The Forgotten
By Spike Daft
Chapter One: Monsters
What monsters dwelled within that room no light-dwelling creature could say, for no one knew such horrors dwelled within the realm of the living. But these monsters were not living, but dead. Yet still they watched through impassive eyes; mouths slack and made lazy with lack of food, teeth made sharp from fighting, tongue silenced with lack of substance.
There was little light in that room; its only source was a dingy, uncovered lightbulb that strained and flickered and tried to edge away from the shadows that crept up upon it as though it were prey, gnashing their shadows teeth and flexing their shadow claws. But however bold, even they would flee from the momentary flashes of flame that erupted, and would sit cowering and undulating in the shadows until the flame failed and they could return again.
The room itself was like a living cancer; its walls were brown with cigarette smoke, and natural light never ventured in. Black sheets that served as drapes were doubled over the windows and nailed down so they could not flap. There was nearly no carpet; most was worn away to its white, spidery under-threads, showing the gray and pitted concrete beneath, and what was left was brownish and splotched with dried blood and filth. There was no furniture; a tiny television was propped upon a cardboard box, which listed to the side as though dragged down by the weight of the room's atmosphere.
Startlingly, a computer was on the floor, its screen background black so as not to cast too much light. It was a newer model, yet its talents were wasted; its main use was dedicated to online communication. Anonymous and properly protected-- a lifeline in the dead shadow.
It was in this room that the monsters dwelled, glazed eyes open to the world but apathetic and indifferent. They sat or lay upon the floor, and rarely spoke to one another. Most of their eyes had become pale with blindness or near-blindness, and their nails were long and yellow and sharp. Their clothes hung in tatters off of their bone-gaunt forms like shrouds. Some heads of hair were black and done up with gel in spikes, other heads were bald, and a couple had long cascades of tangles that masked their faces and puddled despairingly into their laps. Many were pierced and adourned with metal and black leather, some of which was chewed out of desperation. Sores covered their bodies; some bore lesions that wept tears of a greater disease; others bore lacerations, bruises, scratches, and burns from fighting. All of their arms were scarred badly, some grotesquely so, and hypodermic needles littered the ground everywhere, as did long bands of rubber, belts, lighters, cotton balls, spoons, and small empty glass phials. On the wall near the door was taped a piece of grimy newspaper, and scrawled upon it with blue marker were the words,
From the warmth and life of day
Cast to the shadows where the night-things play…
For the Lord's lost Children forgot to pray,
And so Forgotten they shall stay.
Outside the room, the night fell down, graceless, and finally its worshippers stirred.
Gaelie was the first to rise from her needle-littered place in a corner. Inhaling deeply, she stood up and stretched, sniffing the air appreciatively, scenting the night and all its pleasures, waiting for her. Her eyes became accustomed to being open after her long sleep; they were dark blue, not pale like most of the others, for as a Runner she was not blind, but rather needed her sight to navigate in the outside world. Carefully she stepped over bodies lying still in slumber or in trance upon the floor and went to the window. Peeling back a flap between two nails, she pressed her face against the wall and peeked out at the night.
She smiled at what she saw: a warm summer's night, bereft of breezes that chilled already cold bones. Stars twinkled myriad over the New York skyline and the moon, full and luscious, smiled down at her. From the fortieth floor of the tenant building, Gaelie fancied that she could be high enough to touch its face. The thought made her bare her teeth in a smile.
" What brings Gaelie so much joy tonight?" came a soft voice from the deepest shadows, where no light dared tread. The voice was not a warm and friendly one; it was one that had perhaps been gentle in better times, but now was harsh and growling despite its quietness.
" I'm eager to go out into the night," Gaelie replied, her slim form still stationed longingly by the window. " And I'm eager to get new stuff for us."
There was silence for a moment, and then the voice came again.
" And this provider is trusted? You never told Rakla his name, I hear. Thus you are not yet approved."
" He is trusted," Gaelie replied, slightly defensive. " I've bought from him before. Look, we all need more, me included. I would not endanger so many lives. You've never doubted me, at least not to my face. I have to admit that this is not a good time to start."
There was no sound from the shadows, and after a few moments waiting Gaelie took it to mean permission to leave. Silently she slipped out the door, clutching the wad of bills in her hand, wrapped in a cloak as dark as the shadows.