F - Rise of the Ancestors

It was late evening.

"You know, Takeshi," he stood with his back to me, hands clasped just
below the base of his spine, "when you give something to a man, or do
something for him, the first time he will kneel and kiss your hand," he
turned, and his narrow-rimmed spectacles caught the light, obscuring
his eyes, "second time, he bows; third time, he takes his hat off;
fourth time, he fawns; fifth time, nods; sixth, he insults you, and at
the seventh he sues you for not giving enough." Immo was partially
silhouetted, his suit crisply lined. Behind him, through cold glass,
skyscraper pagodas were submerged in the low, swampy mists of
Koeshimonoei-cho. The mists rose at night. Soon, he and I would have to
leave for higher ground. "You know, Takeshi," stars danced in his eye
sockets, "we must pay for everything."

The wattled bamboo flooring felt rough against my bare soles. I shifted
my weight forward onto the balls of my feet. Immo noticed my stance
alter and drew his Shabetsu .22. I went to step back, then checked
myself. The room was expansive and bereft of furniture. There was
everywhere to run and nowhere to hide.

I did not hear the report of the gun, but felt a pain deep in my left
thigh and staggered. I trotted a pace or two, blood soaking into my
tope trousers, then collapsed. I hit the floor with a soft thump,
caught my jaw. Immo had already holstered his revolver, and was making
his way towards the elevator with assured, brisk strides. He did not
even look at me.

I opened my mouth to call after him, but could not think of anything to
say. I watched him step inside the elevator. I watched the doors roll
halfway closed and stop. Immo glanced at the button panel, pressed the
button for floor 34K a second time. 34K was the high water mark. It was
where the mist finally halted and, with a sigh, began to descend once
more.

He pressed the button a third time. His face soured as if he were
sucking on a pickle. He glowered at the elevator doors, stabbed the
button again. I knew it would not work, for I had helped plant the
charges around the generator myself. There was not a working elevator
in the whole of Annex C. On the fifth press, he realised that it was
malfunctioning. His eyes returned to me. I knew then that we would
spend the last few hours of our lives together.

* * *

Condensation began to form on the windows. The temperature in the room
had dropped. I was shivering, though whether from the cold or blood
loss I could not say. Immo stood with his back to me again, though this
time his hands were cupped above his eyes, between his brow and the
glass. Although I could not see, I knew the mist had to be close.

It had not taken long for Immo to become resigned to his fate. Not one
for rallying against the injustices of the cosmos, he. The emergency
chute was blocked. After a grimace and some pacing, he had retreated to
the windows, to watch. To wait.

Many times I thought I ought to say something; a few words of
recognition, some small acknowledgement of my success, of Immo's
failure. I had trapped him, and soon we would both be dead. Immo was
not a True Believer, but I was. The mist held no fear for me. I
recognised it as a returning.

From my belt downwards I was numb. Warm formications had spread from my
left thigh, across my crotch and down my right leg until I could no
longer feel my toes. I wondered what it would be like to have no
feeling at all in my body. The pain in my jaw subsided.

It must have been close to the end, because Immo suddenly let out a
sigh and his shoulders drooped. He said something I could not hear, and
then, "thank you." I could not tell if the remark was meant for
me.

White strands of mist began to poke from the foot of the elevator.
Soon, they reached the window seals, forcing their way in like
tenacious weeds. A frost was forming on my upper lip. I could feel the
gelid breaths of the ancestors, of those that fell. I almost closed my
eyes, and then remembered; I wanted to see their faces.

When they came, Immo was already on his knees, his head lowered in
broken, craven respect. They said nothing, made no sound save for the
gentle tramping of bare feet on ash. I watched as the mist curled and
warped to form the swell of a forearm, the cleft of a tongueless mouth.
We were no longer alone.

They embraced him. He struggled at first; he held himself taut, then
tried to break free. I heard the clatter of his dental bridge as it
struck the bamboo floor. After that, he went limp. They surrounded him.
Grey skin sloughed from their gauzy bodies. Kimonos billowed and
flared.

Before he faded from view, I heard his neck snap. His head was left
skewed back at an unnatural angle, as if he were gazing up in awe, in
reverence, in gratitude.

I waited for them to come to me. My teeth chattered. Slowly, the mist
around me began to swirl and condense. I inhaled. I could smell ash,
and burning, and meat. I had no feeling in my body. My returning would
be painless. The corners of my mouth twisted into a smile.