Free Dead Americans by Ben Peek

in the world with him at that moment. “I think I ought to open this door, don’t you?” he said.
    Cadi smiled, but not with amusement.
    The door handle turned smoothly under Twain’s grasp, and when he pushed it open, he found that it lead to a set of stairs. But unlike the stairs he left, these were made from dirty grey cement, and lead downwards for five steps, before running into a narrow alley where buildings made from brick and smooth cement loomed over him, and the noises of the world reached into the alley with thin, sticky fingers.
    They were familiar noises: the sounds of cars, of people, of music, and the things that mixed between, like dogs, birds, and cooking. But there were other sounds, familiar in the cacophony, but yet, at the same time, alien: beeps, strange, tinny musical tunes, sirens that were not quite right, and more that he could not distinguish fully.
    Stepping from the alley, Twain stopped. In front of him was a street, similar to the ones he was familiar with, but at the same time totally different. Moving along it like a school of salmon moving through a stream, were automobiles, the bodies smooth and rounded and so much that they resembled giant bullets. They were an array of colours, from blue, red, green, to grey, and white, and even, in one small automobile that looked like a dented bubble, aqua. Inside the vehicles sat men and women, singular or in groups, just as they walked along the streets, talking into small boxes in their hands, or with wires leading down from their ears and into their strange straight cut jackets or purses or bags. Other men and women did not dress the same, with some wearing simple, dark versions of suits that he was familiar with, and others appearing more casual, in blue and green and orange, among others. Sitting on the sidewalk, however, holding bags to them, were the dirty and poorly dressed homeless men and women that Twain knew anywhere, huddled within doorframes or the edges of alleys, and being stepped around by the walking crowd, who talked and beeped in a susurration of sound.
    “You bought me all this way to show me another fantasy?” Twain asked, unimpressed. There were smells in the air, a mix of food and fumes and perfumes, that irritated his nose, and he reached into the pocket of his jacket. “You’ve really outdone yourself on the smells.”
    Next to him, Cadi had resumed his bony shape, with the man’s eyes closed, his mouth compressed, and scars mapping his body. Clicking as it moved, the skull said, “This is not a fantasy of mine. None of them have been.”
    Twain wiped his nose, and gazed outwards: buildings stretched out like a steel valley, running as far as he could see. It was as he gazed at the building that he experienced a flash of recognition.
    “This is Sydney?” he asked.
    “In the twenty-first century,” Cadi acknowledged. “We are standing in Kings Cross.”
    “I’ve never heard of such a street,” Twain replied, walking down the path and gazing through a glass window. Inside, rows and rows of brightly coloured plastic items sat, but he could not, for the life of him, understand what they were for.
    “It is not a street,” Cadi said from behind him. “It is the heart of Sydney. In your time, it is known as Queens Cross, but it will be changed.”
    Twain looked into the reflection of the glass, but neither he nor Cadi was there. Accepting it as he did everything, he said, “They don’t say good things about the Cross in Sydney, which I’m sure you’re aware of.”
    “And with good reason.” The Aborigine began walking down the path, weaving between the people, leaving him to follow. “The Cross, as it is so known, pumps life into Sydney straight from the English authority that founded it. The name tells anyone walking into Sydney this, yet most of its citizens instead choose to accept it, to treat the Cross as a dark novelty that they can enjoy on a weekend basis. But they shouldn’t. It is not an amusement