Ocellatus

By TAYLOR HOGANSON

The world creaks under my feet as I climb. I find small handholds in the spaces between pale bricks as I lift myself three stories into the buildings that loom over the wooden street below. The effort of the climb momentarily distracts me from the ticking. I pull myself over the final wall and into the wooden room of a derelict building. As I stand, the sound returns. The world gently quivers under my feet as the air hammers against me with that omnipresent banging.

The room has no ceiling, the floorboards are periodically interrupted with vents, and the wall to my right lies in shambles. I can see the sun; through the plumes of steam which clog the sky, it casts the right side of the room into shadow. After a moment I drag myself to a gap in the left wall and stick my

head out. The expansive gray sky is disrupted only by the occasional monolithic cog, spinning indefinitely. Pale buildings studded with bronze pipes cast a shadow over a dusty hardwood street, their chimneys gently vomiting steam into the gray abyss. The otherwise sterile appearance of the buildings is interrupted by pitch carbuncles on the walls and floors, which break and run into the streets until they find a vent or drain to penetrate.

I scan the street for –oh, good. She’s keeping up. A young woman meanders her way down the road. The incessant ticking drowns out the floorboards creaking under her feet, so I have to frequently poke my head out or risk losing her. She turns to look towards the direction of my alcove; I dart back into the room and throw myself to the floor. My chest smacks against the hardwood loudly enough that I’m certain she hears it. She’ll know I’m here.

But before she can call out to me, the world erupts. The vents around me abruptly spew clouds of steam and ash as the world shudders; with a reverberating hiss, reality exhales. I scramble to my feet andpress myself against the sunlit wall, careful to keep my entire body illuminated. 

Thud.

The last tick is always the sharpest. The building shakes as if struck by an earthquake, then suddenly subsides. Everything subsides. The valves creak shut, then rest. The plumes of steam dissipate.

The cogs stop. The world is silent between breaths.

In the silence, I can finally hear the floorboards creak under her feet as she stumbles aimlessly, perturbed by the abrupt stop.

My eyes fall to the shadows. They crawl slowly towards me as figures reach out, contorted bodies of pitch. Faces form and eyes stare as I sit fixed in a beam of light. Unable to meet their accusatory gaze, I slide down the wall and into a fetal position with my head cupped in my hands. I shut my eyes as tight as I can, but I feel it on my skin –that infinite and unforgiving stare.

In the street below me, I hear the floorboards creak as she undoubtedly recoils from the shadows in a similar fashion. Each step echos through the world as she paces, runs, and finds nowhere to go.

She screams, a horrid shriek which pierces the air like that incessant ticking. Then she stops. The pacing subsides and she remains still.

I uncover my eyes momentarily and look past the monstrous shadows to the gray sky. The sun remains transfixed in the void, but its strength is greatly diminished. It remains only enough to keep the shadows from reaching me; the world is as dark as night. On either side of the sun stand two pillars. The massive black structures curve into the sky and towards me, converging into a body which extends to a point above me at which I am afraid to look. 

In the street below me, she calls out.

“Dad?”

I always saw my brother.

The floorboards creak with a few hesitant footsteps, then the world is shattered by another scream as the lure takes her. I squeeze my eyes shut.

Then, silence.

The shadows slowly recede and the pitch figures dissolve as the sun remembers its strength. Slowly, the world is reilluminated. The pillars are gone. With a hiss, the vents in the floor puff out a new plume of steam.

Thud.

The first tick is always so dull.

The ticking resumes consistency, the distant cogs turn sluggishly once more. The day returns in full strength.

For a moment I sit on the floor, feeling the sensation of being. Then, I swallow, stand, and drag myself back to the gap which faces the street.

She is no longer visible. In the center of the hardwood boulevard lies a new pitch carbuncle, still growing. Carefully, I swing my legs through the gap and slowly work my way down the pale wall. When my legs finally touch the hardwood road, I turn and catch a glimpse of the carbuncle. Its legs are splayed out, its arms aren’t visible. The chest has been ripped open and the organs inside now feed the growing pustule which erupts from the stomach. As I approach the thing, I hear a faint groaning and murmuring over the eternal ticking.

Soon enough, this one will burst and find a vent of its own to infiltrate. In the meantime, I turn away from the horrid thing and start off down the hardwood street.

Another will be along soon. They always are.