The Beginnings of a Plague

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Orange.

A fiery orange flare danced across the surface of the puddle, the liquid sat dark upon the tiled floor. Within an instant it was gone, and in that murky blackness, a faint light reflected the dimensions of the pool. Wide it sat there, stretched from one end of the hall to the other. A deep rumble disturbed the silence, shaking and distorting the reflective substance, then silence again. The silence endured for a long time, as it was in the beginning, as it would in the end. Only that silence, an eventual reprise of nothingness to bathe in, a puddle of murky blankness to encompass all. The light faded.

Orange flew across the surface once more, though in the mirror of the dark puddle, something moved. There, in that darkness, it moved slowly, painfully, dragging weight rustling against the floor. It stopped and shifted when the orange light disappeared, a sharp squeak against the laminate. When the fire returned, it moved in a broken symphony, a song unheard, despairing and bleeding. Such sounds were its chorus, such torment its soul, but none could hear. It was alone in its song. Lonely its movements, dictated by the passing of the light over the pool. Lumbering and shambling, it moved, then waited. It moved, then waited. Long had it waited. Long. So long.

Upon sundered brick, a ruined hand found purchase. The knuckles tensed, the torn fingers probed with erratic movements at the uneven surface. A soft scraping noise and tattered flesh pulled away to leave behind that liquid, smearing the jagged edge in black. A squeak as it stopped, the light gone again. A throaty rasp punctuated by a dull click, echoing down the hall. It moved with the fire, as it had done before, to continue onwards. A foot misplaced sent a metal tube skittering away into the dark. It followed the sound forwards. Then, it heard something soft, a chirping noise beyond. This noise it had not heard before. This noise did not belong to it, nor to the womb it was born in.

This noise was new. It thundered forward with great purpose, labored movements foregone in way of a jerky gait. Its two legs jolted down, one after another, propelling it forward. It lost balance and fell to the ground suddenly, arm rigid and fingers cracking in sudden flexes. The tortured hand planted itself firm against the floor, legs pulling inwards to its chest. It rose and slumped against the wall beside it, the orange fire spinning slow in a clear bubble above it.

The fire did not make that noise. The fire had long since stopped making noise. Now it watched and teased it, an illusion. It could see now how it had been fooled. It could see now how it had forgotten its purpose. It must find the noise. It must find the noise. The pain must be washed away. A pain it had felt for so long. So long.

It threw itself forward against the door, dull light shone freely beyond the clear portal set within it. It pushed and pushed, feeling the rattle against the hinges. It would not pass. It could not break through. It heard the chirp once more, louder, beyond the door. It pushed and it slammed, but the door would not give the sound. Its eyes trailed down, a faint green light sitting upon a dark box on the wall. Fragments of memories came to it, memories from before, pieces of the one before it. They whispered the answer to the puzzle, and with that hand, it unlocked.

It let out a wet gurgle as the door slide away into the wall, revealing a destroyed room. A bloody sneaker pressed against the floor quickly, an eagerness in its movements intensifying with each moment. There, at the end of the left wall, the gray was undone, and beyond sat paradise. It moved forward, the white light of day spilling onto it, the outside world waiting.

No longer would it sing alone. No longer would it dance alone. What was left of its other arm limply bounced behind it as it lunged through the breach.

The world beyond was bright, lush green strands waved beneath the shambling legs. Grass. Light browns rose into the air and exploded into bubbles of darker greens. Tree. The above was a tapestry of blue and gray, and the warmth radiated from the fire in the sky down onto the world. Sun. No longer was it in the dark. No longer was the above low. Sky. These sensations came fast, overwhelmingly so, and it stood silent. It watched and it listened. No metal, no stone, no dripping. The chirping continued and a buzz sat in the bushes.

It let out a ragged cry, then all went silent. The buzz left. The chirping had stopped. They did not share its music. They did not share its song. They would in time, as all had before, as it would be again. Its jaw chattered and shut with a loud click. It could feel the wind on its teeth, the coolness of the breeze in its matted hair, on its exposed skull.

What was once Benjamin McKay was now free, and it would no longer be alone.

It would become they.