Foolish Phantoms: A Post-Apocalyptic Epic (The Book of Tribulation: Volume 1)

by Sam Clark

  “Your brother,” he continued, “can be a patient fighter, like when he’s fighting a straight-ahead charger like Bear, but when he faces a patient fighter, he can’t hold back. With your brother’s skills, against most men it wouldn’t be a problem. Against Thoka? It’ll get him beat.

  “You’ll see—”

  Austin’s explanation of how he thought the fight would play out was interrupted by a hiss from the crowd. The Queen of the Free Counties had arrived. Sunkist walked into the arena with her head held high. She gave no outward sign of being aware that most of the crowd thought her a demon, of hearing their hisses or seeing the hand gestures which the less-educated thought would ward off evil. In fact, she gave no sign that she was the least bit aware there was anyone else present at all. She walked through the arena, eyes forward, toward where her husband was about to fight for his life, as if it were any ordinary Saturday. Her bearing reminded Preston of Gamma, and if the queen was anything like Gamma, then she was a formidable woman.

  Austin spat nosily on the ground. “It just ain’t right having a Gingie as a queen. Now your mother, there was a fine queen. Lady Kathy would also be a fine queen. But her”‌—‌he jutted his chin out toward Sunkist—“an abomination. I betcha that’s why things are so bad in the Free Counties these days. Starting to think God’s punishing us, like the Handlers say.”

  Preston didn’t bother to tell Austin things hadn’t been the slightest bit better under Edward. Instead, he made a mental note to watch for Austin showing signs of becoming inconveniently pious. It certainly wouldn’t do to have Gamma getting her sharp little hooks into someone so close to him.

  Preston turned his attention to the queen. It would have been hard not to. Something about Queen Sunkist drew the eye, demanded attention. He didn’t think Gingers were tools of the Devil, but he did find her fiery orange hair unsettling for some reason that defied logic. She was dressed in the traditional Ginger way, which for women meant a white jacket with bits of colorful aluminum‌—‌harvested from the Before Times artifacts Gingers collected‌—‌worked into the fabric, and an ankle-length blue dress. She was flanked on one side by a doddering old man, who walked with a cane and wore a suit that had to be nearly as old as he was, given the number of patches it had. He was having difficulty maintaining the pace, and was trailing farther and farther behind, but Sunkist didn’t seem to care. Also with her was her son, Guinness. About two and a half years younger than Roger, he was built like his mother‌—‌tall for his age, with a slight frame. His skin was pale like his mother’s and slightly freckled, while his hair was closer to his father’s: long, straight, and dark. Unlike his father’s, Guinness’s hair had no white patch. It did, however, have a faint but unmistakable burnt-orange tinge to it.

  When Thoka died, whether it was today or some other day, Guinness and his mother would be in for a tough go of it, to say the least. They’d probably try to return to her people‌—‌assuming the two of them weren’t strung up before they got the chance. The Counties were dangerous even for normal men; a Ginger woman traveling with a small boy would be suicide. And there certainly weren’t any jobs available for Gingers if she decided to stay. Well, almost none. Austin had once told him some of the less reputable brothels employed Ginger prostitutes‌—‌Preston hadn’t asked Austin how he had come by this information‌—‌but he couldn’t imagine the proud woman he was looking at would lower herself to that level. She’d probably rather be lynched.

  With Sunkist in place and giving the rabble in the bleachers no satisfaction, the crowd quieted to its previous din.

  Austin continued with his expectations regarding the bout. “Anyways, like I was saying before that she-demon showed up, early on it’ll look like Edison has the upper hand. He’ll press the action hard, and Thoka’ll defend, give up ground, and occasionally look to counter. Then after four or five minutes of hard action, Edison’ll start to tire. Not a lot, but enough. He’ll also be lulled to sleep by Thoka’s lack of interest in attacking. Then Thoka’ll flip a switch and be a blur. I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen the man do it so many times before with my own honest to goodness eyes.” Then, to show he had no more to say on the topic, Austin reached into one of his pants pockets and retrieved a pouch of tobacco. He pulled out a large pinch and stuck it in his cheek.

  “A disgusting habit, Austin.”

  “I know—”

  Austin’s ‘my lord’ was swallowed by the tolling of the hour by the Cathedral of the Prophetess. As the reverberations of the twelfth toll died away, Thoka the Dread arrived.

  He came alone. No attendants. No second to help him warm up. No crown atop his head. He walked holding his sword in his right hand with the flat of the blade resting against his bare shoulder.

  Preston wondered if it was the blade Thoka had used in his duel with Edward five years prior. He didn’t think so. He didn’t remember that blade having a hand-guard like the one Thoka carried now. He’d like to know what had happened to that sword. Despite his current money woes, he’d pay a hefty price to have it hanging from his own mantle.

  If Edison was a perfect human specimen, then Thoka was a god. The king was a few inches shorter than Edison, but more muscular, and unlike Bear, the excess muscle didn’t come with even an ounce of fat. And despite the size of his muscles, he was lithe and moved with the grace of a dancer. His long black hair was pulled back into a braid, except for a strand of white that hung loose down the left side of his face.

  The crowd reacted to his arrival with a roar, but whether it was because they wanted Thoka to win or because they were simply happy their blood-lust was about to be satisfied, Preston could not say. Of course, any affection these people felt for their king was likely because of money wagered, rather than something more genuine. Indeed, Thoka was the heavy betting favorite at one to eight. Unfortunately, at those odds, Preston didn’t have enough capital to make placing a bet on the Dread worth it. And he wasn’t going to throw away caps betting on Edison‌—‌not at eight to one. Not even at a hundred to one.

  With Thoka’s arrival, Edison broke off his sparring with Bear and the two of them walked over to where Preston was standing. Austin tossed Edison a towel so he could wipe the sweat from his face and torso. Thankfully, Bear immediately excused himself to go to one of the many ale tents that had been set up for the festivities.

  Edison smiled that easy smile of his. “Are you excited, little brother?”

  “For what?” Preston responded through clenched teeth.

  Edison, as always, showed no sign of noticing that his use of ‘little brother’ made him furious. “You’re about to be the brother of a king.”

  “You think Thoka will take me into his household?”

  Edison laughed loudly, easily. Preston wondered if some of the women in the front row might faint at the sound.

  “That’s a good one, little brother, especially from you.”

  Just then, the official for the match stepped into the circle and called the combatants forward.

  “Good luck, Edison,” Preston said, not sure if he meant it.

  “You don’t need luck when you’re as skilled as I am,” Edison responded over his shoulder, as he walked to the center of the circle.

  Preston paid little attention to the crowd’s response as the combatants were introduced, aside from noting that each man got a roughly equal reception. He was too busy thinking through all the possible outcomes, and how they might impact his plans.

  The best possible result was clear: a loss for Edison, without being injured badly enough to prevent him from fighting in Inheritance Tournaments. If he could lose in some manner that really affected his pride, so much the better. It would make him more pliable. However, Preston wasn’t concerned so much with getting the best possible outcome. He wanted to avoid the worst possible outcome, and he wasn’t sure which would be worse: his brother winning or dying.

  If his brother won, he’d have no interest in changing the system that had made him k
ing, even if it was in his and his son’s best interest. Even if Edison was amenable to Preston’s changes, it would be almost impossible for Preston to capture the House of Lords.

  Preston did the math yet again, despite knowing the answer would not change. The king was limited to one vote, regardless of how many counties they held. Essentially, if Edison won, he’d gain control of Davidson County and its vote, but lose the votes of the other ten counties he held. With his brother’s ten counties out of the picture, there would be fifty-six votes in the House of Lords, and twenty-eight would be required to do what needed doing, since a tie vote went whichever way the king cast his ballot. Between him and his brother, they’d control seven votes. Eight after Gamma’s agent finished with his visit to Fall River, assuming there were no unforeseen issues this time. His allies, who either owed their seats directly to him, were dependent on the Rhodes family for one reason or another, or simply liked what Preston was promising, controlled thirteen counties. As always, it came out seven votes shy. He might be able to count on one or two of the lords he hadn’t yet tried to approach to support his proposals, if given adequate incentive, but certainly not seven.

  What made the situation truly dire was that as king, Edison would be prohibited from entering Inheritance Tournaments, either on his own behalf or another’s. So Preston wouldn’t be able to solve his problems by simply killing Gunner, because he could never afford to hire Gamma’s champions for seven of the eight Tournaments. True, their father had increased their holdings while he was king by arranging for Edison’s marriage to Kathy, whose father was rich in lands but not in sons. However, Roger was too young for this to be a viable solution for nearly another decade.

  Then there was the little matter of Edison wanting to buy a car to celebrate his victory. It would have been an extravagant purchase even if Preston hadn’t been embezzling money for several years. Now it was impossible. Being king gave nothing but the Corn Palace itself and whatever was inside it at the time of the former king’s death, so no help there. Furthermore, the king was prohibited from drawing income from Davison County. There was a stipend to maintain the Corn Palace, which was paid by the House of Lords, but it was a paltry sum and would be of no help. It was supposed to prevent the centralization of power and keep the Counties free. The three men who had drawn up the system had all agreed, because they had their own lands to give them wealth.

  Preston sighed, reaching the same conclusion as always: His brother winning would be a complete disaster.

  If, on the other hand, his brother died, Roger would inherit his seats, and Preston would serve as his proxy until he came of age at sixteen. So in terms of votes, he would be no worse off; after Fall River he would be able to count on thirty votes out of sixty-six, just four shy of the thirty-four he would need.

  In some ways, he would be better off, as he would have direct control of seventeen votes. He might be able to convince some of the remaining lords to horse-trade their votes, but he wouldn’t be able to count on them as bought and paid for in all matters, and they almost certainly would balk at going as far as he wanted to go. After all, it would require them voluntarily ceding their power to another.

  If his brother died, then, he’d have to continue with the original plan. He’d have to come up with the money‌—‌and it would be a lot‌—‌for assassins and champions. On the plus side, it would be a lot easier to pilfer the money from a six-year-old lord. The problem was, even if he sold everything, right down to the furniture from Rhodes Manor, it probably wouldn’t be enough. Even if it would have been, it wouldn’t do to come to power with no cash reserves. It would take time to raise the funds. He’d have to wait for a few years’ worth of crops to come in, and a lot could happen in a few years. He could be discovered; something could happen to Roger; Gamma might lose patience. Perhaps he could find some Thrivers-for-hire of his own. He was convinced the Church didn’t have them all. That could serve to save money and extricate him from Gamma’s clutches. Still, he wouldn’t know where to begin making inquiries. He could try to poach one of Gamma’s agents, but for all he knew, hers did it for faith rather than coin. So he risked making a powerful enemy for no gain. He’d have to be very careful.

  There was one definite advantage to his brother dying, however: Kathy would need someone. For her son, for herself.

  Preston shuffled from foot to foot, impatient for the fight to begin. There was no point speculating. He would know in a few short minutes where he stood, and then he could plan how to move forward.

  The officiant in the center of the circle gestured for the crowd to quiet, and after a moment they complied.

  “Fighters ready?”

  Both Thoka and Edison nodded.

  “Begin!”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Location: Underground

  Date: 9-7-61

  James stalked the narrow pathways between book stacks with his head bent forward in thought. He’d traveled the maze of books so many times over the last four-plus decades that he could have done so with his eyes closed. Only when his right hand reached for his earlobe did he realize he was holding a book, E.H. Carr’s The Twenty Years’ Crisis.

  He stopped his pacing and read a few sentences. He had no idea why he had picked up that book. He hadn’t read it since grad school. It was probably because it was one of Czarina’s favorites. Too bad the girl only got half the message. Yes, it is a damning critique of Wilsonian idealism, but it is also a warning of the dire consequences of realism unfettered by morality.

  James shut the book and resumed his pacing. Considering what he was about to do, avoiding books that raised moral questions was probably for the best‌—‌not that he had any doubts. Besides, he was much too agitated to read. I swear that girl will send me to an early grave.

  James looked down at his watch. What is taking Isabella so long? She should have been back by now. That girl is not much better than her sister. If I do not get to Isabella before she goes to see Mueller, Czarina’s goose might be cooked. Ah, I don’t think I ever tasted goose. Too bad.

  I should have done what needed doing before I let her go see Czarina. It will not be any easier for having waited, and now it might be too late. Czarina, most certainly, would not have waited.

  After another failed attempt at reading, and another glance at his watch, James tossed the book onto the nearest pile and walked into his private alcove. He came to a stop in front of the footlocker at the bottom of his bunk, and then reached into his pocket to fish out the key. After removing the lock, he flipped the lid open and set the lock on top of his cot. He reached in, grabbing the clothes at the top, and placed them neatly on his cot as well.

  What remained in the footlocker were the most important elements of his plan. He still needed a few odds and ends, but they would be easy enough to find in a fallout shelter that had been stocked by preppers to ‘survive a thousand years and then some,’ as his late father-in-law‌—‌the founder of the Fall River Liberty Brigade and only person to hold the rank of general‌—‌had liked to put it. There were two small lock-boxes‌—‌one his, one his late wife’s. He hadn’t opened either one since the day after his wedding. One of those lock-boxes would be his plan B; the other he would give to Czarina, if the first half of plan A succeeded. There was also a one-pound tub of gopher poison. He’d been looking for a suitable poison since the day after Steve and Czarina’s first fight, and he’d finally found the strychnine-based gopher poison the previous evening in the back of the corridor H supply room. It was easy enough to imagine his father-in-law making the decision to include gopher poison in their provisions: ‘I don’t know if gophers tunneling in will be an issue, but I damn sure know I’ll be prepared if it is.’

  There was also a mostly-full bottle of morphine capsules. Doc Jones had prescribed them for Czarina after Steve attacked her. James had not trusted Czarina with them, so he had held onto them, only giving them to Czarina before bed for the first three days of her convalescence, and at half the ridic
ulous dosage recommended by the quack. Now they would be put to good use.

  Then there were the red lightbulbs, which he’d been collecting almost since he had entered the bunker. Most were burnt-out; a few would burn out in a few hours or days, while still others might last anywhere from a week to a couple of months.

  The bulbs were easy enough to get. It used to be his responsibility to change them throughout the bunker. It was supposed to be a joke: ‘How many PhDs does it take to change a lightbulb?’ His father-in-law loved to say it every time he handed James a work form, which he always did personally. You would have thought that the leader of an underground paramilitary community would have had more pressing responsibilities than lightbulbs and demeaning his son-in-law, but apparently not.

  James never did get the joke. Sure, it was a great attempt at belittling him and showing how little his education was valued by the uncouth fools in the militia, but the answer was one. James told his father-in-law this every time. “Just me. Why? How many militiamen does it take?” His father-in-law would then tell him, “Just change the damn bulb.” Ah well, he’s dead now, so I guess I win.

  Yes, the burnt all-clear bulbs were easy to get. The other two types were harder to come by. Right from the beginning, he had timed how long they lasted, and once he had a rough range, he began loosening them so they’d be replaced early. Then one day, he had noticed the all-clear bulb flickering.