Roil by Trent Jamieson

raised their hands at the passing of the Dolorous Grey . In greeting or as a ward against evil, David could not be sure.
    David wondered what their lives were like, here, away from the city. How they could survive? These train-swift fragments were not enough to give him any answer. He knew you could survive pretty much anywhere: the two obvious exceptions being within the Roil and in the far north. And here he was on a train racing to Chapman and the edge of the Roil.
    He gave up on sleep, Cadell was right; it was stifling in here. He wondered where Cadell had hidden the Carnival, perhaps he could just... The Old Man snorted in his sleep, and shook his head.
    David opened the window a touch, scowling when it did nothing but let in damp hot air.
    He picked up the pamphlet.
    The illustration printed on it was masterful in its detail work, crowded with Aerokin, balloons and even a kite or two above the famous Field of Flight.
    HEED THE CALL.
    There has never been a better year to attend Chapman ’ s aerostatic event. The release of ten thousand BALLOONS, to represent the fallen. The sky a fury of fliers, a fantasy of flotation, the Roil an imposing and majestic backdrop. Security and delight are assured. At prices undeniably reasonable and reasonably undeniable.
    FLY ONE, FLY ALL! HEED CHAPMAN ’ S CALL!
    The Mothers of the Sky have approved this event, a portion of the proceeds of which will go to the maintenance of Drift.
    The whistle blew ahead. Once, and then again, a shrill and mournful sound.
    Heat and sadness.
    There was so much noise: the clatter of metal wheels running on metal tracks, the shrillness of whistles and the animal growls of steam.
    So much noise, and yet so little.
    That thought gave him pause.
    Where was everybody?
    Surely people should be walking up and down the train. Children exploring, folk gossiping, or even someone snoring. But he had not heard a thing.
    Too quiet .
    Too hot and too quiet.
    The door handle rattled as the train jolted round a bend, as though someone was trying it, turning it, soft and slow, so as to be barely perceptible. A Verger, perhaps.
    It rattled again. Violently.
    David jumped, looking around for some sort of weapon.
    He shook his head. Just a few rough spots on the track, that was all. He was being paranoid.
    He took a deep breath and stood up. Then crept towards the door and flung it open. The hall was empty; lights flickered along its length. He poked his head through the doorway; nothing grabbed him.
    David carefully observed the aisle from the rear carriage door to the front.
    No one.
    No movement.
    He waited a few breaths, then stepped into the hallway closing the door behind him, after checking that Cadell was asleep – and he was, dead to the world, another tear tracking down his face. David considered waking him and decided against it. He’d be gone a minute or two, no more.
    He walked to the cabin next to his and put his ear against the door. Silence. He opened the door slowly. The cabin was vacant.
    And the next. And the next after that.
    He turned to stare back at his cabin. Just one more door, then he could give up and go back. He swung it open. A porter sat within, dressed in his uniform, looking down at his hands. He blinked, turned towards David, and smiled.
    “I can’t remember why I’m here,” the porter said. “It’s a little cool, don’t you think?”
    David was about to say that it was anything but cool, then thought the better of it. The porter shivered; looking at him was enough to make David feel cold.
    “Have I seen your ticket?” The porter asked.
    “Yes,” David said, and hoped that the lie sounded believable.
    The porter’s eyes narrowed. “I think I’d better see it again.”
    “It’s here somewhere,” David patted his pockets, then remembered Cadell had them. “Um, it’s back with my–”
    The porter slapped his hand down on the seat. “It is of utmost importance that the passenger keep his ticket with him at all times,”