Transients
Brayan Branko Bubalo
Copyright © 2020. by Brayan Branko Bubalo
Published in Canada by the Author
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing
from the author.
Front and back cover illustrations done by the author
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-7771182-2-4
Transients
…Whatever happened to the pla-net was, literally, written in the stars. Nothing happened by chan-ce. Even overpopulation was part of the intelligent design. For only by having great numbers could survival of a few occur.
At times of great tribulation, if there were just a few million people less, there would be no one left alive. The World would be left without a human race. In the end, the Earth would be a very lonely place. Yet, by smallest of chances, few survived, and the end was in fact just a new beginning.
Leo The Raven Presley
A Brief History of Vero People
Chapter I
In a futile attempt to retain the feeling of a dream, Presley refused to open his eyes. But it was over; he was wide awake, the beauty gone, and only a vague recollection lingered for a while.
The fire died out, he thought. He knew it was time to get up, but kept still, dreading the impact of the chill. He would dwell in his thoughts for a little longer, but the cold made his bladder swell. The night is coming, he mused. Halfheartedly, he unzipped his sleeping bag, immediately shivering. He slipped on his pants and jacket and pulled up his army boots. When he came back from the latrine, shuddering, he stood over a tin barrel made woodstove, rubbing his hands above it. The hob emitted no heat.
He opened the small flap door, to find out that the fire from that morning was almost out. He sifted the ash through the mesh, and placed several logs of dry wood over tornup pieces of a carton box. Luckily, the building was very old; it had thick brick walls and many chimneys. Soon the crackle of a new fire broke the silence. He squatted against the stove and stared at the flame for a while. Presley always loved the smell of burning firewood and the warmth of a live fire. He found it soothing, almost therapeutic, to look at the lively dance of flickering flames, and, somehow, it always made him feel at peace. He thought about his afternoon dream, wondering where that splendour came from to his unconscious mind, for there was nothing beautiful that could be real in his life of a soldier.
Temperature in the room became bearable. He walked to the window, careful not to be seen from the outside. The glass was broken and cold draft was rushing in through the cracks, blocked only by pieces of cardboard and a sheet of dirty cloth. He was careful not to disturb it, and betray his presence to those who might watch.
The street was abandoned; there was no sign of movement anywhere. But, Presley knew it was just an illusion. A wide, desolated avenue, covered with many feet of dirty snow, structures flattened and naked, dead trees, barren and dark, burned and broken light posts, torn billboards, a city bus turned upside down, half buried in snow and debris, car roofs barely emerging above hard packed ice and snow mixed with ash. Utter silence…
He moved his eyes, from left to right, slowly, methodically, holding his stare at anything that could serve as a cover, trying to detect any change in a landscape, notice any new footmark, telltale of activity, hint of malevolent intent, but found nothing unusual. Everything looked exactly like it was that morning—colourless and deserted. And still… He was not sure if he should be at peace.
He raised his gaze to the darkening, grey sky. Recently, for a week or so, the improvement was evident. Almost a year had passed since the eruptions and the beginning of a vulcanic winter. Only a few months ago it was almost completely dark all the time. But, days were getting brighter lately, and it seemed almost like the sunlight would break through. He took it as a good sign, an omen of possibility and hope. He was amazed that, this afternoon in particular, however dim, he could see a trace of colour at the horizon—a pinkish, pale–red gleam of sort, protruding through the greyness of the sky.
He tried to imagine the Sun, sitting low behind the city skyline, casting red and orange hues above the horizon. Much time passed since he have seen it last—and although he felt its presence, being able to make out a faint outline of its disc—he yearned to see the Sun again and thought it would be nice, if only for a moment, it would penetrate through the stratosphere screened by volcanic smog. It seemed so long ago since he last felt its warmth, that he wasn’t even sure if he ever enjoyed a warm, bright sunny day. It will came, he thought—the ash–clouds will reside, and there will be the light again. Though, in a couple of hours it will be totally dark and then…
Presley walked away from the window, towards the corner, next to the hob, checking the assortment of rations stacked on a three–tier wooden shelf. The room was dim. It was getting darker, and fast. He wanted to make a meal while there was still some light. He picked up a can of kidney beans and opened it, tossed its contents into a ceramic pan and warmed it up over the hot stove plate. He added some salt and seasoning, poured half a glass of water, and stirred the contents with a spoon until they started to boil. Once his food was ready, he walked back to the window, and resumed to watching the street, trying to detect anything out of the ordinary. The view remained completely void of any sign of life. All that could be seen were crumbling, frozen ruins. He sat in front of the window on a piece of plank placed over two concrete blocks, and ate his beans.
***
There were twenty–seven of them in that old dilapidated warehouse—nineteen men and eight women. They arrived there a month ago. Before that, they wandered through the city; in constant search for a shelter, for food and drinking water. They avoided confrontation and fought back only when they had no other choice. Nevertheless, the struggle to survive was an endless challenge in this new world of chaos and bewilderment. They made weak alliances with other groups of survivors, which seldom lasted, for they were quickly betrayed by greed and despair. And when there were no humans to fight against—there were the Pongos.
They overtook this warehouse from a group of Pongos; a few weeks earlier. They caught the beasts by surprise: attacked one morning, when the creatures opened the gate, to let their patrol out. A few of Presley’s men snuck close, masked by the night and camouflaged against the snow by winter–white fatigues, and when the Pongos slid the gate ajar, they threw dynamite and grenades through the crack. Then they all stormed in and neutralized the remaining hybrids. Since that day, other groups of Pongos tried to regain the fortress. It was ironic, but in a way, having to constantly defend their new citadel from one and the same group of hybrids, meant that they at least would not have to worry about any other adversaries. As long as they could keep them at bay, no other foe could or would harm them.
Once they got here, they decided to stay, to recuperate; for as long as their food rations lasted and the Pongos allowed them to. The building was easy to defend, it had a brick facade and thick concrete walls, there were no windows on the main floor and there was only one point of entry to the structure, secured by a heavy sliding door, made of thick sheets of steel. There was plenty of food and botled water left behind the hybrids. For the heat they used wooden pallets and pieces of furniture. It would last them a while. And then…
The old warehouse was located in the western outskirts, away from the chaos of the inner city. Before they got here, they dwelt deep in the metropolis, moving from one place to the other, never safe or too far from danger. They searched for shelter in subterranean parking lots and during the dark months, right after the eruptions and the earthquakes, they stay
ed deep underground in metro tunnels; at all times vulnerable to attacks by mobs of Pongos, or crooked men ready to rob and kill for some food, for a woman, or for weapons.
Even though most of Presley’s men were experienced warriors, who knew how to fight and survive hostile environments, they could not afford to fight every day. A few of his men had already been killed, and, he knew, if it continued for too long, they would, at the end, all perish.
Presley sat patiently behind the window. When he finished his meal, he took his rifle and looked through the scope, aiming at the openings of the lone skyscraper standing across the avenue. Somewhere behind those walls, the Pongos brooded about. From here to the Great Lake, that was the only building, other than the one they were in, left standing. The rest of the city, as far as he could see, was deserted and quiet. He moved the scope slowly, surveying the top windows and roof of the building, but saw nothing. He was not encouraged by it. He knew they were watching, too. Though the last couple of nights were unusually silent, as a former soldier and a veteran of many battles, it was Presley’s nature to always be cautious, to never stop the routine of spreading two–hour shifts of on–guard duty among his men. For the past two weeks the Pongos were attacking almost every morning and evening. They would swarm the compound like packs of wolfs, bellowing and shouting, throwing grenades and launching RPGs, yelling insults, swearing, screaming and roaring, never discouraged by casualties, as if they were in a state of trance, possessed by the prospect of fresh blood and spoils. They would retreat only briefly, to tend to their wounds and recuperate, and returned the following day, attacking once again with unchanged ferociousness. Although their attacks lacked any semblance of organization, making it almost easy to fight them. After all, Pongos were hybrids, created in labs, designed to fight and hold order amongst unarmed and defenseless civilians, not against someone like Presley and his friends, who were all seasoned soldiers, treined to put pressure, obtain tactics, plan actions, and return fire. Still, the beasts were extremely dangerous; if nothing else then for their sheer numbers and belligerent nature. Presley lost many friends to these ruthless, unyielding creatures.
But, for the last couple of days, there was no activity, and not a single trace of hybrids. The silence was unsettling. Presley grappled with what it meant. He would almost be less worried if the beasts would continue with their assaults.
***
He heard the door creaking, footsteps and a rattle behind his back, but did not turn around to see who was coming. He knew it was Professor Tagore, carrying the old wooden chess–box.
Professor sat on a plank, opposite from Presley, adjusted a little flickering oil lamp on the edge of one concrete block, not so it would betray them, but only so it would give barely enough light to see the board between them, and then arranged the pieces.
“Black or white?” he asked with no prelude, for it was their daily ritual, their time to discuss pressing matters while playing some chess.
“Black,” Presley said. He went to the stove, put some more pieces of wood to the fire and came back.
“You’re dead,” said Professor.
“We’ll see, my dear Professor. We’ll see.”
They moved their figures in silence, while Presley kept his eyes on the street. Even though Presley was a lousy opponent, Professor entertained a game with him, so they could make plans and, in reality he had no one else to play with. Sometimes, he would let Presley win, just to keep him interested, and sometimes, Presley would truly beat him, on which occasion Professor would be left in confused disbelief. That was really Presley’s only motive for playing, for he would use the opportunity to purposely laugh and brag, driving Professor mad.
“Your move,” Tagore said after losing patience with Presley delaying his next move.
“Wait, Professor, I think I see something,” said Presley, grabbing his sniper rifle, aiming at the far side of the wide avenue.
“What is it?”
“Someone is coming across the field. He is waving with something… It looks like a white piece of cloth. Like a white flag.”
“Where do you see him?” Professor squinted his short–sighted eyes, peeking through the window next to the gun muzzle.
“Take a look.” Presley gave him the rifle, pointing to the walking figure. He had to suppress his laugh, watching Professor handle the weapon.
“You’re as bad with a rifle as I am with chess.”
“Yes, yes, yes… I see him now. He is definitely coming. It’s strange, though… Pongos do not negotiate or surrender. What should we do?”
“I think that’s a human, not a hybrid. Just don’t shoot him, Professor. At least not for now.”
“Ha, ha… very funny.”
“Let’s go downstairs to the gate and await our visitor.”
***
When they arrived at the main floor, their men were already on the alert, waiting for his orders.
“Pull the gate, but just enough for the fellow to pass,” Presley said.
“Keep your hands high above your head and keep going,” the guard shouted. “Come in and drop that weapon! Quickly!”
The man squeezed through the gate opening, slowly placing his rifle on the ground, and stood up with his hands high above his head, a white piece of cloth tied around the mouth of the gun–barrel as a sign of peace.
“It’s not loaded, anyway,” he said.
“Who are you?” asked Presley
“My name is Jonah, Jonah Phyla.”
“What do you want?”
“I came to ask if we could join you.”
“You’re with those across the street?”
“Yes. We were their captives.”
“How many of you?”
“There are only five of us left and…”
“And? How did you escape the Pongos?”
“…And we’re tired, and hungry. The Pongos forced us to stay with them, but they are gone now and we decided to surrender to you, to join you if you…”
“What do you mean, gone?” cried Presley.
“They’re dead.”
“Dead! How?”
“I don’t know. A few days back there was a big argument among them. They fought and shot at each other. Three of our men were killed and two were wounded and died. Then half of the Pongos left and the other half remained. But they’re all dead now. So we’re free.”
“How did they die?”
“I guess they were sick with something. It’s almost like they expired.”
“Expired?”
“Yes. They were fine and then, this morning they lay in their bunks, dead.”
“And your men? Are any of you sick?”
“The white plague spared us. We’re immune, I guess, or just too young. And I don’t know what malady killed those Pongos, but it seems it has no effect on us.”
“So you were just their hostages.”
“Yeah, I suppose we were. They kept us to serve them, and our women for fun.”
“You have women there?”
“I am the only male left. There are four women with me.”
The man was thin and frail. His physique would be much the same even if he were in a better state. He had thin blond hair and big blue eyes, and that was all one would notice about him. But his appearance served him well, Presley thought. His insignificant build made those who look at him either unimpressed or at ease. Yet, if they had Presley’s sense, they would look deeper into the man’s eyes. There was something about him…
“Why didn’t they come?”
“We figured it might be better if I come first and see what happens…”
Noble, Presley thought. “Go and get your women. Then we’ll talk.”
“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”
“Do not thank me just yet. Hurry now. You have to come back before the dark or do not come until morning. Then we’ll talk.”
After a quarter of an hour they were back, the man and four frightened, exhausted, and starved women.
&n
bsp; “Give them something to eat, first. Put them in separate rooms and keep guard on them until morning,” Presley said in a low voice to his deputy Malcolm. “We’ll need to keep you in quarantine for a while. Tomorrow we’ll talk,” he said to Phyla, and then again to Malcolm, “Keep watch and make shifts.”
“I have a question,” Professor said.
“Sure you do. Go ahead, Professor.”
“Do you play chess?” He asked the man. Jonah looked like he might be an intellectual.
“Why, yes sir. In fact, I play very well.”
“Okay. You are my prisoner then. The ladies can go; you come with me. I’ll feed you and then we’ll play.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
“Are you sure about this Professor?” asked Presley in a hushed voice. “Maybe they’re contagious.”
“He looks all right to me. I need someone better than you and if he is any good, I won’t be bothering you anymore. And while we play, I shall interview him and learn everything we need to know about them.”
“Very well, then. Do as you please.”
Professor showed the man the way.
“Keep your eyes on that fella,” Presley said to one of his men. “I’m not sure about all this, yet. We have to see if he is telling the truth. Tomorrow morning we’ll survey the building across the street. Until then, it’s business as usual.”
***
It was still dark when Presley and five of his men left their compound and crossed to the other side of the wide avenue. Just before dawn, concealed by the darkness, they ran over, to the building where the Pongos resided, and hid in the parking lot, amongst destroyed vehicles, just a breath away from the building’s entrance.
They waited, listening. There was no sound and everything was dead still. On first sight of daylight they separated into pairs and went in opposite directions around the building, while Presley and another man waited near the front entrance crouched behind a car wreck. Soon, two of Presley’s men came back.
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