Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  Fulvio hoisted the rifle.

  In a synchronized assault, two heads dove toward Fabal, the other hunting for Fulvio. A gaping maw, wide enough to devour the child, pitched downward. Fabal, with his slingshot at the ready, pelted the serpent in a dead-on hit to a yellow-orbed eyeball. A shriek split the air.

  The third head darted to Fulvio and Keeyla. The serpent’s orifice expanded, exposing glistening fangs and hooding Fulvio’s arm along with the rifle. A muffled discharge sounded, exploding the head to smithereens. Bits and pieces of slimy gore showered down on them.

  “Now!” Fulvio yelled. “Run, Tibbles. Run, Zennith—hold tight!”

  Bucking into a sprint, hooves ate up the dirt, racing over the uneven terrain, hoping to outrun the treacherous creature. Zennith stumbled, flinging Keeyla sideways. Fulvio’s arm shot backward and pushed her upright, his eyes catching a glimpse of the reptile. Tibbles lagged, the attached cart vomited various articles, and the boy seemed interred in the bear’s wooly scruff.

  “Behind you, Tibbles—” Fulvio boomed.

  Tibbles dug his hind legs into the earth, spraying soil. The neck yoke broke from his shoulders and Keeyla screeched as Fabal tumbled and rolled like a spinning top over the ground. Wheeling around, the bear drew himself up to his full height. The serpent slithered like a missile, not to Tibbles, to the boy.

  ***

  Dazed, Fabal attempted to stand on his wobbly knees. His mom’s screaming and Fulvio’s shouting rang in his ears as Tibbles stormed on four legs straight for him. The bear’s face contorted with a savage roar, frothing incisors dripping saliva. Fabal was too petrified to run.

  The now two-headed serpent dove at the boy. Instinctively, his arms screened his face. Tremors radiated under the soles of his shoes and, dropping his arms, saw Tibbles grappling with the colossal reptile. His powerful jaws locked onto the serpent’s body. It surged and coiled around the bear, constricting him. One headless neck flopped like a dead fish, while the remaining two spit, working to impale the bear with their deadly fangs.

  “Shoot, Fulvio—” Keeyla screamed. “Shoot!”

  Raising the rifle, his eye on the mark, he hesitated.

  “What are you waiting for?” Keeyla said.

  “Fabal’s in my line of fire, and I could hit Tibbles,” Fulvio snarled. “Zennith, move in.” The horse, given his lead, trotted forward.

  Fabal stood transfixed, wanting to help his friend, but their thrashing bodies convoluted into a mass of fur and shiny scales. Claws like honed knives, Tibbles gashed the serpent, severing its neck. The head drooped sideways, squirting tarry goo.

  Slackening its coils from the rioting bear, the squealing serpent slithered away with one head intact.

  Too scared to move, Fabal stared after the reptile. A rifle discharged, and the serpent’s lone head burst asunder and the scaly trunk timbered to the ground.

  Chapter 18

  Doogan woke with a rampaging heart. Devoid of windows, he hadn’t the foggiest concept of time. Shunting off the blanket, he slipped his feet to the floor, where cold embedded his toes. An instantaneous combustion of emotions ruptured his brain and a fiery burn struck his eyes. Cradling his head in his hands, the tears couldn’t be squelched.

  Hadn’t history taught them a lesson since the wars of discord and dissention?

  He strived to piece together Pomfrey’s perverted ideology. Wasn’t it hundreds of years ago? He’d learned from his mentors that another satanic dictator wanted to form “the perfect race”— To fashion humankind to his specifications. An impossible feat, and the price was the blood of life leaching into the already contaminated soil.

  Keeyla’s blood.

  He raked fingers over his achy chest.

  Startled by a knock on the door, he gathered his wits and sponged his wet face on the blanket. Switching on the fluorescent lights, he glanced in the mirror and pushed his fingers into his unkempt hair. He ripped the bandage from his neck, revealing Basta’s cigar burn. The raw skin was in the process of healing. His shiner was also in the healing stages, purplish-black skin morphing to a yellowish-green.

  Another insistent knock sounded.

  The door opened to Fontel. And spying Doogan’s stormy eyes, he threw his arms in the air, and said in haste, “I’m only the messenger. My orders were to discuss the Mediators’ findings with the doctors and not to confront you.” Slick and lubricated hair shined in the light. “I’m supposed to bring you to the main floor.”

  “With or without clothes?” Doogan asked.

  Fontel’s eyes traveled the length of his nakedness. He sucked in his cheeks and quirked an eyebrow, proof he approved. “I’d flaunt that too.”

  Doogan gathered his mouth to the side and then noticed a scowling Ennis behind Fontel. The Mediator’s swollen jaw looked tender, and his hand was affixed on the weapon in his holster.

  After dressing, Doogan was led directly to the elevator. The grating gears and the slothful ascent was enough to make them squeamish.

  “How’s Mrs. Addler today?” Doogan tucked his shirt into the waistband of the oversized trousers.

  Fontel shrugged. “Not my priority.”

  Insensitive weasel.

  The elevator came to a grinding halt to let in Pratt Biberly. His eyes skirted Doogan to the Mediator. “Hey, kid, get demoted or something? The Infirmary isn’t your normal beat.” Pratt’s criticism turned Ennis’s scowl into a full-blown grimace.

  Ennis touched his broken jaw and tweak his head in Doogan’s direction, indicating the cause of his demotion.

  An inelegant mumble escaped Pratt. “I remember his mean right uppercut. So,” he said, appraising Doogan. “You finally got your comeuppance.”

  “Go to hell, Pratt,” Doogan said, chagrined.

  Pratt smirked, appearing to like their jeering clashes. “And Promfrey’s boy toy is guiding you by the hand,” he said in a withering tone.

  A resentful Fontel huffed, and glared at Pratt.

  “Now I remember you, Heversham.” For once, Doogan was in agreement with Pratt. “You’re the suckhole for the Elites.”

  They sniggered as creeping scarlet claimed Fontel’s neck and cheeks.

  The elevator door shimmied open to reveal the main floor of the Infirmary. Before parting ways, Pratt turned to Doogan and extended his hand. He stared at the offered hand for a moment then reciprocated.

  Fontel seized Doogan by the elbow. “We’re to show people you’re alive and well. No talking. Walk casually out of the Infirmary to the road. Any smart aleck move and Ennis will take you down. Understand?”

  Doogan frowned and cast a pernicious glance at the man’s hand. As if electrocuted, Fontel’s fingers sprang off his arm.

  As was typical, the Infirmary’s vestibule was busy. Citizens of every age and gender waited to be seen on an assortment of chairs. When they saw Doogan, smiles multiplied and a harmony of salutations expressed. Fontel kept a steady pace, urging Doogan on paying little heed to the people’s enquiries.

  Prior to reaching the main entrance, the attending physician, Dr. Rooney Riggley who worked with Doogan, heard the commotion and walked from the examining room. Rooney rushed over and grabbed his hand and gave it a vigorous pumping. “Glad you’re over your sickness.”

  Doogan parted his lips, but Fontel beat him to the punch. “He’s not back. He needs another day of recuperation. Just getting some air.”

  Dr. Riggley regarded Doogan’s damaged face. A clear indication of his ordeal passed between them in an eye exchange.

  Bypassing Dr. Riggley, Ennis lightly pushed him forward.

  “Thanks, Riggs,” Doogan threw over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon.”

  As they proceeded outside, Doogan lifted a hand to his brow, screening his eyes from the dazzling sun. Deep breathing, he inhaled a hardy dose of fresh, loamy air. Acclimating to being outside, he browsed the row of houses. Duplex homes of plank board, logs, and a few of rare brick, bordered the central village roadway. A new build had begun behind
the schoolhouse.

  If people were blessed with an extended family, parents, child, and grandparents all shared a small dwelling. Those who had time to spare had beautified their homes with mounded gardens of wildflowers, now flourishing. Muddy puddles from the recent rainstorm still pooled in the tamped-dirt road, along with mucky footprints and scores of ruts left by vehicles. Most of the residents were working at their assigned jobs, though, here and there a few citizens wandered about.

  “Smile, look natural. No stopping and no talking.” Fontel reiterated his orders, and Ennis backing him up with a grunt.

  Goshen Quigley, who’d been ambling across the road, stalled. His brow winged up in apparent in disbelief, and waved. Doogan provided a succinct head bow. He’d have to find a way to speak with the old codger.

  “What’s Management trying to prove?” he asked Fontel.

  “It seems you’re a popular person in Tallas,” Fontel declared, sneering. “Citizens were kind of panicky when you disappeared. We’re just settling them down.”

  “So you’re parading me around like a prized bull? Attesting to my longevity?”

  “Yes, something like that.” Fontel’s foot sloshed into a puddle. “I can’t wait until we’re done stoning these sidewalks,” he groused while shaking his foot. Goopy mud spattered.

  “Doogan!” A child in pigtails pranced into their path with a young lady chasing after her. The little girl wore pieces of scrap clothing sewn into a lively frock and pants inserted into a pair of rubber boots, too large for her feet.

  “How many times must I remind you, Tena, it’s Dr. McTullan.” Riza Sudan looked more like Tena’s sister than her mother, a brunette braid dripped down her back. Traditions had radically changed after the wars. A prolonged existence was seldom the case, and life needed to be lived promptly.

  “That’s perfectly all right,” he said. “Doogan is my name.”

  Riza grinned and Tena’s innocent eyes gloated. He squatted on his haunches to talk with the little girl. Tena’s cherub face beamed, her face splitting into an ear-to-ear smile. Her smile replaced by a frown as her tiny hand covered her mouth and coughed.

  “I’m sick,” Tena said, “in here.” She pointed to her chest. “It hurts. You make it better.” A conclusive gurgle sounded in her throat and a pink glow coated her skin.

  Doogan smoothed his palm on Tena’s forehead and then her cheeks. His eyes sought Riza. Giving a modest shake of her head and biting on her bottom lip, she looked stressed. His gaze returned to the little girl. “Have Mommy take you to the Infirmary.” His attitude was more upbeat than he felt. “See Dr. Riggley today.”

  “I wanna see you.” Her jaw protruded, pouting.

  Doogan grasped her swinging pigtails. “Giddy up, horsy,” he joked, hoping to distract Tena and rose to his full height. “Take your mommy to see Dr. Riggley and I’ll see you tomor—.”

  “We must be on our way, Riza,” Ennis interrupted. “Take the child to the Infirmary like Dr. McTullan suggested.”

  Her eyes downcast, Riza nodded and scooped Tena up.

  Doogan touched Riza’s shoulder and, slanting his head toward the young mother’s ear, he whispered, “She has a fever, again. Tell Rooney to raise the dose.”

  “C’mon. Let’s move it.” Ennis prodded him in the back.

  “I told you not to talk,” Fontel said with disdain when Riza was out of earshot. “This will take all day if you continue to make a spectacle of yourself.”

  “Shut the hell up, Heversham,” Doogan spat. “The little girl doesn’t stand a chance, she’s dying.”

  Ennis rotated to take a gander at the mother and child. A sympathetic ambiance enveloped. But soon, Fontel’s whistling struck a grim chord with them.

  “Can you hear that?” Ennis said.

  Unharmonious strains of mooing originated from the south side of the village, where three barns housed livestock of jersey cows, longhorns, bulls, pigs, sheep, and a henhouse for the expanding chicken and rooster population. The surrounding fields were for grazing and planting grain.

  Doogan cocked an ear to listen. “Something must’ve spooked them. We rarely hear the animals from our complex.”

  “That’s one job I’m glad I was spared.” A pompous Fontel wrinkled his nose. “Shoveling shit, some low life’s got to do it.”

  Doogan took offense to the weasel’s remark. “I liked working with the animals. I’d been in the barns for years and helped out after I started at the Infirmary.”

  “Well, aren’t you well rounded,” Fontel said in a snooty tone. “Animals—people, I guess they’re all the same.” A chuckle jangled in his chest. They trekked another dozen feet when he stopped and pointed. “That’s your place, right?”

  The weasel’s getting on my nerves.

  “Go in and pack only necessities. You’re going to stay at the Infirmary.”

  “How long?”

  “Until Mr. Addler says you can move back home.”

  Until a week ago, he shared the apartment with Keeyla and Fabal. Dawdling at the outer entrance, his legs turned to mush. They’re not here. Keeyla’s dead, and Fabal… Hyperventilating, his bones turned to ice. He couldn’t move.

  Sidestepping him, Ennis turned the knob. And Fontel pushed Doogan in. One unstable step at a time, he crossed the threshold of their combination parlor and kitchen. Too quiet. No laughter. No life. He performed deep breathing techniques to regulate his devastated heart.

  It was strange not to hear the hum of the sewing machine. He glimpsed the corner end table where Keeyla’s machine rested. The presser foot still held a piece of material she’d been stitching. In the middle of the table where they ate their last meal, a vase overflowed with wildflowers. Their stems now denuded, wilted petals speckled the tabletop. He noticed a piece of paper written in her cursive. Knowing someone would eventually come looking for them, she’d written: We leave Tallas, but our hearts are with our friends.

  It was obvious their apartment had been ransacked. Mud-caked boot prints carpeted the planked floors. Now dried, particles of dirt sifted into the atmosphere like dust motes.

  Doogan headed to the bedroom and braked to scan a collage of Fabal’s handiwork. Tacked to the wall, crayoned drawings of Tallas with cotton candy clouds. Anvils for legs, he walked like in a catatonic dream to their bedroom. Keeyla’s pillow was still indented where she’d laid her head, their blankets jumbled. Flashes of memories came to him at a catastrophic speed. His heart pounded wildly against his ribs. He was losing it.

  “Can we please dispense with the sentimentality?”

  Fontel’s snide tone cut him like a knife. He spun ready to kill. Noting Doogan’s caustic eyes, he paled, and backpedaled into Ennis’s chest.

  It was the Mediator’s measured shake of his head that drew Doogan’s gaze, a mild caveat. Instead of pulverizing Fontel’s face, he tempered his fury by raking his fingers over his hips. Turning back to the bedroom, he noticed their bureau drawers tilted at different angles. There wasn’t much he could retrieve. “Most of my stuff is in the trunk of the car.”

  Ennis scuffed his boot on the floor. “Yeah, well, it was considered contraband and divvied up among the Mediators.”

  “Our task wasn’t particularly to gather clothing,” Fontel said. “I think we’ve accomplished what Management wanted. Doogan’s back, people can relax.”

  “You don’t think it’ll bother them to know that Keeyla and Fabal aren’t with me,” Doogan growled. “Does Management think citizens are that heartless and stupid?”

  Before he could lambaste the weasel, Ennis fixed a lean hand on his shoulder. Not a look of warning, but regret and empathy flickered in the Mediator’s eyes.

  He collected a few skimpy articles of clothing and tucked them under his arm. “There, let’s go.” Drowning in memories, he dashed from the complex.

  They exited into the bright day amid harrowing screams. Standing alert, they peered from one end of the road to the other. Doors opened, and people flew onto the walkways.
Citizens searched for the root of the screams, running to meet neighbors, talking over each other.

  “It’s coming from the orchards,” Ennis said. He took off down the walkway in the direction of the orchards, which were behind the Infirmary.

  Doogan was on the Mediator’s heels and glanced over his shoulder at Fontel. He stood rigid, fear written on his face. Asshole weasel.

  The screaming grew in decibel. In the far reaches of Tallas located a quarter-mile past the Infirmary, citizens cultivated apple orchards from whence the uproar seemed to be coming. A dozen Mediators scrammed from Headquarters, while citizens tumbled from the Infirmary.

  A lone Mediator jogged into view, his ashen face horror-stricken. “Get back in the buildings!” he shouted, hysterically gesturing like the sky was falling. “Get back in the buildings!” The harsh ring of firearms had the whole village scrambling and shrieking.

  Over the cacophony, guttural growling took precedence.

  Enormous wolves loped into the village. Their backbones arched and hefty heads snapped every which way, as though they didn’t want to lose sight of their quarry. Foaming muzzles curled back in a snarl, and pointed incisors leaking spittle. Fierce red eyes scanned the road.

  Ennis withdrew his revolver, taking aim. The bullet sliced through one hirsute creature, spawning a high-pitched squeal that scraped up their spines. Wounded, it still charged. Scissored teeth snipped the body of a little girl. Clamping his jaws, the wolf leaped through the air with its victim before Ennis had a chance to pull the trigger a second time.

  A chaotic scene of people running for sanctuary as the sure-footed creatures tore after them. Citizens were taken down one after another, either by lethal jaws or a stray bullet that missed its mark. The onslaught was swift and fatal.

  Without thinking twice, Ennis tossed a pistol to Doogan. They began to gain ground, driving the creatures back. As fast as the wolves had appeared, they cantered from the village. Some with body parts or slaughtered victims dangling from their jaws, as they disappeared into the outskirts.