The Dead Zoo

From the coin-operated telescope on the roof of the old Municipal Hall in Venice Beach, it was possible to capture the entire locality of the Archeology in one broad sweep, from the experimental Trophial ramparts and Calcine formations in the West, to the excavations in the East, strung out along the shore like a network of ancient fortifications, a system of trenches and silently nodding derricks that looked more like breaching engines than scientific instruments.
The off-season had only begun in earnest three weeks earlier, but already the desert had begun to encroach once more upon the town. Drifts of sand had collected against the closed down sun-kiosks that lined the sea-front, and further along, the tribal villas stood shuttered and padlocked, sealed like vaults, home only to spirits, to ghosts, or more realistically to clockwork mechanisms that summoned music, holograms and kinetic sculptures to preserve the illusion of occupancy.
The day was bright and clear. Sunlight danced along the hard edges, played havoc with the optics to obscure the true outline of the revetments, gave the whole scene the impossible fragility of a mirage. I span the focus ring, in no hurry, knew that it would be more than twenty four hours before I would be back in Babel, accepted that this was what one did when the tribes sealed the town, closed shops and sent tourist vessels away, declared a day of penance for sins real and imaginary, that effectively stranded me here.
Like most of the other Archeologies along the coast, Venice Beach was a temple precinct owned and operated by the tribes, an amalgamation of white, Mediterranean style buildings, wind abraded topographies and sealed residences. It was a closed and silent place, empty for most of the year, a town of mystery and nostalgia, and the imposition of tribal will upon the land. Non-tribal visitors were rare. The by-laws imposed upon outsiders meant that the few tourists who did come out this far often found themselves waylaid for some obscure transgression.
Sure enough, I found others in the wide, dusty, expanse that served as a main square, individuals caught out like myself by the vagaries of tribal mood, ruminating on their predicament in the cafes that lined the perimeter, wilting under awnings, sipping at juices and Aquas, willing the evening on when the need for shelter would at least provide a temporary relief from the boredom.
I decided to pre-empt them, drifted out to the quieter, emptier backstreets where dusty lanes seethed in the heat, possessing all the appearance of a painting, where sunlight - spellbinding in the intoxicating hours of late morning - caused the walls to shimmer and the eyes to believe the lie.
I stuck to the alleyways, lost myself amongst a labyrinth of quiet lanes and connecting passages, piazzas and devotional courtyards, slashed with blades of sunlight and sudden bites of shadow. The squares and plazas were still, silent in the empty hours, sound traps where only the sea murmured, a distant rush that clattered off the facades of the empty houses, almost swallowed by the tolling of devotional bells calling the faithful to their hidden chapels.
Perhaps all of that, the sunlight, the heady haze of morning, the preternatural stillness, kept me from seeing the open doorway until I was almost in front of it.
It must have been the sign that caught my eye, although even that was so small that it is a wonder that I saw it at all. I was looking for something granted, a small tourist hotel perhaps, an out of the way pension that accepted overnight guests, but what I found was something else.
‘Repository of Natural History’, the sign read. I would have dismissed it as some tribal sanctuary hidden amongst the lanes, had it not been for the words written beneath: ‘Dead Zoo’. Something in that phrase tweaked my curiosity, suggested hints and visions that begged further investigation. Whatever it was, it was a morning for mystery, for chance discoveries, for secrets revealing themselves.

Inside was hot and quiet. Hints of light brought me a large hall, panelled, a heavy, Oak door at the rear. Shafts of sunlight pierced the shadows, gave the impression of holding up a vast roof. Dust motes danced, pirouetting like protozoa, like satellites travelling along their trajectories.
I moved into the gloom, saw objects resting there in the darkness, jumbled and tossed against one another like standing stones, gasped as I recognised what they were: sarcophagi, Hibernacula, Cryo-coffins for Resurrectionists, for Long Termers. I wondered if my first impression of the place had been correct, began to think that I had stumbled upon something secret and holy. ‘Dead Zoo’, I thought, almost laughed at the name-play.
I counted over fifteen Cartouches. Through the age-frosted peep-ports the bleached and fragile remains of what lay inside were clearly visible. Whatever ooze they had once contained had evaporated or leaked away, leaving only ossuaries, fragments of bone, scraps of cloth, things that were closer to dust than anything else. Neither had they failed naturally. The pressure seals on every Cartouche were cracked, deliberately shattered.
“Tell me what you see.”
I turned with a start, resolved an iron gantry, noticed a young woman watching me, wondered how long she had been standing there.
“Do you see the hope for new life perhaps? A shedding of our old selves in the face of the unknown?”
I said nothing, watched instead as she descended a spiral staircase, revealing a second figure standing behind her, an old man, bearded and silvery, dressed in sand robes.
“Or do you see foolishness? A leap onto the black rocks of fate?”
I recognised the Union tease, knew that this young woman was playing with me, aiming a provocation at someone who clearly didn’t belong here. I decided to play for time, knew that I would surely be asked to leave before long.
“You may call me Anna.” She said, pre-empting my next question. A pseudonym, I thought, more tribal games. I glanced up at the gantry.
“Your father?” I said, tried to gauge the dynamic here, the unspoken relationship between these two orbiting particles, had to admit that I felt vaguely on display, an uncomfortable impression that I was being scrutinised.
Anna nodded, “My father’s name is Marle.”
She drew back her hood revealing a dark face, complimented by almond eyes of an almost impossible blue.
I stared for far too long, captivated. ‘Construct,’ I thought, ‘grown from trace DNA, recovered from the excavations’, but there was none of the usual hesitation, none of the halting gestures, no sense of a body language only just mastered.
She smiled. There was a haunted look to her and yet she was beautiful in a way that went beyond simple attractiveness, into the realms of magnetism. She moved like a toy, every motion a deliberate and carefully considered act. Her hair was tied in the Unionist style, revealing cheekbones that reminded me of something sleek and fast. The sunlight seemed to slip around her, dressed her in halos and coronas.
“Are you the owner?” I said.
“Curator.”
I turned, found that the old man had come down from the gantry, was now making his way across the floor, still watching me, leaning heavily with the aid of a stick.
“They were sabotaged?” I said.
A glance passed between them, a momentary flicker of understanding.
“All the Cold Vaults along the coast were compromised,” the old man whispered, “By rioters, by looters, by rises in sea level.”
“You’ve found more than one?”
“Four, with over five thousand Sleepers in each. There are rumours of more out beyond Paris Beach.”
“Any survivors?”
Anna looked away, smiling sadly.
“The Resurectionists were seen as freeloaders,” Marle continued, “opting out of society in the hope of better times ahead.”
I recalled the tales of riots, the stories of the vaults that had been unearthed and desecrated, or simply switched off and sealed up. I glanced again at the Cartouches, had to marvel at the brutality, at the ugliness behind the thinking. Had it really been a fight for survival? Or had there been something else at work, something that more resembled a collective form of blood lust, of madness. I wondered at the assuredness with which the unions were now uncovering them. Was there still some remnant of that old madness left within us, like a thorn or a cat’s claw perhaps, working its way inside only to wrap itself around all of the wrong nerves?
“How old are they?” I said.
“Three hundred years, perhaps four.”
“And the people spoke as one.” I muttered, knew that it hadn’t been as simple as that, that the Tribes would have sanitised their histories, cleansed their collective memory of involvement in mass murder.
Something about the stuffiness in here made the eyes heavy, whispered ‘rest’ in my ear. I shut my eyes for a fraction of a second, felt the tug of something that reminded me of sleep, resolved to find a place to rest once I had finished here.
Only one Cartouche appeared to have survived the long years unscathed. I peered into the casket, saw the remains of the padded indentations that had held the inner capsule in place. I looked for any traces of personal items, jewellery, encapsulated photographs, found nothing, was about to move on when my eyes grazed the rim, caught the ident-mark on the inside of the lid. Were those scratch marks, a series of parallel lines etched into the metal?
“What’s this?” I said.
Anna took a step forward, glanced nervously at her father, “That was a mistake, an accident waiting to happen…”
“It means nothing.” Marle interrupted.
Was that a rare admission of failure from a tribal representative?
Anna wheeled on her father.
“What do you mean? You must tell him.” She was glaring at him now, “He must be told. You promised. You said that the next one who came here…”
“Quiet.” Marle held up a hand. His face remained unchanged.
Perhaps it was the sunlight, or the odour of dust and polish, but there was a distinct heaviness behind my eyes. There was something about this place that didn’t add up, an uncharacteristic openness perhaps. I shook my head, aware that the lines of the room were distorting, realized then that I had been drugged, surprised that it had happened so easily. I blinked, saw Anna’s face, her eyes, her mouth, was aware only of the lyrical quality in her voice: “You promised.” “Not this time,” her words making no sense at all, confounded by a deep and growing lethargy.
“This is the only way.” Marle’s voice now, “You must trust me.” Anna calling my name. How did she know my name?

It was like a light coming on in an amber room.
I woke on a leather couch, fought nausea and dizziness, pulled together bits of detail, fragments, an accident waiting to happen, Anna using my name. She had known my name.
I looked around, resolved a hall shrouded in darkness. The hint of light from several skylights revealed cabinets, disrepair, paint peeling, floor tiles curling like scraps of leather.
I had the nasty suspicion that I had been dosed, a proximity agent perhaps, something on their skin, aerolizing, inhaled; and something more insidious, the lingering impression that I been led here.
I wondered how they had done it. It had to have been a pheromone trail, tailored to a generic chemistry, laid down to reel me in like a fish. Or had it been something simpler? A subliminal whispering perhaps, Chatter Boxes on every street corner, murmuring in my ear: go down this street, head for that square, take the first left.
I rolled to my feet, tried the oak door, found it locked of course, expected nothing less, imagined Marle and his daughter on the other side, listening intently. I went through into the adjoining gallery, found windows that were boarded over, allowing only the barest slivers of daylight to enter, casting the rooms in bronze, in solidified honey. The next room was the same, and the one beyond, frayed in tatters of sunlight, preserved in antique stillness. My mind turned to purpose. What was this, a trick house, a fairground trap?
I pounded on the shutters, tried to work them loose, tried to make enough noise to attract the attention of anyone who might be passing, shook loose only dust , realized that nobody would be about during midday prayers.
It was in the third gallery that I heard it, a thumping slightly out of time with my own. It stopped moments after I paused to listen, no more than a soft padding, muffled and heavy, high up on one of the floors above, lost within the plaster, contained within the wall spaces. It had to have been the wind, an open window causing a door to rattle. That is what I told myself, knew better than to put it down to imagination though, tried not to think about Anna’s words, although they came anyway. “A mistake. An accident waiting to happen.”
When it came again I was ready. The sound was louder, closer. The shape of the rooms created echoes, made it impossible to ascertain direction. I glanced uneasily at those windows again. Were they barricades to keep looters out, or a stockade to keep something in? What else had the tribal archaeologists discovered out there in the Cold Vault? What else had been sealed up, preserved, moth-balled? Weren’t there things that had once been placed with the Resurrectionists, Mal-forms, Chimera-types, classified organisms meant to the deter looters, to prevent the Cold Vaults from being compromised? I wondered what the hell it was that they had found, dragged here, imprisoned here, found my imagination filling in the blanks, remembered the marks on the interior of that final Cartouche and felt a renewed surge of fear course through me.
I went out into the hall, looked with unease at the dilapidation, was looking still when a shadow slipped from the wall at the end of the corridor, coalesced, congealed. I forced my eyes to make something of the darkness, tried to ascertain detail. It moved again, a pallid white something, ridged, heaving, taller than a man yet wiry, nimble enough to fit inside a Cartouche.
I hit the limits of my curiosity then, fled through the galleries, through the connecting hallways and stairwells, the storerooms and anterooms, the prison that the Marle had built for his demon, his Grendel, his Lampton Fiend, tried windows, doors, the boards, anything that would afford an escape route, lost myself in the pattern of it, found myself at last in a large storeroom, carpeted in detritus. Torn curtains covered the boarded windows, plaster hung loosely from the walls revealing slats beneath that protruded like bleached ribs.
Something back there crashed, the clatter of objects dislodged on purpose. I looked desperately for a hiding place, saw a dresser cupboard, its door hanging from twisted hinges, clambered inside, pressed myself as far back as I could go, pulled the wood in front of me, sat there in the darkness, breathing hard, fighting panic.
I heard it before I saw it, a shuffling, slipping sound of mud sucking at a boot, of a dog sucking marrow from a bone. From my hiding place, I saw something in the darkness beyond the entrance, protrude, elongated and finally, heart-stoppingly, slide into view. The thing was humanoid, although it could never have been mistaken for such. Its limbs were articulated, jointed in all the wrong places, covered in bony protrusions. The arms ended in a multitude of barbed cilia, serpentine appendages that writhed with horrible suggestiveness. The thing slid forwards, padded softly into the room until I could see it clearly. It stood in the gloom, groping, blindly grasping. I saw its eyes, tiny pin pricks of black set high up in its great white dome of a head, rudimentary organs at best. The thing had to have been designed to operate in darkness. Those tiny, almost pathetic eyes would be calibrated for the gloom. I had anatomy now, sought purpose. Was it intelligent? I thought not, rather a set of blind tropisms, a yearning to fulfil hard-wired function, to hunt, to feed.
I glanced again at those boarded windows, recognised what Marle and his daughter had constructed here, an environment that would placate it, sooth it, just until they could formulate a plan to destroy it.
The thing cocked its head to one side, emitted a curious series of clicks, guttural, bat-like, then disappeared through the door that it had entered by.
I emerged moments later, paralyzed with fear, wondered with a growing anger why I had been led here, why Marle had failed to destroy his creature himself. Was it unwillingness or inability? Yes, that had to be it, inability. Marle was hamstrung by his beliefs, by his adherence to tribal law. As a non-Unionist only I, and god knows how many before me would have the legal right to destroy such a creation. Unhampered by the tribal Life Laws that protected True Forms, only someone such as myself would have the freedom to put an end to such madness. Had I not been so terrified I would have laughed. Those same Life Laws that condemned so many experimental forms, so many start-ups and potentials, had stymied them here, protecting this monster solely on the basis that it conformed to a recognised template.
I ran then, cared not that the creature heard me, focused now only on the idea of escaping this place, wanted no more of the games and schemes that Marle had put in place here, no more of his desecration in the name of archaeology. I searched desperately for a weapon, a chair leg, a length of split pipe, a shard of wood, anything with which I could defend myself, knew that my chances against such a specialized Construct were slim, that it had been bred for conflict, for murder.
It was my fixation with my predicament that undoubtedly stopped me from seeing the bigger picture, the overall plan that Marle and his daughter had implemented here. In truth I must have realized that this was to be more than a simple subversion of the Life Laws, more than a case of a coastal tourist being led off the recognized path and paying the price for his curiosity. There had to have been a simpler motive, and a simpler motive was what I discovered on the second floor.

The room was darker than the others, its windows replaced with rough brickwork so that nobody would be able to see in, to spy on what Marle and his daughter were doing. I moved inside, recoiled as automatic lights winked on, experienced a moment of panic before discovering that I could shut the door here, lock it against the darkness in the hall and whatever it contained.
Shapes crowded the room, familiar in their outlines, Cartouches cloaked in dust and dirt, paintwork rusted. These were different from the ones downstairs, vitally different. I ran my hand over them, felt power at my fingertips, an internal vibration that spoke of life, told me that these specimens were still operational. I rubbed the muck from the peep ports with my sleeve, peered inside, saw the ageless occupants sleeping like waxworks, corpselike yet still possessing the vitality of life, dressed in the strange and ancient garb of their day.
Did Marle know what he had here? Surely he had to. That was, after-all, why they were not on display downstairs. Was this what the Mal-form had been installed to protect, a few functioning sleepers from the Cold Crypt, infinitely valuable, infinitely precious? It was what lay in the next room that answered those questions, made me realise how wrong I had been, focussed the anger into something shaper, something that less easy quench.
A single Cartouche had been laid out on a series of workman’s stools, still operational but obviously tampered with, obviously compromised. I saw the hammer and chisel on the bench next to it, the brutal instruments of the grave robber’s art. Except this wasn’t grave robbery, this was something worse. This was the systematic disposal of the living for personal gain. This was murder.
Marle would die for this. If Venice Beach’s tribal council discovered that he was plundering the Cold Crypt for trinkets he would be executed; Anna too if her father implicated her. I shuddered to think at how long this had been going on, how many people he had dispatched in this way, popped like oysters, like whelks dug up from the sand. I pictured the main hall again with its Cartouches standing in rows. And like oysters, only one in every ten or so would yield a trophy, a piece of jewellery or other keepsake, squirreled away like a pearl. I trembled with rage at the thought of it, realized that I was breathing far too fast, felt the remnants of the incapacitant still coursing through my veins, reminded myself that they had intended to kill me too.
It was the crash in the hall outside that made me stop. I stood still, unwilling to move, saw the shadow slide across the gap beneath the door, heard chitin on the terrazzo outside, the clicking of claws, a soft shoe shuffle like bird’s wings. The door handle began to turn, revolving the complete length of its travel before stopping there. The door bulged in its frame. The creature was intelligent. I wondered how it had followed me here. It had to have been following a scent, had to be more specialised than I had imagined.
From beneath the door, Cilia appeared, grasped, groped blindly, leaving tracks in the dust, climbed the door itself, finally took hold of the lock in the awful parody of a hand.
I fled back into Marle’s workshop, glanced around, only now recognising the trap that I had blundered into. The room was a dead end. The door shook again, a greater impact this time, dislodging dust and chips of plaster. There was frustration behind it now, an eagerness at the prospect of a kill. It would be in here soon enough.
I searched for an exit, however unlikely, an air vent or a crawl space, anything, saw nothing then something, Marle’s hammer laying there on the work bench. I took hold of it just as the lights died, experienced a new terror in total darkness. Was this Marle’s last trick, a final way of handing his project an advantage?
It happened then, so quickly that I barely managed to recognize it for what it was.
I heard the door go, a great tearing and splintering of wood, heard the creature slope into the room, saw its teeth like needles in the darkness, crystalline like those of some ancient deep ocean predator.
The motion caught me off balance. I fell backwards, lost my grip on the hammer and in an instant light, glorious light, motion sensitive light, flooded back into the room.
The effect on the Mal-form was startling. It recoiled, as though hit with boiling water. It thrashed and convulsed like a fish on dry land, tried to hide itself, cowered and raged on the floor. I saw its skin change colour, saw red lesions appear like whip-marks before my eyes, an instant sun-burn, enough to incapacitate, I knew, but not to kill. I grasped for the hammer, found it nearby, needed no encouragement to raise it, to swing it high above my head and finally bring it crashing down on that pale skull, on the boney protuberance above those tiny olive-black eyes. The Mal-form let out one last terrible cry as it died, then lay still. Silence descended.

I found Anna waiting by the oak door. Her father was nowhere to be seen which was probably just as well. She saw me approach, shrank visibly when she noticed the weapon I carried, my bloodied and torn shirt, expecting another outcome perhaps. Was that a look of disappointment on her face, a shade of grief at her loss? Or was it shame at what she had allowed herself to become embroiled in? Whatever it was, she said nothing, chose to look away instead, steeled against retribution perhaps, resigned to what I might do in my anger.
I threw the hammer at her feet. She remained silent as I turned to leave, didn’t try to stop me, to question me, knew better than that, could only have recognised that for her and her father this was far from an ending.
I stepped out onto the street, basked in the late afternoon sunlight, succumbed finally to nausea, made a mess of the steps, then turned my back on the place, intent now only on approaching the tribal council, demanding a boat or a buggy, anything to take me away from this place.