BELONGING

4. The Lot

 

The sun had fallen and the sky sprayed red by the time he saw the lights of the extra-communal convenience store.  He purchased a bottle of water, dragged it from the dispensing slot, and choked on his third gulp.  He slumped against the stone wall and dared not sink down further, for he knew that if he did it would be that much harder to claw his way back up.  Instead, he bent over, reached into his pocket to retrieve his phone and consider the map.  There was an AutoMate located a mile up the road, and then there was another nine miles to the nearest sleeping lot.  He figured whoever had taken his car would be staying near to the compound, if they were indeed interested in the upcoming auction.  If they had taken his belongings to sell, then they would look to get an offer for the car at the nearest AutoMate and then try their luck with the dog where there would be a large gathering of potential buyers, such as could be found at the lot.  The question for the man, though, was whether he had chosen the right direction of travel when he had left the compound.  If the thieves had been clever, they would have driven in the opposite direction, for it meant travelling further to the nearest AutoMate, and that would have been just the thing to throw him off.  But the man felt fairly confident in the path he had set out on, for in his experience opportunistic thieves were rarely that clever.

  It didn’t hurt, though, to check.  And so he returned to the service hatch and summoned the store automaton.  Say, does this place have passive-scan security?  Do you keep a record of which cars pass by here?  The automaton sounded out a listless buzz.  Look, my car was stolen, okay, and I need to know if it passed this way.  I’m willing to pay for this information.  The man held out his phone, and a response came with the jingling of coins.  The car had indeed passed by the store, no more than four hours prior.  Would your scan have told you the number of its occupants?  Two men.  It worried him that it mentioned nothing of a dog.  But then why would it?  Would a passive-scan designed for security purposes be set to detect a dog?  Putting that thought to one side, he figured that meant there were at least three people involved, if they had originally arrived at the compound in another vehicle, which they would also have had to drive off.  And that meant it would be at least three against one when he finally caught up with them.  He didn’t like the sound of those odds.

  He called up the store’s digital catalogue and set it to filter through only those items currently in stock, then he began to scroll through it.  He had already decided against procuring a knife.  Aside from his standard utility blade that he had kept in his car, he had little experience in wielding one for anything other than rudimentary woodwork and food preparation.  He certainly did not want to provoke a knife fight, for if his opponent already had a knife then invariably that person would be the more skilled fighter in that respect.  He needed to find something with which he could fend someone off at a distance.  But there seemed to be little else available that he could use as an effective weapon.  In the tool and appliances subsection of the catalogue, he came upon a listing for a cordless nail gun that ran off butane gas cartridges, and acting on impulse he slipped one along with a couple of spare cartridges into his basket.  Along with the nail gun, he bought some food and a blanket, scoffed down the former, wrapped the latter loosely around his shoulders, and trudged on.

  A short distance down the road, he unsealed the nail gun and cursed himself when he realised that he had in fact forgotten to buy any nails, but relaxed when he saw that the item came fully loaded with a magazine containing three hundred of them, each three-and-half inches long.  He stepped off the road and over a sandbank to the tree line beyond.  Standing a metre away from a cracked and gnarled trunk, he fired and watched the nail hit, rebound, and disappear into the leaf litter.  He examined the tree trunk.  The nail had not even chipped its surface.  And so he tried again, this time standing at a half-metre distance.  The nail penetrated the bark before dislodging, but barely left a mark.  So much for fending anyone off at a distance.  In his frustration, he pressed the nail gun against the tree and fired, driving three nails up to their heads into the trunk.  So at short range a nail might pierce clothing, even cause a scratch, but it would be unlikely to stop anyone in their tracks.  He could threaten, perhaps even get them to back away, but if he had to use the gun offensively it would have to be done on-contact.  And so armed with and unsettled by this knowledge, he resumed walking.

  Within ten minutes, he saw the lights of the AutoMate beckoning, by which time he had come to a decision.  Even if his car were there, the dog would most likely have been taken on to the sleeping lot, and in order to gain admittance to that he would need a car.  And so, regardless of whether he could convince the AutoMate that the car was indeed his or if he had to even buy it back, he would be leaving in his car, for he was done with walking.  And then, he decided, he would make sure that the scum that had stolen it paid him back the full jingle.

  It was to his surprise and dismay to discover that his car was in fact not present at the AutoMate.  He kept his phone pressed against the scanner and asked the attending automaton to double check its records, then asked it to check if any car had been purchased by the AutoMate within the past six hours.  The automaton merely repeated the same: business had been quiet, no car had stopped by, let alone been serviced, bought, or sold.  Gripping his blanket tightly, the man stared into the pitch dark that not only lay ahead but now pressed in from all sides, and he wondered if he had in fact been right about anything all along.

  No, the car had definitely passed by the convenience store.  And there had been no turn-offs between that store and this AutoMate, at least none he had noticed.  But it had been dark and his awareness of his surroundings had been dulled by so many errant thoughts of what he would do once he had caught up to his possessions.  I don’t suppose you have passive-scan security?  The answer that came back confirmed that he had run out of luck but not yet out of road, for he would still have to press on, only with added uncertainty.  Defeat yawned then nipped at him, almost making him forget his other purpose, but as he remembered he turned back to the automaton and told it that he wanted access to the sale yard.

  I want to buy a car, the cheaper the better.  It just needs to get me a little bit further down the road.

​

The clunker wheezed and hummed as he manoeuvred it out the yard.  He gripped the steering wheel tightly.  It seemed overly cumbersome when compared to using his phone, upon whose screen he would have simply had to trace a finger over a map projection to direct the car’s path.  But this vehicle was too old to have a phone slot on its dashboard.  The virtual overlay was little better than a fractal pattern upon the car’s windscreen, so the man turned it off.  Instead, he relied upon the car’s headlights to direct him down the stretch of road with its sloped verges and shattered tree line of ghost-white trunks that flashed by like strips from some never-ending Brobdingnagian barcode.  The faint glimmer from the headlamps reflected how he felt about his chances.  Everything slipped by into blackness.  And then, in seemingly no time at all, the trees gave way to open space and in the distance he saw light reflected from slitted eyes that were the sleeping lot’s windows leering back at him through the dark.  And it was only as he drew nearer that its squat and extensive shape became more substantial.

  The sleeping lot was only four storeys high but it was long, its exterior composed of black granite that reflected none of the many lights that ringed it along its chain-link fenced periphery.  Only its elongated windows reflected that light, and they were set in the third and fourth floors alone, at least twenty five feet above ground.  The ground floor betrayed no means of entry or exit.  The man pulled the car up to the fence-line and alongside a metre-high yellow pole.  He glanced along the top of the tall fence.  Though he saw no sign of a scanner security system, he was sure that the lot had to have one.  He requested fourth level clearance, then thrust out his phone and tapped it against the pole, whose rounded top flashed green to acknowledge payment.  A section of the chain fence unlinked to permit him access.

  Umm, can you confirm if the car licence-synced to this phone is parked here?

  No response.  He dug out of his pocket the flimsy with the list of licence plates he had been given and slapped it up against the pole.  Scan list and tell me if any of these vehicles are presently on the lot; I’ll pay for the information.  Again nothing.  Apparently the pole had not been programmed for profit maximisation, which meant he would have to do this the long and hard way, methodically searching each level of the lot until he located his vehicle, if it was even in there.  With a sigh, he steered the car through the open fence and down a narrow drive toward the imposing structure.

  Lights flashed on as a section of its wall slipped down to reveal a box-shaped opening with an upward slanting ramp.  He guided the car up the ramp and onto the first level whose bays were already full of all manner of vehicles.  This was the economy level, prone to frequent traffic and with few amenities.  Some car occupants had shut themselves off from their surroundings, bunkering down behind privacy blinds and full-tinted windows, while others had their boot lids lifted to aerate their interiors as they lay listlessly in the rear.  The man passed by numerous families as he drove down the line, spotting six people in one car alone, but mostly there were couples and only a handful of lone individuals.     Some were still in the process of cooking dinner, with portable hobs and grills hooked up to their vehicle’s battery, wedged between their car and the far wall.  Others were using that space to hang up laundry along makeshift clothes lines.

  He drove slowly down the central corridor, his gaze jerking from left to right as he checked each vehicle that he passed.  He knew, though, that the chance of his car being parked on the economy level was unlikely.  If it was in the lot at all, it would most likely be parked up on either the second or third levels, where property aspirants tended to park.  Levels one and four tended to be filled with no-hopes, with those who had either resigned themselves to their circumstance or had been frustrated in their efforts to change them, the only difference being that those on level four still earned enough to surrender themselves to a more comfortable lifestyle, being that the higher level would have less through traffic.

  Midway down the corridor, he passed a long queue of people clutching their tubs and sponges, waiting to use the single comfort station situated on the level, and he steered carefully down their line, peering between the people to see what cars were parked in the bays beyond.

  What’re you looking at?  It was a burly man in a power wheelchair glaring back at him at eye-level.  The man drew the car to a halt, looked out the window and back at Burly.  I’m looking for a car and a dog.  I don’t suppose you’ve seen a car with a long-haired spotted dog, have you?  No, no dogs, just cars, seen a lotta cars but with no dog driving.  Burly laughed as if it had been the funniest thing he’d said all day.  The man nodded his thanks and drove slowly on.

  At the end of the corridor, he took the ramp up to the second level.  Here and on the two levels above, electric charging points for each bay were slotted into the wall, allowing cars to be charged overnight.  Not that many people used them, for compared to the general charging stations the cost for electricity on a lot tended to be extortionate.  He remembered the flimsy and retrieved it from the passenger seat where he had dropped it, held it up to see if any of the listed licence plates synced to any of the vehicles parked there.  Three of the licences winked back at him.  So, three cars on this level had been parked up earlier that morning on the compound’s communal parking area.  He held the flimsy more firmly between each hand and slowly panned it across his field of vision from left to right, digitally zooming in by applying added pressure between his thumb and forefinger.  One of the cars to his left and two to his right, a bit further down the corridor, lit up.  He dropped the flimsy and resumed creeping forward.

  There were few families on the second level, and those that were there kept mostly to themselves, though the men amongst them all had their eyes peeled on the other occupants, as if sizing up future contenders.  They sat hunched in the front seats of their cars, glared back at him as he drove past, all watching to see if he were about to park or head up to the next level.  Other occupants stood outside their cars, reclined against bonnets, or crouched upon bumpers, quietly chatting to a partner, a fellow passenger, or amongst themselves.  The man did not have to wind down his window to sense the level of testosterone that saturated the air.

  One set of eyes glowered intently back at him as he passed, and the man felt himself instinctively bristle, for he had seen those same set of eyes before, had caught them briefly in front beams only the night just gone.  Even as the owner of those eyes spied him and sat up, he did so with an air of confidence that bordered on arrogance that, had he been walking, would have been denoted by a swagger.

  I’m coming to get you snow leopard, the man whispered under his breath.

  He crept steadily on through the lines of parked cars with their tense, tetchy passengers and rounded the corner to take the ramp up to the third level.  He was about to reach down for the flimsy when he spotted it.  His car.  It was parked partway down to his right.  The patchwork pillowcase still clung to the front passenger window.  And reclining against his car’s front left fender, a fat butt behind a bulbous belly that was topped with a hairless, red and flaky face.  Crispy laughed as he gesticulated expansively to his twitchy companion who was no longer just a shadow, pinned as he was beneath the lot’s green tungsten light.  Neither of them had yet spotted the man at the head of the ramp, and so he quickly steered the rundown vehicle into a vacant bay to his left.

  He leaned back to see if he could still see his car but his view was blocked by others parked between.  It also meant that he could not use the flimsy to ascertain which other car belonged to the two men, to know where their third accomplice lay hidden.  Grabbing the blanket, he wrapped it around his head to form a loose head wrap and scarf, then he popped the car’s bonnet, stepped out and sidled over to the front of the car to lift it.  Ducking his head under the bonnet, he pretended to examine the starter battery and coolant level then peered through the open wedge that the bonnet afforded him, over the roofs of the other cars, to where Crispy and Twitch stood chatting.  Across the aisle and further down from them, a short queue of travellers stood waiting to access the multiple comfort stations on this level.  If he joined that queue, he would be only a short distance from his car.  But to get Crispy and his companion away, he would need a distraction.

  He returned his attention to what lay beneath the car bonnet.  Under the electric motor stack lay the rectangular fuse box that contained, amongst other things, the fuse that would cut the current if the skin temperature of any of the vehicle’s battery cells exceeded safety tolerance.   That was a good place to start.  He tried to pry off the plastic cover but with no success.  He considered shorting out the protection circuits or, if he could gain access to it, fusing the solid-state switch so that it was locked into the ON position, but decided he needed a quicker solution than to simply overcharge the car’s lithium-ion battery cells.  The damn thing was drained enough as it was, so to leave it to charge would take hours before it achieved thermal runaway.

  He did have a nail gun, though.

  Turning to the charging point in the wall, he drew out the rapid charging extendable cable, popped open the car’s charging flap, and slotted the nozzle into the DC port.  He returned to the driver’s side, opened the back passenger door and grabbed the nail gun that he had slung onto the back seat.  He felt along the floor for any space along the footwell where there was no strut supporting the chassis and where the metal lining felt thin.  He hesitated but for a moment and then fired a nail directly into the floor and the battery beneath.  He stepped quickly back, for he expected at least a flare or a puff of something, but there was no reaction.  No smoke.  No spark.  No explosion.  Time ticked sedately on.  Leaning back in, he fired another nail and then a third into the flooring.  The third nail elicited a drift of smoke and an acrid, stinging smell.  He decided not to take further chances and so slipped the nail gun under his left arm and turned quickly toward the queue of people, tucking his head down and hunching his shoulders as he passed Crispy and his twitchy fellow traveller.  He flicked a glance in their direction, but neither man paid him any attention.  

  He slipped into the back of the queue, pinched the head wrap around his mouth as he peered over his shoulder to the car he had just left. Already, he was no longer the last in line, for at least two others had stepped in behind him.  The queue inched forward and he shuffled along, glancing from side to side to see if he could spot any likely third accomplice sat in some nearby car, anyone who would give him away once the distraction had culminated in some kind of eruption.

  He had all but given up hope of his make-do plan bearing fruit when a hollow shout broke out back the way he had come.  A man, trotting briskly and yelling, pointed back to a billowing cloud that grew to blanket the level behind him.  And then there was a deep thud and a jolt hit the man at the centre of his being, even though it did not disturb the air around him.  Down at the far end of the level, the car burst into flames.  One or two people raced from the line to their own cars parked near to the minor explosion.  Others drifted toward it, seemingly out of bland curiosity, like moths to a mediocre flame.  Even Crispy’s backside had bothered to shift off the fender.  He and Twitch stepped languidly out into the central aisle.

  Seizing his chance, the man dove toward his car.  He opened the driver’s side door, slipped inside and snapped his phone to the dashboard.  A quick glance over his shoulder, and his heart sank.  The dog was not there, only upturned bedding.  A wicked anger rushed through him.

  Hey!

  From the opposite side of the aisle, near to the comfort stations, a figure rushed pell-mell toward the car, waving frantically at Crispy and Twitch and at the car.  The man flung the nail gun to one side, ignited the starter and, with all five fingers splayed across his phone screen, twisted them so that the car spun out of the bay and swung straight at Crispy, just as Pell-Mell made a reach for the rear bumper, missed, and fell.  Colliding into Crispy felt like hitting a mud-brick shithouse whose material had not yet set, and Crispy’s stupefied expression stared back at him through the dusty windscreen as the car careened down the aisle, narrowly missing another vehicle that was pulling out of its bay to escape proximity to the flames.

  His new hood ornament held on, clutching at the back edge of the bonnet and a windscreen wiper as the man sped through the haze then skidded to the right to take the ramp down to the second level.  Crispy even held on as the car bounced furiously upon reaching the bottom of the ramp and swerved into the next aisle.  More fat, more surface area, more traction.  Where is my dog, you bastard?  The man’s blind rage surged as he sped through the throng of posing property aspirants, whose tough demeanours collapsed into angry confusion at this hap-hazardous intrusion.  At least two of them were clipped by the car, spinning wildly then falling away.  Still Crispy clung on.  Even as the car breached the air on its way down the ramp to the first level where the no-hopes, alerted by the commotion that was coming their way, cheered him on for the sheer spectacle.  The man took one final spin of his fingers upon the phone screen, and then they were flying into the cold night air, and this time the car landed with such a thunk that Crispy was momentarily airborne before smashing back down onto the bonnet, his nose cracking upon impact.  The man cut acceleration, and Crispy shot off and away to continue his journey by another metre before landing heavily upon the narrow drive.

  The man climbed from the car, strode over to the downed mass of man-meat and sweat that rolled and scratched with claw-like fingers at the driveway as if trying to get up but finding itself too dizzy and stunned to do so.  Where’s my dog?  Crispy burbled but gave no coherent answer.  Give me back what’s mine!  The corpulent mass rolled onto its back and sputtered blood.  That’s all I want!  I don’t want any of this!  I just want my dog back, do you hear?  All I want is to have her back!  Crispy tried to speak.  He twisted his head, spat red, and tried again.

…trade you for it.

  Trade?  What trade?

  He felt a cold fear dawn upon him even as he stared down at that fleshy red face, for somehow he sensed what was coming.  He tried to blank out the discordant voices, even the roar of one internal combustion engine sounding off from behind him as angry, eager, and curious spectators piled down the ramp.

  That’s my stake to give you, once you get me the house.

  Beneath thick lips, Crispy’s teeth flashed, delineated by blood.

  Every dog deserves a home.

​

5. The Pit

​

He demanded to see her, but Crispy said no, only if and when he had secured the property.  I swear to God, if I win and you don’t bring her to me unharmed, I’ll damn well burn that house down with you inside it.  I know you will; that’s how you should know your dog is safe.  Crispy dabbed his cut lips and nose with the remnant of pillow case he had ripped from the adjacent window and leaned back comfortably in the passenger seat.  The dog’s seat.  He smiled out the window as the white sticks flashed by.  They were approaching the AutoMate, just visible in the early dawn twilight, and the man mused at how such a short distance travelled not so long ago could now seem like light years away in space and time.

  So how do I go about securing this damn property?

  You never attended an auction before?

  No, never.

  Doesn’t matter.  Each residential compound holds it slightly different anyway, but the process is broadly the same.  You just need to be the last able bidder to climb the ladder.  Now, this compound was built on an old missile silo field, so it’s my understanding they’ve converted one of those old silos into their auction site.  At least, that’s what one of the guys back at the lot told us.  He’d heard it from some no-hope that had lost out on a previous occasion but been lucky enough to get out alive.  No longer walking, but still alive.

  Have you attended an auction before?

  Yeah.  Crispy smiled at the thought, and it caused his lips to bleed further.

  Any tips?

  Get yourself on the ladder, then hold on.

  The Automate slipped by, and the man was thoughtful and silent.  He glanced over his shoulder to the back of the car, where the nail gun lay.   The thought of pulling over and punching a nail into that flaking head fired through his synapses, tensed the muscles in his arms.  But he knew it would be pointless.  Any man who shrugged off having been turned into a hood ornament would not bat an eyelid at the threat of a nail through the brain.  Crispy seemed so thick-headed that a nail probably would do no further damage, anyway.

  When you get to the gate, declare yourself to be there for the auction.  Then keep going past the area where you were parked, there should be another turning to the auction site.  That’s what we were told.

  We?  You mean you and your friends.  Will I be seeing them at the auction?

  Possibly.  But I’d stake you over them any day.  Fact is, I did.  Anyhow, doesn’t matter.  My understanding is there are just shy of hundred-and-seventy contestants in the low-bid band alone, so chances of you bashing into them are low.

  The man swerved, coming to a dead stop in front of the convenience store.

  What the hell you doing?  What’re you wanting here?

  If I’m to do your bidding, the least you can do is buy me some fucking breakfast.

​

The car pulled off the road and halted before the compound gate.  The gate rattled with the morning breeze, clanked against its post, but otherwise it did not budge.  I guess they finished their functional test without me.  He frowned at Crispy, who indicated for him to lower the driver’s side window.  We’re here for the fucking auction! Crispy bellowed over him, and the man turned his head away.  He was about to suggest that Crispy get out so that the barrier sensor could register him, when Crispy seemed to remember something, reached into his open shirt pocket and pulled out a key with a red-painted head.  My chit, Crispy said happily.  He waved it out the window at the sensor.

  The metal plate on which the gate rested slid back and the gate dropped through the uncovered slit in the ground.  Unlocking his phone, the man took manual control and drove into the compound.  On the tracts of land to either side of them, autonomous ploughs churned up dry earth in preparation for composting.  Crispy waved the man past the car park entrance and then, further down the winding lane, pointed animatedly ahead and to his right.  Here we are, pull in here.  The man pulled the car into a large yard that had been segmented into three enclosures by temporary fencing.  The nearest and largest of the enclosures had a red flag tied above its narrow entrance.  Further down, green and blue flags fluttered and dipped in a waning breeze.  The man edged the car through the nearest gap and parked up.

  We’re not exactly the epitome of stony bidders, he remarked, observing the vacant enclosure.  As I understand it, appearing desperate is not a good ploy at any auction.

  You were the one so keen to leave the lot, Crispy shot back no longer smiling.  The cracks across his lips had clotted, pinching them tight.  But with his nose swollen and turned blue at its dorsum, he had to keep his mouth partly open to breathe.  He looked like a flaky puffer fish. The man retrieved his breakfast from the back seat and began to pick away at it.

  You still haven’t told me if I don’t make it, what happens to my dog.

  Stop worrying about your fucking dog and focus on the fucking auction, then just maybe you won’t have to worry about your fucking dog.

  The red flag, the red chit, this large enclosure.  I don’t suppose you’ve stuck me in the highest bidding band?

  If Crispy could have laughed, he would have.  Instead he winced with a chortle and a smirk.  I barely covered the entrance fee.  Your dog helped push it over the line.

  The man dropped his next bite.

  You mean… my dog is in the compound?

  Part of the community, Crispy responded wistfully.  He grabbed the man’s arm before it could reach to start the motor.  And don’t even think to try and retrieve it.  It belongs to the community now.  They have its back.  You wouldn’t get very far, and all you’d be is useless to me.  Your only way to have it returned to you is by making me a resident.  That’s the price for getting me in and for getting me that property.

  I suppose you dreamt this all up yourself.

  The gnawing sense that he had been played began to plague him, for while he had known there were few pearls to be found beyond the compound gates, he hadn’t reckoned that within its walls there could be so much junk jewellery.

​

They arrived at the enclosure in dribs and drabs at first, then flowed through in greater numbers as the morning wore on.  By late morning, the largest enclosure was overflowing, so that late arrivals had to park their cars outside and enter on foot.  The adjacent enclosure, for the mid-band contestants, was also full, although there remained sufficient space for cars still to be allowed in.  The farthest and smallest of the enclosures remained relatively empty, with only three or four bidders present.  The man, standing on the roof of his car to gaze over this throng of humanity, suspected that those in the high-band were already resident at the compound, perhaps bidding for a second home or on behalf of a family member, for they seemed fully rested, brimming with quiet self-confidence, yet having not arrived in any vehicle but through a special side gate from within the compound itself.

  By midday, two skirmishes had broken out in the large enclosure, one by the entrance and another between two vehicles parked a short distance from the man’s car.  The latter fight soon spread to engulf the entire enclosure, so much so that even Crispy got out of the car to help the man fend off three assailants as they tried to pull him down from the roof.  The fighting only drew to a close when a voice boomed out over a loudspeaker system to threaten any offenders with expulsion from the auction.  The belligerence subsided but the bad mood simmered on.  Crispy planted his feet on the bonnet, sat his fat butt on the roof beside the man, and began an appraisal of the various contenders.

  That one you should keep your eye on.  And that one over there’s got a cutter slipped under his belt.  Illegal and it’ll get him disqualified, but not before he’s stuck a few.  So keep out of his way but let him chip away at the odds.

  What about your friends?

  He had yet to see Pell-Mell or Twitch in the melee, but he wondered whether they would have a grudge to settle when they saw him.  After all, he had not exactly left either of them on the best of terms.

  Don’t worry about them, at least not during the low-band round.  They won’t interfere with you straight away, not unless you provoke them. In some ways you’re coming at this from a disadvantage, not having others to watch your back.  But if you survive the initial phase you’ll be far better off later on, cos you’ll be free to hold no punches.

  Another commotion stirred at the far end of the enclosure, and for a moment the man feared another fight was brewing, when a section of the fence-line swung back and people began to pile through.

  You better get going.  Crispy held out his chit.  Remember, it’s registered to me.  The man took it and slipped it into his trouser back pocket.  He leapt off the car but hung back, letting others shoulder past.  He could not see over into the farthest enclosure, but it seemed that those in the adjacent medium-sized one were also on the move.  It seemed to take forever, but eventually he was near enough to the opening to see that those in his enclosure were being funneled onto a stepped raceway constructed of wire mesh fencing that gradually narrowed to become solid panels as it curved to the left.  A series of partitions stuck out on alternating sides of the tapering track, funneling the surging crowd into a snake-line that eventually forced them into single file.  Those that were with him, toward the back, were quiet and pensive compared to those who pushed ahead, for further toward the curve he could hear shouting, swearing, even chanting.

  C’mon, c’mon, c’mon…

  C’mon, c’mon…

  Caaam-aaahn!

  A loud and regular scraping sound sliced like a guillotine through the chant, becoming ever louder as he shuffled down the raceway, and the singing diminished and then died as the last of those who sang disappeared beyond its bend, leaving behind only a deeply metallic, lacerating sound.  He drew nearer to it.  Through the wire mesh fence to his left, and a short distance away, he could see the mid-band entrants filing down a similar yet slightly more spacious track.  Beyond them, there was no sign of the high-band entrants, who presumably did not require such a controlled means of entry, being as they were so few in number.  And then the wire mesh fence gave way to solid steel panels, joined overhead by an arched steel cover, and the man felt cut off from the rest of the world.  Now it was only him and those with him in this makeshift tunnel.  His fellow low-band contestants.

  As he shuffled round the bend, he saw that it was a guillotine of sorts, for two steel panels alternated in sweeping open and then shut at the end of the raceway as each bidder pressed past.  After a few seconds, the one that had been closed slid open to accept the next bidder while the other that had taken in the previous person slammed shut.  No, it was more random than that.  He watched as a bidder stepped past the left panel while the right panel closed and remained shut, then the left panel opened again to accept the next entrant.

  They’re sorting us.  Why’re they sorting us?

  The bidder just ahead of him stepped through the right sluice gate, which slid closed.  He hesitated in front of both closed gates.  And then the right one opened again.  It was more a shove from behind than his own volition to move forward that propelled him through the gate, and then it banged shut behind him.  He barely registered the green light winking on above his head, casting a tepid glow over what was for all intents and purposes an enclosed steel drum, and then the floor gave way and he was sliding down a metal chute on a steep decline.

  He shot out to smack against cold steel, felt himself to be on top of something squishy and wet.  He rolled off just as the next arrival shot out behind him, and a boot collided with his head so that he hit steel again.  Hands grabbed him, lifted him up.  A grinning face.  A hand drew back, recoiling into a fist.  He watched the fist recede.  Any moment now, like a fired piston, it would come back to haunt him.  But then it and the face disappeared beneath a weight that came slamming down from above.  And then another flailing shape followed.  It was raining men.  The creature whose boot had connected with him clambered over the rim of the trough and fell over its outer side.  He saw that he was standing in a trough that ran the circumference of this vast, hellish pit he had landed in.  He slipped over its rim just in time to miss the next contestant from the chute crashing into him, but got clipped anyway by another falling body on its way to hitting the floor.

  He ducked, then glanced up dazedly.  About twenty metres above him was another chute, seemingly firing out bidders into the open air.  And just above that, a narrow gangway extended round the pit’s perimeter.  Fights were breaking out on that high-up gangway, too, for men were being knocked or shoved off the platform to come smashing down upon those crammed beneath it.  Much higher than the raised gangway and near to the pit’s concreted top, yet another, narrower concentric ring ran, being so high up as to be barely visible, where clashing shapes gave evidence to further fighting that became more substantial as those that tumbled over its edge fell forty metres to crash upon the ground.  Only patches of the massive silo were lit, with a few spotlights embedded into the surrounding walls, tracing beams of light across the expanse at elongated angles that diffused before they touched the other side, leaving much of the cavern in dusky twilight.

  Someone took a swing at him and he fell, not even feeling the punch nor knowing where it had landed.  He swung his foot up and out so that it connected with his attacker’s groin, and took brief satisfaction as the man joined him on the floor.  His head hurt, but at least his legs still functioned and so he moved, reeling before stumbling and then staggering back to the rim of the trough but keeping away from the chute overhead.  Even so, he reflected dimly, that wouldn’t protect him from anyone falling from the upper levels.

  Get yourself on the ladder and hold onto it.  But what ladder?

  Clutching the trough’s metal lip, he pulled himself up against its rusted surface, felt fighting bodies being pressed and pummeled against him.  He swung his blurred gaze from side to side in search of this fabled ladder.  To his left, a thicket of arms danced and waved above a scrum of human bodies.  A long line of figures stretched upward, scrabbling at the wall like stick insects struggling to escape a jar.

  That way, then.

  He pushed his way toward the tightly packed mass of torsos, heads, and flailing limbs, and jumped on them.  The person he landed on sagged just as furious hands tried to grab hold of him, but he did not stop moving.  He pulled himself forward, clawing with his hands and kicking back with his legs as he went, stepping on a head and then a shoulder, one leg slipping into a gap while the other found brief purchase on an outstretched arm.  He scrambled over the human tide before it could abate and pull him beneath its roiling surface of waving limbs.  And then just as he was about to be sucked down and below, he reached up and out and grabbed a rung of the ladder, just above another’s foot who had already made it, and he held on.

  He hauled himself forward, swung across to straddle the ladder’s right rail, and crooked his right arm around it in a tight embrace.  Someone else had grabbed an adjacent rung, but their fingers were not strong enough to maintain their grip against the pull of the human current that also clung to them, and they were swept back and under.  The man kicked his legs free from grabbing hands and locked his right leg around the rail, as well, then slipping his left arm over the next rung he hauled himself up before releasing his right arm to loop it over the next rung above.  Soon he found himself relatively free of the danger from below, for not many who made it onto the ladder managed to stay there amidst the pull and drag of that raging torrent, and those higher up the ladder now paid scant attention to what lay below them, focused as they were on their climb.

  Higher up, somebody fell or was felled, crashing into the next climber down who then lost his own footing to slip and land on the person beneath them.  And soon there were three or four that were tumbling past him, barely missing him for he was fortunately not positioned over the ladder’s rungs but to the side of them.  He looked down as they landed upon the crowd below, and the sea of humanity parted and fell back, its sudden violent motion rippling outward like a shockwave, dispersing the mass of struggling bodies.

  He looked up.  There was now nothing that clung between him and his immediate goal, which was simply to get to the next level up.  And then he saw two sets of crazed eyes leering over the lip of that platform, watching him and waiting.  Two mid-banders who perhaps had bandied together to clear their own deck, now protected it from any interlopers coming up from below.  He swung out onto the ladder’s rungs and swiftly began to climb.  He was only two rungs shy from the platform when a heavy boot came smashing down on his right hand.  It twisted, pressing down with all of its owner’s weight as if to turn the man’s clenched hand into malleable putty.  He screamed but did not let go.  Instead, he threaded his left leg between two rungs, pressing the top of his left foot against the lower rung.  The boot neither lifted nor let up on his hand, but another came swiftly down against his head.  Instinctively, he let go of the rung with his left hand and made a grab for the boot.  He managed to grab hold of the lower part of the leg, pulled it down and toward him to hug it just as its owner tried to shake him off.  And then there came a pleading cry and a sneering laugh from above.  The owner of the leg he was clutching was himself being unceremoniously torn from the ladder by his erstwhile ally, and the man now found himself falling back, still hugging the stranger’s calf muscle but swinging violently downward.  A spasm shot through his own left leg as he jerked to a halt upside down.  Letting go of the other’s leg, for he was now too focused on his own leg’s pain, he paid no mind to the departing scream as he grabbed the nearby rail and slowly lifted himself back into an upright position.  His left leg and buttock felt completely numb and his right hand refused to close around the rung.  He looped his right arm over the rung, instead, and glanced up to see now only one set of eyes leering down at him.

  He shifted over to the left side of the ladder, crooking his right arm over each rung as he hauled himself up along the rail with his left hand, his right foot providing support while his left foot dangled uselessly.  Soon he was slinging his right arm back over the third last rung.

  Listen, I don’t want any trouble!  I don’t want the fucking house, all I want is my dog!  There’s a dog that comes with the house.  But it’s my dog, and I want her back.  So you keep the fucking house, if we can agree that I take the dog!

  Two white orbs encircled the two enlarged pupils that gazed down at him.

  You’re fucking crazy, man.

  He looped his right arm around the rung, hugged the ladder, and stared up into glassy, feral eyes.

  Maybe.  But I’m also tired.  I just want to collect my dog and leave.  It doesn’t have to be any messier than that.

  He dropped his head momentarily, and swayed, just as a foot came down hard upon his right arm.  He cried out, pushed up with his own foot on the lower rung, and with his left arm he reached up to grab at Glaze-Gaze’s belt.  Glaze-Gaze slipped out a curse as his foot slid off the man’s arm, but he still managed to cling onto the lip of the platform.  The man hoped that his grip was strong enough for what would have to come next, for he had to get above this lunatic, even if it meant climbing over him.  Using his left hand as leverage, he reached up and looped his right arm around Glaze-Gaze’s neck, then quickly reached up and over with his left again to try grab hold of the lip of the platform.  He was swinging free of the ladder now, quite literally piggybacking on top of Glaze-Gaze, who was suddenly sandwiched between him and the platform.  His right knee dug into Glaze-Gaze’s back and he slipped but somehow managed to hold on.

  The fuck!  Glaze-Gaze choked desperately as the man spat and gasped and hauled himself up and over onto the platform.  As he dragged his midriff over Glaze-Gaze’s head, his knees digging into the other’s shoulders, he felt teeth sink into his groin and with a snarl he twisted round and lashed out with his right foot, and just as quickly Glaze-Gaze was gone.

  The man collapsed on the ledge, breathed heavily, feeling too bad physically to feel all that bad about what he had done.  He lifted his head to peer along the gangway’s full circumference.  There didn’t appear to be anybody else on the mid-band level, just him.  He rolled over and stared over the edge.  It seemed that on his fall Glaze-Gaze had conveniently cleared the ladder of other aspirants.  The few low-band bidders still staggering at its base were only now beginning to drag themselves up again onto the first few rungs.  He had time to breathe.  He pondered whether to follow Glaze-Gaze and his erstwhile companion’s example, and guard the ledge, or press on.  He looked up to the highest level, and for the first time he noticed that the ladder did not end there but instead curved along the concrete dome to form a climbing frame, all the way to a round plug at the ceiling’s high centre-point, which had to be some kind of a hatch.

  Willing his strained muscles to move, he picked himself up and limped back to the ladder, careful not to put too much weight on his left leg. He was careful to wrap each arm tightly round each rung in turn, securing himself as much as possible before using his right leg to hop up another step.  Any slip up now would bring down the hammer for him, as far as this auction was concerned, for he had neither the strength nor the dexterity to react forcefully or nimbly should something go wrong.  It felt like forever ascending that ladder, but eventually he found himself at the next ledge, and with a final heave he clambered onto its cold metallic surface.  He lay panting, face down.

  Gimme the key!

  Hands fumbled at him desperately, pinching his body and rooting inside his clothing.  They scratched and pawed with nervous ferocity.  What the hell?  He tried to roll over but that earned him a swift kick in the gut, and for a moment he feared he would roll right off the platform edge.

  Where’s your fucking key?

  What key?  I don’t have a key.  He wasn’t sure if he had said it aloud or merely thought it, but through bleary eyes he saw a man standing over him frantically holding his head in his hands then peeking over the edge to the distant bottom of the pit, as if checking for a penny he had accidentally dropped into some deep magic well.

  FUUUUCCCCKKKK!

  Please God, no.  Don’t tell me this crazed arsehole’s gone and dropped the only key all the way down there.

  Crazy didn’t look like a high-band bidder.  Mid-band at most.  Although, the man supposed, by the end of an auction such as this, all surviving bidders no matter their standing, would look just as desperate and vicious and insane.  He began to peddle back on his elbows to put some space between him and Crazy, who was now fumbling inside his own trouser pockets.  Crazy pulled out something small and thrust it out toward the man.  It was a chit, but this one’s head was painted green.

  This is a rigged auction, man!  My key don’t fit!  I monkey-barred it all the way across, and it don’t fit!

  Dawning realisation compelled the man to reach stupidly into his own back pocket and pull out the chit that Crispy had given him.  Crazy’s face brightened at the sight of it.

  Gimme the key, Crazy whispered solicitously.

  The man glanced up at the monkey bars running overhead, and wondered how he could ever hope to climb it let alone hold on long enough to reach the black stopper at the ceiling’s centre.  Feeling was only beginning to come back to the fingers of his right hand, and it amounted to little more than a few painful tingles.  His hand’s dorsal side felt bruised and throbbing.

  Gimme-the-key!

  Fuck you, the man said.

  He slipped the key into his mouth and simulated the act of swallowing.  This had the desired effect, for with a loud squawk Crazy dashed straight for him.  The man kicked with his right leg, catching Crazy in a full tilt run, and the platform reverberated with the clang of Crazy’s full weight coming down.  The man pulled back his leg, ready to deliver another swift kick at Crazy’s level head, but it did not appear to be necessary for the maddened creature lay still.  Nevertheless, the man inched cautiously away, all too briefly taking his gaze off the supine body only to pull himself up against the concrete wall.  He pulled the chit from his mouth and pocketed it.

  Dragging himself back to the ladder, he hopped up the few rungs to the point where its frame bent backward.  There was a long thin chain running up alongside the left rail, one end bolted near to the platform and the other end to a metal catch upon the ladder’s frame.  Wondering, he pulled the catch back, and the ladder overhead separated with the upper section swinging down.  For one insane moment the man thought of jumping to grab hold of it, fearing that it was about to swing entirely free of the platform, when it slammed down onto the ledge to form a slanted bridge up to the ceiling’s black stopper.

  He exhaled an exhilaration of breath.  His heart skipped as he dropped back onto the platform.  He glanced at Crazy, quickly decided there was no imminent threat to be faced there, and so he limped over to the slanted bridge.  Cautiously, he tested it.  There was minimal horizontal play, but if someone really wanted to dislodge him they could always lift it up to try shake him off, and there appeared to be no means to fasten it to the ledge where it had landed.  So that left him with two options, either to send Crazy truly over the edge or be quick about it. Dropping onto all fours, he reached out with his hands to begin the short crawl across before he changed his mind.

  The distance was relatively short, but it was still a long way down.  As he crept along the ladder, he tried not to look through the rungs to the tiny clutter of surviving combatants shuffling amongst the even less unfortunates who had landed unceremoniously below.  His left leg remained useless, but he was careful to keep it within the ladder’s rails so as not to become unbalanced.  It felt awkward, hauling himself along with his left hand while also pushing forward with his right foot, but within a minute he was near enough to the stopper that he could see now that it was indeed a round lid, and the ceiling itself was only an arms length above him.

  Tucking his right arm around a rung, he reached his left hand back to his trouser pocket to retrieve the chit.  No sooner was it in his grasp than the ladder wobbled violently, almost throwing him off, and an angry roar erupted from the platform.

  Gimmethekey!

  He clutched both ladder and chit with his left hand, pressed his right leg against the right rail, and stared back over his shoulder to see Crazy mounting the ladder behind him.  Crazy was not taking his time, he was scampering along.  The man clenched the chit between his teeth, gripped the rail tightly with his left hand, and drove himself forward and up, pushing to quicken his own pace.  The ladder’s rattling eased as he neared its anchor point on the ceiling, near to the lid, and he was able to swing onto his back, stabilising himself by pressing his right foot firmly against a rung.  The position left him defenceless, though, as he had no power in his left foot to fend off the fast approaching scuttling creature.  Instead, he focused on the locking mechanism, a small rectangular box set into the ceiling beside the circular lid.  Pulling the chit from his mouth, he slipped its notched blade into the lock and twisted.  The lid groaned slowly open.  He shoved his left fingers through to grip the outside rim just as Crazy grabbed his right foot.  All it took was for the man to pull his leg back to unbalance them both.  He felt himself sliding off the ladder, but Crazy fell first with a yelp.  The joints in the man’s left fingers ached, the muscles in his forearm threatened to seize up, and he frantically swung his right leg back onto the ladder.  He pushed his right arm up through the yawning gap above him and then followed it quickly with his left arm.  Clawing and scratching at dirt and gravel, he pulled himself up out of the ground.

  Welcome to the neighbourhood!

  Congratulations!  You earned it!

  We’re so happy to have you!

  New home, new you!

  Can’t wait to visit once you’re settled in!

  Praise and well wishes poured over him, as thick and viscous as resin.  Trapped amid back pats and handshakes, he squinted in the early afternoon light.  Had it really been less than an hour that he had been locked down there in that pit?   It seemed to have lasted an eternity. Behind him the lid swung shut with a clang, like a gavel coming down.

  Allow us to introduce ourselves.  We’re your new neighbours, the ones to the right.  Sorry, but we didn’t get your name?

  Malcolm.  My name’s Malcolm.

  Malcolm.

  People call me Mal.

  Mal, then.

  The man struggled to stand, and so hands reached down to help him to his feet.  He tried placing some weight on his left leg but quickly decided against it.  Leaning unsteadily on his right leg, he cast his gaze over the warm and smiling throng of faces.  One face in particular expressed an awkward and uncertain smile.

  Hello, Mal.  Sparrow’s waiting for you exactly where I said she’d be happiest, on the veranda.

  You bitch.  You planned this.

  Someone had to help you out of the jungle, or at least back onto a path leading out of it.

  What right…?

  He took no notice as the crowd melted away, for whatever energy he retained was now directed into a sustained and intense glare at the woman.

  Well, if you don’t want the house there’s always Paul.  He’s still waiting by your car.  I’m sure he’ll take it from you gladly.

  Paul…?

  Crispy, he realised.

  I thought the rule was that I’d now have to fight him for it, he said bitterly.

  Technically correct, but he forfeited that right when he stole your car and your dog, and then put the latter up as collateral.  The corners of her mouth crooked into a wry smile.  Our community leader is on his way now to explain this to him.  But I can summon him back, if you wish?

  The man gritted his teeth.

  I’ll have you know I’m no nuts-and-bolts kind of guy.  In fact, I don’t even know the first thing about natural organic reduction machinery.

  Then I guess we both manipulated each other’s respective situations.  But you know the community code: we don’t discuss what you did to get inside, only what you do once you’re in.

  You manipulated more than my situation.  You rigged the entire auction.  Half the low-band bidders were fired into mid-air, at least one entrant was given a faulty key.  Was it all stacked in my favour, or was I just one of a few who stood an actual chance?

  Every community gets to vet its entrants, Mal.  You saw the quality of people down there.  So, yes, we do have a selection process.  When Paul agreed to stake you, we supplied him with a chit that would pass selection, not for him but for you.  But we’re also not in the business of turning people away, on principle.

  Principle… really?  Business is what you mean.  You need them to reach your reserve price.  And what happens to them after that becomes none of your concern.

  Those that survived will be let out to try again.  Those that didn’t will be… put to good use.

  They’ll make for a lot of soil, Mal observed bitterly.

  We have parks and recreational spaces, allotments where we grow food, too.  You probably noticed our rewilding project along the periphery.  So all those who lost out will still be part of our community, after a fashion.  No life is ever wasted.

  He turned his gaze away from her, looking for something else preferred yet still familiar.  When his eyes found it, he hobbled away from her toward the distant tree row that he vaguely recognised as the one that lined the path leading to the house.

  True to her word, the dog was lazing on the decking.  It rubbed the side of its muzzle contentedly against the wood’s grain, as if in the grip of a final paroxysm.  The man’s shuffling approach roused it with a start, and in a moment the dog was scurrying forward to greet him.  Bending down on a knee, he gladly welcomed the full facial licking, and then together he and the dog climbed the veranda to enter the house.

  It was warm and smelled of new carpet and fresh paint, a sterile, manufactured scent that tried to mask the old wood beneath. The dog, however, seemed to approve. She yelped once, her paws silent on the thick-pile carpet, and bounded ahead, glancing back from a doorway with an eager, wagging tail, inviting him to follow. On a polished kitchen counter, a set of keys lay next to a new, braided-leather leash. He picked it up. It felt stiff and foreign, not like the old loop of cord he’d used for so long. He unclipped the old rope and fastened the new one to her collar.

  He looked past her, into the empty living room, the dining room, the hallway that led to bedrooms. A life laid out in empty rooms, just waiting to be filled with a work-desk, with the endless, perfunctory gyrations of annotating for automata.

  He gave a single, soft whistle.

  The dog, sensing a new game, padded back to him, her onyx eyes bright. He led her back onto the veranda, leaving the front door open. He limped down the steps and onto the snaking path, past the silent, watching windows of the other houses, and toward the compound gate, where his car and—Paul, was it?—would still be waiting.  He’d have to congratulate Paul on his new acquisition, a new home.  It would, very probably and very quickly, leave him and the dog with the car.

  Come on, Sparrow, he murmured.  Time to go home.

​

...ends