he said, "He always seemed a good guy."
She shrugged again, mechanically. "He knew the risks," she said but it sounded practiced and more than a little hollow, an ineffective salve for open wounds. "We’ve done as bad."
When we finally rolled to a stop it was a relief. I had the feeling that we had been circling around, taking a winding, inexact route to get to wherever we were going, though whether for our benefit or for some other, more concerning reason, I could not say. As the driver swung open his door and dropped out of sight, Loess quickly leaned forward and spoke to us in low, urgent whisper.
"Listen," she said, "When you see the boss, be wary, he’s been acting odd recently. I’m only telling you this because I like you, Alexander, and because you’ve been good to us. But he’s," she searched for what she was trying to say, "Become intense." She caught Corg’s look, "More intense than usual. Just tread lightly, he may not be in the spirit to help you."
"What’s going on?" Corg whispered back, but she just shook her head.
"No time," she said with a sigh, then shrugged as if to ask what difference her words made. "War."
With another tortured groan the door swung back on its rusted runners.
"Out you pop," Baldman leered, still wearing the shades, "Let’s get this done."
They had brought us to an abandoned building site. Like some kind of barren, lunar landscape it stretched away on all sides in a muddy quagmire, its troughs and pits filling with rain water. It was no man’s land, an unending monochrome monotony. In the distance, abandoned machinery stood empty like great unremembered dinosaur skeletons silhouetted against the clouds, their looming black shapes creating weird, alien patterns against the skyline.
In the middle of the site was a large, half demolished building that, in its prime, must have been an handsome architectural work, now left to rot. It had the air of an institution or an academy of some kind but its original purpose was long since obscured by time.
Now it stood bereft in an empty landscape, crumbling slowly into nothing. Half of the structure, at least, looked to be already gone, the rest kept standing and supported, here and there, by some aged and half robbed-out scaffolding that pointed and stuck out at odd directions lending the whole remaining building a lopsided, nightmare quality.
Awaiting within this skeletal palace, I had been told, was the Make it Happen Man. I’d heard the name before - as something like an urban legend - and was curious to meet this mysterious figure. His name, shortened for convenience to Mr. Happen, was a reflection of his ability and reputation as a fixer: by all accounts he was a man who could find anything, anywhere. My guess was this was how he and Corg had been able to appreciate one another, with Corg eventually becoming a sometimes driver and smuggler of contraband goods on Mr. Happen’s behalf.
Many of the stories about the mysterious figure attributed his ability to influence events to an almost supernatural force, beliefs that were encouraged by Mr. Happen’s anecdotally ethereal, otherworldly nature. Corg had claimed as much as we journeyed over the old bridge and I was eager to see this eccentric occultist with my own eyes.
We followed Baldman across the site, picking our way carefully over debris and filth, and up a wide flight of carved, crumbling steps to a heavy metal and wood door which swung ominously open as we approached.
"Come on in boys," he crowed, beckoning us through the opening with mock gentility. "Come make yourselves at home."
The hallway into which he led us was old and sad, thick with the stink of damp and rot. The walls were stained by fungus, the carpet threadbare and worm-eaten. Everything was green and brown and sticky with decay.
We followed him through more corridors that echoed the first in odor and appearance and up a flight of creaking metal steps to another level. The rain was pouring through
She shrugged again, mechanically. "He knew the risks," she said but it sounded practiced and more than a little hollow, an ineffective salve for open wounds. "We’ve done as bad."
When we finally rolled to a stop it was a relief. I had the feeling that we had been circling around, taking a winding, inexact route to get to wherever we were going, though whether for our benefit or for some other, more concerning reason, I could not say. As the driver swung open his door and dropped out of sight, Loess quickly leaned forward and spoke to us in low, urgent whisper.
"Listen," she said, "When you see the boss, be wary, he’s been acting odd recently. I’m only telling you this because I like you, Alexander, and because you’ve been good to us. But he’s," she searched for what she was trying to say, "Become intense." She caught Corg’s look, "More intense than usual. Just tread lightly, he may not be in the spirit to help you."
"What’s going on?" Corg whispered back, but she just shook her head.
"No time," she said with a sigh, then shrugged as if to ask what difference her words made. "War."
With another tortured groan the door swung back on its rusted runners.
"Out you pop," Baldman leered, still wearing the shades, "Let’s get this done."
They had brought us to an abandoned building site. Like some kind of barren, lunar landscape it stretched away on all sides in a muddy quagmire, its troughs and pits filling with rain water. It was no man’s land, an unending monochrome monotony. In the distance, abandoned machinery stood empty like great unremembered dinosaur skeletons silhouetted against the clouds, their looming black shapes creating weird, alien patterns against the skyline.
In the middle of the site was a large, half demolished building that, in its prime, must have been an handsome architectural work, now left to rot. It had the air of an institution or an academy of some kind but its original purpose was long since obscured by time.
Now it stood bereft in an empty landscape, crumbling slowly into nothing. Half of the structure, at least, looked to be already gone, the rest kept standing and supported, here and there, by some aged and half robbed-out scaffolding that pointed and stuck out at odd directions lending the whole remaining building a lopsided, nightmare quality.
Awaiting within this skeletal palace, I had been told, was the Make it Happen Man. I’d heard the name before - as something like an urban legend - and was curious to meet this mysterious figure. His name, shortened for convenience to Mr. Happen, was a reflection of his ability and reputation as a fixer: by all accounts he was a man who could find anything, anywhere. My guess was this was how he and Corg had been able to appreciate one another, with Corg eventually becoming a sometimes driver and smuggler of contraband goods on Mr. Happen’s behalf.
Many of the stories about the mysterious figure attributed his ability to influence events to an almost supernatural force, beliefs that were encouraged by Mr. Happen’s anecdotally ethereal, otherworldly nature. Corg had claimed as much as we journeyed over the old bridge and I was eager to see this eccentric occultist with my own eyes.
We followed Baldman across the site, picking our way carefully over debris and filth, and up a wide flight of carved, crumbling steps to a heavy metal and wood door which swung ominously open as we approached.
"Come on in boys," he crowed, beckoning us through the opening with mock gentility. "Come make yourselves at home."
The hallway into which he led us was old and sad, thick with the stink of damp and rot. The walls were stained by fungus, the carpet threadbare and worm-eaten. Everything was green and brown and sticky with decay.
We followed him through more corridors that echoed the first in odor and appearance and up a flight of creaking metal steps to another level. The rain was pouring through
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