Malefactor

by Robert Repino

  At dawn, Mort(e) offered to reinforce the inner edge of the dam. This meant tying a rope to his waist and rappelling to a spot near the surface of the water, where a recent storm had shifted some of the logs. There, he hammered the pieces into place and sealed them with a special glue that smelled like a Lodge City Special. It was dangerous work that the beavers had put off for a few days. But it allowed him some time to himself while the rest of the laborers gossiped and sang their songs about lodges and rivers. At lunchtime, a cook’s apprentice at the Grumpy Beaver delivered a pot of insect stew, pungent with boiled cabbage. Mort(e) got in line, filled his bowl, and ate by himself while dangling his legs off the side of the dam.

  When the workday ended, he waited for the beavers to disperse before climbing to the top of the dam and uncoupling his harness. Castor knew better than to wait for him. When Mort(e) got into one of his moods, there was little point in inviting him out to the pub.

  With the sun tilting to the ground and the shadows stretching out, Mort(e) made his way to one of the abandoned buildings in the neighborhood—a hotel that would never host guests again. Yellow tape sealed the entrance, and a laminated sign announced that Tranquility had condemned the building because of water damage. They planned to implode it later that year.

  Mort(e) ducked under the tape and walked across the lobby. A layer of dust coated the tiled floor, and a brown line on the wall indicated the high-water mark of the flood. The last of the sunlight leaked in through the grimy windows. Mort(e) climbed the stairs to the fifteenth floor. There, he opened the door to the penthouse suite with its gleaming white rug, enormous mirrors, and a hot tub from which the water had long since evaporated. The kitchen had marble countertops and a shiny steel sink and refrigerator. A little capsule of the decadent days before the war, all to himself.

  He camped on the balcony and surveyed the city. Vehicles moved along the riverfront, far to the south of the dam. Lights in windows blinked on as the sun sank deeper behind the buildings. A fresh batch of graffiti tarnished the walls of several government buildings. This time, an image depicted a dog and a wolf shaking hands under the slogan stand by your true best friend. Another painting showed a dog breaking its leash and heading away from Hosanna and into the forest, presumably to join some wild pack. Dumbass dogs, Mort(e) thought. Always talking a big game about rebellion.

  Nearby, the growing pond at the base of the dam reflected like a giant sheet of glass. Nature was slowly retaking the city of Hosanna, and this new body of water would only accelerate the process, slowly transforming concrete and steel into mud and moss. A small victory for the natural way of things. Perhaps the only thing Mort(e) created that was worth preserving.

  He opened his backpack and pulled out a pair of binoculars and a notebook. Peering through the lenses, he settled his gaze on the apartment building near the bar, where the humans were engaged in their nightly ritual of patrolling the perimeter. Two guards stood watch on the roof, two more waited in the lobby, and a fifth stalked the alley behind the building. Mort(e) tracked them in his book, noting the length of their shifts, what weapons they carried, and any insignias on their jackets or vests that would indicate rank. He called the short, stocky one the Waddler. A skinny one became Slinky. The older one, who sometimes appeared to give orders, was the Jerk. The others would share a cigarette and talk after he left, and Mort(e) imagined them goofing on him, maybe doing an impersonation.

  The singing at the Grumpy Beaver grew louder. On the high notes, the guards would spin their heads in the direction of the noise. Over the past few months, Mort(e) had learned that some humans went to great lengths to show empathy with the animals. Sometimes they would go so far as to claim that they trusted animals more than their own kind. With these strangers, however, he recognized the permanent astonishment, the resentment, the disgust with this new world. These guards remembered the days before the war. If they had lived this long, they must have killed an animal at some point. They must have hated the terrible things they did to survive. How could these humans ever really forgive? Why would they want to?

  Right around the time that the Jerk took his usual smoke break, a beaver stepped out of the pub and walked toward the hotel. Mort(e) raised the binoculars to his eyes. It was Castor, carrying two mugs.

  “Aw, shit,” Mort(e) said.

  The guards stiffened when they spotted him. They tapped their earpieces as they alerted each other to a potential intruder. The Jerk dropped his cigarette. But as Castor got closer, they relaxed. A tubby little beaver posed little threat. By the time Castor reached the hotel lobby, the Jerk had retrieved his cigarette and continued to smoke. Mort(e) made a note of it.

  Castor needed a breather after climbing the steps. Mort(e) remained in place, watching the bright ember of the man’s cigarette.

  “Learn anything new this evening?” the beaver asked.

  “Not much. Same routine as before. Shift change coming.”

  Castor joined him on the balcony and set the drinks on the floor. They poked their heads over the railing and watched. Mort(e)’s drink had gone cold, but he appreciated the gesture.

  Castor plucked a piece of wood from his drink and chewed on it like a wad of tobacco. “I’m going to regret saying this, but I talked to Grissom at Tranquility.”

  Besides Marquez, Grissom was the only person at Tranquility they trusted. The former assistant to Chief Wawa, Grissom supplied them with gossip and news from the wolf territories and beyond. Once in a while, he gave them reports about the al-Rihla’s progress. But it was never enough, only status updates and checkpoint confirmations. Nothing Mort(e) could hold on to.

  “Go ahead,” Mort(e) said.

  “Grissom says the inspectors approved the dam. They say it’s sturdy enough to drive a car over it.”

  “So?”

  “So guess who asked about it.”

  Mort(e) lowered the binoculars.

  “That’s right,” Castor said. “Our human neighbors even asked about weight restrictions.”

  “Who are they?”

  “They’re refugees. Hosanna is trying to take in as many humans from the frontier as possible.”

  “Refugees, my ass,” Mort(e) said. “What kind of refugees have bodyguards?”

  “Well, that’s how they’re listed in the records. The wolves even gave them safe passage.”

  “And nobody found that suspicious. Good job, Tranquility.”

  Mort(e) leaned on the railing and sipped his drink. If these humans planned to smuggle something out of here, crossing the dam into New Jersey made perfect sense. The other bridges were too conspicuous, manned by the best soldiers. In contrast, Tranquility maintained only a small garrison on the Jersey side, and the humans could shoot their way through if they had not already bribed someone. Once they made it onto one of the old highways, no one would catch them. And the records would merely list them as another gang of nomads who decided to move on.

  “What day do they open the dam to traffic?” Mort(e) asked.

  “Week from Sunday. At dawn.”

  “All right then. They’re coming to us. We have to stop that convoy.”

  “We don’t have to do anything,” Castor said. “We could let them be on their way.”

  “They killed one of yours.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. And besides, I don’t want to lose anyone else. Not when we’re about to go home. Not when we . . .”

  Mort(e) glared at him. “Go ahead, say it.”

  Castor needed a sip first. “Not when we have so much to do back home.”

  “Right, so much to look forward to,” Mort(e) said. “Unlike me.”

  Castor cradled the cup on his lap. “I wish there was something I could do.”

  “There is. Help me.”

  The beaver shook his head. “Dr. Marquez told me that being fixated on a single thing might be a symptom of your conditi
on.”

  “You should have met me ten years ago,” Mort(e) said.

  On the street below, the patrons of the Grumpy Beaver started a chant. Their slapping tails echoed among the buildings.

  “I’m running out of time,” Mort(e) said. “Trying to make the most of it.”

  “Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “No.”

  Castor took another drink, keeping his eyes on him.

  “I’m not,” Mort(e) said. “Oh, if you only knew some of the kooky thoughts kicking around in my head.”

  “Try me.”

  Stalling, Mort(e) licked his paw, raked it across his face. “I never wanted to believe in the prophecy about me and Sheba. About how we would be together. And now it’s the only thing keeping me alive. I’m not trying to treat every day like it’s my last. I’m treating it like it’s the day she comes back.”

  “My mother was right. The Three Goddesses brought you to Lodge City for a reason.”

  “If that’s true, then your Three Goddesses messed everything up.”

  “No!”

  Mort(e) flinched. The beaver almost never raised his voice.

  “You said you were supposed to be dead by now,” Castor said. “The translator was supposed to finish you off. But you’re still alive. Why is that?”

  “Marquez thinks that the fish-heads did something to me. Maybe they repaired some damage.”

  “Aha! So if you never came to Lodge City, you never would have met the Sarcops.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “They must have given you that gift for a reason! They saw some good in you!”

  “The prophecy, the goddesses, the fish-heads. Pick whatever fairy tale you want.”

  Mort(e) peeked over the railing. More humans appeared on the rooftop for the scheduled shift change, with Slinky, the Jerk, and the Waddler swapping out for Bozo, Dum-Dum, and Meat. Mort(e) called out their names as they arrived.

  “Meat?” Castor asked.

  “Look at him! He’s a pile of meat!”

  The man took his spot and waited, his thumbs hooked into his sagging belt.

  “I’ll talk to my people,” Castor said. “We’ll, um . . . we’ll probably help. If they find out I said no to you, they won’t like it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you need to do what Marquez told you to do. And at the first sign of trouble, we’re out.”

  “Fine.”

  Castor took his mug. “Need another?”

  “No. I’ll be fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Castor left. A few seconds later, Mort(e) tracked his movement as he walked to the bar, where he rejoined his comrades for another round, maybe two. They were a family, united by blood and destiny. And they did not have to wait for a prophecy to come true to spend their evening together.

  Mort(e) turned his attention to the apartment building once more. Any minute now, the human he called Meat would urinate off the side of the building, giggling all the while. In fewer than thirty minutes, Bozo would begin his smoke break. Mort(e) would sit here, alone, and record everything until the sun rose again.

  Chapter 4

  The Story of Nikaya

  Saturdays were for hauling guano out of the bat caves. A big scoop, they called it. At sunset, when the bats went foraging for the night, Nikaya headed for the caves, rolling a wheelbarrow containing a shovel, a headlamp, rations, and a tin of tobacco for a brief smoke break. Though she could smell the guano from anywhere in the camp, the thick stench at the mouth of the cave always made her gag, the same way it did on her first day. Even in winter, with the trees bare and the ground as hard as cement, the scent latched on to everything, a constant warning to stay away. A reminder that she deserved to die here, in a prison that did not even have a name.

  A guard trailed behind her. A male badger named Geller, dimwitted and coarse, but packed with muscle, and with canine teeth that could tear meat and tendon from a bone. He and his brothers handled security at the garrison. The bats paid them in food, lodging, whiskey, cannabis, whores. As the runt who could not follow simple orders, Geller got stuck watching this old beaver. Boring work, yet easy. He did not bother to remove the rifle strapped to his shoulder. Nikaya would not run. And the longer she worked, the faster that idea would slip out of her mind. On a good night, she would haul out nearly a dozen loads, each one heavier than the last.

  Before she could enter the cave, Geller placed his paw on the front of the wheelbarrow. She stopped. He snatched the tin of tobacco, sniffed it. With his filthy fingernail, he dug out a hunk of leaves and stuffed them into his pipe. He lit it and inhaled, making the leaves smolder. Two jets of smoke shot from his nostrils, the scent briefly masking the guano. Nikaya wanted to correct him—pipe smoke was best puffed from the mouth so the flavor could settle on the tongue. The badgers always needed to show off, and this one wanted to send a message. Tonight, Nikaya would get one smoke break rather than two. With a team of scouts stationed at the garrison over the last week, tonight’s work would require a few extra trips. No time for lollygagging. In the morning, her knees and hips would feel like rusted hinges. Her thighs and arms would burn. They would give way under her weight if she stood too quickly.

  While Geller made a show of enjoying the tobacco, Nikaya did what she would always do at this time of day. Without moving her head, she made note of the nearby barracks, where the badgers slept. She saw paw prints in the mud, and used them to count the number of guards. She guessed twelve, maximum. The same number as before the scout bats arrived. The guards changed shifts at dawn, noon, dusk, and midnight. They made the mistake of letting her see that. She saw the embers of the campfire, barely glowing in the darkness. A small creek snaked beyond the weapons shed. Farther away, a single guard pissed in the latrine while his lamp swung from a nearby tree branch. Framing all of it was a mountain bristling with pine trees, powdered with snow on top.

  The mountain allowed her to figure out where she was. She knew this forest. It was she who named the hills and rivers and ponds, not these bats, nor their badger allies. Nikaya and the city she founded had brought order and prosperity to this region. The bats knew that, having once made their home there. One day, Nikaya would escape from this place and into the open arms of the forest. Once she reached the river, they would never find her again. Because even an old bitch like her could swim. Oh, the weight of all these years would melt away. She would float. She would fly. She would dive, then rise again. These many months of labor made her tired, but also made her stronger. The water flows. And it would wash the scent away.

  “Better get to it, Your Highness,” Geller said. “Big scoop today.” He tried and failed to blow a smoke ring.

  Nikaya donned the headlamp and flicked it on. The badger’s pupils shrank in the light. Nikaya gripped the handles until her calluses crunched into the softer flesh underneath. The wheel squeaked, echoing off the walls of the cave. The overpowering stench of bat shit surrounded her. In less than a minute, the entrance to the cave lay far behind, a dim glow that soon vanished. She was alone.

  The shovel grew heavy, and the muscles stiffened around her spine. Her tail dragged behind her, so caked in mud that she would not be able to clean it properly until the spring. She leaned on the shovel each time she wheeled out a load and dumped it in the latrine ditch. The badgers would use the manure as fertilizer and fuel later.

  Though she hated what her body had become, she had not felt this strong in years. Each day here scraped away the fat that had congealed around her waist. When she first arrived, the badgers joked about how bloated and lazy she had become. She swore to them that she was too old and frail to work hard labor. As a punishment, they cut her rations, giving her only enough food to survive. Still, she refused.

  And then, one night, a new shipment of booze arrived from Hosanna. The guards got drunk, deserting their posts to r
un about the forest, shouting at the moon. Seizing the moment, Nikaya ran for her life, faster than she had ever run before. But they were waiting for her. It was all a ruse to catch her in the act.

  “Looks like Her Highness is stronger than we thought,” Geller said. Nikaya said nothing. Instead, she took the shovel and got to work, if only to avoid listening to their scummy voices. Badgers were never funny, no matter how hard they laughed at their own jokes.

  On this night, many months later, Nikaya passed the time by singing the songs from Lodge City. Partly because they soothed her, partly to annoy Geller. Visitors to the city often remarked that the songs all sounded the same: a low humming for harmony, the tails beating the ground for percussion, and lyrics that were always about the warm lodges the beavers called home.

  We will meet again

  In the darkness,

  Where you and I

  Will be the only light.

  After the third load of guano, she no longer had the strength to beat her tail, nor the breath to sing a full line without gasping. Even worse, there were no others of her kind to join her. The songs were meant to be sung in a group. One beaver singing alone was the saddest sound in the world.

  “Why is that, Nana?” her granddaughter once asked. “Why is it so sad?” Little Nikki, named after Nikaya. She spoke with a lisp and was a stronger swimmer than the males. She carved little beaver dolls out of chunks of wood left behind by the tree cutters. She made a whole family of them. A mother, a father, two kits—

  “No,” Nikaya said to herself. Not this again. No wallowing in the past. She was getting out of here. Better to think of something to keep her angry. The rage made her feel young again. It restored feeling to her numb feet and loosened the stiff joints.

  With a grunt, she lifted another shovelful into the wheelbarrow.

  Yes, it was better to think of when she first arrived here. That always got the blood pumping. The bats had arrested her in front of her family, her people, and hauled her away in a tornado of wings and skin and fur. She screamed for them to let her go while the wind howled in her ears. They dumped her in a clearing and flapped away, tossing about the leaves and dirt. When Nikaya opened her eyes, a line of badgers waited for her. Stupid creatures with long snouts, black stripes extending from their stubby ears to their cheekbones. The space between the stripes was painted a snowy white. Each of them had rings of skin on their biceps where they shaved their fur. There, on the pink flesh, they carved crude tattoos, hieroglyphs from their worthless language.