The Reject Pile: Sick Brain

Hello again, Dear Reader. Thanks for stopping by my little corner of the internet once again. Tonight, I’m sharing with you a short science fiction tale with a smattering of horror– A romp through the claustrophobic streets of a post-apocalyptic city with a murderer on the loose. Based off an episode of my podcast The Lost Signal, Sick Brain is one of my favorite stories that I’ve written to date. I hope you like it, too.

If you’d like to listen to the podcast episode, you can find it here:

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Otherwise, happy reading! And please, leave your thoughts in the comments below.

Sick Brain

By Tilsen Mulalley

tmulalley7@gmail.com

I.

The walls of Big City rose high above the flat plains of the Waste. Built of the gutted, mechanical carcasses of the Before Times, their battlements gleamed in the unmerciful furnace of the dirty orange sun. As the day burned its wick, the walls gradually cast their jagged shadows along the desert floor, giving some reprieve from the intense heat.

The burned, emaciated young man stumbled toward this pinnacle of civilization in the heart of a dead land. He could sense that he did not have many steps left. He entered the cooling shadow of the shimmering city walls and fell to his knees. In front of him was a great iron gate, the entrance to this mirage-like oasis.

“Halt!” A booming voice echoed from somewhere above him, “What’s your business in Big City?”

The young man attempted to crane his neck to see who had spoken and found he couldn’t. He stared at the patch of ground in front of him, working his sandpaper throat as he tried to speak.

 “Please,” he rasped, “please, water.” The words dribbled from his parched lips, falling to the ground where they evaporated in the hot sand, unheard.

“Those with no business are not welcome!” The voice above cried, “We can have no freeloaders in the Big City!”

The young man summoned the last of the strength hiding amongst his muscles. He stood, taking an unstable step forward toward the gate. In response, a spear pierced the ground just in front of him, its shaft vibrating violently with the remaining force behind the powerful toss.

“Come no further,” the voice called down.

 “I bet he’s a Sick Brain,” said another.

 The young man’s legs buckled, and he slid to his knees. On instinct, he grabbed the shaft of the spear. His dried hands slid down the rough wood, tearing open his palms and slicking them with hot, red blood.

 “Please, I can work,” he tried to call. The words were a mere whisper, hardly audible even to him. His vision began to fill with spots of black ink.

 “I can work for wa—“

 The sentence caught and drowned in the quicksand of his throat, choking him as he collapsed face-down into the fiery embrace of the sand.

 II.

The young man awoke gently. The faint clop of hooves tottered at the edge of his hearing, and he was gradually becoming aware that he was being rocked back and forth. His eyes were heavy, but he pried them open anyway and rubbed them, trying to clean away the blurriness. As his vision sharpened, he realized that his hands had been bandaged; the sting of antiseptic beat dully against the wrappings. Above him, late evening light and the first flickering stars streamed through a few small holes in the canvas above. He realized that he lay in the back of a large, canvas-covered wagon. He’d been wedged tightly, though not uncomfortably, between two crates and covered with a blanket. 

“What the hell?” he wondered out loud.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice called down, startling the young man. He craned his neck and saw that there was another flap in the canvas, through which he could see the boots of the driver. Had he been the one to call out? How had he noticed he had stirred? The man tried to sit up, and his head began to swim.

 “Don’t move too much,” the voice of the driver called, “The liquid IV hasn’t worked its way into your bloodstream yet, and we’re about to reach the gate. Just sit tight and be quiet.”

 The hooves came to a hesitant stop. The young man pushed himself into the floor of the wagon, throwing the scratchy blanket that covered his legs over his head and listening intently.

“Ah, Morden,” a gruff voice said from somewhere outside of the wagon, “back to trade more from the Green Acres, yeah?

“Of course,” the driver’s voice replied, “why else would I come to this hellhole?”

The gruff voice laughed. “Pass him through, boys!”

“Shouldn’t we check over the wagon first,” another, meeker voice asked.

“Nonsense, this is Morden,” the gruff voice replied sharply, “he’s got the best produce around! Pass him through!”

Gears cranked, echoing as the great gate was lifted. The wagon hitched as the driver urged the horse forward, into the repose of Big City. The young man lay still, too afraid to move. After what felt like miles, the wagon stopped. 

 “Alright,” called the driver, “we’re here.”

The legs above the young man stretched and stood up from the driver’s seat. They turned, and the driver crouched so that his face peered down into the wagon. It was an old face, crinkled like paper and half covered with a thick white beard. 

“How are you feeling?” The driver asked.

 “I, I–” the words no longer choked the young man, but they still refused to come. He tried once more to sit up and nearly vomited.

 “Ahh, don’t talk now if you’re feeling weak,” the old man said. Amongst the wrinkles of his face danced two bright, green eyes that belonged to somebody a quarter of his age. They were filled with concern as they looked down upon the young man. The young man focused on the old man’s eyes until his head stopped doing loop-the-loops. 

“It may take you a while to get rehydrated, just rest,” the old man said. 

Through the flap of canvas, the old man reached a gnarled, liver-spotted hand. He waved his fingers over the young man’s face, and heavy exhaustion overtook him. Soon, he was asleep once more.

III.

Bright morning sunlight streamed through the canvas, warming the young man’s face. As he rose to the surface of consciousness, his ears became attuned to the rustle of life outside of the wagon. Men shouted, children laughed, and feet stomped as the young man rubbed his head and wiped the sleep from his eyes. Though he ached, he realized that he felt stronger than he had had in a long time. He sat up without dizziness. He clenched his fist and felt assuredness in his tired muscles. The bandages on his hands had been removed, and his palms looked fresh and new.

 The young man crawled to the flaps at the back of the wagon and pulled them aside, nearly blinding himself with the sudden brightness of the day beyond. As his eyes adjusted, they revealed a truly fantastic scene. The wagon was parked in what appeared to be a town square. Surrounding it were tall buildings made of everything from earth to wood to steel, reaching for the sky until they disappeared into the hazy ether above. A village-sized crowd was storming the wagon. Individuals pushed money across a table laid along the side of the carriage to the old driver. Behind him on shelves built into the wagon was a great display, five baskets high and wide as the buggy, filled with fruits and vegetables of all kinds. The old man took the coin of the city dwellers and dispensed vegetables and fruit from the baskets: bright red tomatoes, jars of beans and peas, shining apples, plump grapes, and more. 

 The old driver looked over as the young man took in the scene. As He finished giving a woman with a child wrapped around her legs a bag of cucumbers, he gestured for the man in the wagon to come closer.

 “How are you feeling,” the old man asked as the other stepped down on only slightly unsure feet and approached. 

“Better, sir,” the young man said.

“I would hope so. You’ve been asleep for nearly three days.”

The young man looked at his feet, suddenly bashful. “Thank you, sir. I’d have surely died if you hadn’t come along.”

The old man smiled. He turned to a basket of apples and filled the cowhide bag a skinny young man had handed him.

 “You needn’t call me anything so formal,” he said over his shoulder as he worked, “I am Morden, a trader for the Green Acres. And you are?”

“Finn,” the young man replied.

Morden finished filling the bag and returned it to the boy, who dropped his coin on the table and melted into the crowd.

“Well, Finn, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” Morden said, “I must say though, I’m curious. How did you end up at the gates of Big City?”

“I don’t remember, I–” Finn pinched the spot between his eyes, his head suddenly aching.

“I remember stumbling up to the gate,” he said, “everything before is dark.”

“Hmm. People without business to attend to here are shunned away. When I found you, they had drug you to the ditch to let you die. Good thing I spotted you and put you in my wagon before the guards could see.”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, it wouldn’t be right to let a young man expire in the heat.”

“That was very kind.”

The crowd was thinning now. Morden turned back to face Finn. His green eyes glittered.

“Well, not just kind, dear boy,” he said, “you see, there is the matter of your debt to me for saving you.”

Finn’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry sir,” he said, “I haven’t got any kind of money.”

Morden laughed. It was a deep, throaty noise that seemed too big for the frail old man. “I told you, Finn, call me Morden. And no need to worry about money.” He put his withered hand on Finn’s shoulder. 

“I’m an old man, Finn,” he continued, “I could use an assistant. Someone to help me dispense the produce for the remainder of my time here. After that, I can drop you wherever you like on my route. Or perhaps, if you do well, you could continue with me.”

“You hardly know me,” Finn said.

 “Yes, but I can see that though it’s been a few days since you’ve had a good meal, you’re strong. You wouldn’t be alive if you weren’t. Some good food, a little more rest, you’d be more than fit to carry crates, load the wagon, bring the horse its oats. Little things. What do you say?”

Finn raised his hand to shake without hesitation. Morden took it in a surprisingly firm grasp.

“Deal,” Finn said.

 “Wonderful,” replied Morden, “If you feel up to it, help me hand out some of these greens, would you?”

IV. 

Finn aided Morden, and the day passed rapidly. By the evening dusk, the sky had taken on a deep purple that seemed to absorb the heat of the day, leaving the air cool. As the light faded from the sky, the buildings around them began to light up, windows glowing warmly with a kind of non-flickering blue candlelight that entranced Finn. Men in cloaks appeared at the edges of the square and lit several posts with the same light by flipping switches at their bases, keeping the shadows at bay. Morden noticed Finn staring.

“Gaslight,” he said to him, “Technology from the before times. They’ll stay lit all night.”

“Amazing,” Finn said absently.

 As the last patron of the day trotted from the square with a bag of cherries, Morden began building a fire as Finn loaded empty crates into the back of the wagon. 

“Finn,” Morden called, taking a match to the kindling, “Finn, come here.”

Finn set the last crate onto the wagon and shoved it through the canvas. Wiping sweat from his brow, he joined the old man next to the growing blaze.

 “I’ve got one last job for you today if you’re up to it,” Morden said, not taking his eyes off the catching flames.

 “Sure, what is it,” Finn asked. 

“You’re not feeling too ill?”

“No, I feel good. Better than I have in a long time. What is it?”

“Oh, it’s nothing too terrible.” The flames had begun to lick the logs and grow, and Morden straightened himself out and walked to the wagon. Mounted beneath the driver’s seat was a large, riveted lockbox. He produced a key from the folds of his robe and opened it, bringing out a large bag of coins.

“This package is for a friend of mine here in town,” Morden said, turning to Finn. “He’s a butcher. I offer him special deals on certain… products. He reciprocates by offering his services at a cut rate. This is what I owe him from the last time I was here in the city. I need you to deliver it for me.” Morden took a step toward Finn and winced. “ I’d do it myself, but my old bones, you see.”

He handed the money to Finn, who examined it in the firelight.

“Is his shop far from here,” Finn asked. He looked around the narrow streets and alleyways that led out of the small square in which they were encamped. There were dozens of paths running between the buildings, all twisting and turning into a maze of epic proportions. Though the posts at the edges of the square kept some light in the more open spaces, the paths leading away quickly faded into inky black darkness.

“Fairly close,” Morden said. He pointed toward a street directly across from them that led straight between two towering structures and into the bowels of Big City. 

“Follow that road there until you come to the end of the street,” Morden said, “It should spit you out onto Stratbury Lane; there’ll be a sign. Can you read?”

Finn nodded.

“Okay, good. Take a left there and follow it down until you reach another square like this one. Walk directly through to the other side, and there will be a narrow alley. Bolgen’s shop is at the end. There’ll be a cleaver hanging over the door. Hurry up now, I’ll put supper on.”

Finn set off with the package. The street was anything but linear, leading him down a series of tight twists and turns. In the dark, people shuffled past him. He held the money close to his chest, white-knuckling it so that no one could take it in the dark. 

Above him, The sky could only be seen in chunks and pieces, the stars blocked by the sheer thickness of the buildings. Had this really been how the people of the Before Times had lived? Everything was so close and cluttered. Finn found that it made him paranoid. He came to a parallel street, the intersection aglow with one of the light posts. A crudely painted sign crookedly marked this new street as Stratbury Lane. Finn took a left as Morden had instructed. His footsteps echoed off of the narrow walls. As he continued, he realized that he was no longer surrounded by people. The silence below his footsteps was heavy, and he quickened his pace until he came upon another square similar to the one he and Morden were encamped in. The posts were lit here too, and the illumination calmed Finn a little as he crossed the expanse.

 As he traipsed diagonally across the square, Finn could see a woman huddled on a bench at the edge of the opening to the alley Morden had told him of. A small breeze kicked up from that direction. It carried a coppery, metallic smell with it; it invaded Finn’s nostrils, making the hairs on his neck stand on end. Taking a deep breath, Finn pressed onward. He crossed the square and plunged past the woman into the alleyway. As he passed, he couldn’t help but look at her: her cloak’s hood was drawn tight, and the shadows further obscured her downturned face. If she sensed him, she gave no indication. The copper smell thickened as he passed, and he hurried onward, eager to complete his errand and return to Morden.

As Morden had said, a cleaver fashioned from a piece of scrap hung above an iron-reinforced wooden door at the end of the alley. The smell had grown even stronger now, and Finn realized that it was coming from this place. As he stood in front of the door, the stench was nearly unbearable. The air was saturated with it, and a rancid, sweet undertone accompanied the stink. Finn knocked several times, then waited. He heard nothing from inside. After a few moments, he knocked again, louder this time.

Behind the door, he heard some frantic scrambling and cursing, and then the sound of several locks being loosened. The door creaked open a crack, and a little bald head poked out.

“What, what do you want, huh? We’re closed!” the leathery little man barked.

Finn fumbled over his words; “Are- Are you Bolgen?

The butcher’s flinty little eyes narrowed. He peered over Finn’s shoulder suspiciously. “Who wants to know,” he growled.

“Morden asked me to bring you this,” Finn said. He thrust the sack of coins toward the stout little man. 

Bolgen looked at it for a moment. He gently took the money from Finn’s outstretched hand. He weighed it in his hand a moment, then smiled.

“Wait here,” he said. he slammed the door before Finn could reply.

Finn wasn’t sure what to do, and before he could figure it out, the door opened again and Bolgen was shoving something wrapped in grease paper into Finn’s hands.

“This is for Morden. From the doe he brought me last time. Bring it to him.”

Finn looked at the package. It was wrinkled and cold to the touch. Something had seeped from the contents and darkened the corners. Now, it was dried and crusted.

“Okay,” Finn said. He wasn’t sure what else to say.

“Thank you,” Bolgen said, “ Goodnight.”

Finn stared at the butcher. Bolgen stared back.

“What are you wanting, errand boy? You’ve done your errand, so go home, boy!” Bolgen spat. He slammed the door, leaving Finn alone in the dark once more.

Strange man, Finn thought to himself. He turned and made his way back toward the square. As he entered its dimly lit quarters once more, he saw that it was still empty save for the woman. He eyed her as he passed, straining to take a closer look this time. He realized she wasn’t so much huddled on the bench as she was slouched. She seemed to slump into herself as she sat, her neck dropped over her shoulder in a loose, unconscious manner. Finn stopped.

 “Ma’am,” Finn said, turning to her, “Ma’am, are you okay ?”

She didn’t reply. He reached out tentatively, brushing her shoulder with his fingers.

 “Ma’am,” Finn asked, “Are you—“

Finn’s light touch upset the delicate balance of the woman. She fell on her side, rolling off of the bench and into a limp pile on the ground. Finn stepped back in shock, a scream catching in his throat. He could see her face now in the steady blue light of the posts that lined the square. It was pale and waxy looking, her filmy, bloodshot eyes staring straight through Finn. The tattered, ripped front of her slip was saturated in the dark maroon of blood, and a neat, precise cut traced its way along her neck from ear to ear like a macabre necklace.

V.

Bells were ringing throughout the city by the time Finn stumbled back to Morden and the wagon. His lungs burned, and his breaths came in short, hitching gasps. He didn’t remember most of his mad flight away from the dead woman, nor was he sure how he’d made it back without taking a wrong turn.

“Finn, thank goodness” Morden called, standing up from the fire, “I heard the alarms and I was worried.”

“Body… a body in the square,” Finn panted, his fingers digging into his kneecaps as he struggled to catch his breath. Morden’s face grew serious at the news.

“What?” the old man asked, rounding the fire and approaching Finn. He put his hand on the young man’s shoulder and leaned closer.

 “A woman… she’s dead,” Finn said. He felt Morden’s grip tighten on his shoulder.

  “What do you mean–”

“Sick Brain! There’s a Sick Brain in the city!”

The words echoed from somewhere amongst the buildings. It was some ways off, but moving quickly and heading toward them. The dark windows towering around them lit up one by one in rapid succession as the Cryer awoke the populace of Big City.

“Come, Finn, in the wagon now,” Morden said. He guided Finn by his shoulder toward the opening at the back of the wagon.

“What’s happening,” Finn asked, “What’s a Sick Brain?”

“A witch hunt, that’s what it is.” Morden’s voice was an urgent whisper. “Get in the wagon and wait until the Cryer is gone. He’ll be here soon.”

Finn climbed into the wagon and hunkered down beneath some blankets as the voice of the Cryer drew closer. Eventually, the cries entered the square, loud and piercing. Finn could hear Morden exchange some words with the man. Their tone was hushed and hurried, and Finn could only catch pieces of what was being said.

“… throat sliced…Heart cut out…”

After a brief conversation, Finn heard the footsteps of the Cryer as he continued on. His warning calls continued, gradually fading away into the night until his shouts were but whispers.

“Okay Finn, come out now,” Morden called.

Finn climbed down from the wagon. The tenants of Big City who’d dared to leave their homes to check out the commotion were already filing back into the buildings, the lights in the windows blinking out once more. Finn slumped by the fire, exhaustion suddenly settling into his bones. He looked up at Morden. The old man’s face was grave behind the flickering light of the flames.

 “What is a Sick Brain, Morden?” Finn asked. 

The old man sighed and sat down opposite Finn, folding himself into his robes. 

“The Waste has done many unkind things to Man,” he began, his voice steady. “And with unkind things come legends to make them make sense. That is what a Sick Brain is, a legend to explain away bad deeds of bad people. A mutated boogeyman.”

Finn turned his head to look at Morden. The old man’s gaze was trained on the flames, unblinking and flat.

 “These people are so frightened of a legend that they’d raise an alarm?” Finn asked. Morden shook his head, exhaling sharply through his nostrils.

 “It’s not their fault. This city may be big, but the inhabitants are as simple as those in the villages. One of their own was killed, and they’re scared.”

“I heard him say something to you, the Cryer… that her heart had been cut out.”

  Morden was quiet for so long that Finn wasn’t sure if the man had heard him or not. Eventually, Morden spoke.

“Yes,” he said quietly, “Yes, that part was disturbing.”

“Why?”

The old man paused again, though it was shorter this time.

“The legends say a Sick Brain will take the heart as a prized morsel.”

“They eat people?”

“Eat them, wear them, trick them, you name it. Anything bad that can be done to a person, a Sick Brain is said to do,” Morden said. He waved his arm dismissively.

“But it’s a legend and that alone! What I’m worried about is that there is a killer in town. For the remainder of our stay, you are not to travel at night.”

Now it was Finn’s turn to pause. He too gazed into the flames, thinking for a long moment before asking his next question.

 “Why did I have to hide?” Finn asked.

 “You are a new face here, Finn,” Morden replied, “And you said yourself that you found the body. The city is in a panic.” The old man shrugged. “It is likely that they would have strung you up before anything could be explained.”

Finn was quiet for a moment. He looked down at his lap and he realized he was still holding the package Bolgen had given him.

“This is for you,” Finn said, standing up and handing the package over to Morden.

“Ah, yes,” the old man said, taking it. He slipped it into his robes, and it disappeared.

Morden stood up. From the pot over the fire, he ladled a thick stew into a bowl and handed it to Finn along with a wooden spoon.

“Don’t worry too much, Finn,” the old man said. He smiled, and the levity and glow returned to his eyes. “Come, let’s eat; tomorrow is a new day, and there is much to do.”

VI.

As the days passed, Finn became adept at helping Morden operate his produce business. Though Big City was still on high alert, with a curfew set in place and patrols doing their best to police the dark corners of the urban sprawl, the masses of those conducting business would not be deterred from getting on. Money exchanged hands every second, and the crowds continued to bustle and go about their daily work.

As night descended upon Big City, though, so did an air of tension. Doors shut with the sunset, leaving the winding streets deserted and eerily quiet. People never lingered too long near each other, afraid of looking suspicious. So much as a “good evening” would send the more skittish residents running in fear should it come from a stranger. 

As morning dawned on the final day of Morden’s tenure in Big City, he and Finn were loading the wagon in the dim dark before the sun truly crests the horizon. The city was quiet around them, not quite awake yet.

“Make sure everything is tied down tight,” Morden said, handing another crate up to Finn, who stood in the wagon and stacked the product as neatly as possible before lashing them down to the floor with rope.

“Of course, sir,” Finn said.

The old man chuckled. “What did I tell you? Call me Morden, Finn. I am glad you’ve decided to accompany me, but I won’t have you being so formal just because you’re now officially in my employ.” 

The old man leaned on the side of the wagon and wiped his brow with the sleeve of his robe. Finn hopped down from the wagon and continued to load the smaller boxes himself.

“We’ll head out this morning and make it to Market Town in the west by tomorrow afternoon if we make a steady pace,” Morden said, “I just have one more piece of business to attend to. Bolgen has something for me. You finish loading up while I walk over there.”

The old man stepped away from the wagon but stumbled. He caught himself on a crate that had not yet been loaded. Finn stepped over quickly and took hold of the old man’s arm to steady him.

“I think I may have strained myself,” Morden said with a meek chuckle.

“You should rest, Morden,” Finn said.

“Nonsense, I’ll be fine. We’ve got to get going.”

“The wagon’s all loaded, let me go down to Bolgen’s. I remember the way.”

“No, Finn. It’s still dark. It wouldn’t be safe.”

“It’s hardly a jaunt. It’ll be fine.

Morden thought for a moment, then sighed. 

“Alright,” he said, “but move quickly. Speak to nobody, and hurry back.”

Finn nodded and left, hurrying down the path leading to Stratbury Lane. The pale light of the approaching morn did not quite reach the floor of Big City, leaving the pathways enshrouded in the remains of the night. The streets were empty. The silence was delicate, screaming to be broken; and it was, ever so subtly. Something, a pinprick of sound, touched the edge of Finn’s hearing. He stopped at a corner. Straining his ears, Finn listened for the noise again for a long time. Eventually, he began to believe he had imagined it, when it came again: something like the sound of a pebble skittering over the edge of a cliff. 

The silence settled over everything once again. He wasn’t sure, but Finn had a distinct feeling that the noise had come from above. His eyes shot to the rooftops. On a crooked balcony, his eyes just caught the edge of a silhouette as it pulled out of sight.

A coldness washed down Finn’s spine. He continued forward, hurrying now. As he moved through the lanes, he became aware of another set of footsteps, nesting into his own to mask their sound. Then, they hastened. Finn began to run, his heart hammering against his chest. He wasn’t paying attention to the route, just following the curves of the pathway through the buildings. The footsteps behind him were also running now, and he could hear the heavy breathing of some kind of monstrosity. It was gaining, he could feel it. In a moment, it would overtake him and rip his heart out–

A high-pitched shriek tore a hole through the quiet morning somewhere up ahead of Finn, shattering the glassy silence. Finn found himself breaking out into one of the little squares tucked between the buildings. He ran straight, cutting directly through the center of it. He was so focused on running he didn’t see the mass in his path until he’d tripped. He tumbled head over heels and landed hard on his stomach. Finn drew his body inward to the fetal position, preparing to be eaten by the Sick Brain that would surely be on him in only a second or two.

A second or two passed. Then, a few more did. Gradually, Finn unfolded himself, searching the square with his eyes. He was alone. He struggled to his feet, his knee aching and bleeding where he’d scraped it in his fall. He turned to look at what he’d tripped over.

 Lying in the center of the square was the eviscerated body of a young man. His throat was slashed, leaving a ragged, bloody wound that was blackish and crusted over. In the burgeoning morning light, Finn could see that the young man’s shirt had been ripped open, and a gaping hole had been punched through his chest. Unable to look away, Finn hardly noticed the alarm bells as they began to toll around him. He didn’t move as the city awoke in groggy alarm.

Gradually, a crowd collected around Finn and the body. They were silent, seemingly unable to process the scene before them. Then, someone in the throng began to shout.

“He’s a Sick Brain!”

Others joined in until it became a cacophony.

“Murderer!”

“Sick Brain!”

“Get him! Get the Sick Brain!”

The crowd surged, converging on Finn. Suddenly, he could move again. He tried to break through their ranks but was pushed back to the center. Punches and kicks sent him stumbling. They pushed him down, ripping at his clothes and pushing on his chest. He could hardly breathe under the crushing weight of the mob. His vision was hazing, black ink gathering at the edges and expanding to the center as he became numb to the countless blows raining down. After a moment, he lost consciousness.

VII.

Finn didn’t expect to wake back up, so when he did it was a bit of a surprise. His back was stiff, and he was unable to move his limbs. His vision swam back into clarity, and he found that he was bound to a post. Below him, a crowd filled the city square, spilling into the streets that spidered out from it at the edges. At his feet was a pyre of scraps and trash collected from the corners of the city. The biting scent of alcohol wafted up from the heap. The crowd was feeding the heap, and from the corner of his eye, Finn could see several city dwellers soaking the trash with more alcohol. The remainder stared up at him in fear and anger, holding torches that only added to the heat of the day. They yelled and writhed in hardly subdued rage. One man, tall and thin and wearing the scrap metal armor of the town guard, stepped forward.

“Where’s the girl, Sick Brain,” he asked, sneering. His rough, soggy voice was familiar; after a moment it dawned on Finn that this was the guard who had turned him away at the gate a week ago.

“What are you talking about,” Finn asked. His voice was a rough whisper that struggled from a dry throat.

“The girl you’ve taken in the night,” the guard replied.

“I’ve done nothing.’

The guard’s hand slashed across Finn’s face like a blade. It sent a sting through his cheek that caused tears to spring from his swollen eyes.

“We caught you with a body,” the guard spat, “Torn apart, heart removed. Now, where is the girl?”

The crowd echoed the question, demanding answers.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Finn whispered.

“Die with a clean conscience, Sick Brain. Where is she?”

“I’ve done nothing, please, I was running an errand for Morden, I–”

The guard turned away from Finn to face the crowd, raising a hand.

“The Sick Brain lies,” he shouted. Echoing cries of fury reverberated back from the crowd in response.

“What shall we do with him, then?” the guard asked the crowd.

Gradually, the voices contorted from a garbled mess of rage into a uniform call: 

“Cleanse him! Cleanse him! Cleanse him!”

Someone at the foot of the knotted mass of people handed a torch to the guard. The guard turned back to Finn and stared at him coldly. Without a word, he knelt and touched the torch to the edge of the pyre; it ignited with a sudden whoomp, the flames racing through the trash toward Finn. He struggled against his bonds, but they were expertly tied. As the fire began to lick at his legs and feet with crackling tongues, Finn could do nothing but scream as he was slowly engulfed.

VIII.

On the other side of Big City, the great entry gate was opening with a clattering of gears. Morden sat on the top of his loaded-down wagon, ready to return to the Waste once more. The late morning sun was climbing high. A column of smoke from somewhere within the city rose next to the great, dirty orange ball.

“Off to another market then?” one of the guards shouted up to Morden as the gate rose.

“Always off to the next one, dear boy,” Morden replied jovially.

“Did you hear they caught the Sick Brain that’s been stalking the city?”

“Oh, my. Who was it?”

The guard shrugged. “A stranger, never been seen in town before. They’re burning him now.”

“How grisly,” Morden replied with a look of disgust.

“They’re hoping to get the whereabouts of the girl who went missing last night. Before it dies.”

“I hope they do! Poor girl. If the Waste is just, there’s still time.”

The gate was open now. Morden bid the young guard goodbye, urging his horse forward and out onto the rough road leading into the Waste. As Morden crested the hill that would put Big City out of sight upon his descent, he took from his robe the package that Finn had brought him from Bolgen. Carefully, he unwrapped the stained and tattered packaging. Inside, like a lump of sauce, was a mottled heart. It was finely sliced into strips, and Morden delicately plucked one up between two fingers. He slid it into his salivating mouth and chewed slowly, savoring the flavor.

A series of sudden bangs from inside the riveted lockbox tucked under the driver’s seat of the wagon sounded out, dying quickly in the desert heat. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Morden said. He smiled to himself, his teeth jagged and sharp. From inside the box, he could hear the muffled sound of crying.

“Don’t fret now,” he purred, drawing a forked, thin tongue over his wide, crooked grin, “You won’t be in there long.” He took another strip of heart and engulfed it without chewing. “This little morsel won’t last long, and I do love an afternoon snack.”

Morden chuckled as the faint crying continued. He snapped the reins, and the horse picked up its pace.