Once-Other
Page 35
But it doesn’t end. Over-n-over pain slams into my chest then rockets up to explode inside my head. Sand presses against my cheeks. A grain finds its way under my lashes where tears attack it. My eyelids twitch as it scratches, a moment later it floats to a corner and slips into that place such irritants go. I may be dead. How to find out?
I look out ahead but see only the red that comes from staring with my eyelids closed while facing the sun. Shadows fall across the red, my eyes open and I find myself flat on my back upon the desert sand with Wernt’s boot heel pounding my chest.
“Wake up Once-Other—we’re here,” he says.
I leap at him but find my hands tied.
“What? You think you can just fly up at me. Get real. Yeah. Get real.”
He pats my cheek with the barrel of his revolver.
I glance around to find Ozerken sitting on his SandMaster. His attention focused on what he is doing, applying Bondo-stick-on to the joint in his arm. Apparently, I was dreaming or perhaps predicting. Nevertheless, I am grateful the gunshots were born of my imagination.
Unfortunately, the pain from Wernt’s heel at my chest is all too real. He steps back and kicks the sole of my boot, looks over his shoulder, notes what Ozerken is doing, glances my way and says, “Don’t move!”
In that instant, the arrival and roar of Pe’truss’ SandMaster distracts everyone. I grab this slim opportunity and lunging to my feet, I flee. After several paces, my poison infected vision clears and I find myself running towards Iron Rock Wellspring visible in the distance. I shudder at images of the horrible death that awaits all who dare to error and step in it.
Northerners included.
I swerve hard left, then left again and Pe’truss’ SandMaster roars down on me. I crash into its sharp-edged nose of steel. My upper left arm snaps with a sharp crack. I fly over backward, land on my back winded and gasping in pain.
Wernt, Pe’truss, Ozerken and Gordon Odentien surround me, handguns pointed at my chest, eight dead, uncaring eyes aimed between my eyes.
In a dreamlike fashion, I examine their hardware.
Wernt’s Buckminster .357 Mini three-shot revolver makes for easy concealment. Pe’truss and Gordon have Colseter .45 Autos while Ozerken’s eight-finger barrel .50 x 35 seems tiny clasped in his hand. But it looms more menacing than the others thanks to its enormous air cooled barrel. Its muzzle appears large enough to crawl inside of and hide. Save for Wernt’s, every weapon is powerful enough to bring down a Roanark Braer with the greatest of ease.
Once-Other makes for an easier kill.
Wernt shakes his head as a disillusioned father does at evidence of a son’s irretrievable failure.
“Waste of time and effort,” he says.
They all grunt, relax and ease back.
I turn away and gaze off towards Iron Rock Wellspring where a virtual juggler performs beneath the surface tossing rocks into the air, a touch of entertainment for the condemned campaigner.
Timing them, I discover that every ten seconds sand-geysers gush obscuring the distant sun. I watch the columns of yellow-brown CO2 blast upwards like the foul and fiery breath of a giant fire-breathing monster. Even at our distance the thunderous cacophony of rocks falling back into sand is close to deafening. The sharp smell of CO2 burns my nostrils and makes me lightheaded.
Odentien steps closer picks up the fur coat from where I’d dropped it and tosses it down next to me. I assume my tormenters have little intention of spending much time here though it is an excellent place to leave someone to die—should that be one’s design. The excessive heat has already parched my tongue.
Looking closer, I note Wernt’s face is puffed and sweaty despite his suit being turned to its lowest setting. I once again marvel that Jenk Nordt travels this sand on foot. Such toughness is undoubtedly admirable.
I cough. Wernt smiles.
They all back off a little except for Wernt. He comes closer, sits down and places his lips against my ear. His voice oddly distinct against the rolling thunder of Iron Rock Wellspring and soft and throaty like a lover, he says, “So Once-Other. Here we are. The final curtain. Yeah?”
“Get on with it Wernt,” I snap in return.
“Patience,” he says. “Yeah. Patience. Now listen up for once will you. You know one, you know two and now I’ve decided I must tell you three.”
“I don’t give a damn Wernt.”
“You will, Once-Other! You will. Yeah.”
He digs out his Nomadi, flips it from hand to hand, works the keypad, reads the results, smiles coldly and says, “Here comes three of one-two-three and death number one of two. I don’t know if you realize what a pleasure—knowing you died twice.”
He waves the others away and they head off towards the SandMasters parked alongside each other. Wernt makes himself comfortable in sand, crosses his legs and taps his Nomadi screen.
“Allow me to present number three, Once-Other.”
CHAPTER 56
Of A Final Three Of Too Many One-Two-Three, Altogether
Peter leans in close and I figure it’s to further prevent others from hearing. He sniggers and says, “But first—a quick recap. Yeah. Yesterday I went over the transfer of your business and personal assets to me and that your life belongs to me. Now, this next section has a smattering of legalize. Yeah!”
He pauses, smiles and adds, “I’m sure you’ll grasp meanings.”
“I’ll hold my breath Wernt—just for you.”
He chuckles and taps the Nomadi screen.
The distant thunder of rocks crashing back to Here-Born’s sand sound softer. The tang of CO2 is sweeter than I recall. The murmur of voices drifts across from those grouped around the SandMasters.
Wernt shuffles until more comfortable and smiles as his hands float with a gentle motion as though upon a breeze. I am saddened that my life’s road has ended. As he reads his voice lilts like a singer weaving a tapestry of notes both bitterly sad and sweet.
“Here’s three Once-Other. And one two three…here goes! In keeping with the fact, all Citizens are Assured Happiness and with particular reference to Section 800-376 of the Violation of Happiness Act and its relation to the Compensations and Remunerations Act.”
He looks at me. I frown in ignorance of his song.
“It’ll come to you,” he says.
I sneer, much as he does.
He chuckles and continues.
“With reference to the Back Pay Act Sub-Section 1134 Titled C-POP Murder in the First Dot One Degree...we quote: Compensations for all Definite Actions or Apparent Equivalent Actions are rendered as actionable.”
He pauses, smiles and continues.
“In Consultation with the Happiness Assurance Enabling Back End Receipts and Payments Act, which cites pertinent procedures can and must be undertaken per the Irrespective of Location paragraphs of the aforementioned Section 800-376.
“In which paragraphs it is stipulated that certain actions are executable and what remuneration is receivable for Murder in the First Dot One Degree. Irrespective of whether such acts were committed in the past, present or any probable future as well as after, before and or during the fact of or similarity to any such previous or potential future Acts.
“Therefore! By the use of these Legal Truths the following has been promulgated and thus declared as Truth in Justice.”
He shuffles his posterior in the heated sand again attempting to render his skinny frame ever more comfortable.
“Are you tracking this as well as you can with Crier poison still active?” he asks.
“Quite mad you all are Peter,” I reply.
He snorts and nods as though he understands me.
“I’ll continue to the benefit of your enlightenment. Yeah. Here we go.
“In consideration of the Deed committed by Once-Other, the consequent result of the Deed, the continued reminder of the Deed, which reminder is obvious by its absence. It is hereby declared and rendered lawful, truthful Justice and is congruent wi
th Property Rights under the Expandable Constitution of Earth and the Bill of Modifiable Rights.
“So here is number three Once-Other. Listen up now!
“Hereby, Property Item D-109 is assigned with all Ownership and Executive Rights to me of course.”
He smiles at me, eyebrows raised in question
“One long-winded way of saying nothing,” I answer.
“Oh yeah? How’s this? Description of Property Item D-109: Karrell, the child of Once-Other and Deidre, Age 12, Gender Male, Location Here-Born. Said Property Rights and Possession assigned to me of course.”
And I die inside.
And I think of murder most foul regards Deidre and her a legal matter.
Nevertheless, Wernt was right.
I will die twice today.
How did Earth-Born come to this?
What are the laws that permit this?
Who are the people enacting such heinous law?
Wernt’s knee jams into my solar plexus and holds.
With a gasp of pain, my mouth snaps open.
He thrusts the poison vial in, clamps his other hand over it sealing mouth, vial and nose. He lifts his knee. I suck in as he hits the eject button. Poison squirts into my mouth. He pulls the vial out, clamps my mouth and nose closed and pumps his knee in-n-out. There was no need for the last—I swallow all without resistance for it is my one slim and almost pathetic hope.
Overdone this particular poison will at times be rejected by the stomach. It would have been wiser to inject it into my bloodstream. Not that I’m complaining.
Now. Much depends on how soon I can eject most of what is already inside. Slim hope indeed, such being dependent upon how insidious a stomach finds the action of digesting this particular poison.
Nevertheless, I count the seconds until they leave.
Peter stands up, tosses the vial aside, nods down at me with a sick satisfaction, scoops up sand and washes his hands with it. “Die once more Once-Other,” he says and walks away.
But I’m thinking. I’m planning.
I’m taking what has happened over recent days and hooking the past to where I’m right now. I shuffle over and lie on the fur coat hoping to hide it, glance their way and watch as they huddle in the shade of Ozerken’s SandMaster all the while hoping they leave soon.
Wernt makes payments with his Nomadi followed by handshakes all round. Odentien enters Pe’truss’ SandMaster, the door hisses closed, the engines scream and they storm off to descend Iron Ridge Mountains after once again climbing its heights.
Wernt waits for relative silence, waves, blows me an insulting kiss, climbs the steel ladder, waves once again, enters the SandMaster and looks back at me from inside and laughs with evil satisfaction.
Ozerken turns to enter the SandMaster but checks himself, does a double take, walks over and yanks the fur coat free. He hangs it over his shoulder and heads back to the SandMaster his knife still hanging free. I had counted on that knife, that coat.
“Ah. Thank you very much Ozerken,” Wernt calls out, turns and rummages beneath the rear bench.
At the rear of his SandMaster, Ozerken flips an exterior compartment open. He searches through the pockets of his black leather jacket. Extracts three items, tucks them into the pockets of the fur coat, tosses the coat into the compartment and slams the cover with force enough that it bounces several times before settling.
Wernt pulls something blue from beneath the seat, glances my way and waves it like a flag. It looks much like the pale blue ghutra worn earlier when a SandMaster had parked near my store. His cruel laugh confirms it.
The door hisses closed, the engines roar and they charge off just as the poison begins its symphony of death. The first attack comes at the joints starting with the fingers then the shoulders, elbows, knees and lastly...ankles.
I have but precious little time.
I am alone and I will die alone.
Rolling to my knees and keeping my broken arm tight against my hip, I insert a finger as far down my throat as I can. Poison and other unpleasant contents erupt in a fashion that declares Wernt’s earlier hurling was but a sneeze by comparison.
After calming self, I thrust my finger in over-n-over until I dry hurl. For now, that is all I can do. Perhaps the overload will be rejected. I can but hope.
With a fan, I can get water, with a knife, sand-snails but none without a knife.
But thirst kills first.
Perhaps in taking water I can kill a Crier without a knife.
I spend a moment imagining what one tastes like.
Not good I decide.
However, there is something more significant and of a greater urgency needs doing. I must orientate before delusion sets in. I scan the desertscape and it already takes longer than usual.
CHAPTER 57
Of Struggle, Orientation And Internal Repairs
I pull out my Nomadi only to find a red cross over my Navigation services. I glare up to where the satellite would be, curse it out, check recording is working and tuck the Nomadi carefully away a little puzzled that it’s still in my possession.
I cast about for direction. How close I am to the quicksand shores of the Lake itself, I cannot tell. I could be within sand-paces or a mile or more.
Behind me, southwards, Iron Rock Ridge drops some two thousand to twenty-five hundred sand-paces to the Lowlands.
I envision myself climbing down it and shudder. With one good arm alone I will not be able to descend its face honed by windblown sand to edges so keen as to rival that of Ozerken’s knife.
I struggle to my feet, hold my broken arm across my chest and keeping it secure set off hoping the tracks in sand I am seeing are real and not delusion. With each step I take poison-induced paralysis creeps deeper into my mind and into my every joint and every muscle.
I look out ahead.
The distant horizon is free of storm clouds.
I march on.
A gusting wind creates and destroys tiny dust-devils much like a child makes funny faces one after another.
Later...my feet stumble.
I stare at them but can find no reason for halting.
I peer ahead to where dust-devils dance, their tops curved over like ocean waves breaking to splatter sand-drops across my face. I close my eyes, steel my inner-self and nearly blinded continue towards a destination unseen.
My boots drag in sand.
How do Northerners travel here on foot?
I could do with some down-to-sand advice from Jenk—altogether.
Time ticks on, heat thickens.
The sun seeks out every drop of moisture that exposes itself and absorbs each like a monstrous sponge possessed of an insatiable thirst. My tongue hardens. My eyeballs scratch on lids.
Hordes of insects buzz about inside my head, settle and feast upon thought until nothing other than pain makes sense.
Yet I smile for if my lifeless body is found my hair will be neat and tidy thanks to Fat-n-Grease by Hardins. Perhaps posthumously, I’ll receive a Neatness award for this beautiful white shirt and superb dress etiquette.
But...wait!
There’s something else here and though it’s out beyond the immediate it begs my attention. What is it? No answer.
I stop.
I listen.
The distant thud of rocks dropping back into Iron Rock Wellspring sound like giant fists punching a well-tuned set of drums. I lean towards the noise to better hear for it’s far too loud. And! Yes. Quicksand is close.
I must move on but in which direction?
Blinded, poisoned and with only the thudding of rocks on sand to guide me, I reach out and embrace its cacophony. Next, I separate each drumbeat into distinctive sounds and block others out thereby creating a personal selection.
From these selections I envision a musical tempo to which I march listening for the lessening of their noise.
Am I too confused to tell the difference?
I march on with hope my sole companion.
I glance up.
Overhead the Half-Day-Moon rises to greet me one final time. I march on but stumble over feet grown unwilling to take another sand-resisting step.
Pain eats at my strength with a boundless greed for power. I kneel—hoping to gather what reserves I may still possess. Eyes closed I reach inwards to the broken arm bone. At first I cannot approach but I know I must for if I do not—here I shall die.
I edge my inner view closer to the broken bone and pause to build courage. With a little gathered from distant successes I sidle my internal perception nearer and reddish pain grasps at me and holds on. I retreat in a panic. The red ball of pain remains fastened to me.
I halt within. I wait within. I focus within.
Red pain pulses and changes to black, to red and back to black like an EB traffic light gone psychotic and uncertain of duty. The pulses accelerate becoming harder, realer.
Pain intensifies.
I retreat and gather resolve.
I return and assess the red separately to black and discover red draws me closer as black pushes me away. I latch onto their beat and follow them with naught but the hands and the point of view I had placed within my body. Which hands are as virtual as those that Peter Wernt used to invade my mind. Yet my internal point-of-view is as valid as seeing sand before one’s eyes.
Pain flashes faster-n-faster.
I work a virtual arm around the red, another around the black and hang on. Black flames into white and vanishes but red remains red and pulses on. I match red’s new pulses and in-sync add an offbeat and red’s rhythm breaks apart. It shoots off across the sky, a high-speed cloud riding a wild tornado.
For a moment all is still.
I wait.
I listen.
I hear.
I see.
In the distance sand-clouds loop around the drumbeats of falling rocks—and plunge back down into Iron Rock Wellspring—and fly up again.