Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  “Yeah, that’s what Mom said.” A drowsy boy gazed into the flames.

  “Fabal, get some sleep.”

  His grandson slid into the sleeping bag. Then he set to work, equipping the fire with a swiveling spit, a cast iron kettle, which he filled with water, and threw in a handful of root vegetables to simmer.

  Retrieving a branding flatiron from one of the crates—not the most pleasing of contrivances, but suitable, he plunged the flatiron into the hot embers.

  Upon Fulvio’s insistence, Keeyla complied with his nagging to open her mouth for another dose of the pain-reliever. He removed her saturated wrappings and bundling the rags, chucked them into the flames. He returned to the divan, toting the flatiron. “My dear.” He voiced, gentle and compassionate. “I beg your forgiveness for what I’m about to do. If Doogan were present, he’d be more efficient and knowledgeable. However, I’m a lowly man, in circumstances best befitting a buffoon. We must staunch the blood flow before you’re drained to a dry carcass―”

  “I understand,” Keeyla interrupted, her tone surprisingly sturdy. “I’ve seen it done on numerous occasions. I’ll try my best to be strong. Forgive my weakness.”

  “Regrettably, you might have a shattered bone. There’s no way to know for certain.” He held up the hot poker. “But I must cauterize both sides.”

  Her eyes closed as she sucked in her lips with a resolute nod.

  ***

  Awakened by his mother’s strangled screaming, Fabal wrenched upright. As a rotten odor stung his nostrils, he fled the sleeping bag. In the subdued light, he noticed Fulvio and the beast bent over his mother.

  Tibbles is eating Mom!

  He flew to his mother’s rescue. Pummeling Tibbles in the rear quarters, he shrieked, “I trusted you! I trusted you!” He battered the animal with no apparent ill effect.

  “Tibbles—Get the boy away from here.”

  Tibbles tackled him, nearly crushing the boy’s foot in the process. Fabal’s frantic arms were flying like a pinwheel trying to get away.

  Then came another repulsive sizzle of burning flesh. Fabal ceased his struggling and scrunched his nose. “What are you doing?” he demanded as a tearful groan trickled from his mom’s mouth. “You—you’re killing her.”

  Not until Keeyla was comfortable and settled did Fulvio turn his attention to him. “We discussed your mother’s cauterization, remember?” he placated with a stern brow. “We aren’t trying to kill her, my boy. It needed to be done sooner, but I was afraid of infection. Your mother was aware before the procedure. She’s been anesthetized to lessen the pain. Now, calm yourself and get some sleep. She won’t wake for hours.”

  He wilted like a dried flower in Tibbles embrace.

  He stepped to his mom and, skimming her face with tenderness, whispered, “Love you, Mom.” He ran to his makeshift bed, attempting to conceal his embarrassing tears from his grandfather and the bear. Channeling into the sleeping bag, he flung the material over his head, sealing the stinky cocoon.

  Chapter 10

  The irritating sting motivated Doogan to wake in a foul mood. Prying open his eyes was problematic since the left one had swollen beyond recognition. Light stabbed into his right eye, he squinted, which ached his face. Adjusting to the brightness, he glanced around, yet, couldn’t determine his locale. I’m not in a jail cell at Headquarters. He took inventory of the stark concrete room, a chrome door with a small rectangular window and harsh fluorescent tubes attached to the ceiling.

  His arms and legs had been strapped to a metal bed. Just the slightest movement activated his whole body into a tremor of pain, which was aggravated by his nakedness and the cold infusing the room. His neck and leg was on fire, and working to lift his upper body to see the source of the sting, he detected a gauze bandage adhered his thigh.

  Punishment for stealing was severe, he’d been in this jam before. What did Management have up their sleeves? Patience was never been his forte and gritting his teeth, he labored at unwinding his tense muscles and quelling the pain. Closing his eyes, he thought of Keeyla…

  He remembered the first time she walked past him—all arms and legs, skinnier than the twig he was holding. She must’ve felt his gaze on her because she turned and looked at him with vacant eyes.

  At that precise moment, he was jealous of her freedom to roam wherever she liked. Until now. He’d been lucky to be born in Tallas, at least that was the endless lecture given by his mentors.

  Due to his beneficial status of being an Elite’s son and living in the mansion, the local boys had derided Doogan. Whereas he was healthy and well fed, the other children in the village wore a hungry, peaked look. Schooled with the rest of the children, he was constantly in the midst of a squabble. He rejected the opportunity to blend with the other Elite or Executives’ kids who thought themselves superior to everybody else.

  Despite his upbringing, he grew to be respected by the village children. Essentially, his chronic thievery added to their respect. The orchards and livestock were being held at bay, and Management had been doling out scant quantities. During the dead of night, he’d sneak out and steal baskets of apples, pears, and peaches, not to mention filching a chicken and some eggs, at least once a month. His drop-off point was always different, to Quirl Comely, Finnis Yardley, or Pattan Hershimer, who then distributed the goods to families in need. He’d suspected his father was aware of his weekly practices, yet he’d turned a blind eye, letting Doogan serve the community—until he was caught.

  He’d declined his father’s support with an outward show of aggression in front of Cletus. His tirade about an unjust Management brought revenge from the Elites, who then rebuffed Fulvio’s intervention. The lashing whip only made him stronger and more admired by the village.

  Even after all the trouble he’d caused, and hardly thirteen years of age, he was handpicked to apprentice at the Infirmary. Medicine was scarce and the physicians were growing scarcer.

  The squeal of the chrome door brought him back to his pain and the cold. An elderly gentleman hobbled to the bed, his eyes centered on the bloody gauze. Clad in surgical scrubs riddled with crimson stains, and appearing older than dirt. His facial skin gleaning with pleats and a mouth shriveled like a dried prune.

  Oddly enough, the man wasn’t and was familiar, right down to his stooped posture. As he bent over Doogan’s injured leg, his thick spectacles, held together with duct tape, skied along his nose. And his sparse white hair seemed transparent in the fluorescent light.

  He reached for the gauze with shaky hands and, with unexpected deftness, ripped the bandage from the bullet wound. “Just making sure you’re alive.” The man’s lips eclipsed inward after he spoke. He produced a bottle from his pocket and unscrewed the cap, and tipped the contents over the wound. “If the Mediator had wanted to cause permanent damage, he was a bad shot. The bullet went through the flesh of your thigh, but let me check to make sure.” He again dug into the pocket of his scrubs. “Damn, no gloves. Oh well.”

  He began to knead Doogan’s thigh. A sting lanced into the bone of his leg, and he could’ve sworn he’d seen a smirk on the old man’s face. Flouting any form of safety measures, he callously tunneled his finger into the puncture wound, parting skin. Starbursts ignited as Doogan gripped the restraints and endeavored to control his trembling body.

  “Exactly as I’d predicted,” the old man said. With his hands back in his pockets, he withdrew a syringe, then pricked Doogan’s hip. “We’re short on supplies, but I was able to acquire some antibiotics for our good doctor.” Using his despoiled surgical sleeve, he mopped the blood draining from the wound.

  “Who the hell are you?” Doogan barked, feeling cool moisture of sweat leaking along his temples.

  “Doogan, you don’t remember your first instructor?”

  The physician pulled down his glasses to allow Doogan a better look. An occluded membrane of pure white shielded one eye rendering it blind, but the other eye shone sharp and dark.

  “C�
�mon, Dr. McTullan,” he said through a villainous grin. “Remember the child you carried to the Infirmary? You said I could make him better. And you cried like a baby when he died. I slapped your face so hard my handprint was on your cheek for a week. You remember, now?”

  “But—but, you’re dead.” Doogan didn’t want to believe it was Dr. Afram Sese, a stringent instructor and an even worse human being. As a boy, he’d never understood Dr. Sese, and they’d bickered over moral principles. Doogan thought healing citizens was a job for the empathetic, but Sese saw matters otherwise.

  He tweaked the glasses up his nose. “I’m very much alive, as you can see.” He dipped his hand for a third time into his pocket. A needle and thread snaked out. “You see, Dr. McTullan.” He gored the needle into Doogan’s thigh. “Tallas was in dire need of experimental procedures to foil disease and find cures for survival which were lost to us.”

  Despite his attempt to remain still while he stitched the bullet wound, Doogan recoiled. He prayed he wouldn’t give Sese the benefit of hearing him moan or pass out.

  “I’ve gone underground, you might say, to help the cause. This has given me undeniable pleasure.” He yanked on the string. “You’ve betrayed Tallas by turning your back on us. Why, Doogan?” He paused, though clearly not expecting a reply. Holding taut the string with one hand, he slipped out a pair of surgical scissors from his bulky pockets to cut the extra thread. “I will now be your instructor, again. It is time for you to take up the cause, to persevere in saving what is left of humanity, a true physician’s creed. Now, be a man and fulfill the role you were destined for.”

  Dr. Sese’s face began to swim and blur. He tried focusing and figured Sese must’ve injected him with something to knock him out.

  ***

  Doogan was awakened by a rifle prod to his ribs. His arms were no longer strapped to the bed and clothes were slung on top of him.

  “Get dressed,” said the Mediator standing over him, his AR 15 aimed at Doogan’s chest.

  Sitting up, his hand went to his woozy head, trying to steady it. An instant shot of pain pinged up and down his leg. He gripped his throbbing thigh and noticed fresh gauze on the wound. His hand went to the cigar burn on his neck to feel another piece of gauze. He peered into the Mediator’s blank face, no sentiment, just firm, unfeeling eyes.

  While he climbed unsteadily into a pair of pants and shrugging into a shirt, Doogan’s thoughts were on his family. What are they doing right now? Did they find Fulvio? He’d have to wait until his leg healed before plotting a getaway to join them. For all he knew, there was no escape.

  After he was clothed, the Mediator jerked the rifle toward the door, indicating which way to go. As Doogan turned, the Mediator poked the barrel into his back, pushing him toward the now open doorway.

  They stepped into a concrete corridor leading right and left. Doogan hesitated.

  “Right—” the Mediator said from behind.

  Every step brought intense pain, like an electrode sending signals to his nerves. Doogan walked with an acute limp. They passed several chrome doors with windows, similar to his cell. With a passing glance into each room, some were unoccupied while others held a single person, either tethered to a metal bed or curled into the fetal position. Their bodies appeared to have some form of degeneration or malformation.

  Doogan halted to stare at a boy, a few years older than Fabal. He sat on the edge of the bed, dangling his three legs. As if the boy knew someone was watching, his head turned to the window. And startled by the boy’s orange colored eyes, but they looked dead, like the spirit had fled leaving only a human shell.

  Again, he felt a poke to his spine, and he managed another step.

  “Turn here. Go through those doors.”

  Doogan shouldered through the metal doors and was slapped with a distinguishable scent—blood.

  It looked like an antechamber to an operation room. Washtubs, medical equipment, and scrubs hung on pegs. Behind another set of double doors, he perceived men in scrubs hovering around a gurney.

  “Put on scrubs,” ordered the Mediator.

  Doogan backed up a step as one of the physicians shambled from the operating room.

  The physician yanked down his mask. Like Dr. Sese, he was grizzled and twisted with age. His spinal column reeked of osteoporosis, and had grown into a permanent bow. Layers of baggage padded under his eyes, and droopy jowls rose in an untoward toothless grin. When he spoke, his timbre was anything but loud. In fact, Doogan had to slant toward the man. “We need more young men like you. Come in and learn.” Doddering back into the room, he gestured with a gaunt hand for him to follow.

  The main surgeon seemed to be teaching those around him. His arms, inside the body of a person on the gurney, were interred up to his elbows. Machines ticked and monitors bleeped responding to the heart’s rhythm, indicating the patient was alive, but under general anesthesia.

  Doogan was astonished to see the patient was a young female, probably under the age of twenty. And like the others he’d seen through the passageway windows, this girl was mutated. Her skin tone mottled from lime to jade green, and extending from her left shoulder were two functional-looking arms.

  Judging by his posture, the instructor was Dr. Sese. He droned on to those gathered, noting specific heart valves and how to bypass arteries. These men weren’t studying from a textbook, but an actual human, digging into the nitty-gritty of the human anatomy, how it worked and how to correct defects. But this person was alive, not a cadaver.

  Grimacing at the gaping chest cavity, Doogan was worried for the girl. Her breathing had slowed, and by the looks of the monitor, her heart was beginning to fail.

  Dr. Sese retreated from the gurney. His hands braced behind his back and seemed to be taking a stretch. The other men lingered—for what, Doogan didn’t know. What he did know, the young lady would die any moment if they didn’t terminate the teaching lecture.

  Provoking Doogan’s instinct, he stepped to the gurney. But, Dr. Sese blocked him with his arm. The buzzer on the monitor flatlined, then Dr. Sese went to work with more probing, using an instrument that seemed to produce an electrical charge.

  The men bowed to observe as he restarted the heart. When Dr. Sese tore down his mask, he wore a pleased pouty smirk. “See, gentlemen? Mark the time. We’ve learned much today. The body can endure many trials.” He snapped off his rubber gloves and looked at a short man in the process of disrobing. “Babbit you’re not done yet, take tissue samples from all the organs for the lab. We shall find an antibody, soon. We will squash these mutations.”

  The men began to shift out of their scrubs, leaving the lady on the gurney.

  “What about the girl?” Doogan said, removing his mask.

  Dr. Sese, already halfway out of the room, turned. “We are thankful for such a hearty soul. She’s helped us greatly. Unfortunately, she’s rubbish in her deformed state and must die like the rest of them.” Unyielding, the doctor spun, issued orders to the Mediator then left.

  Rotating to the gurney, repulsed Doogan gaped as the monitor buzzed, signaling a flatline. This time no one was bringing her back to life. Even after all his years of surgeries, he thought he’d get used to the tinny smell of blood. His stomach curdled at the sight of the girl’s cracked torso, and her face, plain and serene in death.

  Escorted by the Mediator, Doogan limped down the hallway, one hand propped on his hip for support. He was led to into an elevator, which jostled them upward to a level in the Infirmary he was well accustomed. The Mediator locked him in a room with a single bed, bureau, and mirror. The experience left him in a state of shock, his only consolation was his pain, which made him feel alive.

  Having administered in the Infirmary for nearly seventeen years, Doogan had somehow been kept totally in the dark in regard to these archaic procedures. Granted, it was rough treating an outbreak of an unknown bacterium and diseases lacking proper inoculations, when the knowledge was adrift with the rest of the world. But this was
something—abhorrent—experimenting on mutated bodies and calling them rubbish, as if they weren’t even human.

  Gimping past the mirror, Doogan stopped at his reflection. I look like shit. His face was a holy mess. A bulging black and blue mass covered his left eye. His upper lip looked like a Botox injection gone wrong, with a serrated cut at the corner. Dried blood coated his forehead from a gash at his temple.

  He needed a shower, and he had to take a leak.

  He banged on the door and jiggled the handle. “Hey, c’mon. Open up. I have to use the john,” he shouted, giving himself a headache.

  There was a grate of a bolt and the door opened wide. There stood a different Mediator, wearing a cut-off tank shirt that exposed knotted muscular biceps. He doesn’t need the pistol. He can mangle me with those arms.

  Before Doogan had a chance to move, another man whisked in front of the Mediator and offered his hand. “Hello, my name is Fontel Heversham. We’ll be, um…kind of like, working together.”

  Doogan looked down at the man’s outstretched hand, bemused. His first impression of Fontel Heversham was Weasel. Obviously embarrassed by the negative response, Fontel wiggled his fingers and then brushed the lapels of his pristine suit coat as if testing the texture.

  “Come with me,” he said. “The showers are this way.”

  “I know where the showers are.” Doogan’s voice held more than a bit of dislike. “I don’t need an escort.” It was the floor below that he’d never known existed that he found thoroughly disturbing.

  “You should’ve thought of that before―” Fontel stopped short and gave the Mediator a head tweak. “I have my orders. We don’t leave you alone.”

  Doogan followed the weasel with the Mediator breathing down his neck. The corridor was equivalent to the one below, though no captives were held on this level. They bypassed two men deep in conversation wearing gray scrubs. Doogan recognized his nemesis from his younger days, Pratt Biberly and his typical cynical brow. Their talk suspended as they peered at his disheveled appearance.