Free Interzone 251 by edited by Andy Cox

scraping came from the curtained closet. Simon half-turned to watch the hanging blanket, expecting something to emerge. He heard the gentle clatter of bones knocking together.
    “We should leave now,” the surgeon said.
    Something banged twice on the tub, hard.
    Simon might not have moved had the surgeon not pushed clothes into his arms. “Quickly,” he said, the urgency plain in his voice.
    Simon dressed hastily, but when he opened his sack and stuffed in his box of coins, his book, and his photograph, the surgeon put a hand on his arm.
    “Leave it,” he said.
    “But—”
    The surgeon took the sack from Simon’s hands and tossed it aside. “Leave it,” he said again.
    As they stepped out of the garret and onto the landing, a violent pounding sounded from the closet. Then something like a long, indrawn gasp.
    The surgeon dragged the door shut behind them, and – still holding Simon’s arm – ushered them down the narrow stairwell and into the street, where a rust-colored blister of a sun burned weakly.
    Hunching against the reeking vapors, Simon allowed himself to be dragged behind the surgeon. Half-way across the street, he cast a glance over his shoulder for a final look at his home, and caught sight of a gaunt face glaring down from his window – a mask made monstrous by jealousy and warped glass.

    ***

    Simon knew they were being followed from the start. He would have known it even had he not seen the mask in the window, or glimpsed the elusive figure trailing them through the murky light. Wrapped tight in his coat and crusted blanket, Simon struggled to keep pace with the surgeon, whom he feared would abandon him if he lagged.
    They wandered through a ruined landscape of slouching buildings and crumbling bridges. In some places, entire structures had toppled across the avenue, forcing them to clamber over rubble or skirt pits of stagnant water. The thick waters of the canals were locked tight with wrack and sludge. They stopped only when the sun burned a poisoned red, then slept on the ground in whatever shelter they could find. Simon used his folded coat as a pillow, and every day woke with the oily taste of the city coating his teeth.
    He lost track of time.
    A day came in which he stepped carelessly, and a spike tore the tender flesh of his foot. On the ground he held his ankle as the blood poured. His cries brought the surgeon back, who crouched to examine the torn foot.
    “You can still walk,” the surgeon said.
    “No,” Simon wept. “I can go no further.”
    “But we’re not far now.”
    Simon had been hearing “not far” for what seemed many days. He shook his head, his decision made. “I’m going home.” But as soon as he’d said it he knew he was less capable of going back than of going forward.
    “I’ll stay here,” Simon said. Spotting a high window in a building that looked sturdy enough, he pointed. “There,” he said. “I’ll live there.”
    The surgeon frowned at the building. “I advise against that. I think you should come with me. We’re not far now. We’re very close.”
    Still clutching his wounded foot, Simon laughed at himself for being such a fool. It was a cruel laugh, and it turned itself to tears soon enough. He wept for everything he had left behind only to find himself in a place worse than he’d been before. He remembered a beautiful room with a wondrous view; riches beyond measure; knowledge. He remembered a family. All gone now – abandoned to follow a fraud.
    Simon wiped tears from his cheek. “I don’t believe you anymore,” he said plainly. With great effort he stood to face the surgeon, and said, “Goodbye,” with much resolution. Then he turned and walked away.
    Favoring his torn and bloodied foot, Simon hobbled several paces toward his new home before bending to pick up a piece of rubble as large as his own fist. He brandished it at the surgeon, a weapon and a warning. “Don’t try to stop me,” he said.
    Hands open and raised, the