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It'd been four days since Silver last slept. There was no peace to be found aboard the land cruiser, The Messiah's Glory, or, at least, none he could have for himself. In all corners there were devils and menaces, things invisible that tickled the back of his neck. The air was strange, heavy. A grey fog settled over Silver's mind, too thick to see through. Everything familiar seemed odious, daunting. The motion of the cruiser's steps, usually as soothing as a lullaby, turned his stomach. The sun glared through the portholes, and the blue-purple-white splash of the blizzard spun and spiralled and threatened to suck him in. And too, there was that horrible tick-tick-ticking of the tall, ornate grandfather clock that stood in the centre of the cruiser like a sentry, tick-ticking louder still until it seemed to Silver to be the ticking of a human heart.
Silver walked. In between yawns that stretched and cracked his jaw, he darted his eyes around the upper deck of the cruiser. The dim, fire-like lamps illuminating the topmost deck cutting black shapes against his fur, the half-moons beneath his eyes more waxing than waning. He didn’t know what he was looking for. Proof, maybe, some sort of concrete evidence that the deck was empty, everyone at rest save him.
The walker groaned suddenly, a low and horrible noise that startled Silver. He grimaced, he didn’t envy her burden; to ferry the last of humanity to safety, high above the desolate landscape and roiling storm below.
Silver stopped short, grabbing hold of a nearby railing to steady himself. He felt the tingle of its frost through his gloves, and was quick to rip one off, press his bare palm to the biting cold of the metal and let it ground him. Alone here, seen only by the winds and the grandfather clock, he allowed for his breathing to waver. No matter what was thought of him by the walker’s denizens and their contemporaries, he was only mortal. Silver knew they saw him as he wanted to be seen; impervious, mighty in battle and level-headed enough to guide humanity to safety. At times, he wished he wasn't made to hold the weight of the planet on his shoulders, but it was in vain. That was their duty, he supposed—their shared task. Like Atlas made to carry the weight of all the heavens on his shoulders, they carry the burden, shoulder the pain, and press on.
The thing was, Silver wasn’t sure how much longer he could do it. He wanted to be a lighthouse for these people, for this city, steady and sure and forever. But every day, he was becoming less and less certain of himself. As it was, his head was barely over the water. His hands and nights were slick with black blood, his mind was plagued with heat. How could Silver protect anyone if he couldn’t even sleep with the lights off?
Deep in his thoughts, Silver hardly noticed the smell, faint as it was. But the stench of copper, musty and rancid, was unmistakable. Silver felt the dread seep into him, colder than the blizzard outside and constricting his lungs like a vice. He whipped his head to the left, quills and hackles raised, but there was no sign of any struggle. No shouting echoing down the halls, no cries of pain or distress. Silver panted, took his breaths in big nervous gulps and willed his racing heart to calm.
Just as he began to think the smell was only in his mind—stressed and exhausted as he was—did he see the crack. A tiny little imperfection in the otherwise meticulous wall. He couldn’t even say what drew his eye to it in the first place until he saw it twitch, cracking and peeling and flaking like someone itching at dead skin.
Silver focused his gaze on it, stepped closer. The coppery smell, heavy and pungent and quickly becoming overwhelming, was coming from this. A small crack in the wall—no, not a crack, a hole—a little gap in the panel about the size of a baseball, leaking something thick and oily and gelatinous. Unnerved but curious, Silver reached out a finger and poked cautiously at the hole. The wall pulled at him.
He inhaled sharply, snatched his hand out of the hole and observed it. There was no trace of anything on his finger though it had been so slick and heavy in the darkness.
Hesitantly, Silver stepped closer. The gap pulsated, taking a deep breath before slowly stretching wider, eating away at the metal further. Silver took a deep breath to match it, looking closer again now that the overhead lights could reach it, and sharply sucked in another when he realised what he was looking at.
It was a wound. A little spot of flesh and viscera, leaking blood like someone had carved a hole into flesh. He narrowed his eyes, staring deeply into the gore. He recoiled. Did it blink at him? No, no, thought Silver, shaking his head. It couldn’t’ve. Things without eyes, without faces, couldn’t blink.
And that without hands cannot pull, said it.
I’m going mad, though Silver. The wound pulsed, ripping open further until it was big enough for him to crawl into.
Oh, really! What’s a spot of madness amongst friends, said it? Its voice was velvet, deep and vast as all of space and cosy as his quarters. The wound stretched open even further, revealing its muscles and tendons, its layers of flesh and white-and-yellow fat. It was the whole of the panel now, a hideous slab of meat in the otherwise sterile hall. Come now, Silver. It’s so warm in here! Out there, oh so cold! Don’t you feel it? The cold?
He did feel the cold; his breath left him in white puffs, and his teeth chattered. An image flashed in his brain, vaguely familiar—a cozy sitting room dressed in deep red fabric, warm lighting and a warmer fireplace. Red flashed behind his eyelids, the smell of copper singed his nose. Still, Silver sighed wistfully. It looked so restful, so inviting. Maybe, he should go in? Just for a second?
Carried by an urge too strong to resist, Silver knelt down and crawled on his hands and knees toward the hole. How hadn’t he noticed the heat before? So close now, he could feel how it emanated outwards, sweltering and humid as an indoor pool. Sweat glued his clothes to his body and a noxious, sulfuric smell pulsed from the very walls. Dizzy with the stench, energy quickly drained from him by the oppressive heat, Silver pressed on, blood pooling under him with every slow step as he moved deeper and deeper into the flesh.
Silver felt like he’d been crawling for days, his legs and chest tired. The darkness distorted all time, and the path was so twisted, so strange, he hardly knew where he ended and the ship began. Or was he always a part of the ship, just another bit of cable, a stretch of pipe and wire? Yes, thought Silver. The walls were becoming pliant now, soft to his touch. He was the steel, the nuts and bolts. His whole life he’d been breathing exhaust fumes. One breath for clean air, the second to let out steam.
Silver inhaled, blood and sulphur coating the lining of his throat, the feeling like so many electric eels filling his belly. The only sounds around him now the squelching of meat as he crawled, the drip-drip-drip of blood. Silver passed through the layers of muscle and fat, his lungs and heart changed. He could feel the walker pressing down on him, metal bones hemming him in, seeping deep into his skin and cells, the very marrow of his bones.
It was right. Inside, it was very warm indeed. No longer did he feel the cold of the blizzard, the ice of so many eyes seeing him. There was only warmth now, the soft walls all around him, and the tick-tick-ticking of the old grandfather clock.