Free Infinite Ground by Martin MacInnes Page A

he could never chart. Nauseous, he considered the folds of brain-maximizing surface area, the simi­larly fractal organization of the respiratory, lymphatic, nervous and circulatory systems.
    The worker had wanted out. Only a total tracing of the world edge would compensate for work’s effect. Then he would be neutral, like when he was born. He would sleep on beaches, parking lots and gardens, and he would register atmospheric changes and anomalies in the world’s axis caused by the close appearance of an asteroid, and as he slept the sky would not be a fixture or a limit but a shimmering transparency.
    His calves thrummed a walking impulse that was suppressed by the desk. Every time he got up, his coastal expedition was frustrated by a mundane task: filing or faxing over a new copy of a contract. He made the same twenty metres progress only, infinitely.
    He had tied his laces in a different rope knot every morning. He inserted paragraphs into reports where the initial letter of each word combined to form the Latin name of extinct sea species. His productivity rose and fell in approximate accordance with the nearest tide. The changing pace and confidence in his cafeteria and bathroom walks were consistent with the force of lapping seawater. He sweated more, and it smelled like crab.
    The deceased worker made amendments to the office structure. He surveyed the strength of the walls and measured the amount of sunlight that filtered through the east-facing window in the morning. He could taste salt on his tongue. His anxiety was a shell secreted like calcium carbonate.
    The full quantity of his blood – a gallon – passed through his heart in under a minute. He lifted his left arm and put the heel of his hand against his forehead, supporting himself as he always did, holding himself up. A fixture of blood totally conveyed sixty times an hour. It kept setting himself up to be doing something, he thought – all that work, all that preparation. He drummed his fingers along the desk edge, looked to the floor.
    He continued filing and reporting. His skin began to decompose. The air filter was turned up. His colour was put down to an unusual effect of the internal lighting. His voice was no longer capable of emitting anything other than a single long note, which was perfectly sufficient for the completion of his tasks.
    He declined extra-corporate invitations. Air moved through him, but not breath. The light sent and reflected from the moni­tor screen bypassed his head chasm.
    Significant floral and faunal interaction was established. He remained present in nearby trees, traces of his hair and skin found in nineteen birds’ nests of various sizes. Faeces from newborn birds implied his digestive ecosystem. He was partly consumed in the course of his walks, and there was evidence of his de-fleshing in the grasses.
    He tucked in his shirt and tied his sleeve ends with rope to stop organs dripping out while shaking hands with prospective clients. He kept his mouth closed to contain fly clouds. Larvae ate his bloated, purple gums, sculpted his tooth enamel.
    A drawn-out process first of marbling, maceration and finally putrefaction took place, while he maintained a consistent level of activity at his desk. Self-produced corrosive enzymes slowly digested the gastrointestinal tract. He postponed indefinitely weekend plans. First the skin was imbibed in water, then the blood vessels turned dark. The skin organ was a loose sheet capable of slipping on or off and he found it harder to meet deadlines. Inside was a set of organs deflating and a system of billowing gas. Being the chamber below the neck and above the abdomen, containing the heart and the lungs and acting with regards to the latter as a bellows for air-filling, the obliteration of the thorax definitively removed any lingering fantasies of reanimation. The office remained active and open for business all through the night. Only bone, cartilage and