The Search for Cleo

by Aaron J. Ethridge

  This filled Cleo with such a profound sense of relief that she could only express it in one way; she immediately flew to Robert's bedside in order to mock him. Morgan and Azure followed along just for the fun of it.

  “So,” the green maiden said, kneeling at the side of her love, “Doc tells me you've caught something nasty.”

  “Apparently.”

  “I guess some super-immune-systems just aren't as good as others.”

  “Meaning what, exactly?” he asked with a defensive tone.

  “Well,” she said playfully, “I didn't catch it.”

  “Not yet.”

  “In fact,” she continued, “no one else has caught it. Not even Morgan... That really makes you think, doesn't it?”

  “You're going to feel bad for saying that when this kills him,” Robert asserted, sitting up slightly as he spoke.

  “I wouldn't worry about that,” Azure smiled. “He has caveman immunities. They're far too powerful for anything like this to take him out.”

  “Cavemen died of all kinds of diseases,” Robert reminded her.

  “Not my caveman,” she replied with an almost condescending tone.

  “Y'all think this is funny right now,” he replied. “Give it a few days and you may just change your tunes.”

  “Do you have any last wishes?” Morgan asked, pretending to be serious.

  “If anyone ever so much as touches Cleo,” he replied, laying his head back on the bed, “I want you to kill them.”

  “That's sweet,” the maiden replied, rubbing the back of her fingers gently across his face. “But, we're just teasing you. Doc, says you'll be fine in a few days. Apparently, the only reason you're being such a baby about it...”

  “Being such a baby about it!” he repeated, trying to sit up again.

  “Is because you've never been sick before,” she continued, pushing him back down on the bed. “So, you're not used to it and don't know how to handle it.”

  “You've never been sick before, either,” he pointed out.

  “And, I won't ever be,” she assured him, kissing him on the forehead. “Although, if I were to get sick, I'm sure I'd be a lot better at dealing with it.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Women are just better at things like that,” she explained. “You want me to get you something to eat?”

  “No,” he replied. “What I really want you to do is; scratch my back.”

  “I'll bet!” Morgan exclaimed with a smile.

  “Shut up, Morgan!” Robert demanded as he rolled over and pulled the Qwell-covers from his back. (Qwell is Vox and Celeste's last name, if you'll remember. Hence; Qwell-covers because the 'covers' were actually just their clothes.)

  “I am not touching those with my bare hands,” Cleo said, gazing down at the welts that covered her love.

  “Thank you, sweetheart!” he replied, beginning to roll over again.

  “I'm just teasing you!” she explained, shoving him back down. “Why are men so sensitive?”

  “Because they're stupid?” Azure suggested.

  “We have to be in order to put up with...” Robert began before shifting subjects. “Oh... that's good. Thank you, dear. This itching is driving me insane. It looks like Sturm finally came up with a way to outwit me and kill me at the same time. He decided to try to germ me to death.”

  “War of the Worlds,” Morgan observed with a nod.

  “I'll beat him again, though,” Robert replied. “Provided that Cleo has the strength to keep scratching for a few days.”

  After a few minutes of more scratching, Morgan and the maidens went to eat dinner. By the time they were done, Robert was asleep again. The rest of the crew quickly followed the example of their captain.

  The following morning, Morgan was awakened by an unusual sound. It was Cleo and Azure calling for him. The moment he realized what it was he was actually hearing, he leapt from his bed and flew to their room. A single glance was enough to tell him that they too had caught mutated-chickenpox.

  “We've caught it,” Azure asserted.

  “I haven't yet,” he replied.

  “That's what we were hoping,” she explained. “I would really appreciate a drink.”

  “I have a last request,” Cleo added.

  “It won't be your last,” Morgan assured her, “but, I'll be glad to do whatever it is.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly. “If another woman ever so much as looks at Rob, Morgan... I want you to... to cram her into a wood-chipper.”

  “You have a real mean streak sometimes, you know that?” he chuckled. “Would you like a drink, as well?”

  “Please.”

  Morgan not only got the ladies drinks, he also woke Doc up and got some medicine to help with their fevers – as well as the aches and pains caused by said fevers. The Quells awoke to discover that they had also caught the plague, and Vox assured Morgan that the itching was enough to drive him completely and totally insane. Cleo seemed to share this view and asked Morgan to shoot her with a tranq-gun so she could escape it for at least a few minutes.

  Vox, Celeste, and Azure – having been sick before, and therefore better prepared to cope with it – all got out of bed and started puttering around, getting breakfast and the like. While they were doing this, Morgan discussed the situation with Doc. Although, Doc felt that shooting them with tranq-guns was a bad idea under the circumstances, he did want to find some way to ease their discomfort.

  Morgan pointed out that on Earth in his time, people would take oatmeal baths when they had chickenpox. This struck Doc as 'at least worth trying', so the two of them suited up and went to gather some basically-oats. Just before they reached one of the fields where it grew in plenty, they came across an unexpected sight. It was the seemingly fresh skeleton of a two-headed not-a-brontosaurus.

  “I wonder what did this,” Morgan said, gazing at the still-moist bones.

  “Something thorough,” Doc opined.

  “Whatever it was, hopefully we won't run into it.”

  “I couldn't agree more.”

  “Let's get what we're getting and get gone.”

  “Again,” Doc nodded, “I agree.”

  The pair crossed the short distance that still stood between them and the field they were heading for, taking the precaution of turning on their stealth fields and personal shield generators, and began harvesting grain. After about ten minutes, several reptilian creatures about the size – and shape – of a chicken landed on the ground a short distance away.

  “Don't look at 'em, Doc!” Morgan cried softly. “You'll turn to stone!”

  “What?” Doc asked quietly.

  “They're obviously chicken-lizards,” he explained. “Also known as cockatrice... cockatrices... What's the plural on that, Doc?”

  “Cockatrices, I believe,” he replied. “But, there's no such thing, Morgan.”

  “I know,” the young man replied, drawing his pistol. “I was just joking. What do you want to bet they taste like chicken, though?”

  “They might,” Doc admitted.

  “Chicken soup is just the thing when you're sick,” Morgan said, taking careful aim as he spoke.

  “I suppose it is.”

  For several seconds, the young man watched the lizard-chickens apparently pecking at the ground – his sights set on the largest of the creatures.

  “I can't do it, Doc,” he sighed, lowering his gun. “The poor little guys don't even know we're here. I guess I'm just the kind of guy that has to hunt his chicken in a freezer.”

  “It takes all kinds to make a world,” Doc chuckled.

  “I'd probably feel differently if they...”

  Here, the young man paused. The chicken-lizards had stopped their pecking the moment Doc laughed and seemed to be staring in the direction of the invisible pair.

  “I think they heard you, Doc,” Morgan whispered. “This aught to give 'em a good scare.”

  Having said this, the young man crowed like a roost
er. This did not, however, illicit the reaction he had expected. Rather than flying off in terror, they began emitting the most horrid calls he had ever heard. He later described it as the caw of a crow mingled with the sound of a woman screaming as Cleo tried to stuff her into a wood-chipper.

  The little monstrosities then opened their jaws far wider that Morgan would have thought possible, revealing mouths filled with razor-sharp teeth. They had no sooner done this, than they began flying – quite literally – in the direction of the two companions.

  At first, Morgan would have been inclined to simply beat them away from him, but he changed his mind as hundreds of other calls suddenly filled the air.

  “I think we may have found out what ate that thing, Doc,” Morgan observed as he began firing at one lizard-chicken after another.

  “I think we may have,” Doc agreed, firing his own weapon again and again. “Follow me closely, Morgan! Given time, these things could quite literally eat through our shields.”

  Having said this, Doc dashed toward the tree-line with Morgan right on his heels. The chicken-lizards seemed to be everywhere. They were behind them, ahead of them, above them – even below them (Morgan was stepping on one at the moment). Bits of the young man's body were gripped in countless reptilian maws as they fled. To Morgan, his companion looked as if he were a monster made out nothing but lizard-chickens. There wasn't a square inch of him that was clearly visible.

  After what seemed like an eternity, although it was actually fewer than three minutes, they reached the destination to which Doc had been leading them. It was a stream that was deep enough to completely submerge them. The pair dove into the water, where they continued hitting, kicking, and shooting in order to free themselves from all the little nightmares.

  Within seconds of their reaching the water, the flock seemed to lose track of them. After roughly a minute-and-a-half more, both companions had escaped the last of the chewing chicken-lizards.

  “It was our scent,” Doc explained quietly as they floated along in the stream. “That's how they knew where we were. I thought if we could reach the water, it might just hide us from them.”

  “Seems like you were right,” Morgan said. “You think it's safe to turn off our stealth belts, yet?”

  “I think so,” Doc replied. “They seem to have gone. Still, we may want to wait until we reach the shore.”

  “I can see that.”

  The pair headed for the bank, Morgan going to the effort of collecting a few of the dead, floating lizard-chickens that were near at hand before climbing out of the water. Once they were on dry ground, they switched off their stealth fields. Doc then led them to another field – in the opposite direction – where they could get their oats. Although they had lost the baskets they had originally brought with them, they were each able to cut a sheaf to take back with them.

  Doc assured Morgan that, should the patients find the oat-bath soothing, they could come back for more later in the day. As soon as they reached the cave, the pair quickly separated the grain from the stalks, crushed it up a bit using the large rolling pin Vox had made days before, and loaded it into a shirt-sack. Morgan then asked all three ladies to follow him; which they did.

  “We're not sure this is actually going to do anything,” he explained as he dumped the almost-oats into the cavern's natural hot-tub, “but, Doc figures it's at least worth a shot.”

  “We appreciate the effort one way or the other,” Azure said, scratching away as she spoke.

  “We'd also appreciate you getting out of here as quickly as possible,” Cleo said, her own fingernails flying, “so we can find out if it works.”

  “Right,” he nodded. “If you need anything, just yell.”

  “We won't” the green maiden assured him. “Please hurry.”

  During the hour that followed, Morgan cleaned his chicken-lizards (with Doc's help) and got one of them into a pot of boiling water – explaining that Celeste had once told him how to make chicken soup. As the smell of cooking lizard-chicken began to fill the air, the ladies emerged from the hot-tub chamber and informed their doctor (and his nurse) that the oatmeal bath did, in fact, help with the itching.

  This being the case, the pair went to collect several baskets full of grain (which they managed to do fairly quickly, all things considered.) Rob and Vox then had a bath – to the great relief of each. This was followed by the girls taking another.

  By dinnertime, Morgan's soup was ready for eating. When he went to notify Robert of this fact, however, he made a rather shocking discovery. Somehow, Cleo had managed to slip, not only into the boys’ room, but into Robert's bed completely unnoticed. The couple seemed to be happily cuddling away in their sleep; each obviously comforting the other in their sickness. Morgan was happy to see that they were mainly-fully-dressed – Robert being shirtless at the moment – and that nothing untoward seemed to have gone on. (He felt it would have been a real shame if 'fevered delusions' had caused them to flush years of self-control down the toilet.)

  As he stood in the doorway silently considering this fact, Azure came up behind him. She smiled at the sleeping pair before pointing out that they really were a 'cute couple'. Morgan asked her if she'd like him to cuddle with her, but she said she wasn't 'that sick'. On the other hand, she assured him that she was 'really hungry'.

  Just over two minutes later, five of the seven companions were seated around the table with bowls of steaming-hot chicken-lizard soup in front of them. It turned out to be delicious. During the meal, each of them made at least one statement amounting to 'it really does taste like chicken'. It didn't, of course. It tasted like... let's just call it 'lizard-chicken'. If you want to know basically what that tastes like (and you happen to live on Earth – which is where I plan to sell this version of the book), just make some chicken soup, substituting bullfrog for chicken. As they were savoring this undeniably enjoyable meal, Azure kept running her hands through her hair (when she wasn't scratching or eating).

  “You know what I really miss?” she said as her fingers got tangled in a knot. “Hairbrushes. I really wish I'd thought to grab one as we were fleeing for our lives.”

  “You should have said something earlier,” Vox said before swallowing a spoonful of soup. “I'll be happy to make one for you. You want one, baby?”

  “Of course I do,” Celeste smiled. “It’s been nearly impossible to deal with my hair these last few days.”

  “Why didn't you mention it before?”

  “I wanted things like chairs and bread even more,” she explained.

  “That makes sense,” he nodded.

  “I thought so.”

  The next morning – before he and Doc set out to gather more oats – Morgan discussed the hairbrush situation with Vox. Working together (Vox doing most of the work, and Morgan doing his best to help), the pair cast three solid gold hairbrushes for the girls – each having their name etched on their brush. Morgan even had enough sense to consider the fact that 'solid gold' hairbrushes would weigh a ton. As such, they made them hollow. They were hollow-solid-gold hairbrushes. They were also very much appreciated.

  During the next seven days, many more trips were made to the fields, and many more oat-baths were taken. Doc never got sick because, as it turned out, his people were completely immune to that particular strain of mutated chickenpox. Morgan didn't get it, either. Doc was fairly confident this was because Morgan had caught it as a child – although the young man had absolutely no memory of it. Whatever the case, on the morning of the eighth day after the start of the plague, everyone was basically back to normal.

  This was good for several reasons. One of them being that – according to Robert – everything was ready for 'the real work to begin'. For him, this meant setting up a lumber mill (made out of a bunch of guides and the chainsaw) that he could use to finish cutting his cured planks into boards. All of Celeste's ceramics were dry enough to begin firing; which she began to do as soon as Vox had finished her kiln. For his part, Vox ble
nded iron and charcoal to make steel, and then used that material to cast an anvil, a hammer head, and a pair of tongs. With these, he assured Morgan, he would be able to create whatever else he wanted.

  The young man immediately put him to the test by asking him to make a razor; which he did as soon as he had put together a charcoal burning forge. Mere moments after Vox had finished sharpening it for him, Morgan realized that they didn't have any shaving-cream. He proceeded without it. After seeing the results, Azure insisted that he use the PPSU to shave until they figured out a way to make shaving-soap because she preferred 'neck-beard Morgan' to 'bleeding-throat Morgan'.

  Two days after this, Robert was sawing up the last of his boards.

  “What's next?” the young man asked.

  “As soon as we're done here,” the traveler replied, pausing to run his final plank through the mill, “we're going haul these last few boards inside.”

  “Then what?”

  “You'll see.”

  Once the last of their materials were inside the cavern, Robert turned on the holo-emitter and headed toward the rear of the chamber.

  “What we don't want,” he explained, “is for Sturm to know for sure what we're doing. We need to slip out of here without him realizing that we have until after we're long gone. The problem with that is all the probes he's got watching our every move.

  “Unfortunately,” he continued, picking up one of the computers before heading back to the cave's entrance, “the holo-emitter can't completely block their sensors. So, for the next couple of days, all we're going to be doing is hunting.”

  “Hunting?” Morgan asked.

  “Hunting,” Robert repeated, punching some of the computer's buttons. “Like this.”

  As he said this, he drew his pistol and fired out of the cave. A broken probe fell to ground just beyond the entrance. The pair retrieved this device, talking loudly about how stupid Sturm was to keep sending them parts – Robert explaining in hushed tones that he hoped they were being overheard.