The Chosen sniffed the air for the scent of the blood and licked its sharp teeth.
The doctor spoke out loud, “She’ll be fine. Back the fuck off!”
The monster offered a devilish smile and walked on.
Littlefield had gathered medical supplies during his hunts for shoes, but the contents of his satchel were running thin. He hunted around in the bag and scowled.
Communication among humans was strictly limited. Marlena was of Salvadoran descent and spoke little English. Littlefield, despite more than two years of captivity among mostly Spanish speaking people, spoke a scant few words of the language. He said to her while pantomiming with his hands, “This cut needs stitches, but I have no way of sewing it. Do you understand? Comprende?”
Marlena nodded. Her face had grown pale with shock and Littlefield held her wrist to take her pulse. He said, “It will be okay. I can bandage it well enough. There probably isn’t enough skin left to pull it back together anyway. It will always be a nasty scar, but we can get it to heal.”
This time the girl looked confused. Littlefield shook his head as if to say never mind and opened his satchel. When she was bandaged, he took the rare step of helping the girl to walk; her arm over his shoulder, his arm around her waist. He wouldn’t have to deal with the burden for long. He planned to foist her off on the next good samaritan that he could find.
As dusk fell, he noted the scent of briny water in the moist air. The road signs had been clear enough — they were approaching Chesapeake Bay. He marveled at the thought. The distance they had walked was simply mind-boggling. He glanced at the wretches stretched out on the road ahead of them and estimated that there were fewer than two hundred humans left. They had begun their journey as thousands.
As they halted to make camp, a vast flock of Canada Geese picked the worst time and place to be migrating. For Littlefield, Marlena and the remaining humans, it was a godsend. As the northbound V shapes mindlessly turned and dove into the waiting arms of the Chosen, the humans would not only be spared another culling, but would also be the beneficiaries of a few scraps from the master’s table.
When he could manage it, Dr. Littlefield’s camp routine consisted of finding water to boil for drinking and washing. In addition to the sanitary necessity that was part of his calling, he felt that his efforts at cleanliness and orderliness kept his mind from crumbling into the wretched hopeless depression that the bulk of his fellow captives dealt with.
As he searched for a bit of soft ground to call his bed, Littlefield heard the sound of a running brook. The cold babbling water was just beyond a tree line. A detail of water fetchers were already walking that way so Littlefield joined them. Out of the corner of his eye, he noted the limping figure of Marlena. The girl had been hovering in his periphery ever since he had foisted her off on a young man. The lad had an ounce of testosterone left, and she ultimately refused his assistance, determined instead to walk alone.
Seeing the doctor spot her, the girl angled toward him. Littlefield was used to this. It had become commonplace for the people he assisted to then stay nearby, to try to offer brotherhood or some kind of kinship. As a doctor, by default he was considered an authority figure. Using that, he dealt swiftly and mercilessly with the misperception that his hippocratic oath meant friendship. Turning to the girl he said, “Back off. Claro?”
The girl stopped and stiffened. Then she pointed at her damaged leg. “Por favor señor, los vendajes se están cayendo.” The bandages were tattered and loose.
Littlefield scowled. “Fine.” He waved for her to follow him.
As they approached the brook, the team that was gathering water was already at work — Chosen hulking nearby, making certain that no rabbits escaped into the growing twilight. A light rain began to fall and Littlefield closed his eyes briefly, accepting that another miserable night of sleep would be made even worse. During another time, the gentle brook would have been a soothing delight for him behold. Now, it was just another lifeline, an artery to keep the heart beating a little longer. Both he and the girl knelt and filled their pots. Then the girl pulled off her bandage and plunged her injured leg into the water.
“No! Don’t do that,” blurted Littlefield. “We don’t know if this water is clean.”
The girl cocked her head in confused response. Meanwhile, the torn skin and thin muscle at the edge of the wound moved like a sea anemone, blanching as the blood washed away. Though Littlefield knew that it must have hurt quite a bit, Marlena didn’t flinch. They were all well past the pain of such minor things as an exposed shin bone.
He said, “Agua cochino.”
“Pig?” asked the girl.
“Dirty. Not clean. Um, infectado.”
“Ah. Inmundo.”
“OK, that.” He gently lifted her leg from the water and pointed at the pot. “Uh, caliente la aqua first.”
“Oh. Boil.”
“Yes. Uh, si. Boil.”
Their voices attracted the attention of one of their overseers and they both experienced a sudden sharp jolt of pain to the gut as punishment.
In the fading light, Littlefield washed his hands and arms with clean water. Then, after gently removing fresh temporary dressing, he cleaned the girl’s wound thoroughly. In a position to take his time, rather than rushing on the side of the road, he used the last of his anti-biotic ointment and did his best to bind the still living tissue to itself with butterfly strips. He then expertly wrapped the leg in a bandage that he hoped would last longer than a day.
“I would tell you to stay off of it for a week, and then to only use crutches for another two, and with a doctor far more proficient than I applying skin grafts, but…”
Like all peoples who spoke different languages at each other, Marlena seemed to get the gist of his thoughts. She smiled and shrugged, took his hand, and to his surprise, kissed the back of it. Then she stood and limped away into the growing darkness of the encampment.
To attempt to walk away from the hell that they lived in was not an option. Even later on, as Littlefield sat chewing on bits of cooked goose carcass, the Chosen, who watched over the humans, kept a firm mental leash on their charges. If the girl or anyone else tried to leave, she would automatically feel compelled to turn around and walk back — and it wouldn’t be to crawl under a damp blanket and hope to sleep; an attempt at escape was a guarantee of being made into a meal; the Chosen taking pleasure in every ounce of agony they could draw out as the victim was eaten alive. This threat didn’t stop Littlefield from making his feelings known about the situation. As he picked a bone clean and then cracked it open to suck out marrow, he smiled at the really big fucker of a pointy eared freak who loved to mess with them and said, “And a fine fuck you, this evening, ass wipe.”
The big Chosen smiled its mouthful of sharp teeth, revealing shredded bits of flesh from its own evening meal. The doctor didn’t so much as hear words, but rather got a feeling from the beast. The feeling made the doctor’s blood run cold. The feeling was steeped in a smugness that conveyed a coming change in the doctor’s fortunes. A rough translation would be, we are close to our great feast. Your usefulness is nearly complete. I pray to the Lamb that I will roll your warm eyeballs across my tongue.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fact Finding
Though Dietrich Pelham was on an investigative mission, he couldn’t help but assume he’d been shipped off to keep his mouth shut and out of the council’s business. His mission was to observe, utilize his diplomatic skills as necessary, and report from a civilian point of view.
Mason was driving the carriage. Other than the manservant, Pelham was alone, his paranoid self on high alert for potential highway banditry — an only slightly absurd thought in the mostly law and order nation of The Shore. Besides, his carriage was painted in the colors of the council, flying the flag with patriotic verve. Banditry against the ruling class was met with such ferocious punishment that it was simply unheard of. Still, that didn’t free him of the worry that Qua
le had sent him to the far Western Shore in order to arrange for his quiet disappearance. Yes, Quale’s evil twin Olsen was already there, and had supposedly requested him, but still.
It had been an uneventful ride, mostly filled with the occasional earnest wave from farmers who were finally tilling fields for the first time in more than a decade. Vast flocks of birds were flying overhead from west to east and it slowly dawned on Pelham how irregular the pattern was. Sure, with the spring-like weather it might be natural for migration patterns to shift back north, but this was more than migratory, and in the wrong direction. And it wasn’t just V shaped flights of Canada Geese, it was thick swarms of every bird imaginable. It was almost as if there was panic in the air. There was no smoke on the distant horizon to indicate a wildfire. The only new event that Dietrich was aware of was the arrival of the Northerners and their demon children.
As a successful hedge fund manager he scoured the world for profitable but troubled companies that looked ripe for shorting, ferreting out the details that might make a deal worth doing. Sending him south to check up on the captured Northerners was within his portfolio, yet, he couldn’t shake loose the feeling that Quale was sending him on a one way mission. Now these birds — odd timing was all he could chalk it up to.
According to Chief Councilman Quale, armed Shoremen landings currently under way on Eastern Long Island were achieving their goals with resounding success. Flags were being hoisted over key positions with negligible defiance from the small population. According to Major Kent, who was leading the operation, the Long Islanders were thrilled to find that they had brothers and sisters living beyond their borders. As had been predicted, the isolated Americans threw their hands wide open saying, by all means, move on in. Dietrich’s response had been, if that’s the case, then why the monstrous choice to destroy the population of Nantucket and unleash the mob on Martha’s Vineyard — the seat of the US government? That’s when Quale had shipped him off.
They had stopped for one overnight at a motor inn that had stayed open for business during the entirety of the Omega Event/the long Russian Winter/and finally, what the locals were referring to as the Blooming Spring. Dietrich barely slept; every sound was equated with an approaching assassin. More than a few times he had considered the socially unacceptable notion of having Mason sleep in the room with him. At one point he fell asleep only to wake again, absentmindedly clutching his pistol tightly below his chin. He had slipped the tool under his pillow for quick access. The gun had clearly been in his clutches for a while, the temperature of the metal having risen to match his hands. He put it on his bedside table and stared at the blue/black metal until his eyes finally grew heavy again.
As the inn’s roosters greeted the dawn, he was up quickly, demanding that the proprietor fetch him and Mason a quick breakfast so that they could return to the road. While they waited for the stove to get hot, Mason fed and harnessed the horses.
As they ate scrambled eggs and fried potatoes, his servant said, “A bit tired you look, sir.”
“Shitty night, Mason. And I thought we agreed you’d speak like a normal person when we’re away from the capitol.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’re a snob, Mason. You like talking like those idiots.”
Mason glanced at the inn proprietor, who had come out with boxed lunches for their trip. He said under his breath, “A snob, sir. If you say so sir.”
After breakfast, Mason thanked the inn-keep for the lunches and stowed them under one of the interior seats. Then holding the door open for his charge, he said to the approaching councilman, “Roads supposed to be smoother for the rest of the trip. Perhaps you can nap, sir.”
During the prior night, the candlelit bathroom mirror had revealed deep bags under Dietrich’s eyes, and his ears were rimmed with the red telltale of high blood pressure. He told himself to lay off his traveling flask of scotch, the notion of which lasted for about an hour after they departed into the hinterland. A half day’s journey more and they would reach the farm. He admitted to himself a certain level of curious excitement over the capture of demon children. The sentinel platoons had experienced several encounters with the monsters over the past couple of years, but every effort to capture, even a dead one, had failed. He’d seen the videos of the frightful things, and The Shore’s scientists had developed all kinds of ideas about their development. An evolutionary leap it was called; a sudden origin of a new species. These captured ones could supposedly talk. Utterly fascinating.
Jon woke to a growing awareness of a pounding headache — like his head had been hit from all sides with a ball-peen hammer. Without opening his eyes he identified himself as laying on a thin cot, an itchy wool blanket under his back, no pillow. A dark redness filtered through the opaqueness of his eyelids, informing him that some dim light shown on his face. His eyes ached and the lids felt stuck. Willing them to open, he broke apart a gooey crust that had sealed them.
The slatted siding of what was undoubtedly the interior of the barn, slowly came into focus. He moved his right hand to rub away the eye crust only to have the hand jerk short. He glanced down at his arm and noted his wrist shackled to a D-ring firmly attached to a partition wall. He was in a horse stall.
With a moan, he willed himself to sit up, all the while feeling deeply aware of his full bladder. His foot hit a bed pan on the floor sending it skittering loudly under the bed. Clearly, he wasn’t meant to leave the cot.
Nikki called out from the other side of the stall wall. “Is that you, honey? Are you OK?”
Hm. Haven’t heard honey in a very long time. “Hey. Epic headache. You OK?”
“Same. Blinding migraine. Might puke.”
Jon’s stomach twisted sourly. “Anyone else in here?”
“Just you so far. I’ve only been awake for a little while.”
“We sure find ways of getting ourselves locked up together.”
Nikki let that sit for a moment, then, “You’re a bad influence.”
Jon barked out a laugh, then quickly reached under and grabbed the bed pan just in time to throw up into it.
“You OK?”
Jon spat out some lingering yellow bile. “Better now. Could use some water.” His nose scrunched up as he sorted out how he was going to have to pee in the disgusting pot. “We certainly have a way of finding folks who think we’re a threat.”
This was punctuated by the sound of more retching. It was Dean.
“Hello Captain,” said Nikki.
Dean spat, threw up again, spat some more. “Assholes, these Shoremen. Assholes. Billy, Eliza you in here? Hansel? Gretel?”
They heard nothing in response.
Hansel woke to darkness, deafness, but with the ability to smell. He was greeted by a strong antiseptic odor that tickled and irritated his nostrils. His legs ached beneath his thighs and his feet tingled with sleep.
Hello, Brother, said Gretel in his mind.
Hello, Sister. Where am I?
I believe we are in the basement of the house. You are blindfolded and they have blocked and covered your ears.
Can you see me?
I can. I am in a room like the one that was our room on Plum Island. It has that kind of mirror that only works one way. The mirror looks out on you. You are in a plain white room. You are bound in a way that I cannot see how you could break free.
Hansel pulled at the bindings that held his arms behind him. Steel shackles fought back.
Gretel thought, You have a strong need to urinate. The seat you are secured to is a toilet. You are naked.
Hansel let his bladder relax and mildly groaned with the relief of release.
She thought to him, I am also bound and sitting on a toilet. Really, a seat over a hole in the floor.
Yes, I can smell it now. The odor is perhaps worse than piss and shit. Where is mother?
I don’t know. I have called out to her, but she does not respond. I have seen no others.
Hansel let his neck relax and his chin
drooped to his chest. My head is pounding.
Yes. And there are wires attached to it and your chest. Mine too. I don’t know why.
The door to Hansel’s room opened and a sentinel rolled a cot inside with Eliza strapped to it. She was wearing only a hospital gown. She was awake and able to look around. When she spotted Hansel bound to the toilet, she called out to him, but he did not hear her. There were various wires attached to Eliza’s head, others running under her gown.
Gretel thought, Mother has been wheeled in to your room on a bed.
The sentinel left, closing the door. The disembodied voice of Dr. Mitchell came through a speaker built into the ceiling, the volume set low. “Hansel. If you can hear me, please nod your head.”
Hansel heard nothing, his head held still. He could nevertheless smell. He knew the smell of Eliza. A flood of trepidation mixed with joy poured through his being. Her thoughts entered his.
Darling, Hansel. I am so sorry that we’re trapped like this.
Gretel thought, I am here also, Mother. On the other side of the glass.
Eliza craned her neck to look toward the mirror. Hello sweetheart. Are you all right?
It is very uncomfortable for us, Mother, and we are afraid. Hansel cannot see or hear.
In an observation room, Doctors Mitchell and Harrison stood with Colonel Olsen watching via several TV monitors. Mitchell said, “See that, did you? Turned toward the mirror she did. Like she’s communicating.”
Olsen looked at his watch. “Wonderful. Proceed with your experiment.”
Mitchell nodded at Dr. Harrison, then said to Olsen, “Observe both the male and the female.”
Harrison reached out to a box with a dial on it, turning the dial clockwise a few degrees. One of the monitors showed Eliza suddenly going rigid on the bed, arching her back. Side-by-side monitors showed both Gretel and Hansel jerking their heads up in response to what could only be Eliza’s pain.
A House Divided: Book 3 of The Of Sudden Origin Saga Page 18