My Life in (the) Ruins

By Kalin Roads

The first book in the Zemblanity series.

Being stabbed in an alley by an enigmatic woman is the least of Ellen’s problems. Her life slowly crumbling after the death of her mentor, Ellen jumps on the chance to track down her attacker. Her journey takes her to a shop of curiosities only she can see, run by an old woman with information about Ellen that no one should know. Coerced into buying a sword she’s not entirely convinced she needs, Ellen leaves, and in a blink of an eye finds herself in a ruined city. With no other option, she wanders into the crumbling wasteland where monsters lurk and the sun seems to stand still.

Her problems? They’re just beginning...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kalin Roads
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9781778128301

Kalin Roads

Kalin Roads is a Red Seal professional baker and dice hobbyist, who moonlights as a writer. She is a connoisseur of monster movies and a variety of noodles. She currently resides in Calgary, Alberta with a Sasquatch (husband), a devious imp (child), a feral stoat (dog), and a shapeshifting ghost (cat). One time she totally saw the Ogopogo.

Book preview

Zemblanity I:

My Life in (the) Ruins

Kalin Roads

Copyright © 2021 Kalin Roads

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed Attention: Permissions Coordinator, at the address below.

ISBN: 978-1-7781283-0-1 (Digital)

ISBN: 978-1-7781283-1-8 (Paperback)

Copyright Registration Number: 1184105

Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.

Front cover image by Willis Jameson

Book design by Thom Roads

Published by Grumpy Noodles Press

First digital edition 2022

[e-mail]

grumpynoodlespress.com

For an Imp and a Sasquatch, because without you none of this would be possible.

Zero: Ouroboros, Again

One: Twenty-Six Stitches

Two: Benefits

Three: Solstice

Four: One Day on Boxing Day

Five: Spitfire

Six: Wasteland Wanderer

Seven: Klaim

Eight: Rote and Peel

Ten: Knots

Eleven: Isopropanol

Twelve: 8th Ave

Thirteen: Two Blocks

Fourteen: Prince’s Island Park

Fifteen: The Sword

Sixteen: Blood and Ashes

Seventeen: Breakfast with the Dead

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Zero: Ouroboros, Again

The air smells damp, metallic. When I was a child I would have associated the smell with wet pennies. The stench is too red to be copper—it's iron. Human. The pool of blood grows, grazing the edge of my boots, shining black in the low light. I don’t move. There’s a lot of it, more than what the human body should be able to hold. It starts to feel like it’s everywhere, on my sword, on my hands, in my lungs, in and on my rhetorical parts. My hands are shaking, cold or scared? I can’t tell. I can’t stop staring at the dead woman. There’s a self-satisfied smirk on her face and an air of I-told-you-so in her dead eyes. Her last shaky, blood spattered words still echo through the empty corridors. ‘Around in circles, I never learn. You can’t fight the future and you can’t save the past.’ I stare at her until I feel sick, until I can’t stand her mocking me anymore.

I’m sweating, suddenly chilled and dizzy. There’s a pain in my chest and when I touch to investigate I find a gaping, wet wound. I can’t feel my heartbeat, at least I don’t think I can. It might be broken. I remember us fighting, dealing her a fatal blow... but I don’t recall her cutting me. The wound stings and I have to fight to not collapse into her blood… our blood I suppose. I have to keep going, it’s not just my life that’s on the line.

I close my eyes, count to thirty-three and think of something—anything else.

I think of a sad song and focus on the melody only I can hear. I’m stuck in place. Her blood is quick dry cement and I'm the halfwit cartoon character with bad timing. I think of all of the people, the reasons that I'm supposed to be fighting for. I’m still stuck.

I hate you, I mutter, opening my eyes. The song reaches its first sorrowful guitar solo. If I focus hard enough, it's all around me, bouncing off the walls. I find strength in the memories it holds, the person I wish was here.

At the end of the corridor stands the entity from my nightmares. I wonder if reality will crumple into this world of paper flowers and origami dragons too. I feel like I've been down this path a million times before, déjà vu and hindsight mingle in my mind and you know what they say about hindsight.

My sword shakes in my hand, blood loss takes my mind wandering to where all of this started. I use the memories to strengthen my resolve and I take a step forward.

~*~*~*~

I ripped the tacky name tag from my jacket, and glared at the title PET Queen in big sparkly letters, before crumpling it and tossing it to the ground. The use of my boss’s degrading pet name—which I’d gotten for the hundreds of reports I’d written on various plastics that he’d signed his name to—made me just angry enough to do something careless to make me feel a little better. The state of my co-workers’ drunkenness told me that it was well after midnight and that my absence wouldn’t be noticed. The roar of the party faded as I passed the clockwork horse statue who stood guard outside of the restaurant, ducked into an alley, and was allowed a moment of quiet. The snow was up to my ankles and I could feel the crunch of broken glass under my heels, but I didn’t care. Reckless behaviour had been my forté as of late; stupid risks and disappointing rushes.

I’d managed to escape Sunshine Oil’s Christmas party earlier than anticipated, a feat that was not to be scoffed at. At the time I was sort of my boss’s pet project, his go-to girl; a gonzo little PA who showed everyone that he was open-minded and ahead of the curb. Why else would he put up with the inappropriate work attire and off-brand attitude? I was just eccentric and just ethnic enough to be his office showpiece, as if to say ‘I’m hip and cool, just look at her.’

I’d been working at Sunshine for the better part of six years, half of my job was taking pathetic corporate literature and making it shiny, pop, dynamic—whatever buzz word was hip with the artistically bankrupt who ran the town. The other half included mild scheduling, writing reports on the environmental impacts of certain plastics and talking to plenty of idiots with too much money. It was a mindless practice of double talking and recreating until my humdrum hog employer had been convinced that my suggestions were his own. I knew that I could be doing better things, but it paid the bills and I was very efficient at it. I mean, how bad was a job where I could get most of my work done in half the day and spend the rest of it wasting time on the internet?

I hated it, but at that point in my life I would have never admitted it. They had kept me employed after my internship, even after I’d been expelled from university. I could get away with murder and make a hell of a lot more than the people who had actually graduated. So what if I was coasting?

‘Ellen, you’re going to do great things,’ was the pathetic mantra of my life that became less and less relevant the older I got. A career that entailed taking my boss’s napkin brainstorms and turning them into corporate propaganda and having a redundantly large knowledge of plastics had squelched most people's hopes that I was destined for greatness.

It was the first deep snowfall of the season and even though I was wearing open-toed shoes, I wasn’t cold. The memo on my desk had insisted that this was a formal event and went as far as to give a definition and several examples of appropriate attire, as if I were too stupid to understand what formal meant. I almost took the bait and planned to wear the flashiest dress left over from my clubbing days, but wisely decided against it and wore a small silk trapeze dress in burgundy with matching open-toed heels.

Earlier that day I’d gone to the salon and dropped over five hundred dollars on a haircut and dye job. I stuck with the regular auburn I wore, but opted to dye the tips of my hair in the perfect Pantone of Sunshine’s biggest competitor in protest. I’d gotten the chemical formula for PET plastic shaved into the left side of my head, owning the nickname in a way that I doubted any of the higher ups would notice. Rebellion was fine as long as I didn’t get myself into too much trouble. I’d felt pretty triumphant about the whole look until I’d gotten to the party and saw the nametag. I spent the rest of the evening in a state of uncomfortable self consciousness.

I knew that it was well below zero, but extreme temperatures had never bothered me. I let my fingers skim my bare leg, reaching far enough to touch below my knee, grazing the large scar from when I’d broken it six months earlier and found that it was glacial to the touch. Other than the warmth of my skin melting the snow and causing my feet to slip out of my shoes, I was perfectly comfortable in the frigid air. If I wasn’t sure that there was a myriad of unpleasantries under the snow, I would have thrown the damn things down the alley.

The snow muffled everything; not even mice or a homeless person broke the silence. It was a little unnerving. Most of the time, when I was doing foolish things, there was usually a witness; someone to observe and thus immortalize my stupidity. I’d never admit it, but I hated being alone. I hated the silence that allowed my thoughts to wander and at that moment it was deafening. I almost hated being alone as much as I hated large crowds, the stifling claustrophobic crunch of a multitude of warm bodies. The painful squelch of being crushed under the weight of hundreds of moving feet, unknowingly pulverized.

I stopped in the middle of the alley, ignoring the frost forming on my eyelashes and took a deep breath. The air was cool and pristine, a far cry from my industrial surroundings. If I ignored the glare of the city lights above me, I could pretend that the world had ended and that I was the last person on earth.

Later in life I would look back on this moment and laugh.

I couldn’t tell you how long I stood in silence, only that when my cell phone rang and shattered the solitude, I was startled. Skid Row’s I Remember You rang through the alley and I knew who was calling me. Even though I had no desire to talk to him, I still rummaged through my purse to find my phone. If for no other reason than to annoy me, it was at the bottom of my purse—past my wallet, keys, sunglasses, and even the roll of duct tape that I carried with me. The phone was still ringing when I found it. I pulled it out, and my ex stared at me from the screen.

Eric and I had been on-again/off-again for nearly five years. It was only after we had moved into the condo we had bought together that he realized he didn’t know who I was and that I didn’t either. Our parting felt surgical; he left and I couriered him his belongings, save a few boxes I’d found after the fact, and ceased communication. He had been calling persistently for the past few months and I had yet to answer. I wasn’t going to this time either. Eric was the last person I wanted to talk to. Ignoring the call, I dropped my phone back into the depths of my purse, positive it would be out of reach the next time I needed it.

Almost-five years is a long time to get to know someone and the whole time I refused to let him in. I had a solid core where all my secrets lived, but it was surrounded by a valley of rusted nails and broken glass, encompassed by a lonsdaleite wall. Diamond had nothing on my emotional issues. On the days that I felt like I should let people in and the lack of a real identity pressed on me, I would remind myself about a careless note attached to an abandoned bundle, unknown natural parentage, and a DNA test that couldn’t produce any markers over one percent. Always making excuses.

I could pretend well enough. I was well liked at work and even went out for manicures with Donna and Patrick every few weeks. All of the little fabrications about myself satisfied everyone’s curiosity, when asked about my favourite book I would say some trite like A Million Little Pieces and there was never any follow up. I was good enough with a search engine that I could gab about reality sludge or sports and like neither. That was as close to anyone as I was comfortable getting.

Eric on the other hand, had gotten very close to me—past those made up facts and I didn’t like that. Off again. Then I’d need a date to a family function. On again. Then he’d start a fight about me not having a favourite colour. Off again. Then he needed someone to go to the Comic Expo with. On again. Then we got too comfortable. Off again. Then we missed that comfort. On again. Then he felt I owed him an identity. Off forever.

I started to walk again, the straps of my wet shoes cutting into my feet. Once again, I debated whether or not I should take the damn things off.

‘If you left the alley you could be walking on the nice clean sidewalk,’ a traitorous little voice at the back of my head bellowed.

Shut up, I muttered and started to pick up the pace.

If my head had been in the present and not the clouds, I might have seen my attacker. I was thrown hard into a wall, my head cracked against the brick, and a myriad of stars clouded my vision. I crumpled to the ground, desperately wanting my eyes to clear in hopes of spotting my assailant. The alley was empty, other than my own staggered footprints. There was no sign of anyone else. I rubbed my head at the impact, my fingers becoming wet and warm.

Great, I groaned as I tried to push myself up. My head was still cloudy, which was strange because I knew how to take a hit.

Those who believed that I was destined for greatness also believed that I would need to know how to protect myself. As soon as I had learned how to reason, understand the subtleties of why, I was taught to fight. Malik, my mentor and surrogate grandfather, had trained me in a fighting style that he had learned in the Israeli Secret Service—the only secret he didn’t keep. Back then, I didn’t like fighting, it was painful and brutal. I’d always secretly wanted to do gymnastics instead. Malik had trained me well, and was the only person who could ever sneak up on me. So why the hell was I on the ground? I hadn’t had anything to drink at the party; alcohol was an easy way to allow people under my skin. I dismissed the notion of tripping, as part of my training had included rigorous drills in heels.

‘Ballance under any circumstance is key,’ Malik would spout. I could do anything in heels that I could do barefoot. Clumsiness had never been tolerated.

You’ll figure it out one day, a voice said, cool as the air around me. I forced my eyes to focus and found myself staring at a tall woman dressed in a hooded jacket, straight leg pants and flat boots—all black. Her eyes were obscured, but I could make out most of her face. Her features were angular and striking. She might have been beautiful in a nonconventional way, if it weren’t for the jagged scar that stretched over the bridge of her nose, across her cheek and curled down to her chin.

Feudal Japan called, they want their cliché back. I spat as I managed to pull myself up.

Her lips twisted into a smile. I never get tired of your wit. She crossed her arms, there was something nervous about her, cracks showing in her dark confidence. This is all a little strange for me, she admitted. I knew that it was going to be like this, but to experience it first hand, it’s brilliant. The woman started to laugh and I steadied myself. I could see that she had something strapped to her back and considering the high fashion thug look, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was a baseball bat. The woman was clearly deranged and I wanted nothing to do with her or the potential deadly weapon in her possession. It was in my best interest if I destabilized her with a quick punch to the throat and be on my way.

I didn’t make it two steps before a searing pain and pressure filled my throat and I was once again on the ground, this time desperately gasping for air. I rolled onto my back grasping my throat in a vain attempt to get air into my lungs. The woman loomed over me, pity filled her face.

Ellen, she sighed. My heart started to beat a little faster. Had she seen me toss my nametag? I didn’t think it actually had my name on it. Through the haze of lost oxygen I could almost make out her face. Her lips quirked into a smile, her scar making it all the more menacing. Or should I say Ellendale. My vision instantly cleared, shock forcing me to breathe again. I hadn’t heard that name in years, not since it was uttered in a quiet room, when my parents felt that I was mature enough to know how I came to them. The first time I was told I was destined for great things.

How? I wheezed. The woman ignored me and stepped on my chest. I should have been able to struggle away, but she was putting more pressure on me than a woman of her size should have been capable of. She pulled the package off her back and opened it. It was a sword—a god damned sword!

Look, she started, You’ve been wasting your potential. I’m here to put you back on track. She unsheathed the blade. You’re lazy, unmotivated and a self-entitled rebel. It’s really quite pathetic. You need to face your fears and become a real person. With each word she moved the sword a little closer to me, always hovering over a fatal contact point.

Wh— Before I could start she plunged the sword into me, left side, between the ribs. I’d like to say that I took the blow in stride, that I fought through the pain, but I didn’t. I’m sure my screams echoed through the surrounding streets. If anyone heard, they didn’t do anything.

Quit your whining, the woman said, giving the blade a slight twist. I screamed louder. It’s not fatal. I need you alive and I need you motivated. She twisted the blade again. I kept screaming as she turned the blade until a loud crack filled the air and agony filled my chest. I was silenced by broken ribs. This is all going to be a blur, but I need you to remember this. I couldn’t see her eyes, but I knew they were locked on mine. When the time comes, don’t pick up the sword.

She pulled the sword from my body and I lay on the ground, taking shallow breaths as I bled out. The woman casually wiped my blood from her blade.

We’re going to meet again and again, Ellendale.—she sheathed the sword and put it on her back—Lakes and ladies, if you catch my drift. Her cryptic last words echoed through me as she wandered out of the alley and into the night.

I remember how clear the sky was that night, despite the city lights I could still make a few stars that got brighter with blood loss. A plethora of tiny white lights dancing in a dark sea. I swear I could see the swirl of a thousand galaxies and the shimmer of alternate realities. I tried to focus on the constellations, but I had never had an interest in astronomy and couldn’t find any shapes or patterns. The taste of blood pulled me back to earth and in a lucid moment I knew that if I didn’t get help, I was going to die. I fumbled for my bag and dumped it in the snow, clumsily pawing my possessions until I found my phone. I avoided the instinct to dial 911 and went to my contacts. I tapped the number I wanted and was amazed I hadn’t left any bloody prints as I put the phone up to my ear. The phone rang once before a familiar voice answered.

You’re in trouble. He didn’t sound tired. I took it as a good sign.

Are you on shift? I asked, fighting my fading shock and the returning pain.

A digitally distorted sigh came through the receiver. I’m just getting off, what did you do? he asked.

Meet me at the Foothills in an hour. I hung up and attempted to sit. I let out an undignified whinge, but managed to slump into a sitting position. The world went blurry for a second and I had to bite my cheek to keep it clear. I fumbled with my phone again. Dialing 911 would have been the smart thing to do.

No one has ever accused me of being smart.

I called a taxi and was immediately put on hold. I expected as much.

‘This is ridiculous,’ I thought, ‘call the damn ambulance.’ But my pride hurt worse than the stab wound and broken ribs.

I hiked up my dress and investigated the wound. Whoever that woman was, she knew a lot about human anatomy and knew exactly what she was doing. I fumbled through my snow covered belongings, I cursed the menstrual cup because a pad would have been too convenient, but found some tissues and duct tape. Dad had always told me to keep a roll of duct tape with me at all times. He used to watch a lot of Red Green while I was growing up; said it could fix anything. I doubted what I was about to do was what he had in mind. I folded the tissues and placed them against the wound, they weren’t going to do much, but they’d be enough of a buffer. Slowly I started to tape myself back together. The echo of the cab company’s reassurance that I was an important customer rang through the night.

One: Twenty-Six Stitches

"Are you a victim of