There are hundreds of run-down, abandoned, falling-apart little bungalows around the outskirts of Metropolis. Lived in by the well-off, then reclaimed by the carnivorous.
Sylvia Wycliffe has been in this world for a few months. Only recently has she found Metropolis - and relative safety for herself and her son.
It's best not to think about where she stole her winter clothes - a parka, jeans, scuffed black boots - so different than what a well-born lady should wear.
It's best not to think about where she got the pistol she keeps in her parka.
It's best not to think about who gave her the scars on her cheeks, who cut two fingers from her left hand.
She doesn't think of any of those things. She has her son. He's safe. That's all that matters.
Sylvia, a baby-bag hanging from her shoulder (a few provisions for herself as well), Michael himself strapped to her chest, staggers into one of the little bungalows.
As abandoned bungalows go, it's not too shabby. It's been left unlocked, and though the entrance hall is chilly, it seems to get warmer further in.
In fact, is it really so abandoned? Because from the same direction as the warmth comes the faint, welcoming smell of something baking. Cinnamon cookies, maybe. Something strong and sweet.
Maybe whoever lives here won't mind a visitor, though. There's the unlocked door, after all, and also a feeling like she's invited to go deeper. Like she's requested to.
Sylvia begins to relax before she notices the smell. Then she stiffens, bringing her pistol up.
She stares at her right hand, the one holding the gun. Perhaps she's become too attached to it. Why would someone baking such delicious things want to hurt her?
She stuffs the gun into her parka. Michael stirs and begins to squawk. She pats his cheek absentmindedly as she looks around.
"Hello?" she calls out, unthinkingly walking in the direction of the smell and the warmth.
But Sylvia might become aware of a slight, persistent ringing in her left ear. If she's had an opportunity to hear a TV set whine, or the ring of a wet finger around the rim of a wine glass, then she might find this reminiscent.
As she walks forwards, the smell grows -- and with the smell, so too the compulsion to follow it to its source. It seems to come from somewhere up this staircase. Won't she climb it?
Sylvia blinks at the noise, but puts it from her mind when she can't find the source of it.
Who would keep a kitchen on the second floor? is what she thinks as she climbs the staircase.
Michael hits his mother's chest with mittened hands, beginning to cry softly.
"Shhh, shhh, love," Sylvia murmurs. She's not sure why - it's completely incongruous to the situation - but she has a sudden urge to quiet her son, and quickly.
She shakes her head. She's been traveling all day. She's tired. Of course her thoughts are taking such a fanciful turn.
The top of the stairs opens out onto a shadowy, stunted corridor. There are discoloured stains on the walls, creeping down like water damage. Two doors, both closed: up ahead, the glint of a metal one, and to her right, an ordinary one of wood.
Though the warm cinnamon smell is overpowering here, it clashes with something else: the cloying, sour whiff of drying saliva.
Something about the stairs hits Sylvia. This house didn't look like it had stairs on the outside. But she examined a lot of houses today, looking for safety, trying to avoid gangs. She must have confused it with another house.
She hesitates at the top of the stairs. The smell....
Michael cries louder. It's not his hunger cry, it's not his discomfort cry, or pay-attention-to-me cry. She's never heard this before.
She thinks she should leave. She's thinking this even as she walks toward the metal door.
The hinges groan. The wind that roars out is hot, and wet, and stinks of rot.
Not the pulpy wood rot of an elderly house. Another, more sickening kind.
Three or four days hence, in the street outside, two scavenging dogs will fight over a small tangle of broken bones. And they'll investigate, but ultimately discard, the torn and empty baby's sling.
It's best not to think about where she stole her winter clothes - a parka, jeans, scuffed black boots - so different than what a well-born lady should wear.
It's best not to think about where she got the pistol she keeps in her parka.
It's best not to think about who gave her the scars on her cheeks, who cut two fingers from her left hand.
She doesn't think of any of those things. She has her son. He's safe. That's all that matters.
Sylvia, a baby-bag hanging from her shoulder (a few provisions for herself as well), Michael himself strapped to her chest, staggers into one of the little bungalows.
Pistol out, of course. Got to keep safe.
Reply
In fact, is it really so abandoned? Because from the same direction as the warmth comes the faint, welcoming smell of something baking. Cinnamon cookies, maybe. Something strong and sweet.
Maybe whoever lives here won't mind a visitor, though. There's the unlocked door, after all, and also a feeling like she's invited to go deeper. Like she's requested to.
Reply
She stares at her right hand, the one holding the gun. Perhaps she's become too attached to it. Why would someone baking such delicious things want to hurt her?
She stuffs the gun into her parka. Michael stirs and begins to squawk. She pats his cheek absentmindedly as she looks around.
"Hello?" she calls out, unthinkingly walking in the direction of the smell and the warmth.
Reply
But Sylvia might become aware of a slight, persistent ringing in her left ear. If she's had an opportunity to hear a TV set whine, or the ring of a wet finger around the rim of a wine glass, then she might find this reminiscent.
As she walks forwards, the smell grows -- and with the smell, so too the compulsion to follow it to its source. It seems to come from somewhere up this staircase. Won't she climb it?
Reply
Who would keep a kitchen on the second floor? is what she thinks as she climbs the staircase.
Michael hits his mother's chest with mittened hands, beginning to cry softly.
"Shhh, shhh, love," Sylvia murmurs. She's not sure why - it's completely incongruous to the situation - but she has a sudden urge to quiet her son, and quickly.
She shakes her head. She's been traveling all day. She's tired. Of course her thoughts are taking such a fanciful turn.
Reply
Though the warm cinnamon smell is overpowering here, it clashes with something else: the cloying, sour whiff of drying saliva.
Reply
She hesitates at the top of the stairs. The smell....
Michael cries louder. It's not his hunger cry, it's not his discomfort cry, or pay-attention-to-me cry. She's never heard this before.
She thinks she should leave. She's thinking this even as she walks toward the metal door.
Reply
The hinges groan. The wind that roars out is hot, and wet, and stinks of rot.
Not the pulpy wood rot of an elderly house. Another, more sickening kind.
Three or four days hence, in the street outside, two scavenging dogs will fight over a small tangle of broken bones. And they'll investigate, but ultimately discard, the torn and empty baby's sling.
Reply
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