Dirt transformed into asphalt and cement as Walker entered the city. It seemed he was walking through one of four straight main roads that merged into the epicenter of the city. Like molecules in a liquid, people milled and bounced off each other in the wide street. Booths lined both sides of the road: each pressed and clawed for space against the buildings and occasional skyscrapers.
Neon lights blinked, razzled, and dazzled off windows and miscellaneous reflective surfaces. Tents stretched over desks of merchandise, people shouted atop pedestals, and shadows loitered in dim alleys.
Walker, wide-eyed, wandered the stalls. Near the edge of the city lay a quaint hut labeled “Archipelago” that housed several crushed insects, plants, and roots. When he fully entered the shop, the smells conflicted and clashed in his nostrils. Eyes watering, he strolled past one of the few shrouded customers in the store and stopped in front of a rickety wooden shelf, similar to the other displays that cluttered the hut.
This shelf, like the two adjacent shelves, was fungi themed. Each shelf held labeled, locked glass canisters that held various levels of mushrooms. Many of the canisters held white and yellow colored mushrooms that he, for the life of him, couldn’t understand how people could tell them apart.
“Finding the kingdom of Fungi captivating?” asked a gravelly voice from behind Walker.
“You could say that.”
Walker eyed what he guessed was the shopkeeper. Hunched and weathered, with skin that looked so rough it could make sandpaper smooth, he crouched down to pick up one of the almost empty glass canisters that held no more than two mushrooms.
“Striking, isn’t she?” the shopkeeper asked.
Walker leaned forward; the canister held mushrooms with chalk-white stalks and a red cap checkered with white protrusions.
He faced the old man again with raised eyebrows.
“Looks pretty dangerous. Does it make you high if you eat it?”
The leather-like face contorted into a scowl.
“If you’re looking for psychoactive recreational use, I can direct you to some fungi more appropriate for your tastes.”
The old man’s tone was less amiable than before.
“No, I just find biology interesting. Also, whenever people think mushrooms, they think of getting high or dying. So, it’s not too far a leap for there to be some sort of hallucinogenic property of a…” Walker gestured at the red mushroom.
“Brightly-colored mushroom.”
Walker scratched his cheek as the man stared at him.
He had half a mind of walking away, but this curiosity of a man got the best of him, “What does it do then?”
“While mimicry may be common among certain types of fungus, the Sun-kissed Fly agaric is a dangerous, but curious, fungus.”
The shopkeeper continued, “Its psychoactive and hallucinogenic effects are mainly due to two toxins: muscimol and ibotenic acid. The several compounds that we have not identified the effect of seem to be causing something, but their effects haven’t been isolated. However, since some say it causes… interesting effects in different organisms and people, they are hard to come by.”
Walker frowned, “What effects?”
The shopkeeper’s cracked lips spread thin, “Some… delusional ancient Mython zealots believe old and unsupported stories that upon consumption of the Sun-kissed Fly Agaric soaked in their holy water and completion of a sacred task, they would ascend as one of God’s angels.”
Walker could tell the old man’s words carried the stench of skepticism. However, he couldn’t deny being intrigued by the backstory.
“You seem to know a lot about a random mushroom.”
The old man placed the canister back onto the shelf before answering, “I’ve dealt with those zealots wanting to buy them off me in the past. They don’t come here often anymore.”
A question nudged Walker forward, even though he probably knew exploration of this topic was not one of the shopkeeper’s favorite topics.
“What’s an example of a ‘sacred task’?”
The old man barked out a laugh.
“Often the scourge of a ‘sacrilegious’ village that they deemed an affront to God.”
“How were they sacrilegious.”
The shopkeeper scoffed, “Apparently the only written word allowed was the word of God. So certain ‘holy warriors’, most likely hallucinating on fungi, would massacre entire populations and burn their libraries.”
Walker frowned, “Wait, how do we know that?”
“Know what? Be specific.”
“How do we know they did these things if they didn’t write it down?” Walker clarified.
“Two reasons. One they wrote it down.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
“Why not? Explain.” The shopkeeper eyed him intently.
Walker bit his tongue at the tart remark, “You mentioned how only the word of God was allowed. If what you’re saying is correct, then it would be against their belief to write it down.”
“Ah, but I mentioned that after consumption of the Sun-kissed Fly Agaric and completion of their aforementioned ‘sacred tasks,’ they would ascend as an Angel of God. Therefore, certain individuals that have fulfilled those requirements and survived considered themselves as conduits of God. Therefore… those words were okay in their eyes.”
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“Their logic is impeccable,” replied Walker.
“What’s the second reason.”
The shopkeeper scanned the store before answering: “They would cut off the fingers of the scribes, give them medicinal herbs to stave off infection, then release them. Eventually, they told other people, and those people wrote everything down.”
Walker eyed the red and white mushroom with a renewed perspective. Fungi had such fun stories.
“If these things are so rare, why do you just leave them out in the open?”
The shopkeeper glanced back at Walker with an unrecognizing gaze, “Hmm? Oh, those are dried so, while delicious with the right sauté, quite worthless to both the scientific and religious community.”
Walker’s stomach rumbled in agreement.
The shopkeeper seemed to be done with their conversation as he was no longer in front of Walker but instead hobbling to greet a couple of men across the store.
Walker noted to return here later as he spared one last glance at the sun-kissed mushroom before exiting the shop.
The more he wandered into the city, the busier and more extravagant it got. One booth’s centerpiece held a shimmering formation of crystals that grew off a mineral base. Each crystal splintered off into smaller ones until it gave off the impression of coral. Other containers held stones with glowing veins and pebbles of varying colors. Curiously, while these displays were examined, most of the bustling traffic crowded around a stout man in front of a wooden box. When he squeezed by the group and peered into the crate, all it held were rough circular rocks of a range of sizes. People clamored to ask the stout man in front of the crate for certain stones they turned in their hands, shook by their ears, and even licked.
Walker trudged forward.
The booths held by only one person were given out to groups of people who hosted larger areas. He even recognized a few companies that were attempting to sell asymmetrical technology that whizzed and burred, giving out hiring applications, or enticing people to sign up to be tested by pharmaceutical products for a bit of cash.
As he milled past some of these technological booths, he began to notice certain similarities. While each booth’s designs were vastly different in the type of machines and robots they produced. Every so often he would find some with the very same pulsing veins from the mineral booth integrated into these machines.
Walker squinted at the small metallic ball that rolled in front of him. It was ribbed with dark protrusions that oscillated as the sphere bowled in its pen. He scanned the outskirts of the splintered wood for any clues.
He asked the woman manning the booth.
The woman scowled, familiar wrinkles creased between her eyebrows, “if you have to ask you don’t belong here.”
Walker lazily raised his eyebrows at her remark before he walked off. While there were many other booths he wanted to check out, he first glanced at his watch and the gears that clicked and clacked beneath it.
While one wouldn’t have guessed it from the excitement that buzzed around Walker, it was late, and he hadn’t found someplace to lay his head. The cracked asphalt under his boots crunched and cracked as he sauntered to an open streetlight and leaned against it. Walker shrugged off his backpack, grabbed his bottle, and took a swig of water as he considered his options.
It had been a little more than an hour since the sun had set and the nightlife of the city was still alive. He scanned the crowd, hoping to catch an opportunity. Further along the road sat a colossal red and white Big Top with the words “Freak Show”. People milled in and out the top, some with small cages in hand, some with large whistles around their necks.
Walker’s eyes rested upon a couple around forty yards away. A petite girl leaned against a wall and stared with wide eyes and a small smile at an unfairly handsome man. He said something and the girl appeared to laugh.
He shared a smile.
She leaned in closer.
He rested his hands on her lower back and pulled her in as she wrapped her arms around his neck.
Walker tore his eyes away from their shared moment to a small bush that bridged the gap between two buildings. The bush drooped; its branches sagged to the floor rather than reach for whatever sun it could grab. Stray wind tousled the leaves, causing the fern to scratch against his hand as if it was shaking it.
He stole another glance at the couple and realized they were on the move.
The small woman had grabbed the guy’s arm and was pulling him into a brightly lit entrance. The building was taller than the others, with quaint balconies that hung in front of windows with drapes.
His eyes crawled to the festive red letters above the door that read: The Hammer and Sickle.
A hotel. Walker crammed his water bottle back into his backpack and walked toward the Cosmonaut. Soon, however, his nose crinkled as wet fur and fresh shit engulfed his nostrils.
He spun in place. The neigh and whine of animals that emanated from the Big Top pointed him in the direction of the smell’s emergence. Somehow the knowledge of where the smells were coming from made it more bearable.
The crowd thinned around the Big Top, and in turn, the entrance of the hotel. Thus, he stepped forward and entered the revolving doors.
Scarlet carpeted the floor, ancient memorabilia littered the walls, and a grand portrait of a short man on a horse hung on the wall adjacent to the entrance. A lone woman with obsidian hair and bloodred lipstick was stationed at a welcome desk to his right. While most likely in her thirties, she did not look the age.
He approached her.
“Welcome to Hammer and Sickle, would you like to book night?” She had a thick, sultry, Russian accent and a somewhat strong grasp of the English language.
“How much for a night?”
She looked him up and down, “169 with taxes.”
Walker pursed his lips.
“Kinda steep.”
She waved at the entrance, “Smell of shit and animals drop price, but tourists thinks it’s part of experience, so price don’t drop much.”
Walker checked his watch again and weighed his options. Biting his tongue, he fished out his wallet and dropped a few bills onto the desk.
She collected the cash, gave him something to sign, and his change and a key card.
“Third floor, room 210, be out by 11 in morning.”
After signing Walker hesitated.
“So… is that a real accent or is that just for the tourists?” He inquired.
She rolled her heavily eye-shadowed eyes.
“Real, my ancestors came here when it was still a logging village and built this for family, for trade.”
Walker nodded at the walls covered in old-fashioned rifles “And those, real?”
She glanced at the walls, “Real, though not functional anymore.”
“Shame.”
Walker’s eyes danced across the polished wood barrels as he admired their design.
She leaned forward and Walker strained to keep his eyes in line with hers.
“We keep the real stuff for paying customers,” she whispered, before turning around with a wink.
The right side of his mouth tugged up mischievously as he turned to the elevators behind him and headed up to his room. After the elevator dinged a third time, he exited the lift and examined the sign in front of him.
Of the two hallways that split left and right, he took the right one and found his room, swiped his card, and entered an already-lit room.
Walker stuck his head out and compared the number on the key card to the number atop the door, and sure enough, it was room 210.
He tip-toed into the hotel room and slowly shut the door behind him. The carpet underneath his feet hid any sound from escaping. The room was rectangular, directly in front of him was a closed balcony, to his left was a bed that sat next to a singular lit lamp atop a lone dresser.
In front of the bed, and to his right, was a wooden door that led into what he assumed was the bathroom.
Walker slowed and straightened. Perhaps they pre-light your rooms when you purchase for the night.
However, a rustle and a thump coming from the door caused his spine to stiffen.
He peered at the crack under the door, it was dark.
Walker surveyed the room.
His gaze settled on a tiny complimentary umbrella that leaned against the bed.
He grabbed the umbrella and pointed it at the door. Walker quickly dropped his backpack onto the bed. His finger rested on the trigger in case he needed to disorient whatever was behind that door.
Walker crept forward.
The sounds became more pronounced.
Now he was only a step away from the door.
He gripped the handle and pulled the door open.