The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu)

by J. K. (Keith) Wilson

  Princley’s first impression was to get started. Boss had an awful looking left foot, all swollen from sole to knee, mottled crimson splotches blenching through the dark skin. His forehead was hot and sweat ran into the mangy curls on his chest. Bad fever, he had to do this fast.

  “You two,” he motioned to the messengers, pointing as he spoke. “Pull those boxes over to that window, then make a raised flat surface with that old table top.”

  They just looked at him like he was simple or something. He knew they had already planned to divvy out the containers of BJ. From the looks of their flushed faces, they had generously sampled at least one before heading out to find him.

  “Well,” Princely said, sticking his chin out and raising his eyebrows to scowl with Old Crone’s look of utter disdain.

  He stared them down. One heartbeat, two, and then his message penetrated their alcohol haze. They responded, reluctantly. His crude operating table took shape in the light.

  “Elevate the leg,” Old Crone instructed him. “Then check for Fire River”

  “Stop ordering me around, I know what to do,” he responded.

  The two men edged away from the “crazy boy talking to ghosts,” giving him and his table considerable distance. Each squinted hungrily to the stacks of BJ containers stacked along the wall.

  Princely turned and gave his orders. “Boss is going to be fine. I will make sure to tell him what a fine job you did protecting him.”

  Pointing toward the door he ordered, “Leave now.”

  As they jumped and scurried for the door, he was proud of himself. Never had he sounded more like his beloved old pimp.

  He used the procedure Old Crone had instructed long ago; he raised the damaged leg on the small, unfamiliar container. As he did, the container farted with the reek of its recent horde of BJ. There were no broken bones that he could see, only the big toe swollen twice its size.

  Okay, starting point: work up the leg from the big toe, looking in the proper place for the angry red line called Fire River. If he found it, forcing alcohol down the old man to keep him out was the only treatment. Princely would take a healthy swim in one of those containers himself, and call it a day.

  No lines, maybe it was a broken toe.

  “Not broken, no lump in the top there.” She continued to order him along.

  Yuck, he saw the big angry toenail. You were right Old Crone, big black hole in the middle all the way to red and raw skin underneath.

  “Fungus,” she said as if he did not know.

  “Well, this is going to hurt you a lot,” he said to the unconscious man, fighting without much success to keep the bubbling humor from his voice.

  “Kill him or cure him,” Old Crone cackled through the room.

  For what he was going to do, he had to make sure nothing started the Fire River. This fresh made BJ would kill any little wigglies before that got started. He just had to keep the sediment off the wound. The containers he could see stacked against the wall were too big to control a pour. I must find one of the small ones to match this footrest. He absently touched the plastic container supporting the damaged foot.

  “Go look, must be more someplace,” the old girl again, stating the obvious.

  Princely found them. Dozens of hidden mismatched containers, a few even clear, displaying the contents. They were empty. Hidden, but empty did not make sense. He reached over to the nearest containers and grabbed one. Its weight almost took his balance.

  “Not as empty as they appear, are they?”

  There she goes again.

  He returned to the table with the small container. Wary of the smell he turned his head and removed the cap. No dead body odor, maybe it was water. When he gave it a quick sniff, there was only a very pleasant smell of the ocean—damn, only seawater.

  “No sediment, fool. Taste it and learn.” She had always been careful with the health of all her little prizes, so he did.

  The taste was exquisite. As he swallowed, incendiaries torched his throat and a satisfying warm glow claimed his body. It had been the tiniest of sips—just a taste—even smaller than the half thimble he divvied out for his scraps of paper. He resisted the urge to take a good solid plunge into the bottle. If he did, he knew he would be puking for the next day at least.

  He poured a small amount into his palm and began washing his hands, slowly letting the rivulets run onto exposed toes and foot. No need to watch for sediment—clean stuff made by the Ergots, not Boss. Small amounts poured quickly, washed his forearms, hands and all the toes plus the leg propped on the empty BJ container. He left his container open knowing he would need it again soon.

  “Shame to waste that sweet nectar on the likes of him,” Old Crone sighed.

  “When I fix him he will give me all I ask for.”

  “True. If not...” She was enjoying this, too much.

  He placed his pliers and the long thin blade he kept honed like a razor in the puddle on the table. Then picked them up one at a time and cleaned them with more excellent BJ, using every bit of skill he could master. Still slippery with the smell of ocean, he held the offending toe with the pliers and began a cut with the long thin blade. Blood spurted and he quickly diluted the flow with drops straight from the container. Under his knife, the toenail came away in pieces. Boss was still out cold, yet the toe jerked from Princley’s hold. He took the opportunity to rinse his hands from the container, and then he wet a few of the small squares of matting spun from the fibers of the green black weed that grew everywhere. He cleaned and cut until everything that the fungus had damaged lay in the puddle on the table. When he finished, he tucked several rolled pieces of wet matting down between the big toe and its neighbor—had to get it air so it would heal.

  One last touch, he carefully lifted the old bottle that lay with his knife and forced out the glass stopper. A single tear dripped thickly from the opening and fell against the gashes he had made with the old fish knife. It landed with a splat, the flesh sizzled, and the burnt tang of green-black weed etched his nose. Now the worst part of the open wound sealed itself with help from the undiluted caustic sap. No little wigglies to bring Fire River.

  “Damn boy-o, I learned you good.”

  Yes, she had. Despite his lingering doubt, he felt proud of himself.

  Okay, convince Boss to stay off that foot, and we get more days in this spot. Princely would concentrate on the message his bits of paper were trying to force into his head. He would send runners back to the other way stations. Each had careful instruction, locate individual plastic boxes he had stashed and return them only to him.

  Princely had already broken the code hidden in paper scraps that explained why they were Outsiders. Stranded in the rubble—unwelcome in the buildings—they were too much trouble. Boss, referred to as Bradley, had spent his life before the bombs as a petty crook and troublemaker.

  That was just the beginning.

  Boss had stored up all the alcohol from the liquor stores he raided after things came apart. That pea brain figured to take the lead with all the bums because he had a supply. He knew a bunch of women held a building and made the mistake of sending his half-drunk bums to get some. They were not good enough soldiers to fight girls so they had to retreat and Boss almost got killed.

  But here they were doing the same thing all over. This time he had help. Bunch of dumb bubble things he found somewhere which gave Princely the shakes just looking.

  No time to think about Boss and his revenge; time to learn why the Builders confined so many of their people in parts of their buildings called Lower Level and Middle level.

  He knew he should tuck the partial container of super good big-juice back in its hiding place. Instead, after a little thought, he stuffed a full one into his knapsack and carried the partial with him.

  He shook the bottle’s contents as he walked to the guards “Bradley is awake now. He sent you this BJ. He ordered you to stay out.” He handed them the container.

  With double grins, Pri
ncely, with Old Crone shimmering at his side, walked back the way they came.

  * * *

  Far away from the “way house” where he had to fix that foot for Boss, Princely felt the fear begin to build. It had just got dark, he was oh so cold, and the old girl was fuming at him again. He could not help how long it took sneaking around and over the rubble mounds, just looking for a way to make contact with the old girl’s friends in that big building. Even the Holes, the entrances to old underground subway tunnels, had guards. He heard them talking about Kimraig who was everyone’s hero, and how he might have done too much this time what with loosing that building he was supposed to occupy.

  They, he and Old Crone, had watched troops patrol. They even tried to slither through the cracks into the jumble of concrete scrum to get close to the right big building. No go, even with that lucky bright blue scarf the old girl got from that Builder woman Sala, who said things would be better soon. The reason they could not get through was them Builders had a great big noose of troops strangling their neighbors into their own little buildings. Not very neighborly was all Princely could think. Had to think it since there was no way he was going to say one word that might draw attention right to him—them.

  “We got to get us out of here, boy-o,” she gnawed inside his head.

  He did not answer her. At least he had stopped shaking from the attack by those ropes with the big old chunk things on the end. All of it raining down on him out of the almost night time sky.

  Once he choked his heart back down from his throat, he tried again to dart through the unguarded doorway leading into the building. Damn, no sooner got his legs under him and the door burst outward spilling a hundred laughing females all dressed up in them scary uniforms.

  “Stop it boy-o, only ten out there. What happened to those big balls?”

  He relaxed a little since it seemed like they had lost something that was hiding under all that rope. Three more females pushed through the doors. One was obviously a Queen and the other two wore Hunters uniforms. They did not bother to help, just stayed back where they would stay nice and clean.

  Well, well, well. Thirteen makes a Battle Group. Was it a Battle Group with female Hunters?

  That gave him one more piece of information to pass on to Old Crone’s friends.

  Pretty soon, he watched them all beat feet out of there fast as they could.

  Not too much later, there is a thump and a worker’s body lands, squirting parts all over the rope. Only way he could tell it was female was it had no shirt on.

  “Damn waste, if you ask me, could have put that girl right to work servicing all our boys. Double price of course she would not last long.” Old Crone’s cackle gnawed again at his think center.

  Before Princely she could start on him again, he had sprinted through the double doors skidding to a stop against a jumble of smoking torches. Reaching down, his fingers closed over one torch for later, just in case the fickle blue lights he used to light the dark stopped working.

  Had to get off the ground floor, so best to use a sprint to where memory pointed to the stairwell. The door got knocked off here too; a slight change of direction and up the stairs in the dark. Way to go blue lights—no need for the torch.

  His heart was thumping in his ears as he reached the second floor and roared into a blizzard of pain and whirling stars. As Princely’ thoughts blew away in the cold, he remembered a few words of Old Crone’s favorite songs; “fools rush in...”

  * * *

  “Got yourself in a pickle now, boy-o,” jabbed at him as he came round from the blow to his head.

  He had to be in deep puckey if she was still gnawing on his brain stem instead of chewing on him right in front of the guy up there that she was always pointing to when Princely made some statement she did not like.

  “Stop running off at the brain, Boy. Some folks is here, time to talk.”

  His eyes shot open. She never called him Boy; she hated that word.

  “Easy youngster, you are safe until we find out exactly who you are.”

  Princely saw only small dark shapes behind a candle that had not grown up yet. With the flame held over her face, a soft female voice asked him what his business was. Seemed reasonable she was female, more of them around these days.

  “Old Crone told me to come to you when I had anything.”

  “Really, best tell us your name then.”

  “Princely Bosch,” he stammered. They should know who he was if she sent him. “Old Crone said to give you this in case you had doubts.” He handed them her carefully folded bright blue scarf.

  “Had to hear you say it, son. There are a lot of traitors around here who would exploit a situation like this.” The voice and the shadow behind it turned and passed the bright blue scarf along to a second shadow. “More light in here. Let us get our guest up so he is a little more comfortable.”

  Old Crone had not said anything about the size of the people she dealt with. They were two very little people surrounding him as more candles flared to life. He kinda’ took sweet pleasure in being taller than someone else.

  “We will not use names. It is better you not know exactly who we are, just in case the Wicca get hold of you alive,” a smiling male said as he helped Princely to his feet and then to a small chair.

  As the chair hugged his back, he was surprised; males in this room almost numbered the same as the females. With a jolt, he remembered the group from the walkup—where he had killed the first time to get his mate Nora. If he counted the kids younger than her, the males were almost equal there also. He did not know if it was important or not, so he would lump it in with the rest of his report.

  “Tell us where you hid the children, and we will send a party out to get them.”

  “No kids this time. Came to let you know Old Crone bit the big one. Took her body down the cellar for the bubbles: walked right down after they left and stomped on the eggs because Boss not going to get her BJ.”

  That was the tidbit of the day. So, he had to explain about buzz-juice; and the good stuff and how the eggs was like an exchange for the dead. You know, they ate the bodies and gave BJ back, like a trade. That was the only info their eyes had trouble understanding. Kept taking him back to it until they was sure he had told them everything he knew.

  He told them about Boss bugging out to some kind of meeting. Princely also told them that his watchers had lost Boss near the small buildings Across the Street where the good people lived. He called them that because they kept all their kids regardless. Did not matter what someone figured them little guys might look like later.

  He did not forget to mention that angry old woman in dark blue robes either. She argued with Boss, did it two times before they finally nodded their heads and went their own way. They was planning to do something bad, he knew it. She would not shake hands with Boss either, just turned her back and walked away sweet as you please.

  “Went straight on back to what you folks call Number 1 Building.”

  Seemed like there was not much he was telling them they did not already know. Each seemed a little concerned about something, or someone, though. He guessed he should just tell them why he had walked all this way here, and get back home.

  “Main thing is I wanted you to know it is business as usual far as me and the other whores...”

  “Never told them what our business is boy-o,” Old Crone hissed in his ear. “No need to know.”

  “Oh, sorry,” he continued, like he had stumbled over that word. “Anyway, what I meant to say was, me and the whole bunch of Old Crone’s people will do whatever we can to rescue the young kids like you who get thrown out in the basements. I will be very happy to work with all of you.”

  “How old are you youngster?”

  It was the soft voice again and Princely finally realized she was not just female but a very impressive full-grown woman.

  “His bunch does not count years.”

  “It is my turn to talk.” Shifting her attention f
rom the man back to the boy, she continued. “Do you know how long you have lived?”

  “Yes Ma’am, this is my thirteenth summer and I even got hair all over.”

  The dimmest things come out your mouth, Old Crone bit into his brain stem.

  Like anyone could hear her if she talked to him like normal. Besides, he was just being polite as she taught him when he was little.

  “Well since that is the case, we will be happy to continue working with you. Your information confirmed a plot we are not sure is to everyone’s benefit. Now that you have identified the players involved, we will be better prepared if things do not go our way.”

  When she paused for a moment, Princely tried to put everything into tight little bits so he could put it all together when he had time to think on it. Best thing was their partnership was intact. Meaning their help might make his group a force strong enough to dump Boss out, and then Princely would take over. Finally, no one else would have to do what he had to do to stay alive.

  “What she means is this.”

  The male was talking now, holding his hand out to stop the women from saying another word. Princely had trouble yanking back to the moment.

  “Our Director has accompanied Hunter Kimraig and his group on their second trip back to the Building called One Nine. Kimraig’s mission remains the same; find all of us a new home away from this madness.” Pausing for a moment to take a deep breath, the old man sighed and continued. “All his friends were supposed to go help him build that new place. Instead, we are stuck here, held hostage by our own troops.”

  “What can I do?” Princely was right in there offering to help.

  “You have already done all you can for now.”

  “Hold on just a minute.”

  Her name was Winnie; he remembered that from the Old Crone’s description.

  Then she leaned toward him and continued. “Can you get a message to our Director or Kimraig in the building up the way, you know, the one with the big spire?”

  “Wait just one minute; we will not trust a mere boy with our business.”

  Remember him, boy-o. Angry old man is all.