Tallas (The Tallas Series Book 1)

by Cathrina Constantine

  Discordant wailing resonated as blood spilled from scattered corpses, staining the dirt. Heart wrenching cries circulated over the village.

  Doogan, knee deep in a pothole, extracted a tiny body from a dead wolf’s fangs. He embraced the fragile, lifeless body of Tena.

  Awash with scalding tears, Riza rushed from the Infirmary. She fell to her knees, outstretching trembling arms to her daughter. “It—it happened—so—fast…” she stuttered through her irrepressible weeping.

  Attempting to inhibit his grief from consuming him, Doogan ever so gently relinquished Tena to her mother.

  He rose to aid the wounded, and felt a nudge on his arm.

  “Come with me,” Ennis said.

  Feeling powerless, Doogan watched as men and women carried bodies to the Infirmary. His job as a physician was of supreme importance, but he followed grudgingly. Amidst the wailing, Ennis guided him all the way back to his residence. Spread out in the focal point of the road was Fontel.

  “And I’ll need that back,” Ennis said, indicating the pistol secure in the waistband of Doogan’s pants.

  He handed over the gun and knelt. “Fontel,” he said, “can you hear me?” He looked into his shocked and vacant eyes. With each inhalation, blood leaked through perforations in his throat. Checking around for something, he spotted his clothes stranded in the road where he’d dropped them. “Grab that shirt,” he said to the Mediator.

  Ennis threw him the worn cotton shirts Keeyla had sewn ages ago. He balled up the sleeve and compressed it to Fontel’s neck. “Ennis, put pressure on this.”

  The fiber of Fontel’s shirt was saturated in red fluid. Doogan tore his shirt, to examine gaping wounds. Compacting a piece of clothing into a thick wad, he covered the lacerations. It was only a matter of time. Any movement would drain the body quicker.

  “Now what?” Ennis asked, applying pressure.

  Doogan had only to look at the Mediator to give Ennis his answer.

  “Fontel,” he said peering into his non-blinking eyes, “you’re going to feel better, soon.”

  Fontel opened his mouth to speak, and gagged on the liquid drowning his throat. His eyelids slit, trying to focus. “Basta—has a—boy,” he coughed, spraying blood.

  “What boy? Is it Fabal?” Doogan glimpsed Ennis.

  “No,” Ennis answered, his tone sedate. “Some kid from the mountain where they found you.”

  Fontel’s eyelids squeezed shut as he coughed again. A final burbling breath and his body seemed to dissolve. His pupils dilated as blood dribbled from his mouth. Dying and death had been commonplace over the years yet it never lost its repulsive nature.

  Doogan wiped his hands on his pants. “I need to talk to Basta.”

  Ennis nodded.

  “But it’s vital I get to the Infirmary.”

  Together, they jogged down the road to the Infirmary. Citizens flocked to the building, clogging the vestibule to check on loved ones and friends. Nurses and temporary volunteers flittered from room to room administering to trivial annoyances. When people spotted them pushing through the throng, they bombarded Doogan, pulling on his arms. Ennis had to shepherd him to the most severe casualties.

  Dr. Riggley looked up from suturing a man’s chest. His haunted eyes and the shake of his head told him the situation was critical.

  A shocked young man barged in. “You’re needed in surgery, room two.”

  Not missing a beat, Doogan raced to the surgical room, with Ennis sticking to him like a shadow. He noticed Basta leaning over a fellow Mediator. He steadied his resolve, the confrontation would have to wait. “See if Basta will meet with me later.” He directed Ennis’s gaze to the Chief Mediator.

  When Doogan shouldered into the surgery, an anesthetized Mediator lay on the gurney. His forearm scarcely attached to the elbow by tendons of twisted sinew. He knew the arm couldn’t be saved. Though the circumstances were completely disparate than being born with a defect, he wondered if the disfigured man would be allowed to reside in Tallas if he survived?

  Halfway through the procedure, Dr. Riggley made an appearance. “We have a production line waiting for us,” his voice weary and echoing in the confines of the sterile room.

  The Mediator was still breathing by the end of the amputation when they wheeled in a comatose woman. Batha, a woman who worked in the orchards. In her habitual kindness, she’d slyly slip an apple into his hands when he was a boy. He cringed at the splices scoring her torso, hunks of flesh missing. He was amazed she was clinging to life.

  “Don’t look now, but Jedd’s watching,” Rooney said, his voice low and muffled.

  “Who the hell cares?”

  After a moment, Rooney said, “It was hell when you didn’t show the other day. I know you forewarned me, but things got hectic. Basta was over here interrogating not only me but the entire staff.” He swiped at the moisture coating his forehead. “How come us schmucks never knew about the research on the lower level?”

  Doogan felt sweat permeating his mask. “I wouldn’t be jealous of what goes on down there. It’s pretty gruesome and totally unethical. It looks like it’s been going on for a while,” he said, while concentrating on the patient. “You’d never know because you need a special code for the elevator to go below.”

  “Hmmm…” the noise vibrated Rooney’s chest. “What are we going to do about it?” A split second later, he said, “Cauterize that artery! Yeah—good.”

  As the grueling surgery continued, Doogan’s back began to spasm. “I don’t know what to do. Do you?” He blinked away the perspiration dripping into his eyes. “Where’s Hailla? We could use a good nurse in here.”

  “You’ve seen what it looks like out there.” Rooney’s bleak eyes centered on him. “She’s probably running her ass off.”

  They didn’t expect Batha to make it through the night. Three minor operations later, Doogan and Rooney washed up.

  “Let me know what I can do,” Rooney said in a taxing tone.

  “Sh-h…” Doogan whispered, “Jedd’s here.”

  “Good work, doctors,” said the director, also appearing fatigued and edgy. “Hopefully the worst is over.”

  Doogan’s leg burned like hellfire when he finally shambled into the lobby of the crammed Infirmary. Amongst the traumatized victims, elegantly dressed Elites and Executives made their rounds. No doubt comforting them with false words of pity.

  Ennis appeared like a ghost out of thin air to linger next to him. “Basta will see you,” he said, “at Headquarters when you’re through.”

  Pomfrey steered through the crowd to Doogan. He brushed the lapels of his suit, as though cleaning filth from his fingers.

  “Fontel Heversham is dead,” Doogan said.

  “Yes, I know.” Pomfrey’s facade remained composed. “That’s his father, Grindle, over there.” His peeked over his shoulder, indicating the man.

  So unlike Fontel, he didn’t see the relationship. Grindle Heversham was broad, his dark skin glistening from the exponential heat of the day. As if feeling eyes on him, Grindle looked up, his face puffy and dispirited. Doogan felt a pang of remorse for his loss.

  “Now do you comprehend the danger?” Pomfrey’s pitiless voice rang in his ears. “For years, the Mediators endeavored to keep our village safe. Twelve people were killed today, probably more who won’t make it through the night.”

  As much as it perturbed him to agree, Doogan nodded, his thoughts turning to Fabal. Can he survive the wilderness?

  Chapter 19

  Keeyla cradled Fabal in her arms. “Are you okay?”

  “That was nuts, wasn’t it, Mom?” he said, dumbfounded.

  “Real nuts,” she concurred.

  Fulvio strut to the dead serpent and, wanting to take a look at the reptile, Fabal broke from his mother. He sprinted to where Fulvio and Tibbles assessed their kill.

  He fingered the hard scales that felt like solid glass. “Wow,” he exclaimed, inspecting the serpent, which was higher than his waistline. “What
cha call this thing, Fulvio?”

  “This thing,” Fulvio said, “has grown rapidly since our last meeting.”

  Keeyla let out a winded breath, preferring to stand yards away. “Are there more of these…snakes around here?” Perceiving the distant wetlands, she searched for any signs of slithery monsters.

  Fulvio hunched his shoulders, unsure. “Like I clarified previously, you’ll notice peculiar anomalies these days.” Shelving his hands on his ample hips, he added, “You can see I’ve eaten heartily from what nature has provided.”

  Tibbles bobbed his head.

  “Let’s gather the supplies.” Fulvio gestured with a sweep of his hand to the scattered items that had been flung from the cart. “How about snake for lunch, eh?”

  They took a break to eat the succulent meat then traversed over hill and dale without further mishaps. High in the sky, the sun baked them like crispy biscuits. Sluggish, they descended a swell of land into a wooded grove. Fulvio scrubbed his sweaty face and neck, his tongue felt cracked and bone dry. He could hardly wait till they reached the shade, anticipating a cool drink.

  “We’ll rest here for a bit,” he croaked through his parched throat as they merged under the shady grove.

  After dismounting, he unfastened the saddle and harness, freeing the horse to graze. The boy was busy unyoking Tibbles from the wooden cart and attacking the flask of water.

  He observed Keeyla’s flushed skin, which only enhanced her beauty. Definitely not a wallflower prone to wilt, she’d proven to be resilient. Her jacket had been discarded, and he detected fresh blood staining her shirt. “Keeyla, may I take a look at your wound? I believe it needs tending.”

  She pulled aside the material and grit her teeth as he unwound the linen and applied antiseptic. Front to back, he evaluated the injury.

  “You would’ve made a wonderful physician,” she said.

  “I doubt that. By the sound of your chattering teeth.”

  “You have a tender touch.”

  “I did my time at the Infirmary, but Doogan’s better suited and much more passionate, not to mention smarter.”

  “Yes, he was a passionate man.” She eliminated traces of moisture from under her eyes.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t refer to Doogan in the past-tense, at least not yet.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way.” She rebuttoned her shirt then pinched the bridge of her nose.

  “It’s been a strenuous journey. I’m…”

  “You never finished telling me why you decided to leave Tallas,” she interrupted him.

  “I did try, my dear, though I started to bore you. You began to snore so loudly I could hardly speak over the din.” He repacked the bandages and antiseptic into a duffle.

  “Oh, really?” Her mouth stretched with a generous smile, showing teeth. “Well, I’m wide awake now.”

  Fabal, who’d been absorbed in watching him administer to his mother, sat on a patch of squishy moss and drew his legs to his chest.

  He glanced from Fabal to Keeyla, both intently gazing at him. Guilt swelled his insides, but in his mind and heart, he did the right thing. “There’s nothing left to tell that you don’t already know.” Thumbing his pockets, he relaxed on a tree trunk. “For your edification, my greatest regret is not being presence in your lives. But I’ve always been there, in the background.”

  His fingers twisted and pulled the ends of his mustache. “When I left, I wasn’t working alone. I have people on the inside, like undercover agents or spies, if you will. I couldn’t live with myself knowing what the Elites had orchestrated for those poor souls. He paused. “I guess that’s it in a nutshell.”

  “I understand. Truly I do, Fulvio.” Keeyla scooped her long hair from her neck, and fanned her skin. “But there’s more. I can read it in your eyes.”

  “What’d you mean, you were always there, in the background?” Fabal inquired.

  Fulvio rolled his tired shoulders. “I can be stealthy at times. Sneaking around undetected has been quite entertaining.” A smile developed beneath his mustache. “You know Mr. Quigley? He resides in that rundown shack behind your apartment.”

  “Of course, he brought me the map you sent,” she said. “The oldest man in the community. I’ve seen Pomfrey visit him.”

  “He’s esteemed as the oldest, but not precisely. You’ve never met Dr. Sese or Dr. Merkle, have you?”

  Keeyla scratched her temple in thought.

  “They never leave the Infirmary.” Pensive, his eyes narrowed. “Goshen was there at the very beginning. He didn’t want any part in establishing Management. He’s wise, saw the writing on the wall, or perhaps he knew Pomfrey too well.”

  “I’ve seen them arguing,” Keeyla said, “but I was too far to hear.”

  “Pomfrey’s been trying to get rid of Goshen. He knows too much. Actually, I’m surprised he’s still breathing. Goshen holds a secret, a little form of blackmail, which keeps him from the Mediators grasp. Pomfrey wants to think I’m dead, that monsters have eaten my bones, and Goshen likes to goad him with news of my existence.” Fulvio shrugged off the trunk to pace, stretching tight muscles.

  “So the Elites really do know about these monsters?” Fabal’s innocence shone in his inquisitive eyes.

  “Of course, my little man.” He picked up a sturdy branch and used it like a walking stick. “Mediators have guarded the fringes, and forfeiting some of their own in the process. They’re sworn to secrecy. Nevertheless, as with all juicy secrets, someone always manages to leak, and rumors of monsters have titillated Tallas for years. It’s the main reason why they forbid citizens to wander past the community’s perimeters. In that circumstance, I endorse the Elites in preserving lives.”

  “I must apologize for the arduous expedition,” he said, off topic, “but if we travel another twenty minutes, we will be closeted for the night in a most worthy dwelling. In this region, it would be advisable to seek shelter from the darkness.”

  ***

  The twenty-minute excursion turned out to be only fifteen with Fabal urging the bear to hurry it along. The troublesome, long day was gratefully behind them and coming to an end.

  Again, they were situated in a woodsy area. No sooner had the troop halted, than Swan materialized from the surplus of pines.

  “I didn’t expect to see you,” Fulvio said, the anxiety in his voice obvious. “It’s not a wise decision.”

  “He’s my brother,” she said with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “I can help. I want to help.”

  Next, the young man who had quarreled with Fulvio pushed through the boughs. “Smelt, what are you doing here?” Fulvio said. “I thought you didn’t want any part of this?”

  “I still think it’s a bad idea.” Smelt glared at him. “I’m a whole man. You’ll need me.”

  Fulvio moved his mouth to speak, but then thought better of insulting him. Smelt was right. Inhaling with resignation, he said, “We walk from here.”

  Weaving through the abundance of growth, the bear and horse trailed in their wake. They came to a mound of downed pines. A misshapen hodgepodge of boughs, swaddled in a netting of overgrown vegetation, and it seemed to expand as they drew nearer. Surrounding conifers hovered over the conglomerate like looming guards. As the sun dipped to the west, the heat of the day dissipated, engulfing them in a soft dusk.

  “We have arrived.” Fulvio motioned to the timbered pile like a grand conductor. “The closer we get to Tallas the harder it is to conceal ourselves. We’ve excavated an underground hideout. It serves us well and, as you can see, nature has a way of healing.”

  He turned to Smelt. “Are Horatio and Mortmiller here?”

  Smelt nodded and disappeared into the hodgepodge of growth.

  “Sadly—” Fulvio headed to Zennith, “—our friends cannot accompany us.” He patted the horse’s neck.

  “Swan, please take Keeyla inside,” he instructed, “and come back to help us unload.”

  “I can manage an item or two,” Keeyla said
. “I despise being treated like I’m worthless.”

  He scrutinized the woman. With her hair tied up in a knot, she resembled the teenager he’d first met, a willowy girl who’d bend but wouldn’t break.

  “Here, Keeyla,” he offered, admiring her tenacity, “take my rifle.”

  Two men exited the underground hideout. One was short, a dwarf with an irregular frame. He had an unbalanced gait and a big head that roosted on overly wide shoulders. His dangling arms gave the impression of being too long for his body.

  The other man was of medium height and shirtless, looking like he was sheathed in a bodysuit of fur. His head of russet hair blended with his mustache and beard, wrapping his neck like a scarf. He shoved a mess of strands from his face. Where one of the man’s eyes should’ve been was a hole covered by folds of skin.

  Chapter 20

  Fabal goggled at the two men while his grandfather began to disperse their stocks.

  “Fabal, don’t just stand there,” Fulvio grunted while dumping snake meat on the ground. “Start unpacking the cart. We wouldn’t want our precious goods to be stolen by the animals.”

  Inside the hideout, close quarters and the smoldering fire made it intolerable to find any personal space. Hemmed in by a molded dugout of clay and bark, their motley crew consisted of eight people. Swan nestled in her mother’s lap as Tanya gazed at nothing, her eyes spooky. Her wiry hair was hacked off at the base of her neck and stuck out like tumbleweeds, making her appear somewhat unbalanced.

  Smelt seemed ready to explode in the tight confines, cracking his knuckles and folding and unfolding his arms. Horatio sat cross-legged, his long arms perched over his knees. And Mortmiller, leaning against the clay wall looked like a chimpanzee picking through his beard for bugs. Fabal had his head in his mom’s lap, who toyed with his curls. Fulvio stuffed his hands into his pockets, gazing at the fire.

  Perusing the crew Fabal encountered Swan’s stare. Even in the bleak dugout, firelight touched her blue eyes.