The Last Scarecrow

19 | The Crystal Tower

Lazarus followed a series of flashing red lights. They reflected on the steady white-grey ripples of the Endless Blue, leading them deep into The Scrapers.

The tallest of all was The Crystal Tower, a posh office building of steel and glass that rose high above the rest. Pa had taken Erin there to collect the deeds to Coldharbour Farm when she was very small. Apparently, Erin had waited outside eating ice-cream with Ma and Clyde.

The enormous tower loomed ahead.

It was striped with pale light and shadows that ran at strange angles. The glass exterior was riddled with concave indents of various sizes, cracked and split where the Many Years Storm had done its work. They reminded Erin of the surface of the moon.

Ahead, six feet above water level, where a flat glass wall had once been, was an opening. Two figures stood either side looking down at Lazarus and her crew. Both were shop mannequins, their skin reflective and smooth, devoid of hair or features. The contours of their faces appeared and vanished in light and shadow. They were dressed in human clothes beneath water-proof overalls and jackets. One had a powerful bow and a quiver of arrows slung across its shoulders. The other held a 7 Iron golf club and a large wrench.

The one with the bow had leather gloves over its hands and heavy, steel toe-capped boots on its feet. The other wore pink slip-on shoes and had painted its face with lipstick and eyeliner. It gazed covetously at Erin's pink headband before falling in next to the other. The figures beckoned them to enter.

Twelve hoisted Jack up to the ledge. He and Twelve both helped Erin and Socks through the glass doorway. As Twelve hauled herself out of the boat and into The Crystal Tower, Erin found herself in an abandoned, open-plan office. Cubicles ran along one side like a series of rabbit hutches, intersected with photocopiers and huge, floor-standing printers. Busted strip lighting dangled from a water-stained ceiling. Hard-wearing floor panels sat at their feet. Across the room were several private offices, hidden behind partition walls and venetian blinds. Abstract paintings hung pointlessly between ransacked filing cabinets and stationery cupboards.

It smelt of damp and stale coffee.

The mannequins took off across the office, walking awkwardly.

Erin followed her friends, trailing in the mannequin's wake. They passed a lift, the doors prized open. Erin peered into the lift well. Several feet down, water churned in circles. Above, the shaft rose more than a hundred feet towards a boxcar whose cables looped beneath it like sleeping snakes.

Twelve grabbed Erin's shoulder, hurrying her away from the edge.

The mannequins moved to the far side of the office and into a cold, stone stairwell. They trooped to the top, eight stories in all, finally emerging into a vast open-plan penthouse.

Piles of broken furniture edged the space forming a barricade. Two rows of mannequins lined the room, each adorned with different clothes and weapons, their faces a mix of colours, some human tones, some psychedelic. Some appeared to have defined themselves as male or female, but many were androgynous. The mannequins looked fragile, crudely put together, but their weapons were vicious and hungry for blood.

Erin stopped, her hand reaching for Socks.

The dog whined quietly as the mannequins turned their blank faces towards them, heels clicking to attention.

At the end of the large room, sat a throne made from office chairs, steel drawers, air-conditioning pipes, keyboards, and multi-coloured cabling. Perched on top, one leg crossed at right-angles, sat a figure dressed in blue from head to toe.