by Lucas Cole
“Mm, sorry,” she says. “I don’t know. But my instincts tell me it’s possible.”
The puffs of sand raised by the breeze pelt my face lightly. Not painfully. More like a caress. I raise my eyes to the deep blue sky. No clouds. Looking back down, I see three shambling shapes, once men, now deadheads.
“Ron!” A terrified whisper.
“I see them. Don’t move. They don’t see us yet.” The three deadheads walk single-file, heading in a direction parallel to ours. Their jerky movements seem determined. They’re in a hurry—and they’re being deliberate. And one of them carries a weapon—a large metal pole, its top filed to a sharp edge.
The realization hits me like a giant fist. “They’re intelligent.”
“What?” Despite my advice, Carly, her face pale and tight with fear, has dropped to the ground and is flattening herself into the sand.
“They can think.” I remember Abe and what Todd had done to him with the Luger. My stomach sinks. “They still think like men. At least, to the point of using tools.”
The trio of shuffling deadheads proceeds onward, failing to notice me standing there with my mouth gaping like a fish. They disappear around a dune.
“They’re gone.”
So is Carly. A quick explosion of dust and she is up and running for the Station. “I’m outa here,” she yells back. I watch her from the ridge and see that she reaches the station safely. I retrieve her back pack and, after inserting the specimen containers inside, sling it over my shoulder. I force myself to walk back with some dignity.
Todd and Self’s security men are at the entry way. Most of them are carrying pistols, one an air rifle.
“Heard you had company,” Todd says.
“They never noticed us. Here.” I hand him Carly’s back pack. “See that Carly gets this.”
“Where do you think you’re going?”
I nod my head in the direction of the dunes. “I’m just going to reconnoiter a bit. I want to see what the deadheads are up to. I think it may be important.”
Todd considers pulling rank—I can tell that from the set of his jaw, but he suddenly reconsiders, relaxes. “You want an escort?”
Some of the other men pull back, their enthusiasm suddenly waning.
“I’ll be okay.”
“Let’s make sure. Larry. Go with him. You’ve got about five hours of sunlight left.”
Larry, a burly man in the grey uniform of a miner, sullenly grabs a rifle offered by one of the other men. “Damned fool thing to do, if you ask me. Send one of your security apes, why don’t you?”
Todd doesn’t reply. By Roman dictates, his word is law on the station.
I start to walk away, then turn back a moment. “Todd, keep the Professor working on the specimens we collected from Abe. Genetic studies, hematology from the secretions and so on. We’ve got to start getting scientific about this.”
“It’s all been done before.”
“Let him do it again. I’m especially interested in the lung and brain tissue. I’d like a copy of the report. That is, if it doesn’t disappear.” I trudge away through the sand, Larry reluctantly following behind.
Todd does not wish us farewell.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER IV
Contact
Sybaris is arid, with the golden dunes covering most of the planet and two suns baking everything underneath them. But there are distant outcrops of jagged mountain peaks and we come across dry river basins breaking through the hold of the sand. We’re following the scuff trail of the three deadheads along the rocky basin quietly, Larry and I, with only the low hum of the warm breeze in our ears breaking the silence.
The scuff trail finally breaks out of the dry river bed and heads upward toward a distant line of craggy peaks.
“How long we gonna follow?” Larry asks.
“Till we catch up, I suppose. Looks like they’re heading for those hills.”
Larry trudges through the sand with little conviction. “What’re we gonna do when we catch up with them?”
“Observe. Learn. Figure out some things.”
“Like what?”
“Like why are they armed? One of them was carrying a metal spear. Do they have enemies outside the Station? Are they organized? What the hell is going on?” I glance at him. “Don’t you wonder?”
“I just wonder if I’m gonna live through my contract term. I just want off this hellhole.”
The terrain becomes a stretch of firm ground covered with scattered stones and pebbles, then turns rocky, with occasional clusters of boulders. The path slopes upward toward the jagged mountains above.
“What do you know about these creatures, Larry?”
He scowls at the thoughts my question evokes. “I know that the dead on Sybaris don’t stay dead. We had a bad series of explosions in the mines last year. Killed off about half the folks of Stations B and C in what we call the ‘great mine’ and some more died in the reactor explosion in C. The mine landslide buried them in a pile of black dust and ore. But they ain’t there no more. We found the ground dug up from underneath, boulders tossed aside like they didn’t weigh nothing. Empty places in the dust and dirt marking where the bodies lay. That’s when they started showing up. They killed a bunch of us before we knew what was happening. Tore men to pieces. Some of ‘em my friends.”
“Who? The deadheads or the victims?
“Both.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah. Me, too.” We wind our ways up through small boulders of rust-colored pitted rocks. The trail left by the three zombies is untraceable on the hard ground. Now that Larry opens up to talk, it all just pours out of him.
“I saw three of them bring down Bill Waterson, beat him and tore at him until he was a bloody mess. They waylaid us when we were returning from the mines. Bill waren’t no small man, neither. I shot at them, wounding them without much effect, although it did slow them down. Especially when I shot off one of the thing’s hands—right at the wrist. But they kept coming. Most of the guys with me didn’t have guns. Maybe I was the only one, because we usually didn’t find anything to shoot at. They used to laugh at me for bringing the gun. Stopped laughing that day.”
We reach a small landing and sit down to rest. Below us, the horizon of Sybaris forms a gold crescent against the impossibly deep blue of the sky. There are more hills and mountains off toward the east. A few hazy clouds to the south. Seems so peaceful.
“I buried what was left of Bill out there. I shoulda known better. Buried him too close to the mines. Everything about the deadheads has something to do with the mines.”
“You sure he was dead when you buried him?”
“I know dead when I see it.”
“You ever see Bill Waterson again?”
Larry swallows hard as he recalls. “One night. I was going out to retrieve one of the rovers that had stalled. Sand is hard on the motors. We don’t have but one left, which is why we’re walking, I guess. Anyhow…one of the engineers drove me out and I got to working on the engine of the stalled rover, when I hear a scratching sound down near my feet. The engineer is asleep in the other vehicle. He’s supposed to be standing guard, but those guys are useless when it comes to doing actual work.” Larry is trembling.
“Go on.”
“I look down at my feet and see Bill. What’s left of him. A lot of him had been gnawed away. He’s trailing his guts through the sand and he’s looking up at me and trying to say something. I screamed and kicked him away from me. The engineer wakes up and he’s screaming too. He remembers that he’s got the rifle and he starts popping rounds into Bill who is trying to drag himself away into the desert. One of the rounds gets Bill in the head and it’s all over.”
“Sorry, Larry.” We stand, slip our backpacks on. “Sounds like you’ve been through a lot.”
“We all have. Only one who doesn’t mind all this is Todd.”
“Todd? Why do you say—.”
Something hard slams into
my back and knocks me to the ground. I feel like my back’s been broken. From my face-down position, I can see Larry struggling with a deadhead. The creature is gripping Larry by the throat and actually trying to bury its teeth in Larry’s jugular, but Larry has the fortune to trip backwards and the force flings the creature over the side. Larry is up and scrambling for his rifle. He aims down over the ledge and fires two rounds. He lowers the rifle and stands over me.
“Can you move?”
“Mmmfff.” All I can do is blow sand out of my mouth.
“He heaved a big stone at you. Must’ve broke your neck. Can’t leave you like this. Can’t carry you back. They’ll come for you and you’ll end up like Bill.” He presses the rifle barrel against my temple.
“Whhffff. Whh. Wait.” The pain is coursing through my back and arms. I make a supreme effort and move my arm. “I can move. Give me a minute.”
About five minutes later, I am able to push myself onto my knees, and then finally stand or, more accurately, wobble. Larry looks uncertain as to my condition, but at least he isn’t pointing his rifle at me anymore. He is watching the rocks above.
“You realize,” I say, as I stretch my aching back, “that the thing that attacked us was waiting for us.”
“Yeah. A sentry.”
“Exactly.” Groaning, I pick up my backpack and take a deep breath. “So, what does that tell you?”
“That they are organized, maybe.”
“Damned straight.” I start up the hill.
He hesitates. “Not sure I want to go up there, Mr. Crisp.”
“I need to know what the hell is going on. You can head back if you want to. Give me the rifle if you do.”
Larry shrugs and grabs his backpack. “I’m with you. Rather face them things than Todd if you don’t make it back.”
Something tells me Todd might prefer it that way.
We wind our ways up the craggy hilltop, the boulders larger and beginning to form small canyons and tunnels. Our voices echo, so we start talking in whispers.
“Todd that bad a guy?”
Larry pauses, probably having second thoughts about discussing the fearless leader of the station.
“Whatever we say stays between us, Larry. My word of honor.”
“Like a doctor’s oath?”
“Yeah. Although doctors stopped taking the Hippocratic Oath two centuries ago. And I’m not a doctor.”
The trail winds around the hilltop and gives us a panoramic view. Another mountain range—this one with sharp purplish peaks—rises in the west. The wind must have picked up out on the desert, because plumes of gold sand, uninhibited by the light gravity of Sybaris, dance over the ground like fairy images.
“Well,” Larry reluctantly continues, “Todd doesn’t like anyone to buck him. Station A and Portus Verona—the only landing site on the planet—are under his authority and it pretty much gives him a lot of power. He likes it. The power over others. Power over the other two stations.”
“And he likes to exercise that power?”
“Yeah. I seen how he exercises it. He executed a man once.”
This brings me up short. “Executed?”
“Yeah. Sidney Moller, a mechanic from Station C. Chief Self—Todd’s goon—says he caught Sidney stealing from the motor pool. That’s a capital offense on the station. Sidney says he was appropriating supplies for his station and that he’d had approval to do so. Todd denied that.”
“He shot him?”
“No. That’s what the others think. I never told anyone the truth. Don’t know why I’m telling you. I drove Todd and Sidney out and he gave Sidney over to the deadheads. Todd found a pack of them out in the desert near Station B and dumped Sidney. He never had a chance; he was handcuffed and his legs tied. I drove Todd back aways and Todd watched what happened when the Reds found Sid. Todd said it was an experiment—to observe the Red’s behavior—and would make good use of a bad situation.”
“You’re kidding?”
“No, sir. I don’t kid about the deadheads. Or about Todd.”
“He’s insane.”
“Yes sir. That’s what I’m thinking. That’s why I don’t buck him.”
“Larry. Just a thought, but maybe this is why Todd volunteered you to come out with me. Maybe he was hoping you wouldn’t come back. You’ve witnessed a few too many of his indiscretions.”
“Maybe.”
“Wait a minute. You called them ‘Reds.’ Why?”
“They always have a patch of red on their uniforms. Like a badge of some kind. They come from Station B. They’re the worst. Vicious.”
The mini tunnel formed by the conglomeration of boulders comes to an end. A scraping sound echoes from somewhere ahead and we instinctively hunch down, both us with our weapons ready. We inch our ways forward.
“You got to go for the head,” Larry whispers. “Head shot the only thing that stops them.”
We sidle up to the exit and peer through. Welcome to deadhead city.
“What the hell they doing?” Larry asks.
“Building.”
“What?”
About twenty deadheads, most in pretty fair shape for corpses, are awkwardly, but tirelessly, fashioning walls and a ceiling out of scrap metal. A series of metal lean-to’s, like metallic pup-tents, are arranged in a neat row, all with their backs facing us.
I laugh quietly, picturing Todd’s face when he hears the news. “They’re building a fort, that’s what they’re doing. Some kind of outpost.”
“There’s Peter Chan!”
“Who?”
“The station manager of Research Station C. Hadn’t heard from him since the explosions.”
“Where?”
“The one carrying that big pillar.”
A deadhead with Asian features is lugging an enormous metal girder on his shoulder. He brings it to the edge of their fort and drops it with a heavy thud.
“That girder must weigh a ton, even in this gravity.”
“They’re pretty strong…until something snaps or breaks off. They seem to get ripe after a while. Unless, of course, they get hold of one of us. Then they refresh themselves. Kinda rejuvenates them.”
The roof of their construction is pretty much intact, but the walls have a long way to go. “Why do they need a fort? And why way up here, away from their station? Who are they afraid of?”
Thunder echoes across the desert and this brings construction to an instant halt.
“Rain,” Larry whispers incredulously. “Every time fat old Oster lands that bucket on Sybaris, it rains for a few days.”
As one, the deadheads turn to face the clouds. The gray mantle of rain is descending toward the sands a few miles away. Another peal of thunder sets the deadheads back into motion, but not to their work; instead they are leaving in a hurry, moving in their loping half-shuffle gaits toward the only exit from the plateau: directly toward our tunnel.
“Back! Back!” We start running back through the tunnel, the shuffling sound of the deadheads reverberating behind us.
My heart pounds so hard I can feel my shirt moving. I notice a small cleft in the rock wall and grab the back of Larry’s shirt, getting a startled yelp from him. “This way!” I push him, backpack and all, inside and wedge myself beside him.
“They’ll tear us to pieces.”
“Quiet.” The shuffling/running is close. “
We listen to the deadhead army slog its way past our crevice. Perhaps they can smell us; they will stop and pull us out and tear at us with talons and teeth…I push the picture from my mind.
The shuffling subsides, fades into silence. Larry and I are still breathing hard, mostly from fear. “Too close. We almost got drafted into the army of the dead.”
“Not funny, Mr. Crisp.”
“Call me Ron.”
“Sure.”
I squeeze out from the cleft and breathe deeply. Larry tries to follow, but is stuck. He stares—and for some reason he points his rifle at me.
“W
atch out!” He screams.
I turn and come face to face with a deadhead. He’d been slow to follow the others—he has only one good leg, missing his left foot. He’s using a board as a crutch. A zombie Tiny Tim, if you will. In his other hand is a club, fashioned from a metal bar. A blue cloth juts from his uniform pocket.
“Move! Move! Don’t just stand there!” Larry is trying desperately to get his rifle up for a clear shot.
But that’s what we do, the zombie and I. We stand there, regarding each other. I slowly put my hand on my pistol butt and the zombie’s eyes follow my movement. He, in turn, raises the metal bar above his head. I’ve no doubt he can crush my skull like an eggshell.
Instinct tells me to draw the weapon and fire. Something else tells me to wait. I lower my hand from the pistol and take a deep breath.
The deadhead stares at me with hazy white eyes, the cornea opacified with cataracts or scar tissue—as I had noticed on Abe. He slowly lowers his weapon, all the while nervously regarding Larry over my shoulder.
“Larry. Don’t shoot.”
“Are you nuts?”
“No. DON’T SHOOT. I mean it. If he wanted to clobber me, I’d be dead already.”
The thing watches Larry, then lowers its weapon completely to its side and simply begins limping away in the direction of the rest of its gang.
“I got a clear shot, now, doc.”
“Don’t. Let it go.”
In another moment, the creature is out of sight.
Shaking with a delayed reaction, I lower my butt to the ground. “Whew.”
Larry finally pries himself free from the cleft. “We gotta get outa here. Before dark.”
“Okay. But give them time to clear out.” And time for my heart to slow down.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER V
Treason
“You let it go. Just like that?” Todd’s face is pale with anger.