I t-think so.”

“Good enough. Here’s the story you stumbled upon; that crazy-laughing slime, was going to pay what he owed one way or another. Through his wallet or otherwise. Someone bumps into me, the slimy bastard gets away and I’m left here with you. Now, I’ll tell you the rest of the story.”

Jude retreated against the opposite wall. The thought of running crossed his mind but the darkness around killed that thought. He knew the man would be faster than he looked.

“I was meant to grease these knuckles tonight, Mister Jude, I know you probably don’t deserve this, but then, the available is acceptable. Trust me,” He smiled, cracking his knuckles and then rubbing the rings together. “If I thought there was another way, I’d take it.”

“Hello.”

Jude cringed when he heard the voice. What the hell is going on!

Not exactly Face of Africa material, are you Ebenezer? A deep voice echoed in my head. I didn’t have to look around to know who it was. The voice of the dead didn’t bother with your ears, they came as echoes in the back of your skull. Bringing with it the chilly goose fleshed dread that made your hairs straighten. I reached for the sachet of Aspirin in my back pocket but stopped. I would need it more later on. A lot more.

“Almost thought you had moved on, Mister Fashid.” I sighed, keeping the tremble out of my voice.

Fashid, dead for decades now had chosen to be my self-proclaimed assistant. The day Fall Town becomes heaven, that’s the day I’ll move on Eben.

He walked over to my side. His bare feet hardly making a sound, since they never touched the ground in the first place. I moved a step away from him and he smiled. Aside my fear of the dead, I had an extra touch of homophobia in my makeup. The dead, luckily for them, had no need for clothes since it was a material thing. They moved about as bare and as unblemished as the day they were born. Disregarding the fact that he was dead, standing close to naked men made me very uneasy.

Another night of aimless wandering, Eben? I could feel Fashid’s smile. That’s why you’re stunted, you never sleep at night.

“Along with the rest of Fall Town. Five feet is more than what a lot of people get.” I said. With Fashid, my phobia was toned down but my body still tensed and my skin still broke into goose bumps when he was around. I liked him as much I was afraid of him. But what I would give for blissful ignorance!

Fashid’s voice caught me from slipping into reverie. Where do we go tonight?

“The terminal,” I said, turning. “I feel like taking a ride.”

The soles of my sneakers scuffed smooth by years of use hissed against the tar as I turned left and made for the terminal. Tentacles of rails crisscrossed Fall Town reaching into every nook and cranny. Cars were a luxury and not many people in Fall Town had luxuries. A few had imported cycles but mostly, everyone rode the bug. That’s what every Fall Towner called the trains. Bugs. It didn’t take one much to figure out why, seeing as how the suspended rails ran trains with segmented cars. Curved and sleek like a millipede. We called it the bug.

The terminal was not buzzing with activity tonight, instead it droned on like a dying fly. Shuffling feet and murmurs filled the background while the foreground held an assortment of individuals. Wide toothed whores walked around bible clutching preachers whose eyes strayed onetime too many. Cigarette smoking security men sipped from hidden bottles and watched the crowd with red eyes. Voodoo users breezed through with their perpetual smiles and jerks, getting off or getting on, or both. On the other hand, the blanks, those damaged by Voodoo sat slouched against pillars or walls, gaping mouths trailing threads of saliva and vacant eyes staring far beyond our world. Then there was the dead moving effortlessly amongst the living in innocent nudity and playing the occasional prank of tripping someone or messing with a dozer’s dream. A regular night at the terminal.

DEAD SIGHT

I do not know my mother but I know Death is my Father. He adopted me after my mother tossed me into a dumpster as a baby, hoping I would die. No hard feelings on my part. Fall Town wasn’t a place where people wanted the extra burden of a kid. She probably was too broke to opt for an abortion so she chose the dump. An orphanage was a hard thing to find in this part of town after all, and even if they had them, the streets and dumpsters would still be a better choice. The only parents I know now are Death and Fear, and for all I know they may be my real parents.

I’m not sure how long it takes a baby to die of starvation, but I survived the better part of two days in that dumpster before someone found me. Then I became a tool. Beggars with babies usually earn more. Think of it this way, I earned my keep. Besides I didn’t mind. Abbey was a nice old lady and she did take good care of me. Fed and raised me as right as she could with enough scolding, mothering and whipping in between. Until she died. Then I realized that life wasn’t a straight fellow. It was a sick twisted creature with a sense of humor as varying as the spectrum and as apathetic as the stony butt of a statue.

After old-ma Abbey died, I established the fact that I had a condition. You see, some people are short sighted, some long-sighted. I say I am Dead-sighted. I can see the dead. And in this case, that old saying about looking long enough into the abyss couldn’t have put it better. They can see me too. And unlike the other types of sightedness, mine has no cure. I can’t just put on a pair of specially crafted spectacles and block out the whole thing. It’s a bone-deep thing and I’ll tell you a secret; it scares the hell out of me.

I’ll let you in on another secret too, that thing about automatically not being afraid of the dark when you begin to interact with beings from the other side, it’s the biggest lie the world ever told. I hate the dark. I hate it so much; I’d trade my soul to the first demon to keep the sun up all the time. Even so I’m not as terrified of the night as I am of what it holds. Ghosts, spirits, whatever you call them, makes no difference to me, scare me shitless.

Fall Town buzzed and groaned and its children with it. It was nightfall and the city came alive like it always did beneath the moon. A slight chill tinted the air this eve and brought with it a restlessness that made everyone seemingly eager to be on the move. One of such restless wanderers was Jude.

He spotted a barrel of flames at the far side of the street, already almost surrounded by men desperate for warmth. Jude made his way over with his hands dug deep into his jeans. They seemed like the usual mix; a few drunks and homeless and a combination of both, painting the buildings and pavement with tall dancing shadows.

“Where from, boy?” A sunken eyed drunk reeking of cheap alcohol belched into Jude’s face as he stretched out his hands to catch the heat.

“All around.” He muttered.

“Well,” He said, throwing his hands around his shoulders. “Any news from all around?”

“Nothing new.” He shrugged off the stranger’s hand.

The others he had joined made room for him and quietly, he tried to get as much heat as he could before moving on into the deeper parts of the Fringes.  In this part of Fall Town, nothing belonged to any particular person but sometimes people got cranky and possessive, especially on cold nights when hunger prowled. So he always avoided lingering too long at warming spots like this.

The blare of a siren came unexpectedly from somewhere out on the streets. Everyone around the barrel tensed, their muscles audible growing taut and getting ready to join the shadows at the slightest hint of trouble. As the cry faded into the distance they settled again, muttering and cursing under their breaths.

“Bloody lawmen,” One with a ragged beard cursed. “Filthy bastards.” He spat on the cracked cobbles.

Jude understood the tension towards the sirens. It wasn’t odd, in fact it was becoming more frequent, to see Fall Town Police Department, FTPD, crashing into the Fringes to scratch the itch in their trigger fingers. Things were bad down here and only the quick witted survived long enough to avoid a bullet or die from hunger.

Jude rubbed his palms together and slapped them on both cheeks and walked away from the fire. He hated the wet season. Everything had a damp feel to it. From the slickly wet streets to the very air he breathed. He rubbed his palms together again then shoved them into the pocket of his jeans and turned off the street to follow an alley that would lead him to the black-market in these parts. There were a few things he needed.

“Hello.” A voice so faint, it could have been his imagination, came from behind him. Jude spun around, hands whipping out of his pocket to clench into fists, ready for any attacks. He dropped them quickly when he saw the little girl standing before him. She stared at him with her head cocked to the side and an odd expression plastered on her face. She wore nothing. Jude watched her warily. For all he knew, she was probably a Voodoo junkie. Voodoo had no age limits.

She must have been no more than ten years old. Her skin was oddly smooth and fair but she was definitely black. She had no hair and her scalp gleamed with a soft sheen. Her eyes were pure and wide, seemingly innocent. The uncomfortable impression of starring at a new born crept in.

“Where did you come from?”

“Anywhere,” She whispered slowly. “Where am I?”

“The Fringes.” Jude was shrugging out of his shirt before he realized what he was doing. “What are you doing out here with no clothes. It’s cold.” He held the shirt out to her, watching for any queer movements.

She took it from him and held it up, looking at it as if it were strange.

“Put it on, girl.”

“Why?”

“You’ll fall sick in this cold.” As a matter of fact he was beginning to feel cold through the moth-eaten singlet he wore.

“I don’t feel the cold,” She said, pulling the shirt over her head. “I feel warm.”

A sudden wave of warmth seemed to flow out of her presence. It almost felt natural but Jude knew he was only imagining things.

“What is your name?”

“Name?” She stared at him, puzzled in the over sized shirt she stood in.

“Yes, what is your name?”

“Name… is… Drow… Eht.”

The sluggishness with which she shaped the words made him uneasy. Droweht? What kind of a name was that? Was that even a name?

“Droweht?”

“Yes.”

“Who are you?”

“I am me.”

Her form seemed to waver and then forcefully reinforce itself. Like a whiplash.  A sense of vertigo washed over him and the buildings around him distorted for an instant and he staggered on his feet. He concluded hunger was finally catching up with him.

“Go back to your parents. It’s no night to be out.” He regained his balance and turned to go on.

“No,” She said with the same calm faraway tone she spoke with. “There is no one to go to.”

“Then go back to where you came from before the FTPD spots you. God only knows what they might do to you.”

“I cannot go back.”

Jude rubbed his temples. He had no time for this. He couldn’t be bothered about this little girl, never mind that she was lost out here in the Fringes, the most unpredictable part of Fall Town and wearing nothing but a worn polo.

“What do you mean, you can’t go back. Where did you come from anyway?”

“I don’t know where it is but if I return, I will…” He voice trailed off and she stared at him with a pained expression, her lips parted and twitched at the corners like a child about to cry.

Jude worked his fingers and then scratched his chin. Things were already getting complicated and it wasn’t even midnight yet.

“In the beginning was the word…”

The scream tore through the facility with the sharpness of a serrated blade. The alarms followed suit, blaring red across the halls. Soon the scampering and squeaking of rubber soled feet joined the fray, all heading in one direction; Containment Room I, where the scream had come from.

A man knelt in a sterile room, staring at the viewing glass, eyes wild and red from ruptured vessels. He whimpered and dragged himself on his knees in a circle on the padded floor, drooling thick blobs of saliva down his chin. Everyone watched the display, not with the cold insensitivity with which they observed regular patients but with horror and wariness. They watched Doctor Vincent Asah, the Head of Research, drooling and crawling around whimpering like a cut pig.

Suddenly he lurched to his feet and ran into one of the padded walls and let out another piercing and yet guttural scream that frightened his staff and sent shivers through them. Then they saw one of the reasons for his insanity. Where his arms had been, only the sleeves of his lab coats dangled in tune to his throes.

He lurched forward and slammed himself in to the one-way mirror, muttering and whispering through cracked lips. Someone, courageous, curious or just plain morbid, turned up the output volume from the room’s embedded microphones.

“You have no arms,” Dr. Vincent rasped, cracking his lips against the glass. “She told me. She spoke away my arms. My arms!” And he slammed his head against the fiberglass with brutal force, breaking his nose in a spatter of blood and mucus.

A blast of white gas suddenly hissed through hidden nozzles in the sterile room and in a few seconds the doctor lay curled on his side.

“This situation is under control,” A firm voice came from behind the gathered crowd, startling even the most hardened ones. “You may all return to your posts, thank you.”

Dr. Safa stood arms crossed and peering over rimless glasses, daring anyone to question her command. She stood her ground calmly in the corner, almost in the shadows, watching the room empty out. As soon as she was alone, which she double checked to ensure, she withdrew a cell phone from her lab coat and hit dial.

“It’s me,” She said. “We have a situation. A subject escaped and our lead researcher has been incapacitated.”

Outside, the wind howled like a mourning widow through Fall Town and with it, the potential for anything conceivable.