The warriors exchanged hand signals, their eyes attuned to the darkness by long nights on patrol. They moved around to circle the clearing, their progress swift and silent. At a signal from their leader, repeated rapidly from man to man, they moved forward, blasters ready.
"Wait!" Jak barked, suddenly turning as Krysty was about to plunge the needle into Mildred.
"What?" she snapped, feeling her hair tighten as danger suddenly signaled itself near.
"Men closing," Jak returned, palming another knife so that he had one in each hand. "All around."
"Fireblast," Ryan cursed as he moved stiffly. His reactions were slowed, but then, so were the reactions of the others.
Before any of them had a chance to adopt a fighting stance, they were surrounded by warriors who emerged stealthily from cover. They were holding blasters. One of them stepped forward. More than six feet, broad and muscular, and with an air of authority, he was obviously the leader. When he spoke, it was in a rich, dark voice of deep timbre that carried that authority like a prize in front of him.
"Though the night is dark it seems that your purpose is like the day. You will leave the sister alone and move away from her. Any of a wish to linger too long will be like the pig who lingers too long near the butcher's knife, and so does not live a life for long. Be aware and learn, my friends."
Chapter Four
"No choice, I guess… We'll have to let them take us," Ryan said with weary resignation, dropping his panga.
The other companions acknowledged that, moving away from Mildred slowly. J.B. dropped his Tekna, but Jak was able to palm his knives into the hidden recesses of his camou jacket, so that he kept himself well armed. He did, however, lose a knife as the one given to Krysty was taken from her by the opposing force as they moved in, as was Dean's bowie. The warrior who took Krysty's knife also dashed the syringe from her hand, stamping on it so that the adrenaline leaked uselessly into the earth.
"That was a really stupe thing to do," Krysty said with deceptive calm, straining to keep her temper. "I only wanted to help Mildred."
"So the sister's name is Mildred…unusual," the warrior leader said with a raised eyebrow. "As to your other point, truly it is as the winds that blow the clouds before the storm. They seek to deceive and it is only the harsh experience of time that teaches otherwise."
"Please yourself, but wrapping it up in fancy talk isn't going to change the fact that she's been unconscious for some time and she needs help," Krysty hissed vehemently.
"Indeed, and you were seeking to aid her purely from the milk of kindness that runs like that of the dark fruits during the summers. It is unknown for those of your kind to help a brother or a sister. The reverse, if the texts of history are to be believed. Your purpose is swathed in mystery like the darkness that enfolds us now. But that is of no matter." He gestured with the H&K that he held across his chest, barrel down but with flexing biceps revealing a readiness to raise and fire. He continued. "Now we go. You will carry the sister between you. That will keep your hands occupied and accord her the respect she deserves."
Looking around at the warriors, all of whom had blasters poised, and taking stock of their lack of weapons and the depleted physical condition in which at least half the group found themselves in, Ryan saw no reason to revise his original opinion.
"Let's do it," he said simply. "We're in no state to take them on, and at least Mildred might get some kind of medical attention."
"But—" Krysty began before casting her eye at the surrounding group of dark skinned warriors. "Yeah, mebbe you're right. We can sort this out later," she said finally.
Under the direction of the warrior leader, the companions made a makeshift stretcher from their outer clothing and Mildred's discarded jacket. It served a dual purpose: not only did they have something on which to carry the still unconscious woman, but the lack of covering in the chill night left them shivering and cold to the bone. Now they were in even less of a condition to offer resistance.
The warrior leader nodded his approval at their efforts, eying Jak in a curious manner. As the companions moved Mildred onto the stretcher, he reached out to stop the albino.
"Wait, my friend. Tell me, why do you allow yourself to be a part of these people—you have difference and should not allow them to rule you."
Jak flashed him a red-eyed glare that bespoke of a wish to do far more than just reply verbally, whilst being all the while aware that he could not endanger his comrades by so doing.
"No one rules me—they're friends." He spit. "All of them," he added significantly.
The warrior leader shrugged. "Truly, we live in interesting times when such things can occur. The lamb and the lion lay down together, it can only result in bloodshed like the seas that surround us. A perplexing problem, one I gladly leave to others. My only concern is to see that the sister Mildred is attended to without further delay. Now move," he added, gesturing with the H&K.
Jak returned to his comrades and they lifted Mildred. With an indication from the leader, they followed part of the warrior pack into the darkness of the woods, keeping close to see where their captors led them. The remainder of the pack followed. The companions knew that any attempt to break into the cover of the woods would be futile. Their blasters—useless though they were at that moment—were in the custody of the opposition. Any attempt to use the darkened woods as cover would mean leaving Mildred behind. Added to this, half of their group was in no state to make a break and the warriors knew the woodlands inside out where the companions would be moving blind. The familiarity of the warriors with the terrain was born out by the fact that the group in front of them moved through the densely packed terrain with a surefootedness that made it hard for the companions, made clumsy by the unconscious Mildred strung between them, to even follow, let alone think about escape. Besides which, they knew that the warriors had their blasters ready to punish any deviation from the route set by those in front.
The trek through the woods seemed to take forever. There was no light by which to see the path or to take landmarks by which to judge the passing of time and distance. There was only the painful stumble through the pitch-black to a destination that was, as yet, unknown to them. For Ryan and J.B. the trip was made less painful thanks to the narcotic effects of the painkillers they had taken earlier, yet still the long journey would be marked by a gradual return of the pain that cursed them earlier. And for Doc, the disorientation of such a journey in the darkness wasn't helping him to retain the delicate hold on reality that he had attained since recovering consciousness.
In truth, it was only Dean, Jak and Krysty who were able to try to assess what was occurring around them and to try to work out where they were being taken. They had neither pain nor disorientation to fog their ability to analyze the situation. This much was clear— they had to be traveling into the island, as they had walked a greater distance from the clearing than that which they had traversed from the shore to reach their campsite. And, despite the amount of time it seemed to take, they hadn't covered that great a distance. From their estimates earlier in the day, they knew that the island was no more than a few square miles in total. So it seemed that they weren't traveling straight, which course may have been dictated by the growth of the woodland.
It had also been an uneventful march, which suggested that the wildlife to which the warrior leader had alluded was either in another part of the island or knew well enough by instinct to avoid the group of warriors as it made its way through the terrain.
"Is that light ahead, or is it dawn?" Krysty asked softly as a glow of illumination appeared ahead of them.
"Ville," Jak replied. "Hear noises…most probably asleep, but a few up. Mebbe sec."
The light grew as the woodland thinned out and they found themselves walking past a clearing where fenced in livestock watched them idly. Ahead they could see a collection of adobe buildings, immaculately maintained and freshly whitewashed, some decorated with paintings and others left bare. A
ll were illuminated by oil lanterns that hung on the sides of the buildings and were strung across the beaten earth paths that ran between the buildings.
It was difficult to judge how large the ville could be, only that it was a thriving area that was kept hygienically and with a sense of pride in the surroundings. As the companions were led through the streets, sec guards acknowledged the passing patrol and its captives in silence, as though unwilling to disturb the sleeping inhabitants of the adobe buildings. They were eventually stopped in front of a building that was smaller than many of the others. It had barred metal windows where the others were open or covered with wooden shutters or cloth curtaining.
One of the warriors—obviously a sec patrol, or this ville's equivalent—opened the door, and from the dim illumination of the light on the outside of the building, they could see that the interior consisted of a beaten-earth floor with no furniture. There was a latrine dug into one corner.
"I fear it will not be as luxurious as the fruits of exploitation with which your people have always surrounded themselves, and it will be cramped—we do not usually have as many offenders as yourself at one time—but it will suffice. You will leave the sister and enter, if you please."
The words were polite, but the icy tone of the last sentence belied them, as did the manner in which the warrior leader hefted his H&K. The companions reluctantly laid Mildred down and entered the cell. J.B. lingered and was rewarded with an unfriendly prod from the barrel of an H&K wielded by another of the sec men.
"You'd better take good care of her," the Armorer said quietly as he acquiesced, following his companions into the cell.
Once more the warrior leader raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Strange. It's almost as if you genuinely care about the sister. But that would be absurd."
Upon which he indicated to a couple of his men to close and bar the door and turned on his heel to walk away in the lead of the remainder of the pack, who lifted Mildred and carried her off down another alleyway and out of sight.
"Shit," J.B. swore softly as he watched through the barred window until the unconscious Mildred was out of sight. "Where are they taking her?"
"I don't know," Krysty replied, "but one thing's for sure, she'll be safe."
"I hope so," J.B. said softly. "They seem to have this thing about us being white, but—"
"But what they think of Mildred being with us?" Jak finished.
The Armorer nodded.
Dean, pacing the floor, suddenly spoke. "But what I don't get is how come they're against us."
Ryan shrugged. "I figure it's 'cause we're not the same as them. Put it this way—every one of them we've seen so far has been black. Odds are that everyone else in the ville is, as well."
"How did you work that out?" Dean frowned.
"Think about it," the one-eyed man said as he winced and tried to get comfortable on the hard earth floor. "When was the last time you saw a sec patrol that was all the same? Wherever I've been, I'm damn sure I've worked beside black, brown, yellow, all kinds of skin."
"I don't know. What about when we were on that oil well? They kept apart then," Dean countered.
"True enough, but they'd still work together, and know there were other colors, remnants of predark races. And there's still shit about one being better than another, but this is different. Can't explain how, just a feeling I got off the big man."
"There will always be pernicious and specious ideas about skin pigmentation," Doc said sadly.
"Say again?" Jak furrowed his brow.
"People hating you because you're black, or white, or an albino," Ryan said pointedly. "Like he was giving you back when they captured us."
"That's an interesting point," Krysty mused. She walked over to the barred window and looked through, mindful of the fact that the guards were close. She didn't speak again until she had moved away from the window. "When I was a little girl, back in Harmony ville, there were stories. I figured they were old myths to teach us about the shit we'd get for being mutie in some way, but one of them was about a place called the Carolinas, and an island there. Years before skydark, they used to bring black people across the seas just to use as slaves. Only some of them didn't take too well to this and they managed to escape. There was an island in the Carolinas where they settled. A whole community of none but black people, with no other skin. They lived in seclusion and kept away from everyone else, even after the days of slavery were over."
"And you think this may be that island? That they still exist, and made it past skydark and prospered?" J.B. queried.
Krysty shrugged. "I'm not saying that this is that island…but mebbe it's one just like it."
MILDRED OPENED her eyes. Slowly she had emerged from the fog of unconsciousness, driven onward by the throbbing of pain at the back of her skull. A wave of nausea swept through her with each throb and she wondered in some part of her mind that had started to function why it was that she hadn't already vomited and choked as a result.
There was little noise around her, apart from the rustling of fabric and the soft footfalls of one person, moving quietly. The clink of a bowl or cup against a jug and the sound of pouring liquid indicated that she was somewhere with a degree of civilization. She was apart from her companions. She could tell by the lack of ambient sound, with no breathing, speech or movement apart from the single person in the room with her. Yes, she was sure that she was in a building or shelter of some kind, as it was warm and dry, with no discernible breeze. Other feelings: she was aching all over, that much was for sure. Muscles felt torn in her stomach and in her left leg and arm. Then there was that lump on her head that was causing so much pain. Lying on it, she could feel it was about the size of an egg. No concussion as far as she could tell, though, as she was thinking clearly, wasn't delirious, and despite the waves of nausea she wasn't actually vomiting continuously. An ominous ache in her ribs on the right side increasing in intensity when she took breath. Muscles torn or bones cracked? She couldn't be sure.
One thing that she could be sure of was that she was lying on a bed of some kind. It had a hard base, but there was softness laid on top, as though the board was covered with blankets. And she could also feel the weight of blankets on her, itching her skin.
Where were her clothes? It suddenly occurred to her that she had to have been undressed and her clothes removed somewhere. She should be wet through, but instead she was dry.
What the hell was going on?
The room was delicately perfumed with herbs and there was the scent of burning sandalwood. So she was lying naked in a bed, separated from her companions and in the company of an unknown person.
Dammit, this she had to get straight, and soon. But she would have to open her eyes. And in truth, Mildred was a little scared to do that. Not because of where she may be, or who she may be with. Rather, because she knew that the light, however dim, would hurt while her head throbbed like this, and the room may spin and add the finishing touches to her nausea, making her vomit and strain muscles that already ached.
But she knew it had to be faced, so she opened her eyes.
Slowly…
Yeah, it hurt. The light was like an incredible volley of tiny needles that pierced the membrane, making her wince, despite the fact that it was low level. Probably a lamp of some kind and not located directly over where she lay. All she could see was a whitewashed ceiling, decorated with paintings of huntsmen and dancing women. There was something about it that she knew should mean something to her, yet she couldn't quite grasp it. The women were dancing a little too vigorously at present, and she closed her eyes again to try to gain respite from the spinning. No good, even the lights that danced behind her closed eyelids spun in a way that made her want to—
Opening her eyes wide regardless of the pain and dizziness, and moving swiftly despite the pain from her protesting stomach and ribs, Mildred turned onto her side and leaned over the bed. Rush matting lay at the side, on a packed earth floor that was remarkably flat and dry…thou
gh dry for not much longer, as the spasm in her gut reached its conclusion and she retched heavily, vomiting bile and seawater that splattered onto the matting.
Feeling a sweat break out at the effort, she reached down into her guts and willed herself to vomit again. If she expelled it all in one spasm, then she may be able to settle and regain her equilibrium. Once more, she splattered the rush matting, but this time with less force. Feeling the aching muscles begin to lose the force of the spasm, she spit the sour taste from her mouth and returned to her position on her back, breathing heavily. She had closed her eyes to stop the room spinning as she moved once more, and was surprised— but too weakened to protest—when she felt her head gently lifted and a wooden cup pressed to her lips. The water in the cup felt cool and sweet as she sipped it. Her throat cried for more and she tried to gulp, realizing how dehydrated she had become. But the cup was taken away.
Mildred opened her eyes once more, holding her breath as the room spun then slowed so that she could see who had given her the water. The woman leaning over her was, she figured, about the same age as herself, with lines at the corners of her large, hazel-brown eyes that creased the skin deeply. Her skin was darker than Mildred's, almost mahogany in the dim light of the lamp. Her full mouth was also lined at the corners, the lines being up rather than down, laughter rather than frown lines. Her nose was pierced with a single diamond stud on the right side. Despite the darkness of her skin, she was finer boned than Mildred would have expected, with high cheekbones that came to a logical point in a chin that, on any other face, would have seemed pointed. She reminded Mildred of the Abyssinian women she had met when a child, exiled from Ethiopia in the early 1970s when Emperor Haile Selassie had died, leaving the country in the grip of a military junta and a continuing famine. Certainly she didn't resemble the central and western Africans from whom the majority of African-Americans Mildred had ever known were descended.
And when she spoke, she had the gentlest, softest voice, like the tinkling of a brook over smooth, worn stones.
Axler, James - Deathlands 66 - Separation Page 6