Chicken

Colin P. Davies

First appeared in Exuberance #3 1991

Included in Colin's collection Tall Tales on the Iron Horse

from Bewildering Press (2008) - www.colinpdavies.com

As the elevator carried us towards the roof of the tower, I sat down on the edge of the bench and watched Timmy. I could see something was wrong. He curled into a corner and stared at the scrawlings on the wall. His arms were folded so tightly across his chest I thought he might break a rib.

Beside him sat Bri—fat and full of himself. His bursts of overblown laughter were more anomaly than amusement. I didn't like him much.

Shark and Goldie were discussing the Mermaids' prospects for the coming spring season. They enjoyed quibbling, quarreling, and any other activity that allowed them to swap insults. It was rare for them to agree on anything, even if that meant the temporary denial of sea-sworn opinions. Timmy would normally be in there, arguing with them.

I knew I ought to speak to him, to see if I could help. After all, I was the eldest of us—nearly thirty-eight—and I certainly considered myself the most mature. But I felt curiously inept and unwilling to get involved, particularly now as the adrenaline started to charge me up.

I watched him tremble.

He'd been subdued and moody for days. We couldn't interest him in our gambles or involve him in our conversations. He preferred to stay in his room and gaze down upon the sea from his tiny window. We scolded him, then condemned him for his sulkiness, and finally informed him that we didn't want to play with him anyway.

We let it go at that. He could have his own company.

But we would not let him miss our weekly game of Chicken.

===================================

The elevator doors whispered apart and we spilled out. Shark screeched with laughter and hurled himself at the nearest of the four steel pylons that carried the twin monorails across the roof. He danced around it, singing, “The Mermaids stink, the Mermaids smell, they couldn't light a fire in Hell.”

Bri tackled him to the ground. They wrestled on the dirty gravel, their shoes kicking grooves into the aging surface. Shark was quickly overpowered. Bri kneeled upon his shoulders, pinning him down, then grabbed a handful of Shark's beard. With the first tug, Shark yelled and struggled wildly, but he couldn't get free.

“I've told you who you support,” Bri said. He twisted his prisoner's beard to the left, to the right, left, right.... “That's so, ain't it, Goldie? I've told him.”

Goldie, however, did not intend to get involved in the boys' childish scuffles. With a dismissive wave, she turned and walked away. I jumped forward and grabbed her coat sleeve. The green synthetic satin tore, adding yet more damage to the salvaged-rag pattern that no doubt made the coat her favorite.

“It's been a week,” I said. “What's wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” But she didn't look at me. The wind blew her straggly yellow hair across her eyes. I knew she was lying.

“I've just about had it with you,” I said. “I thought you liked me. I distinctly remember you said you liked me.”

She continued walking. I ran a few steps to catch up.

I held onto her shoulder, tried to slow her down. “I hate it when you won't tell me things,” I said. She shrugged my hand away so violently that she stumbled. “Goldie! Stop walking away! You know...I'm sure there's something wrong with you.”

She whirled around and I almost bumped into her. She mouthed accusations and made a choking sound. Eventually she managed a sentence, chewing and spitting out each individual word. “You know damn well what you did.”

But I didn't know. I shook my head, prepared to dodge her fist.

“You said I've got a lisp!” She seemed about to cry. “And I haven't got a lisp.”

I laughed. “Oh, I remember that. I was joking.”

“Nobody tells me I can't speak properly.”

“Let me explain about jokes.”

“No, Bob. I know about jokes.” Then she punched me in the gut—it wasn't that hard, but it knocked the wind out of me. “Jokes are funny.”

“Bitch,” I whispered. I'd intended it to be more of a yell.

As she marched away toward the far side of the roof, the two overhead monorails stroked soft shadows down her back. I was reminded of cloud patterns on meadows, a scene I'd enjoyed a hundred times on the wallscreen. I loved eco-fantasy—which made up nearly a quarter of all programming—and had lately developed an itching desire to stand upon damp pungent soil.

Goldie was inside the shell of the old station, walking beside the spindly skeleton of the staircase, its steps now still and silent. She skipped over a section of twisted cladding sheet that slapped against the ground with each gust of the wind.

I watched her until she’d crossed the full two hundred meters and reached the other parapet, as if examining her manner of moving would give me some clue to her way of thinking. But I concluded that I couldn’t understand her at all.

A spray of warm rain tickled my face. The sky had been clear when I’d checked from my window hardly an hour before. Now clouds hurried across the afternoon sky, impatient to leave our coastal shallows for the uncluttered depths of the ocean.

The day felt bad, and I was aware of an unwelcome melancholy hovering close. I fought to keep focused on the present and not think too hard. I normally managed such a confident front—in control. Bob the Boss, they called me. At times I could even convince myself.

I blamed Timmy. His gloom was getting to me. I liked him. While the others were only companions, a poor-choice alternative to boredom, Timmy was more.

He was a friend.

==================================

“I can see one!” Shark screamed. He wriggled his arm free from Bri and pointed a finger.

I looked into the dazzling western sky. Though I squinted and shaded my eyes, I could see only the fine lines of the monorails melting into the light.

Bri grappled with the fugitive arm and pinned it again.

“I can, I can. It's a train. I can see it!” Shark insisted. “There!” He nodded his head desperately.

“I'm bored with this,” Bri muttered. He jumped to his feet—not easy for a man of his circumference—and allowed Shark to escape.

We grouped around the pylon that carried the eastbound rail. If Shark was right, this track would shortly give us a game.

Timmy shuffled up to join us. His over-long coat flapped in the wind. He looked so frail, as though the next strong gust would sweep him away. His red hair was scruffy, his eyes dark and sunken. He looked like he hadn't slept for days. I wanted to speak to him, but Bri was jabbing his finger in my back.

“Get up there, Boss!” He prodded again, hard. I knew he was trying to hurt me. I considered thumping him, but I was in no mood for a scuffle, and no doubt I'd come off worse anyway. I started up the pylon.

“I reckon you'll get the best view sitting right on top of the rail.” Bri offered me innocent eyes, but his throat wobbled with suppressed laughter.

“Go break a wave!”

I scrambled up the cross-members, gray paint flaking off under my fingers, until I'd climbed twice my own height. The rail was almost within my reach. From here I could see the entire community of towers. They formed a meandering line, reaching from east to west, horizon to horizon, following the original coastline. Slim, square towers of dark steel, like staves driven into the ocean, the black bones of a giant pier; severe in scale—each a half kilometer in height—yet domestic in detail. Every tower face was a patchwork of family flags, vivid personality posters, and banners proclaiming allegiance to one team or another.

“Can you see the train?” Bri asked.

“The sky's too bright.”

I glanced around at the remains of the rooftop station, the twisted steel frame and areas of glazed flooring, lonely wall-panels and the scattered remnants of indestructible seating. No train had stopped here for at least twenty years.

Built in the early years of the Pole-melt, when there was still land close enough to see, the towers had been home to millions over the last two hundred years. But now, with the establishment of the ocean floor cities, the towers were under-populated and maintenance all but forgotten. What little funding was on offer was given solely to ensure the continued operation of the monorail expressway.

Rain drifted in a thin mist.

The low sun drew tears from my eyes as I searched along the two rails which spanned to the next tower, our western neighbor. Straight, parallel, without a hint of deflection, the rails surely possessed magic. They seemed too flimsy to carry traffic, like threads tied and tensioned between two poles. There must be a chance they could snap.

The train fell out of the sun.

I shrank back as it soared overhead. The wind which buffeted my face carried the scent of oil and metal. The pylon didn't shake; there was no contact between the train and the rail. Only a slight tremble occurred, conducted by the cramped air beneath the vehicle.

I loved being so close. The proximity of death was refreshing.

“Touch it!” Bri screamed over the rush of air.

“And lose my fingers?”

“Then use your face!” Goldie suggested.

I shook my head. So she didn't like me now. I didn't particularly care.

“Twenty!” Shark yelled, as the last carriage drew away. He always counted, and there were always twenty. But—he would say—one day things could be different.

I dropped down to the roof. The day seemed more depressing by the minute. Once again, the train had deposited its cargo of envy. Those passengers were off to visit the stadiums, to watch the games, to be part of them, feel them, smell them. Their lives were an unending series of games, gambles and pleasure. There was always something new to give variety. Quizzes, races, gliding, sailing. No boredom for them. Game design was a treasured art.

I considered my companions. We were a miserable bunch. Along with all the occupants of the towers, we were barred from involvement in the sports and games. Instead, we had the wallscreen. But while a non-stop feast of amusement was fed into our rooms, it wasn't enough. So we invented our own entertainments.

We carved obscenities into the plastic-veneered walls of the corridors, howled down the echoing halls to rob old miseries of sleep; even tried to sabotage the automatic systems that serviced the tower—and us.

Anything could be made into a game.

And the sooner today’s game started, the sooner we could forget the futility of our lives.

======================================

We had fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before the next train. The time varied, most likely due to passenger boarding times at the distant surface-stations, which crowned the undersea domed cities. The carriages were always packed, the dark windows swollen with the half-seen faces of the rich.

“Who's first?” Shark asked, thereby making it clear he didn't see himself as a candidate. “I was first last week.”

“Scared?” Bri taunted.

“Last time you went first, this tower was sitting on grass.”

“You're just chicken-scared.”

“Say that from up on top...if you can get up on top.”

Goldie had an idea. “Bob hasn't gone first for a while. Isn't that right, Bob?” She slapped me on the back. It stung.

I shrugged away the pain and glanced at the clouds. They were difficult to judge. “It's a bit gusty today. Hardly ideal.”

“I'll go,” said Timmy. He put his foot upon a crossbar.

I put my hand on his shoulder and pushed myself up above him. The first crossing was the most risky; the surface of the rail was never the same from one week to the next. I was nervous, but I couldn't let Timmy go.

“Goldie's got a point,” I said. “And you know I like to keep her happy.”

She caught my kiss, twisted it into a sneer, and hurled it straight back at me.

“Besides,” I added, “who wants to listen to a girl with a lisp.”

I climbed the pylon.

Hauling myself up, I crouched upon the rail. Under my hands, the metal was warm and wet. Though the rain had now stopped, it had left the rail slippery. Fastening my jacket tight to present less opportunity to the wind, I spread my arms for balance and slowly straightened up.

I was the highest point on the tower.

The rail was so narrow I could only just place both feet side by side across its width. But I knew I could stay on. I was an expert at balancing. After all, I'd been doing this for months now.

I started walking.

After only ten short steps I was above the parapet. The face of the tower fell away below me, sucked downwards in narrowing perspective until it punched through the ocean in a crash of white breakers. I decided it was best not to look down.

Fixing my gaze on the rail ahead, I walked away from the tower.

I stepped into the sky.

The crossing to our western neighbor would take me about twelve minutes; time depended on weather conditions and the skill of the contestant. I positioned my feet with care, as the rail could betray with fat insects, bird droppings and unseen patches of smoothness.

After several minutes, a gull swooped close to my shoulder, then down, far down and under the rail, directly beneath me. I imagined it was taunting me, boasting of its freedom.

Was this how it felt to fly? To be surrounded by emptiness, nothing to push against, nothing to grab except the air—and your own flesh? I could believe I was flying. It was a sensation both thrilling and dangerous, and had to be resisted. I couldn't afford to disturb my concentration for even one moment of pleasure. I was alone out here, a half-kilometer up in the sky, floating....

I shook myself from the daydream and took a downward glance. Cloud shadows slid upon the water. I saw the white wedge of a tanker, no bigger than my foot.

Were the others still watching me? I was doing well and feeling a resurgence of spirits. Wondering if Goldie's face was still red with fury, I started to turn my head to look back.

A sudden gust struck me from behind. It felt so physical, so solid, that I wondered for one terrifying moment if one of them had followed me onto the rail. I was off balance, forced to step forward, and almost broke into a run.

Strength drained out of my legs. I was shaking. So weak. So hollow. I couldn't trust my own body to support me, and my angry defiance did nothing to ease the newborn fear.

The rail now seemed so narrow. And was it moving, swaying with the wind? Though I tried to ignore the sensation, my body began to counter the imagined motion.

It was weeks since I'd seriously considered the possibility of falling, or imagined with any real vividness just how it might feel.

Should I go back? The home tower was certainly closer than our neighbor. But Bri would be watching me. I couldn't give up. Besides, I wasn't sure I could manage to turn around.

I wanted to lean on something, grab solidity, but I was surrounded by sky.

I heard before I saw the westbound train. It came from behind me. Within moments it was alongside, on the other rail, no more than six meters away. Its hurtling passage set up eddies and swift currents of air, which snatched at my clothes and pulled tears into my eyes.

I'd been expecting it, but still I was frightened. I'd been living a fantasy of invulnerability—a dream. And now I was waking up.

I could fall.

As soon as the last carriage had passed, and its weak attempt to suck me after it had failed, I began to walk again. My chest was tight; air was reluctant to enter my lungs. My steps were slow and cautious. Safety was so far away, the sea so terribly far below.

A full five minutes after I reached the other tower and was slumped on the roof, gasping for breath, the next eastbound train came through. I scrambled to my feet and rested upon the sun-warmed steel of the parapet. I could just make out someone climbing onto the rail. I guessed it was Bri. I let myself slide down, my back to the barrier, and closed my eyes.

He would be a while getting here.

=========================================

The sun was falling towards the horizon, sifting through a distant mist of rain, when Goldie, crossing last, climbed down onto the roof. Occasional raindrops fell, but the darkest clouds passed quickly across. I was glad the weather was holding; I didn't relish a return crossing on a wet rail with thick rain to blind me.

Bri wanted to go back first. No-one cared to quibble. Goldie and Shark watched him for a while, then fell into an argument about the reports that the icecaps were reforming. I took the opportunity to sit on the gravel next to Timmy.

“You were slow on the rail,” I said. “Only two minutes to spare.”

He shrugged his shoulders, as if he didn't care.

I went on, “You're not thinking straight. Are you in trouble? Is it that old man on floor fifty again?”

He stared at me then. I could sense a struggle behind the placid softness of his face. I went to speak, but held back.

He smiled; an unconvincing lift of the lips. “No, I'm not in trouble.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and pulled out a wallscreen hardcopy. Fighting with the wind, he tried to open out the sheet. “Do you ever wonder about your parents?”

“No... in what way?”

“Think about them. Wonder if they're still alive.”

I stood and looked out towards the home tower. Bri was moving fast. Too fast, I thought. But I didn't feel any great concern. “Of course they're not alive.” I wanted to be back in my room, wrapped up in warmth. “We wouldn't have spent so much of our lives in that dormitory...not if our parents had still been around.”

“You don't think they could have just....” Timmy hesitated, as though searching for the right word.

I saw Bri waving his arms, his balance lost, but somehow he stayed on the rail. Far below, the sea was a grim shade of green and it was becoming difficult to make out any detail.

I glanced at Timmy. His eyes were shut.

“What do you think?” I asked him. “That they forgot us? Perhaps went to a game and had so much fun they forgot we ever existed?”

“Or didn't want us.”

I dropped down beside him again. “They all died in a train accident. Don't get damn stupid ideas. The last thing I need is stupid ideas.”

“Yes, a train accident. That's what we were told.”

“That's what happened.”

“But don't you ever wonder?”

“Shut up...we've got to cross back over yet.” I was confused, irritated. I didn't want to walk that rail. But there was no other way. We daren't be caught on foreign territory.

Timmy held up the rustling sheet for me to see. “This came over my screen four days ago. Someone cut in on the Mermaids’ game.”

I read the words: Your Mother and Father ride the train daily. They know about you. They have seen you.

I read it again. “Who would send that? Who'd want to say that?” It seemed a sick sort of joke.

Timmy said, “It makes me feel strange... hollow inside.”

“It's a lie.”

“But why?” Timmy returned the sheet to his pocket. “Why haven't they contacted me...if they've seen me?”

“Nobody's seen you. Your parents are dead.”

“I suppose they could have had a good reason for getting rid of me. Perhaps it was my fault they left.”

“Dead!”

Timmy pulled his fringe down over his eyes, as if to draw a curtain over the truth. “I feel it's true. It makes sense somehow.”

“Makes sense? How? Because they didn't want you?” I was angry. I wanted him to shut up. It was a crazy idea.

“I've always known it had to be my fault.”

“You're talking stupid.”

Timmy shook his head violently. For a moment I was afraid of him, as though he would leap at me in a mad, murderous fit. Then he was still. He said no more.

It seemed he didn't trust me to understand. No doubt he was right. If I could figure out his problems, I'd be able to unravel my own knots.

Our parents must be dead.

I stood up, moved away from him.

Rain now fell again, softening the home tower with a fine haze.

“Timmy. Someone is lying to you.”

But he dragged his oversized coat up over his head and turned his face to the ground.

“It's a lie,” I told myself.

================================

Timmy wouldn't get up. He sat there, huddled, responding to neither words nor a kick in the shin, while Goldie and Shark headed home together. I could have gone with them—as far as I was concerned, the game was over. The rain grew heavier, and colder. Night flowed in around the towers like a black tide.

The westbound train went by. I stood at the parapet and waited.

When the next eastbound train had gone, I climbed the pylon, gave Timmy a wave he didn't see, and started home. I'd tried everything to move him. He wouldn't even look at me. I was out of ideas and out of patience.

When I jumped down onto the roof of our tower the train was only one minute behind me. Even before it had gone by, I was at the barrier, searching for Timmy.

The sun was below the sea and the clouds blushed a dull red.

“He's not up yet,” I told Goldie.

“Maybe he's asleep.” Her tone was flat. She didn't care.

I called his name as loud as I could. It hurt my throat, and I knew it was a wasted effort. The wind and distance combined to defeat me.

Shark was up the pylon. “I see him now, Bob.”

A tiny silhouette stood upon the rail. He had to get moving. He wasn't the quickest of us anyway.

Slowly he walked the rail.

I knew I should have stayed with him, made him cross back with me, but I'd been angry. I didn't want to hear what he'd been saying. But I should have got him home.

I was supposed to be his friend.

The westbound train went by us. As it passed Timmy, he froze. Then he started forward again.

“Hurry!” I yelled. Surely he could hear me now? My fingers grasped the guard rail. “Move your legs!”

Far below him, the sea was in darkness. The only light was a ghostly blue glow seeping from the under-dock of the other tower. I wasn't sure which might reach Timmy first—the train or the rising blackness.

Shark laughed. “You're too slow, Timmy. Much too slow.”

Timmy wobbled, waved his arms about. My stomach lurched. I felt it was me out there.

Bri jeered. “You're going to fall!” He stabbed my shoulder with his fat finger.

I shoved him away and screamed, “Shut up!”

But he laughed, then sucked in a deep breath and made a mock attempt at blowing Timmy off the rail.

I yelled again at Timmy, “Move faster!”

Bri put his arm around Goldie. They began to slap the top of the parapet, beating out a rhythm of humiliation.

Timmy was close now, hardly twenty meters away.

I saw the train as a shift of shadow in the sunset clouds.

Timmy turned and threw his arms wide, as if in greeting.

The train struck him, flung him from the rail. He didn't scream. He hit our tower only three floors below me. I felt the thud through my feet.

Unable to look away, I watched his shattered body tumble, until it was swallowed by the darkness.

I stood there for some time in the silence which followed. Rain washed over my face. I began to shiver.

When I finally turned away from the edge and allowed myself to wipe the tears and rain from my cheeks, the others had gone.

=======================================

Over and over I've asked myself who could have sent that message. I suspect now that we are not so abandoned as we'd believed. Perhaps our lives are not purposeless.

This morning there was a message on my wallscreen. It came over while I was trying to distract myself with the Deepwater Olympics.

It said simply: You could have saved Timmy.

Part of me believes that; I punish myself enough thinking how it could have been different. I also deny responsibility. I was Timmy's friend, not his guardian. I couldn't make his decisions for him.

It seems strange that someone should want to trigger my guilt with such accusations.

But then, anything can be made into a game.