“We have to take it slow for a couple of weeks, until our hide develops some pigment,” Professor repeated every now and then. “Protect your noses and ears, too. They can actually burn the worst. And watch the little ones.”
Only by late afternoons, or on a cloudy day, could they uncover their faces and shoulders, their ears and noses. After months of twilight, this sudden brightness of the sky was overwhelming, almost blindingly hard on their eyes, too; and whenever they passed through some abandoned village or town, they searched through rotting houses and stores for pieces of lighter clothing, brimmed hats and sun glasses. They collected even white table cloths and bed sheets turning them into overalls and head covers. From afar they resembled a caravan of Bedouins.
Their pace became brisk. It was as if they all felt they are very close to their final destination, even though none of them knew for sure where that end point might be. Even Presley succumbed to this mounting anticipation and a vague sense that, with each passing day, they were reaching their journey’s end. They started to skip routine, became less cautious, for by then, they were getting the impression there was no person alive left in these parts, and no danger awaited for them on their path. They went on, day by day, forgetting even to grumble in protest if they did not stop for rest or, mostly marching, in a strange silence that enveloped them, as if under a trance, pushing forward, wishing to finally arrive, willing the road to finally end, no matter where, but soon. Every day, an hour or so before the dusk, they would stop anyplace and without making a proper camp, they would just prepare a fast meal and go to sleep, numb, oblivious and unconcerned with how tired, and dirty, and hungry they really were. Presley finally became mindful of his exhaustion, asking himself what made them run those last couple of weeks like they were insane. This pace threatened to wear them down. We ought to slow our pace; there is no reason to be in such a hurry, he thought before he fell dead asleep. The next morning, Presley took the front of the column and set the tempo, ordering their scouts to stick to their regular routine.
Sometimes, Professor would borrow a horse from one of the men and rode alongside him. They would talk, exchanging impressions on their progress, their observations concerning their peers, odd things they noticed about the children… The little ones were their favourite topic. They noticed how their behaviour had grown less unusual to them and it was getting harder to perceive the nuances in it, for they got used to their subtleties as one gets used to an unusual smell or a change that becomes a regularity. Presley was mostly fascinated with Leo and his raven. The bird would fly away and would not come back for days at a time, but Leo was never troubled, and when Presley asked him about it, Leo would say that Gregory was not far away, or that it would show up later that day. And it was exactly what, to Presley’s amazement, would happen. The other thing about the bird was that it mastered talking. At first, it was just gibberish, then it begun using certain words, but even those were not, it seemed, random. Words like: rain, or river, or food lately turned to: “heavy rain, small river”, “or deer in the forest”. And there would be a shower, and they would stumble upon a river or their scouts would shoot a deer… Presley war astounded.
“I told you, these birds are intelligent,” Professor stated triumphantly.
“Yes, but it seems as if Leo actually converses with it, and their exchange is much richer than those simple words. I suspect they converse telepathically, and with no words whatsoever.”
“Your boy has a special talent, that’s all,” concluded Professor.
What struck Presley more than Leo’s special talent as Professor called it; was that he said—your boy. My boy, he repeated in his mind, and felt some special warmth inside. He was so proud he almost teared up. His affection for the boy grew every day and he began to care for him deeply, like a real father would; and it was a feeling he thought he would never be able to have… Then again; he remembered old Malevich. He knew the late sergeant loved him like he was his son, and since Presley did not know his real father, he loved him back. In fact Malevich was, except his late mother, the only person in Presley’s childhood and adolescence he really cared for. When his mother died, he had no one. And there was old Nick. And then Nick died. And there was no one again. But now, he had Hope, and Leo, and little Mary. Now he had an entire family to love and care for. And many, many other people he liked and cared for, also, even this old man.
“So, what now, Professor? Are we really going all the way to the tip of the Long Point.” he asked, tearing away from his thoughts.
“And now… now we look for a ship,” said Professor, clearing his throat. “We might not even need to walk all the way to the southernmost tip of The Long Point Peninsula. There are few big ports on our way down, and I sure hope we shall find some vessel anchored along the shore, suitable enough to board and finish our journey in style.” said Professor.
“What kind of ship do you have in mind, Professor?” asked Presley mockingly. “It must be a big one, I guess.”
“The bigger—the better.”
“Yeah? Well, you cannot fit four hundred and seventy four people in a dinghy. So we’ll need a real ship.” Presley continued to tease. He never took this idea of crossing the ocean seriously, and since their company had become so big, he already dismissed it as impractical and facetious. “Who’s gonna sail it, even if we find one? Captain Hook? Columbus? Marco Polo? Magellan?”
“Oh, we’ll come across someone.” Professor was unflappable. He loved when they played this game of outwitting one another.
“Professor, Professor! I really admire your buoyancy. Except, this time you’ve outdone yourself. We shall have a ship only if they un–sunk the Titanic. Its size would do. And we shall have a ship captain only if we grew one from a thin air, or if we make him from mud.”
“How about our old friend, mister Jonah Phyla?” grinned Professor. “He didn’t sail the oceans, mind you, but do the Great Lakes count, I mean: all seven of them? Pretty big… they are.”
“Jonah Phyla? You’re joking, right?”
“Cross my heart. It so happens that he used to be a first officer on a ferry, during Ammabussa’s first term, before the Revolution.”
“Oh, come on!”
“I know. But, it’s true.”
“And you knew that since…”
“Since we first met him and I played chess with him.”
“And you are telling me about this now!”
“It did not come up before. And it was not important, until we reached the coast.”
“You bloody Himalayan Brahman. Nemyrof was right to call you that. I hate when you do this.”
“Oh well, don’t be so snappy. It’s simple: I am trying to have a solution for the things you are unsure of, so you can take care of the whole lot you do best. Look how far you brought us! As I always say; there is no sense in worrying about the matters that are in distant future, when there are things at hand you ought to concentrate on.”
“But you had it all laid out; from the beginning to the very end.”
“Not true. The secret about wise long–term planning is: make a rough sketch; don’t go in too many details. It’s the only way to avoid failure. And that’s what I did. I had a rough outline and you, my friend, are the one who took care of the particulars, as they came. And that’s what got us here. If I told you all I know, if I planned every detail, or tried to predict, or project what I would or wouldn’t like to happen, we would just get lost inside too many particulars and would lose our edge. I am sure of it.”
“You may be right, at least about one thing: if you told me Jonah was your ticket to take us across the ocean I would have laughed it off, and never agreed to leave Kroynorth on the notion that our luck should be put in his hands.”
“Yes, well; even he doesn’t know it yet. But, very soon, with some luck, he will be promoted from our administrator to the captain of a transoceanic liner.” Professor’s eyes were smiling knowingly.
Presley was silent for some time. He was thinking abou
t Jonah Phyla, about his quiet, always refined manners. And about the pedantry with which he approaches every task he is given. He never grunted or shown even a slightest displeasure about anything Presley and Tagore threw his way, but came back with a perfect execution.
“Well, if you say Jonah is our captain: I am happy for him. Better him then I.”
“Ha, ha… That’s what I love about you! And that is why you are so good at what you do. You always know what benefits the group as a whole, and you never let your ego dilute your judgment.”
“Yeah? You’re good yourself. Even though your ego is as big as a mountain. Do you have any mechanic in mind? We will need mechanics, won’t we; somebody to check the valves and gauges, turn the engine on and off? And if you have one, does he know that he’s about to become an engineer on a transoceanic vessel?”
“I am thinking about Peter and Stanley, you know… the two farm boys, from when we met Miss Catchinsky… Pete and Stan! Yes, yes, yes… I’m sure even old Mr. Welch could be useful, and his grandson and some other boys from his group.”
“Why them?”
“Ever been on a farm? Ever fixed your dad’s tractor? I am sure they’d know what to do. An engine is an engine is an engine… especially a diesel one. The only difference is the size. And, Jonah will be allowed to assemble a crew from bunch of volunteers. I’m sure there will be people who would like to take a challenge.”
“I sure hope you’re right. I honestly doubt it, though.”
“We shall see, my boy. We shall see.”
***
For days, they passed abandoned and sometimes almost entirely destroyed villages and towns. Ever since their encounter with the large group of Pongos, they met no one.
“What happened here?” asked Hope, riding alongside Presley, when they passed through yet another eerie, torn up, deserted town. Some parts were intact, yet some buildings were flattened to nothing but rubble and dust. It was evident nobody had lived here for decades.
“That’s the result of war. Long time ago, even before Ammabussa’s times, or yours and mine, there was a terrible war raging all over the world. And this: this is result of the neutron bombs and, when the radiation resided, looting. These are forsaken lands. No one wanted to live here, so everyone died or left, long ago now—before maybe twenty—thirty years.”
“What are the neutron bombs?”
“It’s like an atomic bomb, only less devastating. They used them to kill only warm–blooded creatures, people and animals indiscriminately, keeping everything else intact, except very close to the ground zero. And the effects of radiation lasted much shorter, so the conquered land could be occupied and used much earlier. These weapons were prohibited, ages ago, by the international Proliferation Agreement, but technology was never abandoned and, at some point, when all hell broke loose a few nations that had these kind of bombs, used them extensively. So, this is one such place. No one wanted to live here. These places remained condemned and deserted. “
“Is there still any radiation?”
“Probably, a trace. But it should be at a harmless level by now. You should ask Professor. He probably knows. You know; it’s actually the cleanest way to kill. What’s left after is just a pile of crumbling bones and dirt, and nothing else.”
“It’s terrible.”
She gave him a surprised and disapproving glance.
“I am not saying that I approve of it,” he smiled.
“Once a soldier—always a soldier,” she concluded, leaving him in doubt about what she meant exactly; was she simply making a statement regarding his knowledge of military trivia or was she accusing him for lack of compassion.
“It’s just the way it was,” he said, almost sadly; remembering how jaded he used to be, but now suddenly wrought with a sense of guilt. What frightened him the most was the fact that he was unsure if he still possessed the same capacity—to distance himself from feelings of remorse and empathy. Well, he thought; all doctors were like that, too. If you wished to be efficient, you couldn’t give way to sentimentality. But, Hope’s comment, no matter how innocent, panged him more than he expected.
They were riding a couple hundred yards in front of the convoy. They were silent now. Presley lost any will for chat, yet Hope did not realize how hurtful her remark was. They left that haunted town behind. No one wanted to stop there. Their silence finally became awkward. Neither one of them liked the feeling. But they kept silent. Presley was glad to be rescued by the fast approach of one of their scouts who galloped towards them. He rode faster to meet him, leaving Hope a little behind. He waved a signal to stop the column and everyone obeyed. They heard sighs of gratitude for the sudden, unexpected respite.
“What is it, David?”
“Chief, there are bodies of people, in fact of several kids, a few miles down the road. Fresh ones, maybe a few days old,” said David, making sure Hope could not hear him.
“Hope,” called Presley: “go back and tell Mike to find a place and make a camp. We won’t be going any farther today. I’ll be back, okay?” She nodded and turned her mount away.
“Let’s go!”
When they came closer to the rest of the reconnaissance party, Presley, to his astonishment, saw young Adaoma among the scouts.
“What is she doing there?” he asked angrily.
“Well, chief, she insisted in joining us. We told her “no” many times. But today I brought her along for I got too tired of her nagging.”
“Even though you knew I would probably not allow it?”
“Sorry, Chief,” said David, almost in despair. They were all young and eager and happy to be on such an important assignment. And now, thanks to this unruliness, they wouled certainly be degraded back to march on foot with the regular folks, in a cloud of dust, like a majority of those who have no special responsibility. And they all loved riding.
“Young lady, you have no business putting our scouts at risk by your presence where it’s not required. Is that clear?”
“Yes sir! Sorry sir!”
“The fact that we haven’t had any trouble lately, does not mean all the danger is gone so each and every one could do whatever they wish. And, where did you get that horse?”
“From Mr. Walsh.”
“No matter what you think, this is a dangerous business.”
“Sorry, Sir. Respectfully Sir; I can take care of myself.” She tried.
“I decide if you can or cannot take care! And you!” He turned to face the other two men. “This is called insubordination. I may look somewhat liberal to you, but I assure you, when safety is in question, I could be really harsh.”
“Yes, sir! Sorry, Sir!”
Then Presley saw Milton, eighteen years old from old Welsh’s faction, and the way he and Adaoma exchanged glances, and he immediately understood why the young girl wanted to go along and why did they let her. Suddenly amused, he turned away from them to hide his smile, but David caught a sight of him, and had a hard time suppressing his own laughter, fearing it may reignite Presley’s anger. What the heck, she is sixteen, by our standards an adult, and a daughter of a veteran soldier, Presley speculated, but held on a stern face.
“Show me where they are,” he said. They walked him some hundred paces forward before he inhaled a whiff of the decay. Five rotting bodies were lying on the road. These were corpses of children or very young adults. He was actually shaken by the sight. They saw many decaying bodies wherever they passed. But those were all long dead and already half covered with dirt and debris. These kids were alive just a few days ago. They died so young! Who would do such a cowardly, grisly act and why. All the alarm bells in his head started to ring simultaneously.
“Chief Presley?” Adaoma called.
“What?” he snapped.
“I think I know them,” she said.
“You do?”
“Yes… these are some of the people that stayed in my town a while ago. Remember? I told you about them. They left a week before the Pongos and two wee
ks before you came to our rescue.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m almost a hundred percent positive.”
Presley admired her calmness at such a gruesome sight. He leaned over one of the corpses to try and figure out the cause of their death. It did not take him long to discover bullet holes on their sculls. Someone shot them!
“They were shot,” he said aloud.
“It must be Zack,” Adaoma said, finally shaken.
“Who’s Zack?” Presley asked, a cold chill running down his spine at the mention of a familiar name.
“The guy in charge… he and his two companions came to our town with a bunch of kids. They were all very frightened by him and followed him blindly, calling him master. He and his two buddies treated them like slaves. They tried to force us to join them but we kept to ourselves, and we were armed better than them. My father warned me about such scum. They took almost all of our supplies and left. We could have stopped them if we wanted to, but we were not ready to kill them even for stealing our food. We managed to get rid of them once our supplies went thin and… You know the rest.”
Presley was enraged by this revelation. He was sure this Zack was the same bastard he spared from being executed at Catchinsky’s farm. He regretted he did not kill him then. So, Zack went on and was ahead of them all this time, enslaving those he found on his way.
“All right… we have to bury those bodies. We should carry them some distance away from the road, over there, in that ditch. And, do not mention this to anyone. I will decide with whom to share this information.” They all nodded.
“The two of you,” Presley pointed at Adaoma and young Milton, “are banned from taking part in scouting from now on. You will partake in guard watch every night during the hours of graveyard shift, until further notice. Understood?”
“Understood,” the two concurred.
“Once we’re back in the camp, report to Mike.”
“Yes, sir!” they saluted, their faces long.
They buried the five bodies in a single grave and went back to their camp. Before nightfall, Presley assembled a small group of his most trusted and experienced comrades and filled them in on gruesome discovery. He gave them instructions for future action. From that moment on they were on the watch until the Zach conundrum was resolved.
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