Nigel Findley

by Out Of Nippon

  He glanced over his shoulder at the other men crouched around the fire. When he turned back, he kept his voice low, conspiratorial. “I would very much enjoy discussing this further with you, Miss Carlson” he told Nikki, “but I would ask you not to mention this matter in front of Professor Black. He strongly believes that such matters smack of the black arts.

  “Well,” he rubbed his hands together briskly, his voice returning to its normal pitch. “Our supper is almost ready. Would you care to join us, Miss Carlson?”

  At the word “supper,” Nikki’s stomach growled. When was the last time she’d eaten? Breakfast, she recalled, at about eight-thirty. She checked her watch. That was more than fourteen hours ago. “That would be great,” she told him.

  “You can also meet my colleagues. May I help you up?” He rose, offered her his hand.

  She swung her legs off the low camp bed, sat there for a moment evaluating how she felt. Not bad, considering, she decided. Her stomach felt like a fist with hunger and her left ankle still felt puffy and sore. But apart from that, she seemed healthy. She stood, declining to take Hollingforth’s proffered hand.

  Hollingforth led her over to the fire. “This is my mentor, Professor Roderick Black,” he said, indicating I lie older man. “Professor Black, may I introduce Miss Nikki Carlson?”

  Black looked up at her, his face creased in a frown. What’s eating him? Nikki wondered for a moment. Then she saw the lines etched into his face, and realized that his face must naturally fall into that expression. The professor’s chin was clean-shaven, but his sideburns — grey and curly — extended down his face to spread out over his cheeks in what used to be called “mutton-chops.” His eyes were dark and filled with suspicion. He had to be about fifty, Nikki thought.

  She extended her hand to him. “Professor Black.”

  He looked down at her hand in surprise. (Aren’t women supposed to shake hands? she wondered in irritation.) With a grunt of annoyance, the man took her hand and shook once, dropping it again as quickly as he could. Then he looked away, returning to his morose inspection of the fire.

  Nikki exchanged a wry glance with Hollingforth. I le shrugged apologetically, as if to say, “That’s just the way he is.”

  “And this is our Sergeant MacHeath, of the ‘Glorious Fifteenth,’” Hollingforth said heartily, laying a comradely hand on the shoulder of the oldest among the soldiers. “The Sergeant is our guide and our guardian. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?”

  MacHeath chuckled warmly, a rumble from deep in his broad chest. “Aye. A thankless job, but someone must keep yon babe out of trouble.” If he was scandalized by Nikki’s offer to shake hands with Black, he didn’t show it. He extended his own hand — a hard, calloused thing with fingers as thick as sausages. She took it, expecting a bone crushing grip. But MacHeath apparently knew his own strength — which was probably considerable, she thought—because his grip was firm but not too tight. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Carlson,” the soldier went on, “although we could have done so under better circumstances.”

  Nikki smiled down at the big man. His face was broad and large-featured, perfectly matching his mus- ” cular body. He had a thick, bushy mustache, twirled and waxed into upswept tips on both sides of his mouth. His eyes sparkled with humor in the firelight.

  She found herself drawn to MacHeath … and to Hollingforth as well, she had to admit. They were strange, totally out of place in the world that she knew. Their manners and their ideas were… well, d ownright weird, but these two were open and friendly. Willing to treat her like an equal —with occasional lapses, Nikki reminded herself. Totally unlike Black. She glanced over at the professor, saw him sitting straight-backed, eyes averted, as if keeping himself aloof from the unseemly fraternizing going on just a couple of feet away.

  Ideas shot through her mind, ideas of doing something to shock him out of his haughty reserve. Throwing her arms around his neck and planting a sloppy kiss on his nose, maybe. Doing anything to shock him. She chuckled to herself. She knew she’d never have the guts to do anything like that, but it was fun to think about.

  She looked at the other three soldiers. “And these are …?” she asked.

  MacHeath blinked in surprise—like he’s shocked that anyone would care about mere soldiers, Nikki thought — but recovered quickly. “PFCs Muir, Rundle and Murphy,” he said, pointing to the men in turn. They were younger than MacHeath, Nikki noted as they mumbled greetings to her, probably younger than herself.

  “Please, sit down, Miss Carlson,” Hollingforth suggested, indicating a folding camp stool.

  As she settled herself on the canvas seat, MacHeath asked, “Will you be joining us for supper, ma’am?”

  She smiled. “I think that would be wonderful,” she said demurely.

  *

  One of the soldiers — Rundle, she thought it was — served the food. It was stew of some kind, thick and rich, that had been simmering in a large pot over the fire. Nikki ate it with relish. When Rundle shyly offered her a second helping, she accepted, and polished that off too.

  She could tell the men were curious about her, but they were polite enough to hold off their questions until she’d finished eating. As soon as she set aside her bowl, though, Sergeant MacHeath began earnestly, “Not that I would pass up the honor, mind, but how did you come to … er …” He searched for words.

  Nikki chuckled. ‘“Drop in on you’?” she suggested.

  MacHeath grinned broadly. “Aye, that’s it exactly. How did you come to drop in on us this afternoon, ma’am?” Hollingforth and the sergeant leaned forward to better hear her answer.

  Her smile faded. Even thinking back on the creatures, on the pursuit, was enough to make her stomach knot up painfully. Briefly she outlined what had happened after she’d entered the jungle.

  Hollingforth and MacHeath were silent after she’d finished, their smiles gone and their eyes troubled as they glanced at each other. It was Hollingforth who spoke first. “Zombies,” he mused, almost to himself, “or perhaps even zuvembies.”

  “Zombies?” Nikki demanded. “As in ‘the walking dead’? That’s …” She stopped. ‘That’s stupid,’ I was about to say, she thought. But is it? She remembered the decayed, tattered flesh of the creatures, the reek of rotting meat as they reached for her. If they weren’t the walking dead, what were they?

  Hollingforth answered her question quietly. “Yes, Miss Carlson, the walking dead.” He shook his head. “I know you find it hard to believe. I did as well, when first I came to Majestic. But such is the way of Orrorsh. The dead do not always sleep quietly here.” He shared a disturbed look with MacHeath. “This troubles me,” he admitted. “We had hoped this area to be free of such things. The reach of the Gaunt Man grows longer than we suspected.”

  The Gaunt Man. The words meant nothing to Nikki, not on an intellectual level. But emotionally the phrase was evocative. She felt a chill in the pit of her stomach, a quiver of fear. The Gaunt Man. “Who is the Gaunt Man?” she asked in a hushed voice.

  Hollingforth began to answer, but Professor Black’s sharp voice cut him off. “Silence,” Black snapped. “No-one will speak of him. The Sacellum has decreed his name will never be spoken. Mr. Hollingforth, you know that as well as I do.”

  Hollingforth bowed his head in embarrassment. “You’re right, Professor,” he said, chastened, “forgive me.”

  Black snorted. He fixed Nikki with a withering look before turning back to his contemplation of the fire.

  Miserable old curmudgeon, Nikki thought. Quickly she stuck her tongue out at Black. The professor had his head turned away and didn’t see it, but Hollingforth and MacHeath did. Both grinned, and the sergeant unsuccessfully tried to smother a laugh. Black turned at the sound. But Nikki was gazing demurely at the stars, while Hollingforth had lowered his head again in mock repentance. MacHeath covered his slip by t urning his laughter into an attack of coughing. Scowling, the professor turned away again.

  Nikki shifted
on the camp stool, looking for a more comfortable position. The fire was warm, its light reassuring. She could feel the nighttime jungle around her, feel its life — even feel the eyes of countless small nocturnal creatures watching her. But the light of the fire surrounded her, like a charmed circle in fairy tales. Nothing could come close to the fire, she thought, could step within the circle of its light. She could almost make herself believe that this was all there was of reality, that everything outside this compass simply didn’t exist: the creatures that had chased her, the Nagara security guards, the outpost itself … even her life in Tokyo. She could remember feeling strong emotions — terror when the zombies attacked her, desolation when Toshikazu and then O’Neil were killed. But right now, sitting by the fire, those emotions felt like vague memories, nothing more.

  Hollingforth stirred beside her. “We must help you rejoin your expedition, Miss Carlson,” he said. “They must be worried by your disappearance. Where might we find them?”

  “On the river bank,” she answered, “it’s in a large clearing.”

  MacHeath nodded. “I know where it is,” he said, “Rundle here spotted it yesterday. We decided to give it a wide berth.”

  “Oh? Why?” Nikki asked.

  Hollingforth shot a quick glance at Black. “The professor has decided that any… outside interference … is to be avoided.” From his expression, she could tell he didn’t think much of that.

  “Dinna worry yourself about that, Miss Carlson,”

  MacHeath said reassuringly. “In the morning we’ll see you safely back to your comrades.”

  She looked around her, at the black wall of the jungle around the small clearing. “Yes,” she agreed quietly, “in the morning.”

  Hollingforth seemed to misinterpret her reaction. “Have no fear,” he said firmly, “you’ll be safe here. The soldiers will make sure that the fire burns brightly all night.”

  Something about the young man’s voice made Nikki look into his eyes. He looked so earnest, obviously trying to reassure her of something he thought she’d fear. The fire’s important, she thought with a sudden chill. They’re convinced that if it goes out, something bad’s going to happen. She glanced around again. The jungle was solid, unrelieved blackness around the clearing. Anything could be out there — anything.

  “We usually rise with the dawn,” Hollingforth explained, “to make the most of the daylight hours.”

  “Are you telling me it’s bedtime?” she asked, amused.

  “Well…” He looked uncomfortable — no, shy, she thought, he’s probably blushing under that beard. “Well, I thought perhaps you’d be tired …”

  She smiled at him, deciding not to tease him any more. “I guess I am tired,” she told him. “Where do I sleep?”

  He offered his arm as she rose from the camp stool. She hesitated a moment, then took it. “Good night,” she told the others. “Thanks for your help.”

  Hollingforth led her away from the answering chorus of “good nights,” stopping before one of the tents. He held the canvas flap back for her. “This is my tent,” he told her.

  “Ah,” she said. She turned away to hide her smile. “And you’ll sleep …?” she asked casually.

  This time the young man looked even more uncomfortable — embarrassed, almost mortified. She saw a I lush darken his cheeks above the line of his beard. He is blushing!

  He coughed, cleared his throat. “I… I’ll sleep with I he soldiers, of course,” he muttered, “I assure you I never had any other intentions, I didn’t…”

  She cut him off by laying a hand on his arm. “I’m sorry,” she told him, “I was just teasing you. Thank you for letting me use your tent.”

  “Well, I…” he mumbled. Then he drew himself up to his full height, bowed his head formally — almost in the Japanese manner. “The pleasure is all mine, Miss Carlson. I hope you sleep well.” And then he turned on his heel and strode off toward the fire.

  Nikki watched his retreating back with a smile. Nice guy, she thought. Definitely a nice guy, even if he is a little weird. She chuckled quietly to herself. He blushed when I teased him. What guy blushes anymore? It was almost as if…

  Her brain paused on that line of thought. It’s almost as if he’s an anachronism, she mused, like he’s from an earlier time. His shyness, his sometimes-stilted way of speaking, the way he didn’t understand a lot of what she said, his comments about the natives, his amazement over her talk of genetic engineering … And then there were the soldiers’ uniforms, and the professor’s condemnation of Hollingforth for talking about the Gaunt Man — whoever he is. When Nikki was growing up, she’d sometimes visited her uncle — a hard-line Methodist preacher in Pennsylvania — and she was sure that the crusty old man and Professor Black would find they had a lot in common.

  Is that what’s happening in Orrorsh? she asked herself. Some kind of time warp or time gate, bringing people— and things — through from some past epoch? Didn’t that explain the presence of Hollingforth and the others quite nicely …?

  She snorted loudly. Nonsense. Pure crap. She was letting her imagination run away with her again. Time gate indeed. Shaking her head at her own foolishness, she crawled into the tent.

  There was just enough room inside for a bedroll and some personal gear: changes of clothes — with two different ties, Nikki noticed — heavy walking boots, toiletries, and such like. Nothing that she could see incorporated advanced technology of any kind; there was nothing more sophisticated than a double-edge safety razor. No flashlight, no radio, no Walkman for entertainment… who are these people?

  Quickly stripping down to her underwear, she stretched out on the bedroll, closed her eyes. Questions, stray images, wild speculations — all churned through her brain. But despite them all, the quickly sank into a fitful sleep.

  *

  Nikki woke to the smell of brewing coffee and frying bacon — not a bad way to wake up, she thought. Bright morning sunlight was filtering through the thin canvas of the tent.

  She rolled over, stretched luxuriously. Her neck had stiffened up from her sleep on the unpadded bedroll, but it wasn’t too bad. Sitting cross-legged, she rolled her head from side to side a few times to release the tension. She examined the ankle she’d injured in her flight from the zombies. It was a little puffy, indicating a slight twist, but the throbbing pain had gone. She should have little trouble walking on it, she judged. All in all I don’t feel too bad, but — she ran her fingers through her hair — I probably look like something the dog dragged in. She considered rummaging through Hollingforth’s toiletries to find a mirror and a comb, but decided against it. The young man’s privacy was more important than her vanity. She dressed briskly, and crawled out of the tent to greet the morning.

  The fire was still burning strongly, she saw. Private Rundle was frying bacon in a large iron skillet, while one of the others—Muir, she thought — was tending a large coffee pot. Sergeant MacHeath and the other soldiers were nowhere to be seen. Hollingforth and Professor Black were sitting near the fire with cups of coffee, deep in conversation. Nikki stood, stretching again. She put weight on her hurt ankle, testing it out. There was a little pain if she twisted it, but as long as she was careful it would hold her without any difficulties.

  Hollingforth saw her first. With a quick apology to the suddenly sour-faced Black, he jumped to his feet and hurried over to her. “Good morning, Miss Carlson,” he greeted her. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I slept quite well,” she replied, peripherally aware that she was picking up his manner of speech. “And you?” she inquired politely.

  “I slept exceptionally well, thank you.” He glanced over his shoulder at Rundle. “I think we’re only a couple of minutes from breakfast. Would you join us?”

  “Of course,” she told him.

  She was sitting next to Hollingforth, back on the camp cot she’d occupied last night, when MacHeath and his other men came into the clearing. She looked up from her plate of bacon and gave the
sergeant a smile.

  “Good morning, Miss Carlson,” he began, “did you

  …?”

  But the professor cut him off sharply. “Well?” he snapped. “What of the area?”

  MacHeath drew himself up to his full height — almost standing at attention but not quite. Probably the most he’ll do for a civilian, Nikki thought with some amusement. “The area is relatively clear, Professor,” the sergeant stated flatly. “There are no … unusual creatures, and no obvious tracks left by same.” (Black looked slightly disappointed at that, Nikki noted. What kind of expedition are they on, anyway?)

  “We approached the stockade on the river as closely as I considered prudent,” MacHeath went on. “We observed them for a while from concealment.” He hesitated, glanced over at Nikki then back to Professor Black. “They have teams out in the jungle, Professor,” he said. “I expect they must be searching for Miss; Carlson.”

  Black, too, looked over at Nikki. Unlike MacHeath’s, his glance contained obvious vexation. “Yes,” he said drily. “That would make sense. Well, we must return her as soon as convenient. Sergeant, you and your men will take her, and …”

  “Hold it,” Nikki broke in sharply. She felt anger burning in her chest over the way Black was talking about her — about her, not to her — as if she’d been a piece of luggage. “Don’t I get any say in this?”

  For a moment, Black looked as though he were going to explode. But then, with visible effort, he kept himself under control. “I would think you would like to return to your colleagues,” he said.

  That set Nikki back for a moment. She did, of course, but…