Infidel's Corner

by David Robert Morais

  “Many of us possess different skill sets. Imagine you’re the captor and your captives could conspire against you.”

  “I wouldn’t want them to,” confirmed Adams.

  Joe felt a great sense of unease, and told Mezox, “Don’t involve Adams.”

  “You think I love it here?” said an insulted Adams.

  “Well yeah, you’ve got a few to convert, and you’re out,” replied Joe.

  “I’ve converted two people in four years. At that trend, I have another sixteen years left.”

  Joe couldn’t challenge the maths, but Mezox held a valid reason to include Adams. “He knows these lands. Adams can tell us where to initiate any ascension and its slope.”

  Adams confirmed with a nod. “Except, you’d require the co-operation and engagement of a large team. Not to mention I work on top.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Mezox. “Bear some responsibility for our display, and because they know we don’t get along, you’d end up in the pit. And I’m willing to bet on it.”

  And so it was that Adams found himself thrown into the pits. After three days of timing and calculating the distances travelled, he could present a plan with confidence.

  Assad agreed with ease upon the generation of a coherent proposal.

  Diggers had it harder. They had to maintain a normalised output besides the additional role of dumping waste into empty crevices. Their common goal provided the momentum required to drive progress.

  On the surface, many performed a five-star show of disharmony. Underground, they were bound together as a team than the rocks themselves.

  At lunch, Adams was so gracious enough to sneak those succulent chunks of chicken under the table.

  Good days and bad would pass. A twenty-degree slope of ever-lengthening tunnel presented the diggers with tougher physical challenges. Their one compromise was to dump waste soils and rock either side of the shaft, narrowing it.

  A month later and they’d created a thousand feet worth of passage to the surface. Men from other tunnels paused their digging in anticipation of reaching the surface. All participated in waste extraction and ensuring ceiling stability. And so, on that late April 2130, daylight poured in. And despite its blinding qualities, the men instinctively ran towards it.

  Joe ran out and performed a roly-poly down the remaining hillside before rubbing himself against the ground like an excited dog. Others celebrated with idiosyncratic expressions of joy.

  There was too little time for long goodbyes. All scattered in different directions. While most avoided an obvious destination like home, Mezox didn’t. Joe felt compelled to accompany him, given his next and final target was infidel’s corner.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A dark ambition

  The Archbishop was infuriated upon learning of Mezox’s escape. For him, someone was to blame. And so, Summanus was summoned to explain himself.

  Down the central aisle of Westminster Abbey, Summanus strutted toward the illustrious seat of power lavished in gold and other treasures. It wasn’t for its monetary value could he not remove his eyes from such novelty.

  Summanus customarily knelt before the Archbishop, and on the verge of a grovel. “It cannot be my fault they escaped,” he pleaded.

  The Archbishop stood with other prominent figures around him. “You sent him to the mines. Why was this?”

  Summanus presented the disk. “I couldn’t follow proper methods – it could have damaged his brain or even killed him.”

  The Archbishop replied with a rhetorical point, “And the mines didn’t risk his life?”

  “It’s the safest around,” protested Summanus. “He was to surrender his knowledge within weeks.”

  “And yet he didn’t,” said the Archbishop.

  “He’s stubborn – willing to die to protect his invention,” said Summanus.

  “You must realise, Jesus died for humanity, and he would die for his science. Oh, the selfishness confounds me,” said the Archbishop.

  “Then so be it. He will have no quarrels handing it to the infidels. Let’s strike with the full force of our armies,” said Summanus in excitation.

  “Now isn’t a great idea,” said the Archbishop as he returned to his seat, disturbed with the reason for his objection. “The people feel our focus is misguided as they fear the Empire more than the infidel.”

  “Their opinions don’t matter,” suggested Summanus.

  “We have nothing to gain by destroying them at this time,” declared the Archbishop.

  Summanus begged with eyes, gawking into those of the Archbishop. “He cannot be allowed to win.”

  “He doesn’t,” said the Archbishop with a quirky smile. “There, this infidel will reveal his ideas, like you said. And when he does, we will take it. Problem solved.”

  Summanus paused before accepting the Archbishop’s proposal. When excused, he joined the principal secretary who, clutching thick documents, awaited his attention.

  Away from prying eyes, the secretary dispensed some of his personal advice to Summanus. “You must show humility if wishing to become Archbishop one day.”

  “I couldn’t care less for their pretentious etiquette. Mark my words. When I’m Archbishop, everything will change.”

  “But first you must get within the good graces of all ecclesiastical hierarchy.”

  Summanus scowled. “Impossible,” he said aloud. “They besmirch and disapprove of me. I can see it on their faces as our leader lambasts my every move.”

  In the secretary’s chambers did the principal claim, “The Archbishop only wishes to better you.”

  Summanus took the files from his colleague and began presiding over them on the table. However, he stared impassively at the first document before confiding in the principal secretary. “As Archbishop, I would complete my revenge for what that family did to me. And then I shall be the sole author and signatory of their eternal tortures.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Home

  Mezox’s one comfort was understanding that no one could predict his return to London. As search parties scoured the countryside, it was somewhat ironic that their safety improved with vanishing proximity to the city – a happy accident in relation to many of their co-conspirators, many of whom were captured within hours. Nothing but death and torment awaited them.

  Fearful of a similar fate, Joe and Mezox ran in fits and starts. Their duration waned with each successive burst in speed.

  Several miles were accomplished by midnight. Their exhaustion plain to see as they panted and wheezed, barely able to stand straight.

  A trough of water shimmered against the moonlight. Its foul-smelling quality was no barrier to their thirst. It took a few mouthfuls to find its taste discouraging.

  The sound of a distant helicopter forced Mezox to consider a nearby barn for shelter. Joe advised against it.

  “What if they come this way?”

  “Oh they will,” said Joe while scanning their surrounds. He then bolted toward a large object laying on the ground and gave it a swift kick. Torn jumper fabric was wrapped around his right hand as he raced back to the trough. A shard of loose metal was coerced from it. Back at the strange object, Joe jabbed and sliced at the heap.

  Mezox approached for some answers to find Joe gutting a cow carcass. “What are you doing?”

  “I’ve found somewhere to hide,” said Joe under the struggle of his labours. “Quick, scatter the entrails, so they think wild animals attacked it.”

  Mezox gasped at Joe’s suggestion. The whir of helicopter blades slicing the night air forced his co-operation.

  Joe lifted the cow’s top half open at the belly. “Right, get in.”

  “What?” he exclaimed.

  “Fine, I’ll go.” And in he crawled.

  The approaching blades of death had once again left Mezox with little choice but to trust Joe’s wisdom.

  Snuggled against Joe, he said, “Now I can see why you invited me to go first.”

  “Be
cause you have a filthy mind,” replied Joe.

  “Okay, but why are we here?”

  “They will search everywhere, including your idea; the barn.”

  The aircraft’s flashlights danced around the general vicinity. A line of men scattered across a vast perimeter searched meticulously for clues.

  Mezox sealed his eyes and froze in place. Footsteps just feet away could not be ignored. They slurried in the mud as the man knelt down. Mezox peeked through the cow’s narrow opening to see a man knelt over the entrails. His torch snapped toward the barn when he stood and left. Others were called in to help investigate.

  Silence returned half an hour later, but Joe had little complacency and urged they remain steadfast.

  Joe later announced his readiness to leave. “What do you fancy for dinner? I can do roast beef.”

  A misplaced torch, hay and thin wire provided a source of ignition and fire. Joe’s wildish cooking expertise offered a meal of lean but chewy chunks of meat. Sleep came easily as future rations sizzled over dying embers.

  The following day offered prolonged glimmers of peace while navigating the countryside. An occasional thirst and sore feet were their only complaints.

  That afternoon did they realise the darkening horizon wasn’t the coming of night. It was London’s beacon of life, choking itself to death.

  Joe paused. “Why go London? – I mean, we could go Hypatia now, and you’ll complete your father’s work there. The sooner, the better.”

  Mezox had discovered what made Joe nervous. “I understand too little of it. He was a secretive man, and his notes will significantly improve my odds.”

  Joe also had a personal errand but was willing to sacrifice it. Fidelity in friendship and temptation for money drove him onwards.

  They flanked Westside to reduce their time and exposure within the city itself. There, a forest of housing estates was flooded by out-of-control youths. Young adults overshadowed their territory from overhead balconies. Music emanated from several locations within each building as they competed for audible dominance.

  Mezox’s urban experiences became invaluable. “We appear worse off than them. They’ll assume we’re druggies searching for our next hit. Walk confidently and look straight ahead.”

  In compliance with Mezox’s advice, Joe was faced with nothing more than a few stares. The streets ahead could obscure faces as thousands migrated across the city. In the darkness, it became necessary to connect one another with string.

  A slurry of human waste oozed down roads and kerbs. Locals seemed undaunted by its presence as they stomped without a hint of caution or care. A splatter on Joe’s sleeve tipped him over the edge. His vomit added to the muck.

  Mezox wrestled through two feet of people traffic to reach and urge him on.

  Down quieter streets, Joe stated, “The Tower’s scents aren’t that profound. How can anyone live here like that?”

  “It seems there’s no limit to the human experience and what it deems normal when raised in said environment.”

  They soon came to his father’s cul-de-sac when thoughts of Alex surfaced. He hoped Alex’s ghost would welcome him there, but recognised his fear would be too great. In either case, the return home would elicit a flurry of emotions. However, nothing could have prepared him for what he saw. Carpets, plaster, soggy paper, broken glass and mirrors littered the yard.

  Upon their approach, the door was smashed through with the lower hinge still in place.

  A man stammered out with a bottle of booze in one hand, using the fence as a prop and guide with the other.

  Joe snapped Mezox from his stupor by saying, “I’m sorry, but we can’t afford to stand around.” Aware of his location, Joe stated that he expected to return in two hours, and departed to complete a personal errand.

  Mezox felt alone and scared like a child. The side gate, littered with broken windows had denied safe access to the shack. An alternative route was through the house.

  He stepped watchfully into the hall. Electricity continued to flow as the living-room’s lights were active, illuminating the passageway and kitchen ahead. Upstairs was dark as night. Its hidden nasties could give an awful fright as their lights refused to glow.

  The once neutral and well-maintained atmosphere had turned stale and damp. Fragments of wood and plaster crunched under every step. Much of it originated from the ceiling. Wires protruded through it and buzzed with a potential to kill.

  Family pictures that adorned the entrance’s walls had gone from its custody. Their whereabouts were a mystery. The only images of his parents and youth existed as fragile memories.

  A peek around the corner revealed the true extent of devastation. Much of the furniture was smashed and removed, presumably for firewood. Senseless savagery against the fireplace, skirting boards and walls hinted at one’s desperate search for something. A pile of blankets began to move and mumble near the window, prompting him to leave.

  The kitchen came next, which wasn’t exempt from the looters’ escapades. All food and hardware were absent. Cupboard doors became stepping stones against shards of glass and ceramic that could pierce his thin-layered footwear. The backdoor remained relatively intact and shut. And although locked, the framework with strike plate and latch hole lay imploded.

  Outside, the shack was no more. A neighbour’s light allowed for an immediate assessment. It appeared as though someone had blown it to smithereens. The base structure got off lightly.

  An inglenook at the far end had fallen over, exposing ash deposits within a two-foot square pit. He circled it indecisively several times when the pit’s disproportionate size to function came to mind. On his knees, he scraped away the compacted ash with a broken wood panel. And his heart skipped a beat as a rusty metal ring was uncovered.

  A few minor pulls on the assumed handle proved ineffective. With a foot either side of the square, he bent over grasping the metal and lifted with all his might. Three massive yanks later and the seal sprung out like a stubborn but defeated bath plug.

  He glanced over to discover a hole and the step of a ladder when darkness regained its dominion. Alex’s dying wish supplanted his fear of the unknown. Only his sense of touch was all that remained. And so, with slow but gradual succession, he descended into a seemingly endless abyss.

  Twenty steps down, and he reached the surface, which was in the corner of a room. In the darkness, his hands explored the surrounds for a switch. At one point, he lost sight of the exit and began to hyperventilate. He backtracked along the cold concrete wall and explored the perpendicular side. A switch was accidentally triggered behind the ladder’s frame.

  The brilliance, although dim, was enough to ease his anxiety. It was eleven feet from floor to ground above, with five feet of soil sitting on a concreted ceiling but supported by wooden crossbeams. Those structures focused centrally and were supported by a core pillar.

  A continuous row of workbenches lined the left wall. Their tops possessed burn marks, metal shavings and mysterious residues. Tools, wires and metal were swept to the right.

  A smaller but lonelier table stood middle of the far wall. An object covered by a cloth rested atop. Curious, he pulled the fabric away to reveal a larger prototype Alex last worked on. There were no wires nor buttons except for three electrical contact pads on its underside.

  Bench cupboards were the obvious place to begin any search. More tools and old books filled the first of four.

  Transformers occupied the second, but one possessed a rough assemblage of wires, control board and base stand containing the same three electrical contacts. It was placed to one side.

  The third unit housed files and notebooks that crammed every shelf. Each was sifted for their worthiness as most contained nothing but rough doodles. The real meat came in an old booklet that begun with Mezox’s career as a particle physicist. Towards the back, neat illustrations of the device and all its facets were found. He was particularly surprised by Alex’s artistic impressions of the machine b
ut in flight. This implied the machine’s use as an energy generator wasn’t its only practical application, minus weaponisation.

  In the fourth and final, Mezox reached in and snatched a cylindrical tin. The label looked similar to those from his local store. It was tomato soup. But, despite his hunger, he searched for something more palatable and agreeable. Luck would have it that a variety of foodstuffs were available. And to top it off, a rucksack was shoved into the base shelf with a two-person tent rolled up inside. It struck him that Alex had some sort of contingency plan. Twenty-eight tins were thrown into the sack.

  He chose a tin of chicken pieces in white wine sauce and devoured its cold contents. Somewhat satisfied, the new disk and power unit was assembled and plugged in.

  The control board contained several switches, light emitting diodes and a potentiometer. Two switches lacked a connection when viewed from the back.

  A relatable set of schematics were found and skimmed over. Power feed was indicated by a green light. The machine did nothing. Only when he flipped the other two switches did the prototype begin to hiss. It was followed by a dull hum, analogous to Alex’s laser weapon. However, its intensity grew, and Mezox had little clue as to what came next. The other thing left to try was the potentiometer. And so, with a gradual twist, he varied the feed. A quarter of a turn later and a red haze appeared outside its equatorial rim. For the next half a turn, the plasma’s speed and intensity grew. It also stretched toward the machine’s polar points, altering to an orangey hue.

  Naturally, he desired a closer look. From a foot away, a bolt of electricity arced over and struck him on the right thigh. The simultaneous act of maxing the throttle resulted in the machine shooting upwards with a low-pitched scream. It hit the ceiling with considerable force before ricocheting around the room, landing between his legs.

  Mezox had a lucky set. A little more momentum would have resulted in a different scenario. Aside from the close shave and numb leg, he couldn’t help but feel awestruck.