A Machine That Still Workss

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📡 Excerpt from King of Middlemass
“A Machine That Still Works”

Marlon is one of my favorite characters to write. He’s brilliant, guarded, and in some ways the moral anchor of King of Middlemass. In this scene, we find him doing what he does best.

At first glance, King of Middlemass is a thriller. But beneath that, it’s about how people respond to silence—spiritual silence, institutional silence, the silence of beautiful things that don’t explain themselves. You don’t have to read it that way. You can simply read it for the tension, the woods, the machinery, the dark.

The scene below is one of several set-pieces in the novel. It’s not the beginning. It’s just a moment where things go very wrong—and something unknown begins to make itself known.

Thank you for reading.

—Toby Boy
Author of King of Middlemass (Hardcover, August 2025)

"Marlon had promised himself an early start. Yet it was nearly lunchtime as he trudged up the slope of Hillside Avenue. The sun hovered weakly over the horizon, casting pale light over the higher elevation, a vantage point that overlooked the town below. He trusted his instincts that the signal would be stronger up here, where the air felt thinner and the wind carried whispers of other, deeper seasons.

His signal detector, an ungainly contraption cobbled together from salvaged parts, hung heavily in his hand. Marlon wound its rotator like a fisherman reeling in a stubborn catch. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, the words carrying both hope and frustration. He had placed his faith in the theory of live power, believing it might work even under the oppressive blanket of infrasound.

Then—“Ah ha!”

The needle jerked erratically, spiking with frantic energy. Marlon jogged the rest of the way up Hillside Avenue, past the imposing house that loomed like a sentinel over the town. The paving gave way to packed earth, and then to a hiking trail that snaked into the woods. He kept the device in front of him, turning it incrementally as he moved. The needle twitched and quivered, then swung decisively as he aimed it northeast.

He paused, carefully memorizing the direction. His arm extended outward like a compass needle, marking the invisible path. Satisfied, he secured the detector in the battered hand-case he’d scrounged together. Exhaling sharply, he began walking again, his boots crunching softly against the trail.

He’d dressed simply for the task: dungarees, nearly-new work boots, a plain tee shirt layered under a thermal. His grandfather’s war canteen hung at his side, filled with water only just before leaving town-proper; to keep things light. Now seemed a good time to ease his burden and quench his thirst. He gulped down, and gasped, for it was cold and refreshing after that trek. He set the hand-case on a tree stump and pulled out the detector again, winding it with a better, more practiced efficiency.

This time, the device seemed to spark to life. Readouts that had been dormant flickered and surged, their faint glow catching in Marlon’s wide eyes. His expression turned serious as he set the hand-case aside and placed the detector on the stump. Rummaging through his pockets, he found a stubby pencil and a notebook, the pages worn and crinkled. He wished for the comfort of his overalls, with their ample storage and familiarity, but there was no time for regrets.

He scratched notes into the paper, cross-referencing calculations, double-checking readouts, and jotting small diagrams in the margins. His brow furrowed in concentration, and every so often, he murmured aloud. “Well now, my friends, well now.”

“-Hey there, son. What’ve you got there?”

The voice startled Marlon, sharp against the stillness of the woods. He turned, his hand automatically adjusting his glasses. Three men crowded together on the trail ahead, dressed like dogcatchers but radiating an unease that had nothing to do with lost pets.

The man who had spoken held out a hand, a gesture meant to calm, though his body language betrayed a different intent. The other two flanked him, their movements careful, calculated. Marlon’s fingers tightened around his steel canteen, his knuckles whitening.

The truth, Marlon reminded himself, is more shocking than any threat, more real than any lie. Truth means we have right on our side.

“This is a machine that still works,” Marlon said evenly, though his voice quavered slightly. “I ought to know because I built it. This machine tracks infrasound to its source.” He studied their faces, watching for any sign of recognition or understanding.

The lead man’s expression twisted into something bitter and tight. He understood all right. These weren’t dogcatchers.

“You alone out here, son?” the man asked, his tone still smooth but his eyes narrowing.

Marlon inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. “I came up here on my own,” he answered carefully.

“Well, that wasn’t too smart, now was it?” The man smirked, his voice honeyed but barbed. From the corner of his eye, Marlon caught movement—a fourth figure emerging from behind a tree to his right. They had him flanked, and the speaking man had been the decoy, holding his attention.

Marlon’s breathing quickened. He glanced rapidly to his left, noting the tangled underbrush. It was thick, but it offered a possible escape route. If he abandoned his equipment, he might just have a chance.

“Hey, there,” the man said, his tone almost mocking. “You don’t want to give us a hard time, do you? We’re just doing our job, after all.”

The three men in front stepped closer, their movements deliberate.

Marlon stood his ground, his lower lip trembling but his posture rigid. “What is the nature of the infrasound? Why has it been deployed near Middlemass? And most importantly,” he said, his voice rising, “how can it be shut down?”

The lead man’s face darkened, his smirk vanishing. “Why you damn midget of a—”

But his words were cut off by a guttural growl. The underbrush behind them cracked violently, as though something immense and primal was forcing its way through the thicket.

Marlon’s breath hitched, his eyes darting toward the source of the sound. Whatever was coming, it was big. And it was angry.

It rolled through the underbrush like the prelude to an earthquake, rattling the air itself. The silence shattered as one of the men behind the speaker—a wiry figure with sunken eyes and a loose gait—was yanked backwards. His legs flew out from under him, and his head slammed against the packed clay of the forest floor with a sickening thud. The noise was like the hollow crack of a tetherball smacking a post. The man’s mouth opened in a silent scream, his breath stolen by the force of the blow. Before the others could react, he was gone, dragged into the shadowy underbrush as if pulled by an invisible tether. The forest swallowed him with a grotesque efficiency, leaving nothing but a smear of disturbed earth.

The remaining men froze, their eyes darting toward the spot where their comrade had disappeared. The leader—the one who had tried to soothe Marlon with a patronizing tone—shifted his weight, his face a taut mask of unease. He turned to bark an order, but a blur of motion cut him off.

Something—a shadow, a force, a nightmare in motion—slammed into the man’s side with impossible speed. The aftermath was instantaneous; the patronizing man was kneeling on the forest floor, his arm hung limp where the thing had struck, a jagged bite marking into the flesh and sinew. Blood poured in an unnerving shade, dark and too thick, already pooling at his collarbone. His mouth worked silently, the shock stealing whatever words might have come.

And then it was there, stepping into the clearing as though it had simply come along for a stroll. The beast—no, the creature—was massive, its black and brown fur rippling over muscle as it moved. A rottweiler, but not one like Marlon had ever seen before. This one was three hundred pounds if it was an ounce, its presence more oppressive than the lingering infrasound that buzzed faintly at the edges of Marlon’s awareness.

The remaining dogcatcher of the three that first appeared shouted hoarsely toward the flanker. “Get the prods!” His voice cracked on the last word, high-pitched with panic.

The flanker fumbled at his belt, finally producing a black-handled device with a trembling grip.

The rottweiler’s head tilted, its gaze sliding from the armed man back to the unarmed one. Its eyes gleamed with something too sharp to be instinct. Malice, perhaps. Or something worse. It took a single step forward, slow and deliberate, toward the remaining unarmed dogcatcher.

The man cursed violently, his voice cracking. Then he turned and bolted, his feet pounding the earth in frantic strides. Marlon, still rooted to the ground, realized with a start that he had fallen onto his backside, his legs sprawled awkwardly beneath him.

The beast ambled after the fleeing man with unsettling calm. It moved as though time itself bent to its will, each step unhurried, deliberate, inevitable.

The man with the prod dropped the device momentarily to fumble with a large walkie-talkie clipped to his vest. His fingers pressed a heavy button with urgency, his voice shaking as he barked into it. “This is Perimeter Four! We are sideways. Full contact with Croatoa. Repeat: full contact. Requesting immediate sweep and medical evac!”

But something was wrong. The static on the other end didn’t resolve into words. The man pressed the button again, his voice rising with panic. “devils… Do you read me? Ten by ten! Do you read me or not?”

Marlon’s voice broke through, high and shrill, “does your walkie have a countermeasure against the effects of infrasound?”

The man shot Marlon a dismissive glare but stopped mid-motion. His eyes widened, the walkie-talkie slipping from his hand to the ground with a dull thud. The sudden shift in his expression—a realization, a horror—was all the confirmation Marlon needed.

The rottweiler was back.

It stood just a few feet away, its head cocked slightly as though amused by the unfolding scene. Its chest rose and fell with a slow, deliberate rhythm, the deep growl reverberating like an engine idling. The man bolted without a word, his heavy boots pounding against the forest floor as he disappeared into the tangled shadows.

Marlon sat frozen, his breath shallow, his eyes locked on the beast. It turned its head slightly, meeting his gaze with an unblinking intensity. Time stretched thin, the air vibrating with a tension that threatened to snap at any moment. Marlon gripped his steel canteen tightly, his pulse hammering against his ribs.

The beast didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Its presence alone was a force. And, not for the last time, Marlon wondered if truth and right would be enough.

“He-hello there. My name is Marlon. What’s your name?” Marlon asked, his voice trembling but steady enough. He kept his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to make any sudden moves.

The rottweiler lowered its massive head, its dark eyes locking onto his. It exhaled heavily, the breath ruffling the air in front of it as if considering his words. Then, it sniffed, the sound cutting through the oppressive stillness.

Marlon swallowed hard, his throat dry, his body taut with fear. He fought the urge to flinch, keeping his posture as still and nonthreatening as he could manage.

A sudden clattering noise erupted somewhere in the woodland, sharp and dissonant, echoing through the trees. The beast’s ears flicked toward the sound, its head snapping up. It reared back slightly, its muscles tensing, and with a single powerful motion, it bounded off in the direction of the disturbance.

Marlon stayed frozen, his breath shallow and his eyes fixed on where the rottweiler had disappeared. He silently counted to ten, each number a deliberate beat to slow his racing heart.

When he finally moved, it was slow and careful. He crawled on his hands and knees toward the stump, his palms pressing against the cool, uneven forest floor. Once there, he wiped a cloth across his damp forehead, the small act grounding him, offering a momentary reprieve. The kneeling figure was still upon the trail like a cairn of skulls.

He collected the signal detector with deliberate precision, slipping it back into the carrying case. His movements were methodical, but his mind raced. His breath came faster, and he nodded to himself as though affirming some unspoken decision.

Marlon pulled a pocket knife from his jeans and, with quick, decisive strokes, carved an "M" into the stump. The letter was rough, a series of jagged scratches, but this marked his progress. He had made it this far, the infrasound had to be in this direction. He stood up, dusting his knees off, and took a step back to survey the scene.

Just as he turned to leave, his gaze fell on the discarded walkie-talkie. It lay on the clay floor, clodded on one side.

Marlon hesitated, his pulse quickening again. He bit his lip, considering, then bent to pick it up. The plastic felt cold and alien in his hands, its weight disproportionate to its size. He turned it over, inspecting it briefly, noting a series of small geometric symbol-like letters. Then, with a deep breath, clutched it to his chest.

His eyes scanned the surroundings one last time. Then he turned and began his trek back through the woods, every sound around him sharp and amplified as though every concealed pair of eyes was sizing him up."