Marooned

by Travis Smith

  8

  “Get that shit settled down!” Resin snapped at his men, pointing toward the battle unfolding in the prison center.

  The crew had snuck around the back of this row of cells and found themselves in the middle of a fire-fight led by two of Resin’s most detested young miscreants. They aimed their weapons into the crowd and began to fire at the fleeing prisoners.

  “THA’S IT! THIS SHIT ENDS NOW!” Resin bellowed. He shoved Brandon into the rough grasp of one of his lackeys. “WHERE IS BOSS?”

  The gunfire slowed as many of the blundering guards stopped firing and looked toward the authoritative voice across the prison. A few of the prisoners continued firing their new weapons, but Resin’s men dropped them with fatal precision. A few more managed to make it into the temporary safety of the barracks.

  “Anybody?” Resin asked the now silent prison. “Can anybody tell me where Boss is?”

  The riled guards were scattered around the prison in disorganized shambles. Many were wounded, and many more lay slain. No one spoke. A few looked around at their deceased comrades to see if Boss was among them.

  Resin chuckled. “Well, I’ll be damned straight into the Western Sea.” He turned to his crew with delight. “More ’n we bargained for marchin’ back in ’ere wiv another bounty, eh boys?” He turned back to face the scattered guards. “Guess that makes me yer boss ’til he gets back. Anybody got a problem wiv ’at?”

  The guards shuffled in uncomfortable silence. Resin’s men flanked him and aimed their weapons around the crowd, eager for dissent.

  “Splendid,” Resin growled through clenched teeth. He turned back to Brandon, who had been disarmed and was now pinned against the outside of the cell wall, his head cranked backward by the force of the pistol at his neck. Resin raised his voice to the audience. “Lemme show ya how a real leader handles a breakout by a couple o’ spoiled—shittin—babbie—whorespawn!”

  He seized Brandon by his blond, moppy hair and dragged him away from the wall and in front of the empty cell, his feet kicking out in the sand behind him.

  “Fuck you!” Brandon spat, windmilling his arms around his head in feeble attempts to strike the towering brute.

  Resin hoisted the boy up and forced him onto his knees. He leaned down behind him and growled in a whisper in his ear. “Ya wanna tell me where ye took my daughter now, boy?”

  Brandon writhed beneath his powerful grasp.

  “I woulda sold you cheap,” he promised, “but if they was too weak t’ do it, I’ll be jus’ as content seein’ yer brains coat my boot!”

  He placed the gun to the back of Brandon’s head. He felt the metallic click of the hammer against his skull. He closed his eyes tight and tried to picture anything pleasant he could conjure, but no thought or memory came readily to mind. Instead, his breath hitched as he waited for the inevitable.

  Resin’s arm hitched painfully against the back of Brandon’s head, and he was forced down onto his stomach by the weight of the stumbling man. He heard a gurgling shriek escape Resin’s throat.

  “Goor lach!” an inhuman voice bellowed behind him.

  Brandon rolled onto his back to see a sea of mutilated beings spewing out of the hole in the empty cell. One had seized Resin from behind and taken a chunk out of his neck. He collapsed as a jet of hot blood sprayed from his neck, and chaos erupted anew.

  9

  Corina watched her growing kids with a deep unease. Her son was in the throes of maturity now, and he’d asked on several occasions when he’d be allowed to wield the strange machine guns to help protect. Her daughters were fighting over the last bits of food on a heaping plate they had grown spoiled and accustom to.

  Rictere was tinkering in the workroom with his obligations to The Baron, who was actively seizing power in Krake. After she lay the kids down for bed, Corina entered and wrapped her hands around his midriff from behind.

  “How’s it coming along?” she asked, her head resting upon his back.

  “It is a difficult concoction,” he said with an absent-minded tone. “Half liquid, half gas,” he mused.

  “It will possess the minds of its hosts?”

  “If it works properly, it should instill a painless sense of calm and servility,” he clarified.

  “To control the masses?”

  “Well, not to control, necessarily. It will placate the offspring and ease discontent with the changing tides. Should be more effective with each new generation.”

  Corina sighed and closed her eyes against her husband’s back.

  “You are dissatisfied,” Rictere observed, turning from the table to face her in her embrace.

  She shrugged.

  “It will reduce the likelihood of individuals rebelling,” he assured her. “This will end violent uprisings. And then it promotes reproduction in those families who are most content. Think of it as a happy potion.”

  “It just seems …” Corina thought for a long while before finishing, “… like cozening.”

  Rictere put his arms on his wife’s shoulders and kissed her forehead. “You asked for another way,” he said. “If this is what it takes to change the world for the better, isn’t it better than those?” He nodded toward the large machine guns leaned against the corner walls.

  Corina nodded slowly. Her husband’s words were reassuring, but she felt a sick omen in her gut. When he stepped aside and revealed the large vial, a shiver ran down her spine.

  The vial was filled with a midnight purple substance of unclear consistency. It appeared to be alive within the tube, which stood on four long, curved prong legs. On the top and bottom of the vial was a sinister symbol.

  “They will return to begin testing its efficacy soon.”

  10

  Resin’s men began shouting and firing at the beasts pouring out of the empty cell behind them. They were humanoid and walked on two legs, but they crouched to all fours and maneuvered themselves like animals. They spewed out of the hole in droves like maggots from a dead rat. Many had grotesque modifications to their bodies. Some had antlers embedded in poorly healed wounds on their skulls. One had talons or long-bones implanted in the tip of each finger. They carried spears and sticks, which they used to impale the nearby men and feast on their flesh, ignoring the guards who took aim and fired deadly bullets into their backs.

  “Get that fuckin’ cell closed!” one of the men shrieked. “Get it now!”

  Brandon scrambled forward and snatched his gun back up. He leveled it at one of Resin’s men who was kneeling atop Jake and staring at the chaos in wide-eyed horror. Brandon fired a single shot into his head and grabbed his friend’s hand. He hoisted him back onto his feet, and the pair disappeared into the barracks behind the cells.

  As the boys fled, they held their weapons out in front of them, remaining vigilant for any of the guards who may lie in hiding. The barracks were filthy and ramshackle. The living conditions for many of the guards appeared to be as bad as—if not worse than—those of the prisoners. The boys slipped through a large, empty tent draped over the passageway. Inside, there were eight dirty cots and refuse scattered about. The tent was positioned along the only apparent walkway through the barracks, so it must have had a fair amount of foot traffic. They barreled through the opposite opening and continued along the passageway. The shouting and gunfire from the prison grew fainter, and Brandon could feel the thrill of escape rising.

  “Whoa!” he whispered brusquely, coming to an abrupt halt. Jake ran into his shoulder and nearly stumbled to his knees. “What’s that?”

  Ahead was another set of lean-tos near a stack of crumbling crates. A set of eyes peered meekly over one of the crates nearest the pathway. Brandon raised his gun and lined up the sights with the head peering over, and it disappeared below.

  Wordlessly, Brandon crept forward, motioning for Jake to follow close beside him. They kept both their weapons trained on the crate. Without moving his aim, Brandon’s eyes roved side to side, surveying each other crevice nearby for mo
vement.

  “Please don’ kill me,” a voice squeaked as they approached.

  Brandon peered around the crate to see a thin, young girl who could not have been significantly older than himself. Her hands were held above her bowed head in entrained gesture of submission.

  “I’m not gonna kill you,” Brandon promised. “We’re getting out of here.”

  “We tried that way,” another voice said. “There’s no way out.”

  Brandon looked up to see six others stepping out of hiding spots nearby. All were unarmed. He turned back and looked down the path behind them. Distant gunfire echoed along the corridor. “We’ll find a way,” he said.

  He moved past the group, who followed him despite the expressed concern that there was nowhere to go. As they veered around a nearby bend, Brandon looked back over his shoulder to see Jake, and seven strangers in line behind him.

  “Oy!” Jake grunted in surprise.

  Brandon turned in time to catch a swinging arm across his chest. It swiped him backwards off his feet, and he landed with a painful thud on his back.

  A thickset, stone-faced woman he’d seen patrolling the prison during his stay kicked his weapon from his grasp and stamped on it with one heavy boot. Her gaze and her own weapon were locked onto Jake, who was staring back down the sights of his gun. The small group behind them shrieked and cowered.

  “Lower that weapon, young man,” Corina Delgor demanded.

  Chapter 11:

  Sormød

  1

  A

  n unnatural silence hung over Forbanna Lake, its motionless, glassy surface reflecting only the faintest glow from the crescent sliver overhead. The moon was nearly full this late in monsoon season, but here, over Forbanna, ’twas but a fine shaving suspended in the black, starless sky. The lake lay at the center of dense woodland which shifted and changed in form with every passer-through.

  The lake’s formless surface cracked and glistened beneath the nearly imperceptible light as a one-man craft glided silently across. The cloaked figure standing within did not paddle or steer the vessel as it drifted toward a small isle standing in the center of the lake, like the pupil of a colorless eye gazing sightlessly up into artificial abyss.

  The silence did not break as the craft slid to a halt upon the shore and the hooded figure stepped off. The path forward was not lit, but as the figure walked, dim torches on either side glowed alight in sequence, only to flicker out as the figure passed. At the center of the isle, a greenish-purple glow was emanating from a stony well in the earth. A series of rocks had been placed on the ground around the top of the well. Huddled around this stood a circle of ten women. Their voices grew as the figure approached, but their speech was shapeless; vague syllables and whispers drifted through the night, so faint and foreign they may not have been perceived as human voice at all. The women were nude, their thin, pallid forms hunched over beneath long mats of black and grey hair that draped and flowed over the jagged bony prominences of their vertebrae.

  The cloaked figure spoke after he approached, unnoticed. His voice was as slick as the algae-coated hull of a long-docked ship—and equally unpleasant.

  “Sisters …” he crooned.

  2

  Skuttler clutched the weapon he’d been given by The Baron to his chest. He’d grown accustom to living underground from his time in Dask, and he heard chaos in those tunnels. If there was a nearby exit for The Stranger to have escaped, it wouldn’t be too far. He only spent a day or two searching the canyons to the north of the prison before hearing a small band of travellers camping nearby. It appeared quite suspicious indeed for a group to be posting up so close to Fanxel without some nefarious motives …

  He was slinking through the nearby canyon when he heard the boy approaching just before sundown. He skittered into a nearby cranny and watched the boy from the shadows. His tongue worried at the sore that had returned at the corner of his mouth as his palms squeezed the long barrel of the metallic gun for which he’d yearned so long. There was no chance the boy and his group were not up to something out here. He’d rush him when the time was right to get their information. But he was smartly outnumbered, so he’d have to play it wise if he wanted to maintain the upper hand …

  As he crouched in the dark contemplating his next move, he saw the stone in the boy’s hand. He saw the double-circular symbol upon it, even from this distance. He knew that symbol. He’d seen it scribbled in the mud and etched upon the walls of The Stranger’s cell day after day that he brought their meals to them.

  Skuttler clicked his tongue to the roof of his mouth to halt an audible gasp that nearly escaped his throat. Of course the boy knew of The Stranger’s whereabouts. Of course the group was camped near Fanxel to assist in the escape. Of course it was all related to that sinister symbol. Skuttler had been right all along, and those slap-dick guards at the prison had refused to let him have his say.

  This would change everything. With this evidence, Boss would have no choice but to listen to him. They’d march back here with a small army, take back their escapees, discover the meaning of that symbol, and get a few new prisoners in the process.

  Suddenly, Skuttler forgot all about his mission from The Baron, but with the clout he’d have after revealing all this … With that kind of leverage, he’d have the whole nation helping him track down The Stranger.

  3

  “Well, this is some brilliant kind o’ fuckery!” Boss shouted at an uneasy crew. He seized a small bag with various belongings inside and slammed it repeatedly against the wall in frustration. With each collision, more of the contents spilled out and were flung across the small, cramped quarters where the group now stood. After his outburst, he threw the bag toward the group before him and paced at the front of the room, stroking his black goatee to calm himself.

  “Jus’ what in the fuck were y’all doin’ bringing prisoners out of their cells to fight?” he screamed again after a few moments’ silence.

  “Some o’ the guards like to bet on who’ll win,” one of the men piped up, quick to shift the blame away from the ten or so hiding in the small quarters with Boss.

  “I don’ pay y’all to piss away yer paga on fights ’n’ fuck my prison to the hilt!” Boss screamed. His fists clenched, and he paced furiously before the crowd. Outside, distant gunfire was still exploding throughout the prison center.

  “We don’ take no part in it!” one of the others assured him.

  “An’ yet none bothered to tell me what was goin’ on righ’ under my own nose?” he barked. “I ought to string e’ery last one o’ ye upside down from the towers wit’ the rest o’ those useless grub worms.”

  Before he could work himself up enough to take out his frustration on one of the nearby guards, the door to their room opened. Boss whirled toward it and raised his gun, but it was only Corina.

  “It is chaos,” she reported. “They’re freeing prisoners and arming them against what few guards there still are.”

  “Freeing?” Boss snapped. “Who’s freein’ the pris’ners?”

  “Two boys, it appears.”

  Murderous fire blazed in Boss’s eyes. “Boys?” he asked. “The boys from the end cell?” He continued stammering, stupefied at the prospect of his entire prison crumbling beneath two boys. “With The Baron here, no less! What’ll he think of us?”

  Corina perked up. “The Baron is here?”

  “Well, ’e was!” Boss shouted. “Could be dead by now for all I know!” He paced the small room where he and his most loyal few were hiding out, waiting for the uprising to die down. He couldn’t decide who to kill first—the boys or the guards who let them out of their cell to begin with—but one thing was for certain.

  “Those boys are gonna pay.”

  4

  Resin and his small band of men marched their newfound prisoner toward Fanxel prison through the dead of night. Times had changed for Resin. People couldn’t be intimidated anymore. They were more demanding. Often, they wouldn’t a
gree to assist him at all without promise of paga. If he wanted the help he needed for his efforts, he had to have a steady stream of paga to exchange—and the most certain way for him to get paga was to retrieve bounty after bounty on any bandit he could round up and drag into Fanxel. Hell, they didn’t have to be dangerous or even particularly unruly to be worth something. Boss would pay for just about anyone who didn’t want to be there.

  His experimentation was put on hold while he travelled town to town collecting new prisoners to exchange. He needed significantly more men to help him spread out and gather the information he needed to recreate the dark formula that had been shipped over from Reprise. He’d never been particularly fond of The Baron and didn’t think much about his rise to power across the Great Sea in Reprise, but he’d heard tell of the experimentation on a substance that could help breed servility. The results in some of the smaller towns had not gone as planned—there seemed to be a little too much breeding and not a lot of other functionality. As far as Resin was concerned, Fordar was its own nation and could do with a proper leader separate from Reprise, but if he wanted to pull that off, a substance such as that—working properly, of course—would be essential. If the citizens here were subject to his every whim, he could make a proper leader of Fordar, and if things went well enough, perhaps Reprise could use some new guidance as well.

  It was this that Resin pondered as his crew marched toward Fanxel. He had no aim to overthrow the prison as part of his plans, but some would argue that the most effective leaders must be quick on their feet.

  —

  Toward the middle of the following day, Resin’s band approached from the north of Fanxel. As they drew nearer, an immense explosion echoed across the desert.

  “What the—?” one of his men began.