Freewalker

by Dennis Foon

  “Here. Drink this,” Willum whispers and places a glass of juice in her hand.

  The liquid is lusciously sweet and cool. She gulps greedily, her body absorbing it as the desert absorbs rain. What is the flavor? Delicious yet unfamiliar.

  “What’s this?” she asks as he replaces her empty glass with another. Water. Only water. But no less satisfying.

  “All of it,” Willum coaxes.

  There. Relief. Was that it? She’d been dehydrated. Was that all? Ha!

  How worried Willum looks. It pleases her, this look. But soon he turns away. He is reading the crowd, always the teacher. Of course, she should be doing it as well. They are all hungry, these Masters. So hungry for whatever it is they believe she will deliver. Hungry for what Darius has planned. How much do they know? What a surprise they are in for.

  “That was lovely,” murmurs Stowe. “Thank you, my Primary, for your kind attentions.” Then, with her most beguiling smile, she turns back to Darius.

  Though the evening was to be a celebration in her honor, it had proved, rather, to be a test of her perseverance. Exhausted from the unrelenting tedium of it, her face aching from hours of false smiles and feigned sentiment, all Stowe wants to do is sleep.

  Instead she’s lain here for who knows how long, twisting under the covers, memories racing. Gwyneth, her servant, dutifully brought the relaxation tea she always drinks before bed, but for the first time it’s had no effect. These memories are a plague.

  Mama’s hands pulling a sweater over her head. You have to go! Roan will keep you safe. Be brave, little pumpkin!

  Stowe clutching her doll, the one with the shawl she dyed herself. Show me your brave smile, says Mama, covering her face in kisses. Kisses and tears. Why is she crying? Stowe doesn’t want to let go, but Daddy lifts her through the open window.

  Hide in the blue brush! Run, run!

  Roan gripping her hand, pulling her away. Mama! Stowe screams.

  Huge monster men on horses, throwing fire. Everything burning.

  They run, run, run past the wall. They’reon the icy whip-grass, the blue brush isn’t far.

  She feels a hand go around her, lifting her. It’s hard, hard and cold. She looks into the monster’s face. A red skull! She grips Roan’s hand as hard as she can but the man kicks him. Roan! She reaches, reaches for him, almost touching, but the red skull’s club smashes him and Roan falls. Her doll drops and she screams and screams and screams.

  “Our Stowe, you were shouting.”

  Stowe, sweating into the sheets, sees the ever calm Gwyneth standing by her bed. The servant’s inner peace is gained from the alpha enabler buried in her neck.

  “Was I? Every time I shut my eyes I see things, Gwyneth, horrible things. But you wouldn’t know about that, would you? You aren’t capable of visions, nightmares. You have no need of dreams.”

  “I remember that they were unpleasant. We thank Our Stowe daily for taking on this unfortunate burden. Would you like another night draft? Perhaps it will ease your sleep.”

  “No, they’re useless tonight. Bring me a glass of wine.”

  “I have not been instructed to offer you—”

  “Gwyneth, I have made a request.”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Have you been instructed to obey my requests?”

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  “Then get me a glass of wine. Now.”

  As the servant scurries away, Stowe leans against her headboard, but the moment she rests her heavy eyes, it begins again.

  She kicks and yells and bites. Screams “Mama!” over and over until she hears her. With a hundred other voices. Humming. Like a cat purrs. The red-skulled rider spurs the horse and it gallops away. Stowe’s insides bounce, her throat goes sore from screaming, her eyes reach for anything familiar, but rocked and jostled, it’s all a blur. Then the horse stops abruptly. She watches the steam rise off its neck and flanks, feels the chill on her feet, the tension in the man’s arm.

  “Just one?” says a voice.

  “The search continues,” says Red Skull, shifting Stowe into the arms of blue-robed men.

  “Have you ever tasted ice cream, little girl?” says one. His voice sounds kind but his face is leaden. “It is the most delicious thing in the world.”

  “Our Stowe. Lady.”

  Stowe looks up to see her faithful servant hovering, her face frowning with concern. But her eyes are devoid of light, of solace of any kind.

  “Yes, Gwyneth?”

  “You were smiling, Our Stowe. Are you sure you want this?”

  “Yes, thank you.” She remembers how she used to throw things at the women they sent to care for her. Scream at them. Hurt them if she could. Until she realized that they would each be replaced by another, exactly the same. What had she been hoping for?

  Gwyneth quickly pours her a glass. Stowe swallows it all despite the bite of fermented grapes. Anything to stop these infernal memories.

  “Another,” she calls out. Gwyneth flinches. But Stowe doesn’t care. Why shouldn’t the blazing mistress of the Dreamfield, the Breaker of the Wall, indulge in this petty drug when she has tasted much stronger? The servant dutifully pours her a second glass. But as Stowe brings it to her lips, the glass slips from her hand, and splatters onto the floor. The lights dim darker and darker until all fades to black.

  IN THE LAIR OF THE BLOOD DRINKERS

  THEY SLEEP IN THE EARTH LIKE THE WALKING DEAD, THEIR LANGUAGE CLICKS LIKE THE INSECTS THAT SHARE THEIR BEDS. GIVE THEM NO QUARTER FOR THEY ARE NOT HUMAN.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  ROAN, HIS BACK AGAINST the earthen wall, slowly reaches for his hook-sword. The Blood Drinkers inch toward him, their small silver knives glittering in the blue light. He’s been forced to fight them before, knows his blade will take its toll.

  One of the ugliest, his arms and chest patterned with swirls of scars, leaps at Roan, fangs bared, tongue flitting over his lips, knife flashing from hand to hand. Roan breaks the hook-sword from its binding, whips it forward. The scarred creature steps back and circles as Roan lifts his weapon, ready to strike. Three drinkers slink alongside the first, blades jutting toward Roan. He swings, knocking the knife out of one hand, kicking another. He whirls, but before he can strike again, a hand grips his wrist like a vice. Mabatan.

  Lumpy, confused, gapes at her. “What are you doing?”

  Roan, respecting Mabatan’s will, lowers his sword. Letting go of him, she steps up to the first Blood Drinker. Soft gurglings rise from deep in her throat. The scarred one stares at her with pink, unblinking eyes, then hisses and clicks his tongue. Mabatan carefully takes off her woven rucksack and reaches in, bringing out a small red bag. She lowers her head and offers it to the Blood Drinker, who bows as he accepts it. Opening it, he carefully shakes several dried yellow flowers into his palm. He sniffs, then signals to a young female with bright red eyes. Head bowed, she cups her hands with great reverence. He lets Mabatan’s flowers tumble into them. Two sharp inhalations and the value of the contents is determined. With a quick nod, she slips the fragile petals back into the bag, then leaves through one of the holes.

  Roan listens to the hissing and tongue clicks Mabatan exchanges with the scarred one, trying to discern their meaning. Without unlocking her eyes from the Drinker’s, Mabatan whispers, “This is Xxisos. He invites us to the Khonta.”

  “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” asks Lumpy.

  “Good. They had need of the flowers,” Mabatan replies.

  Lumpy gives Roan a nervous look as the other Blood Drinkers slink back into the holes and disappear. Xxisos nods for them to follow, handing each a dense felted mat.

  Mabatan takes hers and lays it at the edge of the hole. Then, lying on top of it, she pushes herself forward, disappearing in the darkness.

  “Do you mind if I go next?” asks Lumpy with a cautious look at Xxisos, who is watching them, tapping his fangs with his fingertips. “After all, you’re the one with the hook-sword.”

&
nbsp; Roan smiles uneasily and nods. Lumpy lays out the felt, and with one last look of reassurance from Roan, slides away.

  Roan is about to get on his mat when Xxisos makes a terrible hiss and leaps at him. Roan pivots, ready for anything. The Blood Drinker reaches past him, and with a chastizing click of the tongue, flips over the felt, placing the slippery side down. With a nod of thanks, Roan sets off. His first push only takes him a short way down the narrow tunnel, but he soon discovers ridges that can be used as finger grips to thrust himself forward. Since the smooth material glides unimpeded on the polished clay surface, as long as Roan remembers to keep his feet slightly lifted, he travels at a high speed through the twisting tunnel.

  With no way to judge how far he’s gone but the ache in his arms, Roan’s relieved when he sees a faint light ahead. A few more pulls hurtle him into a large dugout room, much like the first but at least twice the size. As his eyes adjust to the light, he sees a group of Blood Drinkers, thirty or forty, seated in a large circle. Lumpy and Mabatan are surrounded by five children, each no more than two or three years old. They are albinos, like the adult Blood Drinkers, and though their teeth have been filed, they still have ears.

  As Lumpy motions for Roan to join them, an ancient Blood Drinker rises. Plainly one of the eldest, his face is deeply creased and raised scars pattern the entire surface of his chest and arms. He hisses and the others hiss in response, percussive and unified, like a perverse parody of song. Listening carefully, Roan can detect small variances in the rise and fall of the tones, small pauses and clicks. It occurs to him that a language like this might carry well in those long tunnels, and be much easier to understand than words.

  The speaker, his eyes white and unmoving, lifts a battered plastic bottle that’s filled with blood. Roan remembers seeing some Blood Drinkers collect animals’ blood in bottles like that. They chased them down on horses and used weighted ropes to capture the frantic beasts. He’ll never forget the groans of the terrified animals when ghouls like these sank their fangs in and drank the blood directly from their throats. And now blood, no doubt from a similar hunt, is lifted to the elder’s lips. He takes a long drink and passes it to the creature beside him, who also drinks and passes it on.

  Roan watches with growing discomfort as the bottle comes closer. When it’s finally given to him, Roan smiles politely and tries to discreetly pass it on to Mabatan. But she will not accept it. “Drink,” she says. “They honor us.”

  “I’ve seen what they do to those animals,” Roan whispers.

  “This is not animal blood.”

  Roan stares at her. “It’s human?”

  She nods.

  Roan shudders. “I can’t.”

  “You must. It will be a deep insult not to partake. We will not leave here alive.”

  Three years ago Roan had never tasted meat, had never raised his hand against another human being. He’d found the body of a man who’d been ravaged by these vampires. And now he is expected to swallow human blood. The blood of who knows what victim.

  All eyes are on Roan, mouths gaping, fangs red.

  “There is no evil in this.” Mabatan’s tone is insistent—she is not lying, he would hear it.

  “I will if you will,” Lumpy urgently whispers.

  Xxisos hisses menacingly.

  Roan breathes deeply and closes his eyes. Raising the bottle to his lips, he drinks. The blood is warm, salty. He chokes it down, stomach spasming, and his breaths come fast and deep. Dizzy with revulsion, he hands the jug to Mabatan. Barely able to watch, he rocks to quell his sickness as she and Lumpy drink in turn.

  When everyone has swallowed from the bottle, the elder continues to speak. He hums, hisses, and clicks, every utterance nuanced and filled with emotion. The Blood Drinkers, engrossed, sway in response. Roan and Lumpy share a queasy glance, completely unnerved by the proceedings.

  Pulling them to either side of her, Mabatan draws Roan and Lumpy in close and whispers, “He tells the origin tale of their people, the Hhroxhi.” Closing her eyes in concentration, she translates: “Once our ancestors lived in the sun. Their bodies were whole. They chewed their food like any man. They lived in peace with all. But then the Wars began. Our ancestors would not fight, would not take sides. Still they were attacked. Their villages burned. Their people killed. They left their ancestral lands and sought a land far from the people of war. But everywhere they turned there was fighting. Then came the explosion and with it the Brightness.”

  Roan watches the listeners reenact the trauma. They all writhe, hiss, clack their tongues, and hold their eyes. The elder, trembling with emotion, runs his fingers over the swirling scars on his chest until all grows quiet again. When he resumes the history, Mabatan continues: “Our ancestors lost their hair. Their skin turned white. Many were blinded. This made them easy prey for the men of war, so they burrowed. The earth welcomed them. She sheltered them. Protected their eyes and skin.”

  The ecstatic audience warbles, their throats vibrating, their hands slapping the floor. Their homage to the planet for having saved them.

  “No longer would they be cursed by the disease that plagued the upper world. This so-called ‘humanity.’”

  They snarl and shriek, their teeth bared. Lumpy looks nervously at Roan. Would they turn on the three humans sitting here? Mabatan steadies them both with a reassuring hand as the elder reaches the climax of the tale.

  “Our ancestors rejected the world of men. They removed themselves. They transformed themselves. They shed their ‘humanity.’ They became something better. Us. We are Hhroxhi.”

  “Hhroxhi, Hhroxhi, Hhroxhi...” the crowd chants, and the fever builds. Even Mabatan joins in. How can she? It’s a testament to hatred, a cry against humanity.

  “Hhroxhi, Hhroxhi, Hhroxhi!”

  The red-eyed girl bows and offers the bag of dried flowers to the elder. He takes a few, crushes them in his palm and lets out a low hum. The Blood Drinkers add their voices, making the entire chamber vibrate with sound. As the elder raises his hands, the humming grows louder. The first child is brought to him. Though sightless, he quickly finds the child’s ears and rubs them with the crushed flowers.

  It happens so quickly, Roan almost misses it. One of those small, shining blades appears in the old one’s hand, and with two quick flicks, the child’s ears are gone.

  “No!” Lumpy cries, jumping to his feet.

  Mabatan grabs Lumpy’s wrist and yanks him down hard. Luckily, the Hhroxhi are in such a frenzy, no one’s noticed Lumpy’s transgression.

  “We can’t let them!” Lumpy whispers furiously. Mabatan forcibly turns his head so he must watch the proceedings. More flower powder is rubbed in the child’s wound, immediately staunching the flow of blood. The child smiles, his little fangs glinting in the gas light. Two of the Blood Drinkers, evidently his parents, proudly hug him. The child beams.

  Roan and Lumpy watch in dismay as the other children’s ears are sliced off. All the severed ears are laid in an oval pattern on the floor. Then, after more blood is drunk, they’re all on their feet. In a frenzy, they stomp and shriek, grinding the ears into the dirt with their heels. Roan watches, filled with horror as these vampires, these Hhroxhi, celebrate the transformation of their children from members of the human race into something foreign and terrifying.

  Roan’s first to arrive at their sleeping chamber, but Lumpy and Mabatan slide in quickly behind. In the gas light, they silently lay out their bedrolls. Roan sits, back against the wall. Unable to keep the resentment from his voice, he confronts Mabatan. “Why are we here?”

  “We need their help.”

  Roan shakes his head skeptically. “Why would they give it?”

  “They do not wish us harm.”

  “Who did they harm to get the blood we were drinking?”

  “The blood was their own. Everyone gives a little.”

  “They don’t drink their own blood for their meals, do they?” Lumpy asks.

  “No. But they do not kill; th
ey borrow from animals.”

  “I’ve seen them kill. I’ve seen their victims,” Roan insists. “I was there when an army of them attacked Fairview.”

  “Do you know why they attacked?”

  Roan doesn’t know. The question never even entered his mind. “They just came at us out of the blue and they paid the price. Every single one of them was wiped out once the Raiders showed up.”

  But Roan knows Raiders weren’t the only ones who killed Blood Drinkers that day. He himself slew more than a few. Mabatan’s disapproval is all too clear. Roan’s indignation mounts at what he feels is an undeserved reproof. He had no choice, had he? Hundreds of raging Blood Drinkers were storming the poorly defended walls of Fairview, inside of which were the children. He had to protect them. How many did he actually wound or kill that day? No one counts in the heat of battle. There were many, though, of that he is sure.

  “I like their language,” Lumpy says, trying to change the subject. “There’s a rhythm to the sounds they make. By the end of the night, I was almost beginning to understand what they were saying.”

  “They’re dangerous,” Roan mutters. Monsters. She’s seen what they can do.

  They sit quietly for a long time, then without a word, they prepare to bed down.

  After a fitful sleep, Roan reaches into his pack, takes out some jerky, and chews it in the darkness. Lumpy snores softly as Mabatan shuffles in her blanket, sits up, then stretches. She lights the gas lamp with a spark, reaches into her pack, and hands Roan a charred egg.

  “I want to leave here now,” says Roan.

  “One more day,” she replies. “When the Hhroxhi have found those we’re looking for, they will tell us. They may not have earlobes, but they hear a great deal.”

  Lumpy stirs with a great yawn. “They must have tunnels everywhere.”