Sympathy for Monsters: Chapter 3
Conrad runs into trouble in Cape Fontaine
An update for those joining in
I had started this story as an experiment, writing each episode in third person prose and in first person in a tweet thread. The experiment was fun but it’s over for the time being. I have decided to focus on prose.
The last two chapters are here:
The story up until now
The Great Weirding destroyed society as we know it. Most of the people left can’t remember much of anything about what the world was like before it changed, except for Conrad Gordon. The most common remaining social structure is the cult, and Conrad makes his living as a fixer for the prophets who run these cults.
In chapter one Conrad is waylaid by members of The Therapeutics, cultists who have a tendency to combust if they lose their temper or get too emotional. Their leader commissions Conrad to find more of the “sacrament” he requires to keep his followers from blowing up. The sacrament is located in the ruins of a chemical factory to the south.
Conrad and his dog Frank are in the ruins of a gated suburb called Cape Fontaine, the site of one of the first great slaughters after the Weirding. At the close of last chapter they were being followed. They are now waiting on the wall to see who their stalker was.
Chapter 3
The road to Cape Fontaine meandered down the desert hillside like a lazy river. The single figure in the distance paused to lean on his walking stick and look around as though he’d lost track of something.
Conrad slid behind the rampart on the still-standing section of wall he and Frank had scaled. Now that he’d gotten a better look, Conrad was sure that the figure on the road was Rink.
“Sweet kid.”
Frank shook his head, letting the shake work its way through the rest of his body until it came out the end of his tail.
“We should probably get him.” Conrad read something in Frank’s cocked head. The dog wasn’t too sure. “Think we should wait?”
Frank snorted.
“Fine.”
They hung back on the wall, watching as Rink passed through one of the fallen sections. The boy didn’t look good. His gait hadn’t yet deteriorated into a full blown stagger, but it wouldn’t be much longer until he sat down and nodded off for a nap he wouldn’t wake up from. The dog was right again, if there were bandits ahead, they wouldn’t be able to resist so easy a target.
Rink stumbled along the winding road, clumsily avoiding the piles of scorched debris in his path. Once he rounded the first bend, man and dog ambled down to follow at a safe distance.
They’d hardly put feet to ground when they heard a scuffle. A screech, likely Rink’s, cut short. Conrad unsheathed his knife, picking up his pace.
He caught sight of the ambush party when they rounded the curve in the road. Three women, Solaras from the looks of them. The one who had Rink pinned was a couple weeks past bald. A blonde and a brunette stood on either side, menacing him from above.
Conrad had done work for the Solara Aesthetica before. They weren’t known for random violence, most of that energy got channeled into creative self mutilation. Dangerous in a tangle, but not wanton. No telling what had taken them this far south.
“Hey, leave off!” Conrad called out.
Two of the women stepped back. The straw-haired one rocked dangerously on the balls of her feet. The flat blade of her throwing knife caught the afternoon sun. The other put her palm out, staying her friend. Her hair was pulled tight into a bun, shaved high and choppy around the sides. Both women had the contorted physiognomy of Solaras: sharpened cheekbones, thickly muscled legs. A desert jackrabbit carried more body fat than they had between the lot of them.
“Jansen,” Conrad addressed the brunette. He spun his knife handle up and made a show of sheathing it. “Mind not gutting that kid?”
The woman he called Jansen nudged her friend, who stood. Aside from the buzz cut, she was indistinguishable from her companions.
“Haven’t seen you in a few years, Gordon.” Jansen snapped her fingers a couple times. “Frank!”
The old dog trotted over for some ear scratches.
“You haven’t killed him already, have you?” Conrad asked, eyeing Rink for movement. The poor kid was starfished. His head lolled to the side. “He’s a Therapeutic,” Conrad said, answering Jansen’s obvious first question, “followed me out. Not sure if he was sent or if he’s got his own ideas but I do know the boy’s not carrying anything valuable.”
“Believable.” The bald one shook her head. She eyed Rink in a way that Conrad couldn’t quite parse. “Kid’s got some meat on his bones.”
“Cape Fontaine is a long way from the Solara Aesthetica Erie,” Conrad said. The cult was as insufferable as it sounded. “What brings you all down to this neck of the woods?”
“Could ask you the same.”
“You could but my answer would be predictable: I’m working on a commission. Now you try, what are three Solaras doing in Cape Fontaine, two hundred klicks from the Erie?” It dawned on Conrad that they might have gone apostate. He kept his body language loose, but he was ready to snatch his knife and do the work if things went sour.
“The Erie was ransacked by marauders,” Jansen said, clocking Conrad’s tension and politely ignoring it. She spoke like all Solaras, with a breathy superiority that despite (because of) Conrad’s distaste for it, really got him going. She was still talking, he realized. In a gravely purr, she concluded, “There is nothing left of the Erie but muddy ashes and broken bones.”
The other two women flinched the way folks do when they’re made to recall a fresh horror. Frank folded his haunches to the side and flopped on the road, his feet kicked out like a struck deer in the sun.
“These marauders, they have guns? Lots of ammo?” From the women’s body language, the answer to Conrad’s question was obvious.
“Like the guy who killed Lon,” Rink dry croaked from the ground. “At the gas station?”
Conrad helped the boy up, the kid’s skin was hot like a pan out of the oven.
“Ah fuck.”
Rink fell back to the ground. Conrad scrambled down again, gingerly helping him back up.
“You need to calm down, fella.”
Rink nodded unconvincingly. Conrad took what he could get.
“I ran into him on the road to Peoplesbad,” Conrad explained, turning to the three Solaras, taking a long step away from Rink. “There were a few of them, Therapeutics. I pulled over to see if they needed anything. Out of nowhere, a lone maniac comes ripping through, had this fucking bullet hose. Got his buddy Lon,” Conrad made a whoosh sound and spread his fingers out in a pantomime of exploded skull fragments.
“We tracked some of them down here.” The bald one nodded as she spoke. She had an airy voice, velvet backed. “I harvested one of these.” She produced a gun, unmistakably the same model as the one from the gas station. With a breathy pout she sighed, “But it’s empty.”
These women, Conrad had to remind himself, were extremely dangerous.
It did not help his state of mind.
“The sun’s getting low. Where are you camped?” Conrad glanced at Frank, expecting hesitation, but he was lazily walking a figure-eight through Jansen’s legs, leaning his body into her. “I want to hear more about these raiders.”
The Solaras agreed to let him and Rink camp with them, much to Conrad’s chagrin/delight. He knew Jansen would want something in exchange for whatever information she gave up, which meant he’d owe her a favor, and he hated owing favors.
Rink followed wordlessly, pushing down the rush of emotions that had almost ended his life. Poor kid probably hadn’t seen a real woman since childhood, let alone a gang of ritually enhanced Solaras. He’d have some stories to tell the boys back home if he could come out of his daze long enough to notice.
Conrad wanted to ask Rink how close he’d just come to burning up. He had to be on the edge, the pads of Conrad’s fingers were still scorched. He’d be lucky if they didn’t blister. The questions would have to wait until they were away from their hosts, no reason to get anybody spooked yet.
The houses of Cape Fontaine were in better shape than Conrad had been led to believe. The Solaras’ camp was in the ruins of an old three bedroom, its standing walls low enough to see past but high enough to provide cover. They lit several cans of wax oil in the middle of what used to be a living room. No wood fire, the smell would attract opportunists.
Between bites of rabbit jerky, Conrad relayed the story of his capture by the Therapeutics. He added enough embellishment to make himself look a bit less like an idiot. Rink raised an eyebrow once or twice but was smart enough to keep his mouth shut, putting Conrad’s opinion of the boy up a few notches.
“What’s the commission?” Jansen asked. It was clear that had been on her mind. The others murmured their interest.
Conrad slipped the folded paper to her. “There’s a chemical factory in South Canyon. Looking for that.”
Jansen read the paper like she’d been dealt a good hand of cards.
“Recognize it?”
“You know for a fact this stuff is where you say it is?” She handed the paper back, snatching a quick look at her companions.
“Don’t know anything but what I was told. All I want out of this is my car and a trunk full of hacksilver.”
“You haven’t changed. The prophet said this was a sacrament?” Jansen asked, in the way that people do when they know something you don’t and they’re enjoying it.
Conrad nodded, trying to focus, but not doing a great job of it. Rink hadn’t made more than two grunts since they’d sat down. Then something seemed to shake loose in the boy’s head.
“We never take the sacrament ourselves, it’s for the prophet,” he said. Jansen nodded, unsurprised. Rink continued, “He sequesters himself in the chapel when it’s time. We stand guard outside while the world falls into disarray. It’s a true test of—”
“Jansen,” Conrad cut in. “You never did say what it was you were doing all the way down here in Cape Fontaine.”
“The marauders—”
“You’re three Solaras with one unloaded gun between the lot of you. I’ve met a lot of vengeful bastards but you never struck me as the sort.”
The bald one was agitated, moving her lips like she was having a conversation with herself. Jansen put a hand on her leg.
“People think Solaras are nothing but empty headed sybarites with weird ideas about body modification—”
“Dangerous sybarites,” Conrad added, helpfully.
“If the world believed we were that dangerous, we would never have been sacked.”
The swaying light played on Jansen’s sharpened cheekbones. They hadn’t made any mention of their prophet. All three had spent their lives under The Androgyne Marc-Fille, who pruned and sculpted their living flesh like so many bonsai trees. Conspicuous in absence, Conrad realized that their prophet must have been dead.
“You’re story building,” Conrad said, sliding the pieces into place. “Cape Fontaine is auspicious enough. Find a bit of ammo for that gun and you’ve got the martial power to stake out land for a new compound.” Jansen stiffened while Conrad leaned in, “No that’s not quite it, no new compound. You’re going back to the Erie. With a big gun, you can chase off the squatters and salvage what’s left. Send them scurrying into the wastes with reddened asses and a terrifying story to tell about you: furious, terrible queens of the desert, come home. Something like that, right?”
The bald one stood as if she was going to charge Conrad but he took no mind.
“Griselda, sit. You’re frightening the boy.”
Rink had developed a low frequency jitter and was doing a poor job of hiding it. Conrad scooted a few inches further away from him in case he burst into flames. Jansen kept her eyes on Conrad while Griselda reluctantly took her seat.
“Join us, Conrad.“
“You know I do my own thing.”
“Look where it’s gotten you. Caught in a prophet’s trap, lost your car.” She raised her palm in a placating motion. “These things happen to the best of us. They’ll happen to you again. Every time your fortune shifts, you risk losing everything.”
“Like your fortune hasn’t shifted?” Conrad motioned around the camp. “Having backup just meant you had company while you lost everything.” Frank walked around the edge of the fire’s glow, coming to sit nearby. Conrad motioned him to one side, keeping himself between the dog and Rink. He imagined he could feel heat coming off the boy. “I’m going to find the Therapeutics their sacrament. If the marauders you’re after are still in the area, I’m sure we’ll run across them. No doubt there’ll be more than enough spoils to divvy if we run across those terrifying bastards.”
Jansen seemed satisfied at Conrad’s answer, though he knew she would keep working on him. An experienced in-house fixer is a big asset for a cult, especially a new one. Conrad was practiced enough at playing coy, he’d string her along until he could leave off without risking her anger. They’d be useful to each other right up until they weren’t. Rink was more of a concern.
Conrad excused himself from the Solaras and took Rink out of earshot. They found a nook in what used to be the garage. The kid looked nervous.
“Hey, don’t turn into a fireball on me now.”
Rink shook his head and looked down at his feet. “I’m okay.”
“Why did Banyon send you after me?” Conrad was as avuncular as he could muster. Rink shrugged mutely. “He didn’t send you, then. You sneaked out?”
He nodded.
“Trying your hand at adventure?”
“I want out.”
Conrad looked the boy up and down. He wasn’t expecting that.
“I still have to bring your sacrament back to Banyon. There’s a car and a dog’s weight in hacksilver riding on it.” A wave of heat blew past Conrad. “Whoa, easy with that shit. I’m not gonna haul you back in.” The way this was going he wouldn’t have to, the kid would torch himself soon enough. “The Solaras or whatever they’re gonna call themselves now are going to be looking for members. You could do worse.”
“I don’t want to join another cult.” Rink mastered himself, the air cooled, his voice took on the eerie somnambulance from back at the gas station. “After you left, Banyon locked himself in the chapel. Something was wrong, but none of us knew what. Then I saw those walls—the way they really are, like you talked about. The broomsticks, all of it.”
“Goddamn.”
“I’m an idiot.” Rink spoke evenly, but the heat was still there, pulsing. “The worst part is that it’s not really my fault.”
“Never is.” The boy was right, but Conrad didn’t have the heart to tell him that it didn’t matter. The world doesn’t care who’s fault it is. “Listen, you gotta know that angry go-kaboom shit is going to kill you out here. Do you have a death wish?”
Rink shook his head slowly. Conrad stared at the boy, weighing his options. Leaving him behind was no different than leaving him for dead. Eventually, the Solaras would crack his bones and make broth from the marrow, metaphorically or not. If the kid went out on his own he’d be killed or sold into sex slavery before the week was out.
A crunch of movement came from around the corner. Conrad’s hand went to his knife. It was Frank. The dog came over and sat between Conrad’s feet, looking up with a wide jawed yawn.
“Maybe there’s a cure,” Rink said as if he were asking the universe a question.
“I wouldn’t bet that, hot potato.” Conrad tried to think of a way to get rid of the boy without sentencing him to death. Dejectedly, he leaned down and scratched Frank behind the ear, producing a burst of contented snuffles. Goddamnit. “Listen close now. Any help I give is contingent on you not blowing up, not blowing me up, and not blowing my fucking dog up.” Frank whined in assent. “You want to come with me? Help me find this sacrament and get it back to your people. If you survive that long, you can hide out beyond the sentry ring and hang tough until I get back.”
“Then we’re a team?”
Conrad was about to firmly disabuse Rink of this idea when a low rumble shook the ground. The sound grew into a polyphonic roar, like a hundred garbage trucks straining their hydraulics all at once. Conrad grabbed Rink’s shirt and pulled him to the ground. “Stay put.”
One of the Solaras cried out in anger, barely audible above the suffocating noise. An involuntary fear response buckled Conrad’s stomach. He stopped long enough to puke, then forced himself upright. Frank’s fur was on end, in a wide stripe down his back. The starlight was bright enough to outline him in the darkness and betray the subtle vibrations in his rear haunches. Conrad had to get to the Solaras. Together they might be enough to fight off whatever was making that noise. He picked up Frank and set the old dog down next to the boy, both of them shivering with animal fear.
Conrad unsheathed his knife and made his way through the interior ruins of the house, keeping his head down until he got to the burned out living room. He hadn’t run into a cryptid gang in a long time.
Cryptids were terrible things. Monsters that had existed only in the minds of conspiracy maniacs and children before the Weirding. Now they ranged through loosely inhabited ruins like these. Any place where a mass of people had died in abject terror was fertile ground. Bandit gangs that hunted for victims in ruins would sometimes, in a fit of hubris, attempt to harness a cryptid. For a while it would work, provided they gave the thing enough raw terror to keep it going. Eventually, the cryptid would kill them and everything nearby. Conrad peeked around the wall he had crouched behind.
Lit up from below with the wan flame of the camp’s oil fire, the cryptid loomed. Had to be six meters tall. This one looked more like a person than most. It wore a cartoonish dress military uniform, ragged and torn. Its body was wrapped in heavy chains, sections of which it clutched in each hand. No longer roaring, it began to swing one section of chain above its head, weighted at the far end by a massive iron cube. One of the Solaras was laid out, where her head had been was a flattened mess of flesh and bone.
“Behind that wall!” Shouted a man’s voice.
The cryptid flicked its massive arm, sending the hunk of iron in Conrad’s direction. He lunged. The wall was pulverized, spraying drywall chunks into the air, making it impossible to see or breathe in the darkness. Jeers came up from behind the creature. Men celebrating, gloating. One of their hoots ended in a wet gurgle, telling Conrad that the remaining Solaras had not all been slaughtered.
Conrad leapt up, wheeling outside the glow of the oil flame and taking a hurdle over the low far wall of the old living room. A screaming man writhed on the ground, clawing at the short handle of a throwing knife protruding from his left eye.
A thick necked brute spotted Conrad and charged, a broad-headed spear tucked close to his body. Conrad held his ground, about to jump out of the way when the cryptid roared again, jarring his balance. The spear caught Conrad in the left arm, slicing through his lower triceps. His elbow folded, arm curling into his body like a wounded snake.
No time to think about it. Conrad pivoted, leaning into the spin of the impact to turn himself around. He sunk his fighting knife hilt-deep just underneath the bastard’s shoulder blade. The man deflated like a punctured tire. Conrad held onto the knife, letting the body fall away. In a few seconds his left arm would be in crippling pain. He had to move now.
An iron block whizzed millimeters past Conrad’s cheek. He threw himself forward toward the cryptid. It shrieked in pain. Jansen, bless her, had appeared out of the darkness to pluck her knife from the fallen man’s eye and sent it into the fold of the cryptid’s armpit. Conrad took two long steps. Before he could think better of it, he charged between the creature’s legs, dragging his knife along the inside of its massive thigh, releasing a fountain of arterial blood as he passed.
The cryptid spun around, another massive iron block in its good hand, holding it up like a cruel boy ready to smash a tortoise. For a long, terrifying moment Conrad worried that the thing didn’t need blood to function. You never knew with things conjured up from the Weird. The laws of nature applied selectively, sometimes not at all. The cryptid’s eyelids fluttered as the heavy iron cube tumbled down, landing on its own foot. The last expression on its face before it collapsed was confusion, as if it didn’t know how it got here or why it had been so angry in the first place.
“Jansen!” Conrad yelled.
Searing pain radiated from where his muscle had been sliced. Tendons too, maybe. No way he could tell. He didn’t have the stomach to look yet.
Footsteps in the dark. The pain had messed Conrad up, he couldn’t even tell what direction they were coming from. Better safe than sorry. Conrad ducked and spun low, knife out.
Overswung, missed.
A man slammed into him, but with some luck wasn’t expecting Conrad to be so low. They tumbled over one another. Conrad’s useless arm slammed into sharp rocks, blinding him with a flash of pain. He opened his eyes to see the glint of metal above, coming down fast.
Then it was gone.
Conrad closed his eyes. He felt himself lifted to his feet.
The pain in his arm rushed through his body looking for escape, pooling in his teeth and in his bones. The blackness behind Conrad’s eyelids faded to yellow a few times. The next time he opened his eyes the pink of pre-dawn lit the sky, silhouetting the mountains.
Jansen and Rink sat across from him.
Her clothes were black with drying blood. Rink had splatter on his face. Conrad looked around in a panic but Frank was there, next to him. Heavy body leaned against his side. The dog whined and re-settled his head on Conrad’s thigh.
“The boy saved you,” Jansen said. “You owe him one.”
“It’s okay, we’re a team. Right boss?” Rink’s wet face shone in the oil flame.
Conrad closed his eyes and let the exhaustion take him back to oblivion. The morning heat would wake him soon enough. Frank shifted his weight ever so slightly.