CHAPTER TWO

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Babel lived in an abandoned clocktower standing lopsided in the heart of the Bowel. Its inner workings long ceased to work. Its rusty gears draped in cobwebs and coated in dust. The splinted wooden floors creaked as burley rats scurried across made Babel’s skin scrawl. She sat in the beveled arched window made of chiseled stone, gazing out at the Bowel covered in darkness. The glow of blue chemical fire burning in glass streetlamps were rare.

Darkness was the dangers within it were the reason why women and children were quick to return to the sanctuary of their homes. It was passed high noon and what little sun light reached deep into the pit was filtered by the putrid fumes spewing out of corroded pipes from war factories tangled across the Bowel. These factories were worked by men who slaved through harsh sweltering conditions to create tools of destruction for the Empire in preparation for another calamity heralds centuries ago.

Babel felt down her legs over scars and open wounds to the brown scabs near the soles of her feet. She knew it wasn’t good to pick at them, but she did it anyways. She scrapped at them with her dirty fingernails. It stung as she got underneath one. Blood beading from underneath as she slowly peeled the scab back. Her toes curled. She gritted her teeth. The scab came off and she held it up, the gross brown dried piece of flesh, before dropping it out the window.

The door swung open. Shepard came in, holding a roll of clean white gauze and bottle of alcohol. Not this again, Babel sighed. She swung legs around indoor and dropped from the window. She felt a sting from the scabs on her soles peel off. She walked over to Shepard on her tiptoes, leaving a trail of blood dots behind her.

“Do we really have to do this?” she wined.

Shepard placed the gauze and bottle on a wooden box and pulled over a larger box for Babel to sit down on. He patted the box. “Put your feet up here.”

“I don’t wanna,” she said. “It hurts really bad!”

Shepard pursed his lips and sighed, looking down. He liked Babel and hated seeing her in pain. But the pain was necessary. Her feet needed to be cleaned and wrapped. He saw what happened with open wounds went untreated. They became grossly infected. It was not uncommon to walk around the Bowel and see people with missing limbs because of infection. He did not want Babel to lose her feet. How would they play together if she couldn’t walk or run?

“Don’t be stupid. We have to wrap your feet,” said Shepard, looking at everything but Babel. “It’ll only get worse if we don’t do this.”

“Can’t we just wrap my feet? We don’t need that stuff.” Babel pointed at the bottle of alcohol.

“No, we have to dis…disin…disinfant…”

“Disinfect…?”

“Yeah, that word. We have to disinfect your feet. Otherwise it’ll only get worse.”

“Fine,” she huffed. Babel sat on the box and held out her left foot. Shepard’s hands were rough and firm around her ankle. She became nervous about Shepard staring at the bottom of her feet. It was bad and he couldn’t hide his expression. She winced when he grabbed the bottle, her toes curled, and she jerked her foot back. Shepard held tight, undoing the bottlecap with his mouth.

She held her hand towards Shepard. “Wait!”

“What is it?” asked Shepard.

“Give me a moment.”

Babel stole a moment to breath. She turned her head away and closed her eyes. Shepard took that as a sign and slowly poured the alcohol on the wounds. She yanked her foot from his grasp and winced through gritted teeth. Tears swelled in her eyes as her wounds burned.

“That hurts!” she snapped.

“I’m sorry. We gotta do this. Lady said it’s the only way your feet will get better.”

Babel shudder at the thought of continuing. The pain, the burning sensation, was too much. She wanted to tell Shepard to stop until her eyes met his. Neither one had parents. No loved ones to take care of them, to cook for them, to dress their wounds. All they had was each other. If she died, Shepard would have nobody to take care of him. If he died, Babel would have nobody to take care of her. Their relationship built on a solid foundation of mutual trust and need.

“One second,” said Shepard, getting up. He left the room and came back moments later with a wooden bowel of clean water, and a ragged towel over his shoulder. “I almost forget about this part.”

Clean water was one of the few luxuries the clock tower provided. The Bowel’s water system was flowing with lead and corrosion running through the pipes sprawled across the decrepit city. It wasn’t until mass amounts of people started dying and riots broke out that the Empire did anything about it. But the little funds meant for improving the water treatment facility was directed to the pockets of corrupt nobles and government officials. The clock tower had a direction connection to the lake above the Bowel. Few people knew about this, and Shepard wasn’t in a rush to let anymore know.

Shepard placed the bowl underneath Babel’s feet. The water fogged with blood when she dipped her feet in. Shepard readied the alcohol in one hand and grabbed Babel’s foot with the other. She winced as the alcohol stung her wounds. This time it didn’t hurt as much. He wrapped her foot in the towel and let it sit on his lap. He took Babel’s other foot and did the same. A wince from the stinging wounds and a dip in cold water.

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Once Babel’s feet were cleaned, Shepard started wrapping gauzes around them. “You think it’ll ever get better?” asked Babel.

“What do you mean?” replied Shepard. “Your feet? Of course, they’ll get better, stupid.”

“I don’t mean my feet. Will this place every get better? If not, then we should leave.”

“We can’t,” said Shepard.

“And why not?”

“Because!”

“Because why!”

Shepard glared at her. His heart drumming against his chest. His frown deepened. It was not possible to leave the Bowels. He did not understand why she would think about it. They’d both seen what happened to people who tried to escape. She should know better than him. Her parents were killed trying to escape. How would children be able to do what adults couldn’t?

“…we’re not old enough to leave,” said Shepard. His eyes softened.

Babel could see it in Shepard’s eyes. He wanted to leave the Bowel but did not know how. The others looked to him for answers. She looked to him for answers. The truth was, he never had the answer. He merely pointed in a direction and ran until he stumbled upon what they wanted. The way out was up. How does one run upward?

“I’m sure we can—” Babel held her rumbling stomach. She watched Shepard stand and walk over to the door without a word. “Where are you going?”

“To get us some food,” said Shepard, and he closed the door behind him.

Shepard kicked a dented can down the empty street. His hands tucked in his pocket. Eyes glued to the ground. The air grew colder as the day went on. The sky above a blood orange and clouds a deep red. Goosebumps formed on the back of his neck as a breeze rolled against his skin. He cursed that woman for fucking him out that scarf. It would’ve kept him warm. It would’ve kept Babel warm. Now they both would sleep cold that night. And if Shepard did not find food soon, they would sleep hungry too.

There was a factory up ahead. Heat radiated from the fire burning deep within its mangled corroded walls stomach. Shepard felt the subtle warmth from where he stood. Toxic fumes spewed from its long brick pipes blanketing most of the sky in a thick grey cloud. There were two lines of workers. One line was for those leaving, and the other line was for those arrive. They stepped in dreadful unison. Their faces covered in ash and oil. Their bodies full of plague and pain. Their faces long and eyes sunken in.

What caught Shepard’s attention was the jingling coin purses attached to some of the worker’s overalls. The first day of the week was when the workers were paid just enough to scrape by. Lord Cistone, a self-proclaimed advent for workers’ rights and the most corrupt official, came up with this system of weekly stipends. As he said, If we pay these undesirables every week just enough to scrape by, they’ll never think beyond that week. They’ll remain docile and dependent on the job.

Most of the workers went home to their starving families. A few, who’d only themselves, strolled to the nearest bar to drink themselves to next day. Shepard followed those people. He skulked near the shadows, keeping his targets in sight. He preferred smaller skinnier targets. A few drinks were enough to leave them stumbling down the cobblestone street. And if they somehow managed to put up a fight, Shepard had no problem taking them down.

One did not perfect the art of robbery without taking a few beatings. Because Shepard was a child, most were content leaving him with a bloodied nose or broken fingers. They should’ve killed him. Nobody gave two shits about a dead street rat on the side of the road or in a back alley. Instead, they simply pissed on him and called it a night. And because of that, Shepard grew smarter, stronger, and developed tactics for taking down larger opponents.

He stopped at the corner. A blue chemical lamppost burning above him. There was a poster plastered onto the lamppost with a charcoal drawn picture of Shepard. He appeared a bit older in the picture. His afro larger and nappier. His lips and nose were more profuse and cartoonish. They even colored him in with the blackest charcoal they could possibly find.

There were more drawn photos of thuggish children with exaggerated features. Shepard wanted his photo to stand out from the rest. He took out a red market, undid the top with his teeth, and started drawing on the photo. He drew devilish horns, a large cigar, an eyepatch, a scar across the left cheek, and wrote underneath, “Coolest Monkey,” in bold capital letters.

He stepped back examined his work with a satisfied nod and smirk. He popped the cap back on the marker and tucked away. Perfect.

There was a bar nearby. He heard the loud drunken chorus around the corner. It came from one of the few bars that did not piss its beer with water – the Little Fig. It was a shanty building made of wood, iron, and a glass dome on the top. A wooden dock extended out from the back over the canal. Two tall windows glowed with the commotion inside.

Shepard watched keenly as the Little Fig worked like a factory. Workers dragged themselves through front door. Their eyes sunken, frowns deep, and their faces without hope. But each one carried a coin purse jingling a hearty tune. Shepard loved that sound. He loved that sound even more when it came from the coin purse of drunken bastards, all with gleeful smiles, staggered out. Some managed to catch themselves on the nearest wooden crate. Others fell face first on the filthy street ripe with the stench of piss.

“Outta the way street rat!” A large pig belly man shoved Shepard against the wall as they walked by. Shepard shot a nasty look. The pig paid no attention. They were heading straight for the Little Fig. A big crooked smile with less teeth than Shepard had fingers. And Shepard had all his fingers.

Shepard looked back at the Little Fig. His eyes widened as a tall graceful woman with pale skin, luscious red lips, and hair the color of limestone strolled across the street towards the front door. She’d a smile on her face as she tossed up her fat velvet purse. That woman had to have more coin than all people surviving in the Bowel. And she paraded herself through the streets of rapist, thieves, and murders without a care in the world.

She grabbed the door, cracked it open, and looked back in Shepard’s direction. He felt her eyes, pale a blind man’s, pierce through him. She saw him even as he stood in the shadows. And her smile beckoned him. She knew what he wanted and teased him by holding up the purse pinched between her fingers. He watched her turn away, slip into the front, and close the door behind her. It swung wide open as a drunken bastard, bald and sluggish, stepped outside and puked on the street.

Shepard clenched his fist. His empty stomach growling. He knew Babel was laying awake in the clocktower. Her stomach was growling too. With the amount of coin that woman had, they would never go hungry. Shepard would buy Babel shoes and himself a scarf. A nice scarf too. One that did not smell and would keep his neck warm. Maybe even a blanket so that he and Babel could stay warm during the winter nights.

All Shepard had to do was get that coin purse. And that woman was practically begging him to snatch it from her.