Once-Other

by Lawrence M. Nysschens

  He looks up smiles and says, “Well Once-Other that’s one-two-three. Right?”

  “No,” I reply.

  “Oh?” he says, “You don’t get what I’ve read? Okay. Here’s why and for your edification. One. All your business and personal properties are mine. Two your life is mine and three....”

  “And three?” I ask stunned and breathless for I have not yet heard the third one.

  “Three I’ll enjoy knowing for as long as I live. You will die twice out here Once-Other.”

  He stands, chuckles and heads to the SandMaster. They huddle whispering. Several times one or the other glances my way then dives back into the conversation. After several minutes of intense conversations their talking ends.

  They all look at me and nod in group agreement.

  Wernt returns carrying a rope. “We’re taking you up to the Highlands as I promised, but in the morning. This is to ensure you do not make off during the night. I’ve offered them a bonus if you live till then. So if you have a religion now’s the time to pray. Don’t take this personally—I need some time...prior to the final act. It’s been a little upsetting...getting to know you.”

  He ties my feet and hands.

  “In the morning then Once-Other—dead or alive.”

  He heads off as happy as such can be. The bad-on-bad Desert Drivers laugh without humor as they usher their passengers onboard.

  Ozerken strolls over and drops a fur coat down next to me. “Stay alive until morning. We get a bonus if you do.”

  The hiss of doors, the roar of four powerful engines, the whine of gears meshing, the swooshing of sixteen wheels spitting sand and the two SandMaster head off.

  And the wind dies and silence reigns.

  I’m alone and though prone I’m stumbling down a one-way-sand-alley along which the Minions of Death search for the spirit that is I—whispering my real name to me.

  No, I will not place it on this record.

  Wernt may be listening.

  CHAPTER 53

  Of A Sip Of Death, A Touch Of Hope, A Sandstorm

  Seated upon the crest of a high dune, the sun burning fiercely and surrounded by Arzerns, I await death. Hands and feet freed, legs and arms crossed I make no attempt to escape. Death has been accepted our differences reconciled, her arrival welcomed

  Around me, sand is soaked with my blood-clouded sweat.

  The sun’s heat reaches inwards seeking to turn blood into powder.

  I scoop up sand and wash my face and hair. Another scoop is used to bathe my chest. Confronting pain, I force some into my wounds despite that it no longer matters.

  Later.

  Comfortable, hands resting easy upon my knees the final darkness beckons. Will I find a place of no identity? Or will I instead have a new identity and another chance to find loved ones and to be loved as many of our religions say happens and many believe?

  Though some insist they know this is true.

  I glance down to find damp, darkened sand.

  Perhaps my sweat has done this.

  The loud beat of wings intrudes.

  A Great Black, giants amongst Arzerns, lands, waddles closer and stops two sand-paces off. It curves its neck and stares me in the eye from various angles. It steps backward, preens itself with one eye on itself while the other checks wet sand and me over.

  Its just over two sand-paces long wing stretches out and settles over darkened sand. Tentacles covered with suction pads slither out from between wingtip feathers and dip into moist sand. Moments later with sand now dry the tentacles vanish. The Black stretches its neck until its razor sharp beak reaches three some sand-paces high and screams.

  In full-blown panic, Criers lunge out their burrows and scatter.

  From their hiding place beneath sand Arzerns launch screeching with delight.

  An old Crier rushes by. A Black swoops down on the slow, aging one. Six finger long talons wrap around the old Crier’s neck, sink in and blood spurts. The predator soars back into the sky and circles. A tentacle slithers out from beneath its tail feathers dips under the Crier’s pouch-cover, attaches to a teat and sucks out the milk.

  It switches teats and consumes the water.

  Nothing on Here-Born goes wasted.

  The Crier falls and slams into sand with a dull thud. The Great Black descends, lands, hops to the Crier, scans the surroundings for several moments, a soft diner’s murmur of delight and it feeds.

  I note that I am cold, bone-deep cold.

  The Great Black before me bows several times its gaze fixed on something above my head. Without moving, I glance up.

  A large block of ice rests on my head. With a crackle-n-crunch, the ice expands downward like an overgrowth. Cold pierces my eyes; they remain open despite the pain. The view of the Arzern distorts as the ice extends downwards, bulges around my shoulders, scurries down my torso and splays out to cover my legs.

  The Black edges closer to me. It stops and glances about, then pecks at the ice. Chips spray into its face—a brief backward flight-n-hop. Wind from its flapping wings showers water off the melting ice. Wet spots dot sand. The Black watches me as though I am a museum exhibit.

  “I hope we round-n-about live through this. I ain’t making judgment here, but you know an’ all getting stung can get us dead an’ all?” said Madsen a long ago in the desert when we were young.

  Now I see that since that day on which I had placed his life in danger, his attitude towards me began to change. Perhaps he lost trust in me...perhaps in himself as well. I shall miss him despite his criticisms.

  Perhaps visions of one’s life do play before death.

  The fleeing Criers scream louder.

  So does the Black in front of me.

  A gaggle of Criers collide with each other in panic and rush in circles. Yet others stand back-to-back their blood stained fangs gnashing in self-defense.

  To my left, a panic-stricken gaggle rushes by. Arzerns swoop in to rise with old and weak Criers held tight. Overhead their numbers darken the sky and Madsen says, “You be in a troubling mind?”

  He’s not here, though. Is this the all of my life? Is there nothing else? Have I no accomplishments, no moment worthy of remembrance?

  The Great Black hops forward and pecks at the ice. Each blow of its beak thuds against my forehead igniting explosions and sending more dark-n-wet specks onto sand.

  And Wernt says, “Wake up.”

  I blink and the sunlight hurts my eyes and I hear soft shuffling sounds.

  Now comes the end of Once-Other of Here-Born for the Arzern is coming in for the kill. I turn my eyes up to watch my last moments reflected in the Black’s eyes and so to record my last instant for those of the future.

  Instead, I find Wernt tapping my forehead with the muzzle of his handgun. Beyond him, Pe’truss and Ozerken smile triumphantly. Bonuses all round kind of smiles.

  Odentien stares off into the distance, expressionless.

  “Good morning Once-Other,” Wernt says. “Yeah. You made it. A little blue in the face but otherwise damn fine.”

  He hauls me to a sitting position leaving the fur coat on sand.

  Ripped and shredded remnants of clothing are all that remains of Franciscoa. I parry the rage that threatens to erupt and end all possibility of escape. There’s nothing I can do now but survive. Survive and bring justice to Franciscoa, to Jiplee and to all Here-Borns who have been lost in a war as yet undeclared.

  My stomach flutters and acid rises to my throat. I swallow and glance about. Crier tracks everywhere. Why was only Franciscoa taken? Was I alive enough to keep them at bay?

  Unlikely.

  Ozerken glances at the fur coat and his eyes twinkle.

  I follow his line of sight to find the tag of a repellant sachet protruding out a pocket. I note a tear with slight heat burns along the edges with the contents long since gone, leaked into the air.

  Ozerken must have added a detonator and timer to the sachet and hidden them in the fur coat. The timer he w
ould have set to activate after their departure.

  Breathing deeply, I catch the faint trace of Arzern scent, which keeps Criers at bay. Mingled with it are remnants of the thick smell of CO2, which kept the Arzerns at bay.

  I glance about. Neither Odentien nor Wernt is suspicious for now the contents are almost odorless.

  Strange Ozerken did that.

  Well...bonuses were involved.

  Wernt offers me water and I drink sparingly.

  Ozerken retrieves his fur coat, shakes it out and tosses it into the SandMaster.

  They sit me up proper.

  Wernt holds me upright while Odentien cuts the ropes and feeling returns along with pins-n-needles. Pe’truss and Ozerken squat down on either side of me. Pe’truss with Bondo-Preserve bandages in hand.

  Working together one applies new sand to my back while the other does the same to my chest. Pe’truss holds sand in place while Ozerken wraps the bandage and ties it tight.

  “Don’t die on them Once-Other,” Wernt says. “More bonuses up if you make it to the Highlands.”

  The Desert Drivers nod and grin coldly.

  I’m more than just damn puzzled by these two. Why use Bondo-Preserve bandages on me? Would they not prefer to save such expensive items for someone who will live? Even a fool knows that where they leave me I will die or already be dead.

  I’m stood up by Wernt and walked to the SandMaster.

  In passing, I give both Desert Drivers a sneer of disgust that each ignores.

  The SandMaster charges off shuddering across a Crier warren strewn with fresh carcasses. My wounds scream in protest as I bounce in my seat.

  However, there is no succor here.

  We thunder onwards. The roof rises and hot desert air rushes in. As we pass by the edge of the warren, a single remaining Great Black feeds. It pauses, looks at us and nods as though it knows me and has taken a moment to bid me a final farewell.

  Wernt puts his feet up and snoozes.

  The pungent odor of gasoline lingers mixed with the faint traces of coffee and bagels. My stomach growls in protest. But I ignore hunger and look out upon our Here-Born sky soaking in its splendor as does one who has been condemned to die.

  The sudden scream of tortured metal rips my attention off of my wounds. We lurch left and plunge downwards. Is this a dune or a capture-ditch we plunge into? In answer, CO2 pours in under the raised roof. I push myself against the backrest and place a hand over my mouth and nose.

  Wernt snaps his face shield down and plugs a temporary filter over the intake. His dead eyes find mine. They express as much sympathy for me as a butcher does for the meat he is carving.

  Ozerken’s hands flash about the control panel. He yanks the driver’s windshield closed. The roof lowers and the reverse system kicks in sucking the CO2 out. One damn fine but temporary fix. He reaches for the periscope-n-intake, which provides overhead views and a fresh air intake but changes his mind. At this speed, it could snap off and we have no way of repairing it out here in the far desert.

  I lean back to ease my pain and Wernt’s handgun touches my ear and he says, “Don’t make me have to clean the floor as Ozerken threatened. Yeah? You get my meaning?”

  I nod and turn my attention back to the no damn good Desert Driver.

  His left foot riding the hydraulic suspension pumps he drives to the right across the forty-five-degree angle of the capture-ditch. The high-pitched whine of hydraulic pumps cuts painfully into my head.

  I imagine the hydraulics raising the left-hand side of the SandMaster and keeping us horizontal as we turn. With only moments left before air reserves for both engines run out and they suck CO2 and die...I cross my fingers.

  Wernt holsters his weapon and I sigh.

  His attention fixed on our degree-of-tilt, Ozerken reverses the lean angle and the SandMaster levels as we come around facing back up the ditch wall. Eight wheels slip-n-grip their way to the crest. We leap the edge just as the rear engine stutters on a cocktail of air and CO2. We bounce several pogo-like bounds and I clutch at my wounds.

  Both engines clear their throats and snarl with renewed vigor. I note that we all sigh in relief.

  Eight wheels settle upon sand and I relax some. Ozerken floors the accelerator and turns full-lock left with the front wheels and full-lock right at the rear. His SandMaster snaps around facing along the length of the ditch well clear of the edge. We are back on course but not free of danger.

  Beyond the northern horizon, sand-clouds rise to blacken the skies. Black-n-brown pylons of sand climb upwards to darken the sky. When fully grown, they shatter and rain sand down upon the desert floor.

  “Whoa! Yeah—wow!” Peter exclaims.

  Several whirlwinds of a good seven thousand sand-paces in diameter rise up from out the remains of the sand-cloud and turn day into night. They bump into each other, join at the hip and dance as one, dipping and spinning as though at a barn dance. And they all fall-down-n-down in a torrential downpour of sand.

  Even Ozerken jolts involuntarily at the sight of so massive a sandstorm.

  “Are we safe?” Wernt asks and we ignore him.

  From out the downpour, a tornado rises so high I am unable to see the top of it. With sudden understanding, I realize what had happened.

  “Peter,” I say. “A tendril of the wind that’s driving this sandstorm slammed into us and the SandMaster ended up in the ditch as easily as a spent match carelessly flicked aside.”

  “Yeah, whatever,” he says.

  I look ahead in too much pain to care about his foul demeanor and his whatever’s.

  At full power, the storm charges straight at us seeming furious at being thwarted.

  “This is not the ideal place to be even in a SandMaster,” I whisper to self.

  “Hold tight,” Ozerken commands.

  And the storm hits a straight-arm blow to the SandMaster’s chin lifting the front wheels clear of sand. The front steering goes light in Ozerken’s hands. The SandMaster shudders and tosses her head, a cornered bull—exhausted and afraid yet fighting.

  The front wheels drop-n-grab, engines scream and with gearboxes moaning in anguish the SandMaster counter punches.

  Both Wernt and I have a firm grasp on the bench we sit upon, knuckles white with tension and faces devoid of emotion. Yet I can sense his heart beating as fast as mine is.

  The wind feints a retreat but delivers another hard-n-fast uppercut and almost floors the SandMaster. Engine revs drop like a falling star.

  Ozerken disengages the clutch preventing a stall. Selects a lower ratio, drops the clutch and the revs leap upwards to sniff at redline.

  He powers down another two gears and briefly bounces the revs off the limiter. I cover my ears the noise of gears so high I am willing to let go of the bench.

  Ozerken eases back and holds her just below redline. The engines scream in anger. My heart keeps pace as the howl of exhausts duck-n-dive around the howling wind. We crawl towards an adversary who at any instant may switch directions and flip us over with the greatest of ease.

  Wernt sweats profusely behind his face shield. His eyes dart but never focus. He licks his lips and grimaces.

  May he taste fear for the rest of his life, I muse.

  As I look away, he says, “Shut-up!”

  And mind-to-mind, mind you.

  I once again cling to my seat as all eight wheels slip-n-grip.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. Peering around him, I note that Ozerken’s new arm struggles to hold onto the steering-wheel. I sit up straight and look over his shoulder at the driver’s screens.

  In that instant, a sixty sand-paces wide dust devil swerves towards us and breaks across our bow. The SandMaster shakes and shudders, a dandelion dancing to the violent will of Mother Wind.

  I slump back onto the bench.

  Wernt sneers, turns his cooling down and grabs a hold of the bench.

  I clench my jaws at the screech of engines screaming as though afraid. A sudden gust and the
rear wheels break free and we spin hard left. Ozerken steers into the slide; the wheels grab then slip and catch again as he counter-steers.

  “Not a merry activity...dancing with the wind,” I groan aloud.

  “Come now sweetheart,” Ozerken whispers.

  The SandMaster takes another one on the chin lurches up and sways to the right front wheels clear of sand, its engine revs threatening destruction.

  Ozerken curses beneath his breath and drops a gear on the front and two on the rear. Both rev-counter needles lunge for redline. The rear wheels bite hard, lock up and drag the front end down. He hits the same gear front and rear. Engines settle, but the wind still batters us.

  “Thank you to all personnel, designers and...even testers,” Ozerken says sparing me a glance.

  With his SandMaster shuddering as though coming apart at the welds, we crawl forward across sand to plod onwards conquering less than one sand-mile per hour.

  I check outside. The wind gusts thick with swirling sand. Visibility drops to ten sand-paces. I cross my fingers. For should sand fill the engine bays it will choke the extractors and we are all done for. Without cooling engines rip apart and scatter themselves across the landscape.

  No drive power amidst a sandstorm of this magnitude would be terrifying to say the least. Unless tumbling across the desert in several tons of armored steel is to be considered fun.

  Sudden silence descends as the winds die.

  Overhead the massive cloud of sand mushrooms open like a curtain thrust aside by the wave of a gigantic hand. The eerie silence lingers as clear blue skies appear.

  The SandMaster crawls through the eye of the sandstorm, engines screaming in defiance, gearboxes whining—like those who know what mighty a force still comes.

  But with the wind gone a dread lingers within the silence.

  One of us does not know this and he speaks.

  “It’s over?” Wernt asks.

  CHAPTER 54

  Of Sand Covers All

  No one answers and he gets it, slumps down in his seat, crosses his arms and stares at the floor. I gaze outwards at sand. In the distance, swirling circles of sand-clouds gather themselves ready to hurl Nature’s fury at us once again.