Transients

by Brayan Branko Bubalo

  Sensing danger, Presley did not want them to stay in town for long. He preferred staying out in the open, in some lonely country house, or the forest, up in the hills, from where they could keep watch and defend themselves. But they talked him into staying a while longer, to rest and recuperate, in the large Town Hall. For a day or two, they said. To get some rest, they pled. He concurred at last.

  Their group grew quite large and diverse. It was no longer that tactical, swift, and dangerous, paramilitary–like formation that could take skirmishes and confront other weapon barring adversaries, whose only purpose was deprivation and looting. They had more and more little ones to care for. And they had to deal with the burden of moving on foot, carrying everything on their backs: food and water, supplies, medicine, weapons and ammunition, tools and equipment; books and some music instruments; clothes, blankets and sleeping bags; and now, more and more babies and toddlers. The ratio between those who could carry weapons and fight, to those dependent on their protection and assistance, changed rapidly in favour of those who needed protection and were not self–sufficient. By now, their numbers grew to about a hundred. They were no longer a group, but horde. They started to look like a crowd of desperate migrants; a tribe on the move; a hungry caravan. That worried Presley. Their supplies were getting thinner, and every day, there were more and more hungry mouths to feed. They could not deny help to those who needed it, or reject those who wanted to join them. Their pace came to be agonizingly slow. Presley was concerned.

  Chapter VII

  It was quiet dead of the night, just before dawn. Presley was on the watch. He was waiting for his shift to be over, to go back to the fire, slide under his sleeping bag and get some sleep before they got ready to leave and continue their journey. He was tired, but it was his turn to keep watch and he never skipped this duty, even though, being the leader, no one ever asked him to do it.

  He thought about Hope. He thought about her all the time now, and it was getting harder and harder to concentrate on anything else. Was he in love? It must be love, that emptiness in his chest, whenever she was not around. When he was near her, he could not help but smile. She made him feel at ease, like there was a purpose to everything, to life. And even though nothing happened between them, he knew that something would eventually, once he built up enough courage to approach her. He was sure she felt the same way about him, but was just too shy to admit it, expecting him to make the first move. She was always somewhere near him, pretending it was only by chance. And he did the same. They talked all the time but he did not know how to steer the conversation in that direction, how to tell her what he felt toward her.

  He tried to forget about her while on the watch.

  It was very dark and quiet. Everyone was sleeping. They walked the whole day, until they found this place, at the edge of gentle hills covered with half dead forest. It was far from ideal—too open; too exposed. But nightfall was fast approaching and they needed a place to camp out until the morning. They had to be very careful, always considering the danger of triggering a forest fire with a single spark. The scouts went a couple miles ahead, and after a short while they returned and confirmed the area was deserted. Presley was uneasy about camping out here for the night. He felt a sense of danger and was worried. He forbad his men from making a fire that night, and so the band sat in silence, enveloped by the darkness that surrounded them, and ate their cold dinner. Presley was far away in thoughts. He kept reassuring himself, “It’s not far from daybreak now… nothing bad will happen.”

  And then he heard a single high–pitched shout, followed by gunfire and explosions, screams and calls for help, and the deafening roar of Pongos howling their war cries, as his men shouted for arms and backup. He quickly ran towards the camp and, in the flashes of gunfire, he saw a Pongo holding a child by its hair, high up in the air, and with a single slice of knife, cutting the child’s throat; and other Pongos pillaging through the camp, indiscriminately killing men and women who were too slow or too confused to react, to defend themselves. The shrill of the children screaming and crying was subdued by the sound of constant explosions and the Pongos’ bellows. He did not understand how he missed them, how they passed by him unnoticed. He felt guilt, fear and rage. He ran through the brushes, trying to get closer and place himself between the attackers and his people. He did not dare to shoot for he was afraid he might kill one of his own. He tried to remember where Hope was laying. The sound of the children screaming, the women wailing for help, and the cries of dying men, was deafening and horrifying. He felt so helpless and, worst, he was ashamed. When he finally reached the camping ground he started shooting, killing Pongos, hitting those who were nearby with the butt of his rifle cracking their sculls. But there were too many of them and he knew that, in the end, he would be overpowered by their multitude. He felt someone grabbing him from behind. Another creature? He squatted, trying to turn and shoot.

  In the first glimpse of daylight, he could see that everyone was dead or fatally wounded, piles of motionless figures in grotesque poses, and blood spilt everywhere. He was surrounded by swarm of hybrids coming closer and closer. He wanted to shoot but his rifle was jammed…

  “No!” He yelled. “You bastards! No!”

  “Chief! Wake up! You ok? Presley!”

  “No… You scum. No… What?”

  “It’s ok, chief.” At first, it seemed the voice was coming from afar, but then he realized it was Mike’s low baritone, reassured of this by the heaviness of Mike’s hand on his shoulder.

  “It’s ok, chief. You must’ve been dreaming.”

  “What? Oh yes… yes. I’m ok.”

  He sat up holding his head in his hands, and then looked around. They were all asleep in that big room that, at one time, was the lobby of the Town Hall. It was warmed up with the breaths of some one hundred people. Looking at the calm faces of his band, Presley’s terror slowly faded. The room was quiet and peaceful. He noticed the fire they made in the center of the room was almost out. He unzipped his sleeping bag and rose up, went over to the fire and placed some more logs on it. It started crackling. As he watched the smoke ascend up towards the hole in the ceiling, Hope came and stood next to him.

  “What happened? I heard you shouting,” she asked with concern in her voice.

  “My worries got the better of me, I guess. Go back to sleep. It was just a dream. I’m ok.”

  He could not sleep any more. He went to the watching post and sat next to the man on duty.

  “Go on, Sam. I’ll take over.”

  “Why? It’s not your turn. I just took over from Mike.”

  “Can’t sleep.”

  “Well, ok then. I sure could. Thanks, chief.”

  In the morning, still shaken by the nightmare, he observed his folks as they went about their regular business, making breakfast and collecting their things in preparation for another day of march. He tried to find reason for his anxiety. He knew it must be because of their growing numbers and change in structure. The ratio between those who could bear arms and fight and those who required care was unfavourable. It changed the expanse and the nature of his responsibility. He knew it would be next to impossible to defend them all if a large gang of Pongos, or some thugs attacked them.

  He watched Professor Tagore, almost enraged by the fact that the man seemed peculiarly delighted with this turn of events. Professor was becoming seemingly happier every time they stumbled upon somebody new. He would smile with excitement whenever they came across some youngster, and would beam with joy when they discovered a young woman with a baby or who was pregnant. Even now, sitting next to him eating breakfast, he was smiling, watching the youngsters running around.

  “What is so exciting about having all these kids and little ones around, who can’t take care of themselves, or even eat on their own, and are only a burden to us?” Presley asked.

  “Are you mad?” Professor declared, acting as if he was almost physically hurt by the question. “If we save these little on
es and if they manage to survive, and grow older, it’ll be our greatest achievement. These little ones are our future. They are the forthcoming of the New Humanity. You should be proud of yourself and you should certainly hope that we find even more of them. Look at them. Don’t you see? They are perfect! There is no trace of any ailment or imperfection on them. They are hungry and exhausted, yes, but healthy. They are impeccable, I tell you. They are better than us. You’ll see how clever and strong and good they’re going to be.”

  “But we are becoming much weaker and more vulnerable because of them. Soon we won’t be able to protect them or ourselves. Don’t you realize the futility of our situation?”

  “Ah, don’t you worry. There are not many villains left, anyway. Most of them have died already, annihilated by the plague, hunger, or simply by killing one another. And as the temperature gets warmer and warmer, the plague may catch on and kill what’s left, anyway. Our goal should be to save as many children as we can, rather than to avoid or fear having to take care of them.”

  “Is this one of those things you knew all along and chose not to share? It looks like many of these things you could somehow predict, and yet were silent about. I’d be pretty upset with you if that is the case. Frankly, I’d be pissed.”

  “Come, come… You could see it yourself, only if you were paying attention. When was the last time you had to fight someone? Haven’t you noticed the closer South we get, the more toddlers, young kids and teenagers we come across? Haven’t you noticed? Everyone else is dead or dying.”

  “Why are we immune and everybody else in our age group and older is dying from zombysm?”

  “Who says you are immune?”

  “What?”

  “Who says that you are immune?

  “What are you saying?”

  “I am saying that you and the rest of our men were immunized.”

  “By whom?”

  “By me.”

  “How.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Professor!”

  “I did it… a long time ago, just a few days after we first met. And every time someone older than twenty joined us, I put a little tablet in their food in secret. Those who are younger are healthy and already immune naturally.”

  “Why was I never told about this before?”

  “Some things are better left untold, or unknown. It keeps you sharper when you don’t know. Too much knowledge can bring confusion.”

  “I am annoyed by your machinations, Professor. It seems to me that you are using others and me for some objective of yours, with which we might not entirely agree. You have some kind of an agenda, haven’t you? What is it? How can we go further if there is no honesty between us? No honesty, no trust.”

  “As I once told you: my objectives have been, are and will always be pure and only for the common good. You can trust me.”

  “Not sure about that anymore. I think I’m done trusting you blindly. I do not want to be your tool.”

  “Come on, now. You are a little upset, but it’ll pass, and you will realize that my approach was right and honest. You know everything you need to know, and you will learn more, when the time is right. When time comes, I’ll tell you everything. Until then, be patient and have fate.”

  Presley was angry. He was ready to never speak with Professor again, to stop caring about him or seeking his advice altogether. He felt betrayed and used. His anger only grew stronger the longer he thought about what he just learned. He did not look Professor Tagore in the eyes. He turned away from him altogether, getting ready to leave.

  “All right, I’ll tell you everything,” Professor said in a low, resigned voice. “C’mon, sit here. C’mon! Now is a moment as good as any… You have to understand that my life was not an easy affair; that knowledge is not a privilege, nor a gift, but often a burden; a curse; the ultimate exam; so every decision I ever made had to be contemplated and waged accordingly, and then contemplated again. No easy task, my friend, not an easy task at all. I already told you where and for whom I was working and that I rebelled against them and defected from them. And I already told you that, thanks to a little pill, I should live a long and healthy life. You could draw your own conclusions if you had time to think about it. But you were preoccupied with keeping everybody safe and alive. The thing with zombysm is that it was artificially made, in the laboratories financed and controlled by the Government, same as the hybrids of Pongos. The Government’s goal was to reduce the human population drastically. Some conspiracy theorists used to call it a Golden Milliard, or as we in Carimea called it, a Billion. The plan was to decrease the population to one billion people on the entire planet. A smaller number of people would be easier to govern, more economically sustainable, and so on. They created a virus so vicious, so deadly that it could wipe out all of humanity in the matter of a decade or two. Everyone older than forty was suddenly becoming demented, rapidly losing cognitive and motor functions of the brain and body, condemned to a slow death, unaware of it. You see: the Government produced the virus, but they also created a vaccine for it, so they could pick and choose who died and who lived.

  They sprayed these malignant subatomic agents by way of commercial airplanes and, near the end, polluted the water supply systems across the world for nearly five years. Only the “chosen” were vaccinated. People started dying in the millions and no one was bothered by it, or seemed to notice, for it seemed natural and slow. They almost succeeded… But then Yellowstone exploded and, some say, yet another big volcano simultaneously erupted somewhere on Sumatra or New Zeeland, and changed everything by annihilating almost all living things on Earth, triggering a year around winter. So, the Witchdoctors, as I called them, had to flee before they were able to carry their plan out to the end. They didn’t care, anyway. The cataclysm only cleared their conscience. They got what they wanted and the rest of us could go to hell… I deflected from them much earlier. Before I finally left the Institute, I stole a box of those tablets. I dared take only one box; about a thousand little pills. I kept them unused for a long time; it was cold and zombysm was downcast by the eruptions, quakes and the deep sub–zero temperatures. The quakes, and the blackout that came as a result, shut down the water supply systems, but, nevertheless, millions got exposed, and whoever reached his or her fortieth birthday got ill and slowly deteriorated to death. I felt helpless and thought there was no need to waste the elixir. And I had the unpleasant role of being the one who had to decide who lived and who died. I knew that, in order to preserve my own existence, sooner or later, I would have to choose, but it was an extremely difficult task.

  When I met you and your group, I knew, almost immediately, that in you and your friends I found what I was looking for: just, brave, and honest men, with a set of values and principles that appealed to me, agreeing with everything I believed, values that wouldn’t falter, nor change, no matter what might transpire. I secretly gave the pill, to each of you. I spent seventy tablets in total, until now. Some of our people got killed, there is no cure against bullets, but the rest of you are healthy and, if we survive to our final destination, all of you will have healthy, much prolonged lives. So, that is all there is. And I suspect, it will not make you any happier.” Professor stood up, patted Presley on the shoulder, like he was his son, and left.

  Presley was silent, in deep thought. He suddenly realized they were all younger than forty, just as Tagore claimed—all, except for Professor and Mrs. Catchinsky. He wondered why she showed no symptoms of dementia and, only now, realized that it had to do with the self–isolation she and her family lived under; so they never drank any water but their own, from their own ground well. There must be more people like her, he thought. But then again, there was more than one way to die, and in the last ten years, those who did not transform into virtual zombies, died from the wars, hunger, the eruptions, being killed by Pongos or people, or in many other ways. He finally understood that he, that they all were witnessing the last days of humanity and, suddenly, he g
rasped how precious every life came to be, in this world deprived of people. He turned around, looking at his old friends he had shared so many hard moments with, and the newer faces among them, that they met along the way, and still those most recent ones, who were among them only a couple of hours, and he saw warmth and courtship shared among them, and the smiles they exchanged with one another, and he felt their enthusiasm and energy, and for the first time in many years he was not worried, and suddenly realized he did not have to be alone, and this revelation made him feel utterly happy.

  He saw Hope talking and working among some other women and walked straight to her. She saw him coming and she felt a little uneasy, she trembled and blushed under his gaze, but waited anxiously. She waited for what seemed an eternity, and then he finally reached her. Presley took her by her hand and gently pulled her away from her company. She had to almost run to keep up with his long strides, unaware of the sudden silence around them, and then the heartfelt laughter among those who were watching them, and the yuppies that followed, before everyone disappeared. They went outside. It was almost dark. He pulled her by her hand, still walking fast, further and further away from everybody.

  “Life is short, don’t you think?” he said.

  “It is,” she agreed.