Simon Logan - Pretty Little Things to Fill Up the Void

PRETTY LITTLE THINGS TO FILL UP THE VOID

A novel of self-destruction

BY SIMON LOGAN

Kindle Version Copyright 2011 by Simon Logan
Cover design 2002 by Simon Logan

No portion of this book may be reproduced by any means, mechanical, electronic, or otherwise, without first obtaining the permission of the copyright holder.

For more information:
http://www.coldandalone.com

SCENE 001

Fade in across the dark and rippling bay and past the sprawling behemoths of the old oil rigs that rise out of the water like great rusted sentinels.

Pass over the loading bays where the workers move amongst the great machinery and the crates piled high around them, then over the bare concrete plains that lead up to the skyscrapers and the squat brick-shaped buildings that dominate the city.

Cut to a group of teenagers walking along the sole remaining wall of a shattered storage warehouse, balanced precariously on the crumbling edifice as they make their way single-file along it. There is a twenty foot drop on one side and on the other piles of jagged rubble, filled with glinting shapes, like the teeth of a wild cat waiting for its prey to fall from a tree.

Cut to one of the many arcades that scatter the streets of this place, pan inside to the dazzling concoction of flashing lights and garish illuminated imagery. The joystick junkies, the pros, are consumed by crowds of onlookers as they battle with the games cabinets, cheered and booed in equal proportion. Pan across to the back of the place where people lay sprawled out in the booths, bathed in the electron glow, tripping on chemical cocktails or just blasted by the atmosphere. Their sweat beads on their skin and it is multi-coloured.

Cut.

To a trailer park far away from the insane lightshow of the games arcade, cooled by the glow of the moon, warmed by the fire that some children have lit. They alternate between heating themselves by it and throwing whatever junk they have managed to gather into it, cheering as it burns. Pan across them to the woman walking by herself through the scrubland that surrounds this mock-refugee camp, her arms wrapped around herself. She looks up and something glitters in her facea lip ring, curled around dark purple lips. She enters one of the trailers and collapses to the floor. She hugs herself into a ball and begins to rock.

Cut to three people, dumping the rucksacks they carry onto the concrete beside them. Pull back to take in more of the building they stand before, a recently-renovated office space of some kind. The new metal glints and the dark glass is fine and pure. The three pull cans from their respective bags, shake them up and begin to work. They each stick to their own area, deftly decorating the surfaces with their spray-paint, with their identities. They each write their own names in undulating, expressive twists and turns but the message is the same this is ours , it says.

Cut to a dusty workshop and a woman whose face is hidden behind the screen of a welding mask. Sparks fly over her shoulders, fizzing to nothing on the dark hooded top that she wears. She moves the pieces of metal laid out before her around, checking their arrangement before melting them into one another.

Cut.

To a workshop of a different kind, this one brighter and more open. Chunks of plaster and plastic sheets litter the floor and a woman, small and with a taut, fibrous musculature, hammers away at one of the dirty white obelisks with a chisel and hammer. Pan around her to the man that approaches carefully from behind, his large hands outstretched. He grabs her suddenly and she jumps at his touch. She swivels in his grasp and thus reveals the strange device that has augmented her spine, a jagged mechanism that brings to mind a spider clutching its prey, draining her of essential fluids. The man kisses her neck and whispers to her and the womans demeanour changes. Her feet are bare. She squeezes her tools and she watches him leave.

Cut.

SCENE 002

The pick-up truck eases itself slowly along the alleyways, working its way through the steel and concrete buildings, the engine barely revving. It avoids the security posts concealed in the warehouses and production blocks, the sprawling brewery pipes like disembowelled viscera, finally coming to a halt next to an immense vat stained red with rust.

Beneath the moonlight, five people climb out of the truck dressed entirely in black. A couple of them carry bags and remove from those bags cans of spray paint and various tools. They pass them out amongst the others, save one member who remains separate from the rest, hovering by the pick-up.

Then the groups disperse, three in one direction, two in another.

The three head west, further into the multitude of buildings that make up the heart of the chemical district. They climb up a ladder that leads onto a low rooftop, one of them checking their watch to make sure no security patrols are due, then walk across the roof and jump onto an adjoining building.

From there they can see for miles, as far as the docklands and the great black ghost of a half-built trawler chained to the shore in mechanical bondage, the dull yellow cranes that encircle it like the fingers of its dissector. One of the people points northwest, to where the buildings increase in size and complexity, where the razor wire lies thick.

The group shuffles across a catwalk that runs diagonally across a courtyard then suddenly dive to the metal flooring as the familiar sound of a SWAT chopper fills the air. A moment later and a searchlight illuminates the sky but its okay because they knew it would be there and they knew when. They cling to the catwalk, letting the chopper sweep several hundred metres wide of them, then the searchlight is flicked off and the engine switches to silent running again.

They wait a few more seconds, then get up and restart their journey, onto another roof then descending to the ground once more. The thick, beefy sound of a production lines horn suddenly blares behind them and the third person in the pack jumps instinctively. One of the others touches their arm, says something to them, and the third person nods.

The moonlight glitters off of the dark grey oxygen masks strapped to their faces, off of the muscled SWAT vests previously bought on the black market. The strange rain that is somewhere between heavy mist and a light shower has arrived, polishing any and all shiny surfaces, scattering tiny beads that refract the silver glow of the sky.

Not much further now.

The three wait patiently as a door opens on the side of one of the buildings and a small group of people in lab coats emerge, laughing and gesturing to one another. Two of them carry a clear plastic chamber between them, its contents sloshing around inside. There is a large, luminous Hazardous Waste sign emblazoned on each side. The scientists disappear down a passageway, their voices carrying then finally fading away.

The lead member of the group of three gestures to the others and they hurry on, jogging now, expertly cutting their way through the passageways between research buildings and toxic waste incinerators, passageways that are like a junkys squalid veins. Another five minutes and they have reached the end of the maze of small labs and are beckoned by a concrete acreage that extends for a mile in every direction. An electrified razor wire fence dictates the areas border and at the centre of that area lies a great, jagged construction that bears more than a passing resemblance to a fairy tale castleexcept this castle is made of steel and piping, chemical vats and exposed gearing cogs, wet black cabling and oil pumps. Steam pours out from seemingly random vents. Around this impressive central structure lie more research labs and waste chambers.

The three time their run to the fencing, slipping between the tracking lights of the various security posts just as they had practised, and crouch in a blind spot. The one with the bag opens it up and takes out some wire-cutters. He hesitates momentarily then clips the fenceno electricity. The others have done their job.