Requiem by B. Scott Tollison Read Free Book Online

of the one true Lord!'
    There was one
man in the congregation. He lay slouched over the side of one of
the pews, a puddle of vomit spread on the floor beneath his limp
silhouette.
    Seline turned
to leave. With the images of all that the Insolvency had offered
her over the past day pushing their way through her mind she looked
one last time at the spireless church and thought to herself that
If God still had any interests in the affairs of these souls it
could only be as a reminder to himself of his own failings. The
delirious, unheeded ranting faded into an echo as Seline worked her
way down the street.
    There were no
sign posts. In fact there was no recognisable or consolidated
attempt at an address system. Numbers and letters appeared randomly
painted over doors, some marked with only an X, others with
unintelligible symbols and scribbles. The only thing the markings
held in common was their colour – the same shade of red as the
welcome message she had read floating atop the city upon that
massive billboard. She kept following the street as Sear had told
her. There were no memories coming to the surface, only a vague,
perpetual sense of deja-vu. She walked slowly, wading through it
all, waist deep in the seething sickness that licked at her
skin.
    Seline stopped
about halfway down own one of the blocks. Painted above the door of
one of the houses was the word 'seventeen'. It wasn't scrawled like
the other addresses. It was a flowing display bordering on
calligraphy. It wasn't as crude or faded as the others. It was at
such extreme odds with the city it inhabited, like a rose in trash
can. It finally came to Seline, that this was the place she was
looking for.
    Piles of
shingles had collected beneath the low edges of the roof. In their
place were sheets of corroded metal nailed as economically as
possible over the bald patches of the dwelling's rapidly receding
hairline.
    Seline stood
for a long time looking at the thin lines of delicate red painted
above the decaying arches of the entrance, now pretending to find
it more interesting than it was in a petty attempt to avoid
whatever might be lurking inside. If you can ever truly encounter a
point of no return then how are you supposed to be able to tell? If
this moment were to become her own private Rubicon then what was
there to recommend it? A patch of dried dirt, a sweating brow, a
loaded die to cast and a shaking hand with which to cast it.

Ghost in a Powder-coat
     
    It was an old
wooden door; thick and heavy. Made to stand up against the wind.
Sand was lodged into its dry splitting boards. Green flakes of
paint curled and lifted from its surface. Seline knocked three
times with the back of her knuckles. Movement came from inside the
house. A faint scuffing and scraping sound approached from the
opposite side of the door. A gentle, elderly voice spoke up.
    ‘Yes, who’s
there?’
    ‘Seline.’
    No reply.
    ‘I’m looking
for Abigail. Do you know where I can find her?’ asked Seline.
    A metal bolt
unhinged. Then another. A rattling thud came from the base
of the door. Seline took a step back. The door jerked back an
inch.
    ‘You’ll have to
help me, dear.’
    ‘Abigail?’
    ‘Just place
your hands on the door and give it a little push. No need to be
shy. Yes, that’s the way!’
    Seline
struggled and heaved against the weight as the monolith scraped
over greyed floorboards until a big enough gap had formed. She
looked sceptically through the opening into the dimly lit
interior.
    ‘Can you fit,
dear?’
    ‘Are you Ab
-’
    ‘Oh, how rude
of me! You might have become a little bit porky since the last time
I saw you, eh? I was wondering what all that heaving and grunting
was about.’ A small elderly face thrust itself through the opening.
‘My, my you’re still a wee little thing!’
    The old lady
grabbed Seline’s wrist and dragged her inside. The first thing
Seline noticed was the barrel of an old shotgun rigged up from the
ceiling and pointed towards