Full Vessels (5 page)

Deliberate movements. Steady hands applying
silicone caulking to the interior of a humble mausoleum. Unfaced
concrete block composed the four walls and supported the concrete
slab ceiling. Mel paused, adjusted the angle of his electric lamp,
and resumed his task.

The sole entrance to his lowly abode
stretched before him, a tight crawl way of block with a door on
either end of the passage. From outside, the structure appeared a
stoically square igloo. From inside, a claustrophobic box scarcely
larger than a man. There was no art to it, but his purpose
precluded any meaningful expression.

This was the opposite of art. There was no
striving here, only morbidly competent workmanship. True art meant
something. It did more than mean something. More than said
something. It pointed, with the clarity of abstraction, towards a
particular perspective on reality. This world tended towards
abstraction. Sculptures of skewed geometric figures. Paintings of
distorted scenes. Music of clever discordances. Stories of
senseless happenings. All of it kaleidoscopes of randomness hinting
at something greater.

In his estimation, the art of Iteration eight
surpassed the shallow beauty-obsession from the prior worlds in
every way. It did not offer its secrets casually like a lady of the
night. It had class. Mystery. Depth.

Unfortunately, the passion for mystery no
longer lived within him. No matter the complexity of the medium,
art could only say so many things. Human thought roamed within
narrow bounds and could be predicted so very simply. And art simply
for the sake of art was not truly art.

Mel applied the final bit of silicone sealant
to the plastic sheet covering the diminutive plywood door and sat
back to scrutinize his work. After a moment, he nodded in
satisfaction. It appeared air tight.

Again with meditative deliberateness, he
removed glassware from a hiking pack, placing each piece in turn on
the cold floor, tensing at the too-loud clinking. When everything
sat before him, Mel removed the tops from two bottles and poured
first one, then the other into a large beaker, filling it halfway
with a mixture of formic and sulfuric acids.

He pushed his electric lamp onto its back so
that it shone at the gray ceiling and settled the beaker into place
on its flat surface. As the heat of the bulbs warmed the solution,
bubbles began to form. Mel reclined back into a classic funeral
pose; hands folded peacefully atop his abdomen, eyes closed as if
in sleep.

No thoughts troubled Mel as he breathed in
the carbon monoxide vapors. He had situated his mausoleum far from
civilization. No one should be able to locate him before this world
ended. Each inhalation brought poisonous gas into his lungs, where
the hemoglobin of his blood bonded tightly to the deadly carbon
monoxide.

Once formed, that bond endured. Each blood
cell poisoned with carbon monoxide was forever prevented from
carrying oxygen. The scientists of this world claimed one percent
concentrations of the gas were sufficient to kill a man within
minutes. Mel had mixed enough solution to make much more gas than
one percent concentration. He had not actually done any of the
calculations, instead relying upon an editorial written in layman's
terms about the dangers of the substance. To be certain of its
efficacy, he had tripled the amount of acid and halved the size of
the room.

As planned, Mel slipped into a slumber which
deepened into death.

Mel woke in the dark, dull and weak. He
awaited a return to sleep that did not come. Instead, his memory
grew clearer, bringing with it clarity that burned cold. With
steely determination, Mel fumbled his way free of his crypt.
Outside, he stumbled his way to where his truck waited at the end
of a long trail used only by animals prior to his arrival.

When he yanked the door to his vehicle open,
the glare of the dome light struck him. Mel stared at the glowing
bulb, a snarl rising to his face.
There should be no light.
Car batteries lasted weeks or months at most.
There should be no
light!
He seized extra glass bottles of acid and extra lamp
batteries, then returned to his mausoleum.

Mel mixed chemicals and died.

He woke. Outside again, the truck's overhead
light came on when the door opened. Mel swore. He beat his fists
against the hard metal of the truck. He pulled the final bottles of
acid free and hurled them at the useless block wall before him.
Their crash brought no satisfaction.

“Why?” He raised both arms to the sky,
shouted at it like a melodramatic stage actor. “Why can't I have
this? Why? Damn you, Creator, tell me why!”

Last Iteration, he had anchored his clothing
with rocks and stepped into a deep cistern. The water had vanished
after only days, leaving him to crawl back to civilization and
resume his duties.

The one before that, he had stayed behind
when the world ended, daring the Creator to destroy him. Days
passed before Mel accepted that entire worlds lingered past their
expirations to prevent his freedom.

No escape existed. There would never be an
end. Not even a temporary respite. Mel's breath bubbled oddly
within him, not quite laughter, not quite sobbing, not quite rage.
Some of each, but not firmly enough in any category to afford him
relief.

Mel climbed onto the bed of the truck and
began to dig through his tools. “Every day is too much,” he said
calmly, rationally. “Day upon day. It stretches into eternity. How
many days have I lived? How many more must I face?”

His hands closed on the metal gasoline
canister. “You know what I want.” He twisted free the cap. “But you
won't let me have it.” Mel hefted the can above his head. “So I
must assume that this is what you want.”

With vigorous motions, Mel emptied the entire
canister onto himself, soaking hair and clothing and flesh in
liquid that stung eyes and offended nose and mouth. He threw the
can aside and raised his face to the sky once more. “Is
this
is what you want from me? Is it?”

Mel lifted the matchbook.

Following Greg's lecture, they scattered from
the conference room.

Hess didn't get three paces before Erik
appeared at his side. “You think you're hot shit. I gotta admit
you've got some marksmanship skill, but when it comes to killing,
I'm the fucking king. Whaddaya say?”

“I couldn't care less, Erik.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't hear anything after 'I'm
scared of Erik'.”

Hess continued walking. “Go bother someone
else.”

“Come on, Hess, you don't want me causing
trouble. Your give-a-shit ain't gonna let you stand by while I do
hi-jinx. So how 'bout you humor me a little? I got a competition in
mind. We can finally see who's top man of our dysfunctional
tribe.”

At the door, Hess paused. “What do you want
and how long will it take?”

“Not long. I acquired two sabers last night.
Figured a game of swords might be called for. Three rounds to the
death. Winner gets the title of
hombre de hombres
.” Erik
spread his hands. “Or you can forfeit the title. No biggie. Though
I will have to find something else to occupy my time. Probably
something associated with my hobby.”

“You want to sword fight?”

“Fuck yeah. I love me some
swashbuckling.”

Hess smiled. “Sure, Erik. I would love
to.”

“Oh ho, you're getting cocky! This will be an
edu-mi-cation for ya. Everything is set up downstairs. The hotel's
got a huge coal room just going to waste.”

With all the eagerness of a child, Erik
preceded him down the servant's stair and into the basement. They
passed the boiler room and entered a space littered with black grit
and the odd lump of coal. Erik retrieved two sabers from a corner
and passed one off to Hess.

Then Erik assumed a classic fencing pose and
launched into a flurry of vicious swipes. Bouncing on the soles of
his feet, he raised his brows. “Ready for this, fuck face?”

Without speaking, Hess hefted the saber,
assumed a rudimentary two-handed position, and waited. Erik
attacked in a rush; stab, stab, slash, stab, slash, slash, slash.
Hess responded without thought, parrying and side-stepping and
retreating to keep Erik's blade out of reach.

Erik fell back, breathing hard. He feinted a
face strike, then lunged, driving his sword for Hess's abdomen.
Hess bound their blades, sending Erik's strike to one side and
sliding his own saber into position to deftly pierce Erik's sword
arm at the bicep. In a blink, he closed the distance, elbowed
Erik's nose, seized his opponent's sword hand in his, then twisted
the tip of his blade to destroy the pierced muscle.

Hess fell back, maintaining proper form. Erik
swore under his breath, switched sword hands, and came in hacking.
Hess circled back from the strikes, refusing to engage until Erik
spun about. In an instant, Hess ducked beneath the blade and drove
his own home in Erik's gut.

As Erik stumbled back, Hess took the fight to
him. He showered his opponent with blows, most of which drew
shallow lines across exposed flesh due to deft last-minute flicks
of his wrist. When Erik flinched back with a fresh gash on his
cheekbone, Hess lunged, driving his saber into the upper chest.
Then he stepped back.

His opponent collapsed to his knees, blood
foaming from his mortal wound. Hess studied his work. It looked too
high to have pierced the heart, but, judging by the effect, he had
sliced through the aorta, which finished the job as thoroughly as
his intended strike.

Hess stood back while Erik died and
resurrected. “Erik, what was that spin? Did you learn how to use a
sword from television shows? Rule number one is you never turn your
back on an opponent.”

“Go ahead and run your mouth.” Erik stood and
brushed soot from his clothes. “I underestimated you and it cost me
that time.”

Erik lunged in an instant, driving his saber
deep into Hess's stomach.

Hess used his fist to plug the hole as Erik
danced back, chortling gleefully. Thinking quickly, Hess sank to
his knees, placing one hand on a crunchy pile of coal-dust to
support himself. The other hand held his saber up and outward,
point held towards his opponent.

Erik smacked his blade hard enough to knock
it from Hess's hands and stepped forward for the killing stroke.
Hess swept his hand on the floor up and out, flinging grit into
Erik's face. He followed that up by sweeping Erik's legs. Knowing
he didn't have much time before his injury robbed him of mobility,
Hess pressed his momentary advantage.

Ignoring the slashes coming at his side,
hoping the leverage wasn't there to do serious damage, Hess scraped
his fingers across his opponent's eyes. That triggered the
instinctual flinch Hess desired, giving him the opportunity to
wrest the sword from Erik's hands.

He sawed the blade across the only critical
target he could reach given his awkward position, the front and
inner side of Erik's thighs. Before Hess could ascertain the
success of his cut, Erik drove his forehead into Hess's nose. Hess
collapsed onto his back, eyes reflexively shutting and hands
involuntarily cradling his face.

When Hess forced his eyes open, he saw Erik
above him. The exultation on Erik's face faded as he noticed the
blood spurting from his severed femoral artery. Erik shrugged.
“Guess this one's a tie.” He drove the sword into each side of
Hess's chest, then stepped back to watch Hess drown to death from
the blood pooling in his lungs.

Hess resurrected thirty seconds before Erik,
who giggled as he stood. “Aw, Hessie, you
do
fight dirty.
I'm so proud.” And another lunge.

He accepted it into his body while swinging a
counter across Erik's throat. When they separated, Erik scowled at
the twin trails of red weeping from either side of his trachea:
proof that his carotid arteries had been severed. Hess glanced down
at his punctured abdomen. “It won't kill me in five minutes, so I
guess I win two and tie once.”

Erik's voice did no more than gurgle, so he
flashed his middle finger in defiance before dropping to the
ground. Five minutes later, a filthy Erik confronted him. “We got
one more bout. Ties don't count.”

“Well, I wouldn't want there to be any doubt
that I am the man of men,” Hess said.

They faced each other a final time, this time
in solemn stillness. Hess moved first, a feinted lunge that sent
Erik into retreat. Then Erik swung his saber in a series of slashes
that Hess avoided without ever bringing their blades into
contact.

As Erik broke off his attack, Hess dipped
past Erik, scoring first blood with a slash across the shoulder
that Erik blocked a moment late. They fell into circling each
other, watching one another for attacks that failed to
materialize.

The cement floor shifted beneath them. Erik
startled at the unexpected development and Hess used that
distraction to lunge deep, placing his saber into Erik's side. Too
slow, Erik attempted to parry with a harsh swing. The blades
collided at an odd angle and Hess's saber snapped, leaving the top
third of its blade inside Erik.

Around them, soot rained from every surface
as the room continued to rumble. Erik sliced Hess's wrist hard
enough that he lost the remnant of his blade. They stared at one
another as the earthquake subsided. Then Hess stood up straight and
presented his neck. “You won that exchange.”

“I did,” Erik said. “But much as I like
stabbing, right now I wanna know what the fuck is going on.”

Hess tossed his saber to the ground. “Let's
go see.”