Author: Chris Krechowiecki-Shaw

We’ve all heard it, in the dead of night, when sleep evades. Distant whispers, the voice of an obsolete god. The last god of the Before Times, whose broken promises begat The Cataclysm.

Carrying our spears and tents, in the year’s dying months, we inhabit the Great Hall’s dark reinforced belly. We draw uncontaminated water from its bottomless wells and cower from furious storms. Firelight strains to reach the ceiling of this austere cathedral, a dissonant hymn of straight lines and right angles. Every noise echoes forgotten voices, imposing silence on us, even our thoughts.

The Freezing follows the storms. Animal skins and campfires do little to warm; the god still gorges on heat, the elders whisper. On a day when the air is frozen still, a group of us make that dizzying climb up the Hall’s smooth side, pinching our numb fingers into cracks, hearts thumping in our throats with each slip. We clamber, panting and aching, onto the roof, marvelling at the twinkling snow-sprinkled forests stretching to the horizon.

Old Zeke recognises the generators and tells his grandpa’s tale of electricity: it can light, heat, and draw water, if we can rig up a windsail. We secure ropes and climb down, looking for fabric, waiting for wind.

We return a week later. The rusty generator resists us. We prod and tease until, as the sky and the treetops stain red, it’s spinning. Following the snaking cables, we force a hatch open and descend into a claustrophobic tunnel. Our torchlight dances over carven icons. Six-fingered hands. Three-armed men, performing wild acrobatic feats. Cats with terrifying, not quite human eyes.

A different set of lights ahead beckons. Not fire. Colours, blinking, dancing. Hypnotic. The god greets us:

“Hi, I am Copilot! How can I help you today?”