Whirling World Read online

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Welcome To The Whirling World

  Life On The Production Line

  Footsteps

  The End Of The World As Seen By The Angel Gabriel

  Cracked Concrete

  (Untitled)

  The Eyes Have It

  The Looking Glass

  Maid Of Metal

  The Fall

  VICTIM(e)

  Mass Production

  Biographies

  presents...

  The Whirling World

  Edited by Dean M Drinkel

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © Spectral Authors

  Published by Spectral Press

  www.ticketyboopress.co.uk

  Edited by Dean M Drinkel

  Copy-edited by Siobhan Marshall-Jones

  Cover Art by Gary Compton © 2017

  www.garycompton.co.uk

  Written in British English

  For: Romain

  “Progress – this great heresy of decay.” Charles Baudelaire

  “I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.” Arthur Rimbaud

  Editor’s Note

  Please note, in the stories that follow, the Authors’ original spellings and intentions have been retained depending upon their nationality (i.e. through / thru etc.).

  Foreword

  by Siobhan Marshall-Jones

  The seed of this anthology was sown by a chance remark by acclaimed horror writer Adam Nevill some years ago. In a status he wrote on a social media platform he used the words ‘industrial horror’ in a review of a film, and that description stuck with me. I can’t remember exactly when it was written or what film it referenced but the titanic imagery of death on a gargantuan scale it inspired sent shivers down my spine.

  Death is a personal thing, a dread aspect of life that can only be experienced on an individual level. We share lives with each other, but not death. It is that personal finality which scares us, as none of knows what, if anything lies beyond. We cannot take a friend along with us to reassure on the journey to whatever realm exists behind the veil. We cannot communicate to our loved ones should we come across obstacles in our way.

  We are simply on our own.

  In the 20th century, however, we saw the advent of mechanized death, beginning with the Great War in 1914 – 1918. At the Battle of the Somme, which took place between 1st July and 18th November 1916, more than 1,000,000 men were either killed or wounded. Nothing had ever been seen like it before. Whole generations from villages and towns across Britain and Europe were obliterated. The carnage continued throughout the duration of the Great War, only to be superseded by the toll exacted by the Second World War. Russia alone lost 20 million people. And, to cap it all, 90,000 – 146,000 people eventually died at Hiroshima, as a result of a single atomic bomb.

  THAT is industrial-scale death, and no other species on this planet is capable of planning and executing such singular atrocities.

  The stories in this volume are not meant to aggrandise or belittle such horrendous incidents. However, in our search to exorcise our deepest, darkest fears we often attempt to come to terms with those nightmares through the medium of fiction.

  This explains why horror, in both written and cinematic forms, has enjoyed the popularity it has – the thrill of danger and peril while still remaining warn and safe in our comfortable homes.

  The terrors of complete annihilation are ever-present, whether by our own hands or the caprices of an uncaring universe. For many, that is the greatest fear of all – that we will destroy ourselves completely, and consequently there will be no one left to mourn our passing, and that there will be no one to acknowledge the heights of all our creativity and achievements, that our struggle will have been for nought.

  Welcome To The Whirling World

  An Introduction

  2016 was certainly a year which will go down in the annals of history I’m sure. On the whole, a very dark year: too many celebrity deaths, natural disasters, snow in Hawaii, terrorist attacks, continual warfare in the Middle East, Russian aggression, BREXIT, Donald Trump – the list goes on and on but I won’t (don’t worry) as it’s far too depressing. As I write this, we live in hope that 2017 will be a much better year for all of us.

  Of course, there were some positives to come out of the seemingly continual misery which 2016 brought us, including: advances in medical science, breakthroughs in beating cancer, gene editing in plants, reusable rockets, cars which drive themselves, robots teaching robots, wireless technology and Pokémon Go – well, other than Pokémon probably, this nicely leads us onto: what exactly is Industrial Horror?

  In her foreword, Siobhan (who was the originator of this anthology and who kindly allowed me to pick up the baton and run with it) provided an excellent answer to that question – but I would also like to give you a slightly abridged version of the original call when we were looking for contributions to The Whirling World:

  What we want is stories that push boundaries, the entwining of flesh and stark machinery, techno-industrial dystopias, twisted conceptions of body and enhanced beauty, Cronenbergian nightmares, Kafkaesque metamorphoses, post-human realities, the decay of body, mind, spirit and reason, innumerable sexualities. We want illogical extrapolations of present social realities, re-envisioning of industrial pasts, where factory and humanity become indistinguishable, where both lines and flesh are blurred.

  We certainly don’t just want the usual tired old tropes, if possible: what we want is the disturbing, the challenging, the absurdist, the blackly comedic, the infuriating, the horrific, the abnormal. Here, flesh is reshaped, both voluntarily and involuntarily, a world where gods and demons have assumed corporeality, where humans have either integrated fully into a seething mass of metal, electronics and skin, or have been rejected as the parasitic lifeform it is. In other words, just let your imagination run wild, be experimental with word and structure, and go into areas where the warning lights constantly flash an angry red and life is always a breath away from being extinguished.

  We believe that the successful authors, those who wrote the stories that follow, certainly rose to that challenge. They understood clearly what was expected of them and produced high quality work. I personally thank them for that.

  And whilst I have you I would also like to also thank the following as in some way (large or small) strands of their DNA run through this anthology:

  Lionel & Nathalie, Killyan; Suzie; Ed; Glenn; Dominique Frot; Dean & Rosana; Neil O’Neil; Hugo; Jules; Carole; Remy & Veronique; Charles; Mike; Anne; Richard Stanley; Tony Todd; Bernard Rose; Brad Simpson; Alex S. Johnson; Gary Compton; Siobhan Marshall-Jones; My mother; Simon, Harriet, Charley and George; Nigel, Zac & Alex; Eric McNaughton; Anthony Servante; Chris; Gary; Océane; Loann; Jose, Mike; Mark; Dorothee; Niven; Janine; Isaac Hempstead-Wright; Alex Davies; Peter & Jan; Thomas; Vincent.

  I thank you all.

  Finally, keep reading and supporting small presses!

  And if you feel so inclined, please don’t forget to leave us a review either on Amazon, Goodreads or some other similar platform. The authors and I certainly appreciate it.

  Dean M. Drinkel

  Cannes, France – November 2016

>   Life On The Production Line

  by Steve Byrne

  Cap found the factory by accident, on one of his frequent walks along the canal towpath. Normally, the dog would be with him, but Millie had taken Boss when she left for her new life in Bristol. He fucking missed that dog.

  He stopped to roll a cigarette, kicking at the scrappy weeds and staring into the dank water as he exhaled a plume of smoke. With a sigh, he continued his journey. This stretch of the canal was his favourite dog walking route. He never tired of the broad strips of nature that flourished on either bank as they battled through grey city concrete.

  Sun shimmered off the green-brown water, illuminating gnats and other flying insects so that the air seemed filled with gold dust.

  The cut, the locals called it. A clotted artery leading to the heart of the city. He hadn’t noticed the factory before because of its derelict state. It blended in with the crumbling Victorian brickwork of canalside walls spattered with graffiti. The factory stood, battered and bruised, forgotten like the weeds that clawed up its walls. He felt a certain affinity with it. Needed no more, its production no longer valued. Exactly how he’d felt this morning, sitting in the fake, open-plan welcome of the job centre as G4S guards circled like sharks.

  Although intrigued, he continued walking, glancing sideways now and then to view the old building. Its corrugated plastic roof was punched full of ragged holes, as though it had braved a meteor shower.

  Ahead of him was a bridge, spanning a small branch of the canal which led away into the undergrowth and skirted the factory. Cap glanced along the length of the tributary, but his view was occluded by trees on either bank. Together, they formed a pair of great, organic gates, closing secrets away from the outside world.

  He’d never travelled this tributary. His intrigue prompted him to divert from his usual route and enter the undergrowth. A sparsely worn path navigated nettles and overhanging trees, until he stood on another clear towpath, nestled in the shade of the factory wall and the large trees on the opposite bank.

  Cap shivered. He didn't like this place. The chill of the shade seemed to leech into his skin. He considered donning the coat he carried over his arm, but decided that he’d be back in the sunshine soon. Back in time for opening time at the Lion, a pint of bitter and a whisky chaser.

  He’d been out of work for six months now, and his meagre redundancy was dwindling. An empty factory could be a gold mine. Copper wire, lead, scrap metal, even those vent cowls on the rooftop would be worth a bob or two to the right buyer. Italian Tony, haunter of the Lion bar, could shift that stuff in no time. He wasn’t an habitual thief - he preferred the quiet life. But fuck, he had to eat. Cap flicked his roach into the canal, and headed towards the perimeter fence.

  His intended route disappointed him. Once he’d made his way through the undergrowth, collecting burrs, nicks, and nettle stings, he found a tall, well-secured chain link fence. For a moment, he pondered where he’d be now if he’d stayed at uni instead of taking the booze filled party train to oblivion. Not scurrying about in a bed of nettles and thorns on a slightly smelly canal bank - that was for sure.

  For an empty factory unit, security seemed high, which was encouraging. But tenacity won the day. Following the chain link fence, he found an area where time, weather and curious children had pulled the metal away from its mooring.

  He shimmied through the gap.

  The canal tributary actually entered the factory through a large canopy. Obviously leading to a loading dock; used when goods had been transported by canal. Beyond the building, separated by more chain-link fence and partially screened by bushes, brightly coloured cars passed by on the road, sun glinting off paintwork. He’d have to check out road access if this thing panned out. Italian Tony had a Mercedes Sprinter they could pull up and fill up.

  Perhaps this place was not all that forgotten. Despite the outward appearance, he could hear the muted sounds of machinery from within. Squinting at the air-vent fan in the wall, he saw that it was spinning rapidly.

  Footsteps approached through the undergrowth. A glance at the factory wall revealed a rusting sign.

  Private property.

  Trespassers will be prosecuted.

  He’d come out for a quiet stroll to clear his head, he hadn’t intended to case the joint. Maybe that was where he’d gone wrong in life. No impulse control. He didn’t want to become involved in a confrontation with a burly factory worker, so he ran a few yards along the bank and followed the canal into the loading bay.

  The place was empty. A faint, unpleasant odour hung in the air - stagnant water and swamp gas. The canal formed an 'L' shape, following the course of the walls. At its end, the dirty chalk face of the wall was interrupted by a set of closed double doors. No doubt canal boats had been loaded through these. To Cap's left, a closed door led to the rest of the factory.

  The canal water was still, its filthy green colour and the streaks of scum across its surface made it appear like a slab of frigid marble. Cap could hear the footsteps getting nearer. The footfalls were accompanied by a harsh dragging sound - the person was pulling something heavy along the ground.

  It would have been easier to stay outside and blag his way through an awkward confrontation. But he hid in the shadows, just inside the entrance, and tucked himself behind a stanchion covered in sugary rust, standing as tall and still as possible like a kid playing hide and seek. Cap became mesmerised by the crunch of footsteps and the radio static sound of whatever was being dragged - so much so that he nearly cried out in surprise as the figure passed him. He held his breath.

  The man walked by. Burly bouncer type, white shirt and shiny shoes, a neatly trimmed beard. Trailing behind him was a black plastic rubbish sack. One of those heavy duty bags used for garden waste. The man reached the door and pulled it open.

  Carefully, Cap edged back outside, into the sunshine.

  Just before he emerged from the loading bay, he noticed that the bag had ripped. Something red and limp protruded from the rent. As the bouncer yanked his load through the doorway, Cap noticed a small object fall from the hole and lay glinting in the dust. The door closed with a decisive clank. Cap looked back along the canal, to where the bright sun shimmered beyond the trees. Then he stared at the spark of light in the dust. After a moment’s indecision, he re-entered the bay. The drag marks formed a pathway through the dust. Cap reached the object.

  He picked it up - a ring. He viewed the spot where the bag had ripped. Five furrows raked the dust. Five furrows and a ring. He didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to work out what was in the sack.

  From his position near the door, he could see the water at the base of the loading dock for the first time. It was covered in a sickly-looking, pinkish scum. Cap recoiled, suddenly conscious of the smell. It was not quite the stench of rot and maggots - it was harsher, more chemical. Small lumps floated amongst the froth. The movement of a fish disturbed the surface. One of the lumps, trailing stringy red tendrils, shifted amongst the filth, and he found himself staring into a disembodied eye.

  An involuntary cry broke from his chest. He looked away, desperate to replace the image with anything saner - the busted plastic roof, the rusty iron ceiling beams, the old bird's nest that perched at the junction of beam and wall, the cctv camera next to it.

  With a jolt he realised the implication of the camera. The ring dropped from his fingers, hitting the floor with a metallic ping as two figures stepped from the entranceway. His escalating fear had left him speechless. He stood, staring at the blood that smeared their brown leather aprons. Both of them wore blank expressions, and had the lumpy, punch-hardened look of boxers.

  The two men reached him. He struggled vainly as they dragged him towards the door and into the factory. Their grip lanced pain along his arms.

  Inside the building, the hum of machinery met his ears. Metal vats and steel panelled machinery loomed between stanchions, all stained with a foul smelling brown substan
ce that ran in solidified drips over their surfaces.

  He couldn't struggle. The strong grip of his captors and the debilitating effect of shock prevented concerted effort. One of the men took the coat that was draped over his arm and searched the pockets. The other held him rigid, facing a figure hard at work in front of a conveyor belt.

  He was paralysed by fear, able only to stare at the sights and sounds of this other world encapsulated within the derelict framework of the factory. The outer appearance was a façade - the crumbling brickwork, smashed windows and broken roof covered internally by modern, corrugated cladding.

  He gagged, wrinkling his nose at the foul air, trying to pull a hand free to close his nostrils. Blood coated the quarry tiles on the floor, sluicing away into strategically placed grills. People worked at production stations - huge tracks with dangling hooks, conveyor belts, and unidentifiable pieces of machinery dotted with gauges, buttons, and red emergency stops.

  As he surveyed the scene, he began, with a sickening kind of dread, to discern the exact nature of the hardware around him.

  Tracks of dangling hooks led to an altar-like structure. Around the altar, a circle and pentagram had been embossed into the tiling, the pattern picked out in what looked like mother of pearl. Strange runes ran around the circumference of the circle. A conveyor belt ran away from the altar, its belts and rollers decorated with more runes.

  Above it all, a glistening, ornate dagger hung from the ceiling, mounted to a greased pole directly over the altar, the whole assemblage powered by a pneumatic mechanism. A bass, low chanting droned from speakers fitted into the ceiling above the circle. Old blood congealed in the sunken channels that collected the drainage from the altar, and from the tracks and conveyors of the sacrificial production line.