by Lucas Cole
“Doc, shut up! You’re not blind. It’s pitch black in here.”
“Get up. Don’t let them get us. Kill me and you’ll have less burden. Quickly, man. Please.” The last word was a whisper, a pitiful petition for me to end his suffering.
I do the impossible: I actually lift my head. Pain answers my movement like a punishment for daring to survive, for prolonging the struggle. A snarl, a glottal sound of hatred from one of the guards comes from nearby. I move my right arm and get it under me. I push myself to my knees and Kimbrough moans in pain. If I jostle him too much—if he truly has a broken neck—then this could kill him. He would not need a bullet from my gun to end his days. But I do not have the time or strength to be careful. And I hear a foreboding sound in that dank black cavern: the breathing of a zombie no more than a few feet away. I cannot see in the dark, but, likely, neither can the deadhead.
I can’t help but groan as the pain sears through my shattered left arm and fractured right kneecap while I stand. The breathing in the dark pauses, then the zombie takes a cautious step toward me. I pull my gun—miraculously still lodged in the holster—and start to lift it…when the zombie’s outstretched hand brushes against my face.
“AHHH!” My scream of horror surprises me—perhaps surprises the zombie, for his hand jerks away instead of clutching my throat. I lift my gun and fire into the black void. The zombie grabs my throat—and I press the gun barrel against its face, wedge it into its mouth, feeling its teeth grating against the metal, and I pull the trigger. A thock sound is closely followed by a whoosh as the bullet exits the back of the skull and the monster drops, its mouth clenched in death and ripping my weapon from my hand. I reach down and yank the gun free, hearing the sound of breaking teeth. I holster the weapon. “Kimbrough?” No answer.
I turn and start down, my good hand feeling my way around the boulder and along the cold stone wall. I move slowly in dread, expecting to feel the rough claws of the guards as they rip into my back, but I keep moving, stumbling, getting back up, and gradually finding the pathway forward. Chin up, Major. You are still alive and there is a planet to be claimed. Why should it be easy? Is anything worthwhile ever easy? Maybe for some. Not for you.
Then, a moment of grace. As if God Himself were breathing renewed life in my direction. I feel the cool breeze of fresh air. Somewhere ahead is an opening to the outer world. But that is not the real miracle. There is a gurgling sound filling the dark, a sound that seems oddly familiar.
With my next step, my foot slips and I slide into a torrent of freezing water, knee-deep. The chill rises up through my leg, but nevertheless it is stimulating and it immediately transmits to me new hope. And new ambitions. Sybaris has water! Sybaris, the desert planet, has water. I reach down and, foolishly perhaps, cup water into my hand and drink. It is bitter, with a metallic taste, but cold. Invigorating. Lifesaving. And worth a fortune. “Dr. Kimbrough. You awake back there?”
No answer and I fear the old man has died, but then there is a moan and a cough. “I’m still here, Crisp,” he says irritably. “Where else would I be?” He sounds unfriendly but the sound of his voice in this black tomb is heartening and I laugh. My laughter echoes through the underground chamber and I lower my voice. “Kimbrough, do you hear that? It’s water. An underground stream.”
“Nonsense.” Then, “Wait. I hear it. Water.”
I am laughing silently, near-gasping for breath, weakened physically and shaken emotionally. I get hold of my emotions. “We fell down into a cavern. Some kind of subterranean system. Not more than a few miles from Station B. Didn’t you know about this place?”
“No. No records. It must be a recent development—recently exposed. Perhaps the last rain we had.”
I force myself to stoop carefully, not wanting to fall over and drown the poor doctor. I cup the freezing water into my hands and splash it onto my face. “Wow! It’s cold!” I cup some more and fling it over my shoulder onto the doctor.
He gasps. “Good Lord! It’s water! Water. I—I can’t believe it.”
“Doc…can you move your arms?” I am afraid to hear the answer.
He grunts with effort, then sighs. “Yes, thank God. It hurts like the Dickens, but yes, I can.”
“I’m going to stoop down into the water. Reach down and drink as much as you can, but do it quickly. I can’t take the cold for long.”
“Untie me.”
“Just do it, doc. I can’t reach the canteens right now. And I’m not untying you in the middle of a stream. I won’t be able to hook you back up again. Hurry.”
I squat into the stream and the impact of the water nearly knocks me over. I maintain my balance and gasp against the force of the freezing water against my chest. I feel the motion of Kimbrough scooping up water and hear him slurping it into his mouth. I give him a full couple minutes, then move to a bending position and drink several handfuls myself. “We can get more later. We have to keep moving. I killed one of those things back there. They’ll be after us with a vengeance.”
“Which way? Upstream or down?”
“Upstream, I think. More of a westerly direction. Besides, other streams may conjoin it farther down and form rapids. And I think the breeze is coming from upstream.”
“You’re the driver.”
Kimbrough’s sense of humor is returning. Water has always been associated with life, with cleansing. With redemption. I automatically start to thank God for the water, but the impulse reminds me of how angry I am with Him. For so many things: the merciless destruction of Earth, the foolish beliefs of people like Gershom in this Messiah who never shows up—no matter how many centuries of promise, so many centuries of suffering go by—and the terrible death of my brother. There, in the dark, I have a moment of clarity.
This anger at my so-called Creator fuels my insensitivity, my cruelty, gives me the strength to do the terrible things I’ve done for EMC and in pursuit of my own Eden. Never mind. Better to keep it, to grasp this power of hate to my bosom. It has served me well; it will keep me alive. “Hang on, Kimbrough, I’ve got to slog my way through this stream until we get to some high ground. I may slip. Don’t panic if we go down, okay?” And I start pushing my way against the river’s force. “Ugh…tough going…plowing through this river.”
“Yes,” Kimbrough says. “But thank God for it.”
“You thank Him, Kimbrough. It’s probably you He wants to save, anyway.”
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XIII
Origins
Hours of sloshing through the stream have passed and I can barely force my legs to keep moving. Everything hurts and I feel feverish. I need to drink water, but I’m afraid to stop. Kimbrough weighs a ton on my back, the impromptu backpack straps cutting into my shoulders like knives and his weight creating a constant spasm in the center of my back.
In a moment of weakness, I actually consider cutting him loose and letting him drift down the stream. After all, it wasn’t long ago that he asked me to end his misery. I imagine the half-man bobbing down the rushing stream in the dark and wonder if he would make it alive all the way to some subterranean sea.
But I plod on and force my thoughts to other things, like getting my hands on Spangler, and thinking about Carly, the warmth of her body, the smell of her hair. I slip on a wet rock and go down on one knee, the pain searing through my fractured kneecap. I swear in every language I know—and I know many—then I push myself up against the dank wall and catch my breath. Tears are running down my face, but no one can see them. Suck it up, Crisp, suck it up, I tell myself, but I am running out of steam. Helluva place to die.
“Crisp.” Kimbrough stirs behind me and sends new lances of pain snaking up into my shoulders.
“What?”
“I’m thirsty.”
I chuckle and then laugh and my voice, cracking and hoarse, echoes back to me. I sound crazed and desperate and this scares me into regaining some control.
“Crisp, I’m thirsty.”
“I
heard you. Let me find firmer ground…very slick here. You don’t want to drown, do you?” I’m half hoping he says ‘yes,’ but no answer, so I push forward, my good right arm out, my hand following the contours of the wall.
A few yards up, I sense an increased turmoil in the water. The right wall of the passage suddenly veers away. A breeze flows from both left and right, but stronger on the left.
My heart leaps; I can detect the heavy odor of soil. “Two channels. I think two streams are joining here.” I gingerly make my way through the gurgling rush of water and work my way leftward to find a central wall and then another channel. The water from this channel is gentler, more of a brook than a river, and the floor of the channel forms a small path to the side of the water. I step up onto the path, which is dry and offers purchase. A few more paces and I step on something brittle—a small pile of bones crushed into fragments by my boot. “Bones. I think I’ve just destroyed an important finding.” A little farther, then, utterly exhausted, I carefully lower myself to the ground and fall back.
“Oomph! You’re smothering me.”
“Sorry.” I have to dig my fingers beneath the straps to loosen Kimbrough and release the backpack. I turn him onto his back. “Hang on a moment.” I pull myself to the stream edge and slurp water into my mouth with my right hand. Satisfied, I reach back and pull Kimbrough toward me. “Here.”
He drinks water from my hand. After several minutes of this, he sighs and I hear him lower his head against the ground. “Thank you. You’ve been amazingly patient. I’m surprised you didn’t abandon me back there.”
“Never crossed my mind, doc.” I pull the two canteens from beneath him and then stretch out on my back. My injuries in knee, arm, and back are drumming a rhythm of pain in time, but I am so weary. I either faint or fall asleep, because his next question jerks me back into consciousness.
“Do you think we’ll actually find our way out of here?”
Out of where? I’m confused, but the churning of water and the dank smell reminds me of my location. “Yeah. Take a sniff. That musky smell? Soil. Dirt. We’re going to get out of here. What we do after that—that’s the question.”
“How…how can I repay you? For getting me away from Spangler?”
“Don’t worry about that, doc. I’ll think of something.” I reach across to my left arm and carefully feel along the humerus. No bones protruding, no crepitus. I palpate the radius and ulna. A terrible stinging pain, but no fragments there either. I flex my left hand and dare to bend the elbow slightly. At worst, a minor fracture or bone contusion. I manage to sit up and start to palpate my knee, but the shock sends my hand away. Kneecap is probably fractured, but it will heal on its own. I may limp the rest of my life, but I’ll walk.
“Are they still pursuing us?” Kimbrough asks.
I listen, but no there is no scrabbling or sloshing of water. “We may have lost them. Maybe they headed downstream. I hope they drown.” But could they drown? “Tell me about Spangler, doc. While we rest a few more minutes.”
Kimbrough sighs. “Spangler was a friendly enough chap at one time. He told me that he used to command EMC marines on mining expeditions. Keep the station crews in line, put down revolts and black market operations, and fight off rival mining outfits. He was awarded his own station here and he ran it by the book, backed up by a few marines who came with him. But he pushed his people too hard. Always competing with Station A and C for commission on the amount of ore mined. He resented that A had the landing field and C had access to the largest quarry; he felt that he was being cheated on inventory because everything was loaded up at A—with the planet’s only port controlled by Todd—for transport.
“Then Elemental put pressure on all three stations to increase production. The company offered a prize: land ownership and part-mineral rights to whichever station produced the new quota by year’s end. It created hostility and violence. To make matters worse, the population of Station C led by an engineer, Peter Chan, thought they could do a better job on their own, never mind the increased danger of living near the ore quarry, and sent word to Rome that they wanted a separate contract. Abuses occurred, but EMC did not interfere. It seems to me that they encouraged this extreme competition. And by that, they created hazardous mining operations. They are responsible for what happened.”
“What exactly happened?”
“I believe Todd and Spangler combined forces to stop the third station from competing. They raided the mining site, found that Peter was constructing a new reactor that would allow better refining of the ore, bypassing the need to transport crude ore back to Rome for processing. The reactor was sabotaged and that set off a chain reaction of some kind, a gaseous explosion that trapped both Spangler’s men and Peter’s crew…and left them in their present state. Todd somehow managed to pull his men back in time.”
“Sounds like a triple cross to me. But Todd hurt himself by limiting access to the ore.”
Kimbrough chuckles, a dry sound but with genuine mirth. “Ah, but Todd did not foresee this zombification of his competitors. He merely wanted them dead. Not undead, so to speak.”
Yeah. Damned nuisance for Todd. “EMC pays well. These guys took their chances.”
“EMC directors are tyrants. They are the lifeblood of modern Rome. Their military forces and some of their supervisors are ruthless legionnaires who practically worship them…no offense to you, of course. They want to conquer the Rim because they fear to face Old Earth. And to conquer the galaxy, they need more ore. Until they are strong again to challenge Earth.”
“You think Elemental fears Old Earth?”
“There is talk of a new government there. One that may reach even to the end of the universe.”
“Yeah. I’ve been hearing about that. Never mind. Let’s get going before I stiffen up too much.” My joints complain bitterly as I start moving again. Trying to protect my shattered knee, I drag myself to the stream and fill both canteens.
Apparently, rested, Kimbrough is in a philosophic mood. “This Old Earth government. It brings to mind stories about a Deliverer—.”
“The Jewish Messiah. The one they’ve waiting for—let’s see now—about 2500 years. That one?” And despite my irreverent attitude, part of me wonders. Gershom had spoken about a new world government replacing the travesty and worldwide ruin my brother had witnessed just before he died. A new millennium of peace under a just rule. Heaven on earth. A fairy tale.
“What if it were true?” Kimbrough asks. “What if, while we are struggling to survive on this pesthole, fighting monsters and madmen, we could be living in peace? What if?”
“What if, what if? Enough talk, doc. Hang on; I’m going to get you strapped in again.” Sweat runs down my face from the exertion, but I get him hoisted onto my back. “You ready?”
“Ready.”
I limp forward, carefully adhering to the brook-side path. I am still blinded by the dark, but increasingly aware of the musty odor riding the breeze, the gradual warming of the air temperature, and the gradual incline of the path.
Kimbrough, amazingly, starts humming a tune and I can’t help but fall into cadence with the beat of his melody. The doctor seems to have found hope again, maybe in the thought of this Messiah running things back on Earth. Peace on Earth while here at the end of the universe, zombies are tearing humans to shreds (a flash of Larry being torn asunder), two evil tyrants warring over turf that belongs to neither of them, and a third station manager—zombified, no less—standing off the other two. But let the doc be happy while he can. Who am I to interfere?
Hours pass. Miles. I stop and gape, closing my eyes and then refocusing, just to be sure. Ahead a glimmer of light reflects from the bubbling stream. Light.
But what we find waiting in the light is a bit of a concern.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XIV
Peter
Rocks dislodge easily and fall to the side as I push my way out of the tunnel’s narrow mouth and into a larger cav
e. Remnants of rain water cascade down from the rocky cliffs outside the cave entrance and trickle downstream and into the channel we just left.
“Praise God,” Kimbrough says. He seems to be overflowing with religion, now (convinced, I guess, that Providence—and not a battered Ron Crisp—has just guided him through the bowels of this desert planet to safety).
“We’re not home yet, doc.” And just where would ‘home’ on this planet be, I wonder? Good question. “Let’s take our bearings—.” I freeze, my hand automatically dropping to the butt of my pistol, though the gun is empty.
Behind me, the doc’s head is twisting to the side for a look. “What is it?”
“An old friend.” Standing before me is Tiny Tim, resting on his plank crutch and staring at me with what I assume is amazement on his rigid face.
“Hello, Tiny,” I say. “What’s new?”
Tiny stares, his mouth gaping and revealing rotting teeth; zombies seem to have a real problem with dental hygiene. His jaws make a snapping motion and a grunting sound emanates from his throat. Perhaps, he is trying to speak.
“We came from down there,” I say, pointing back. “Running from the Red Brigade. From Colonel Spangler. The Red King. They may try to come this way. We mean you no harm. Understand?” And why should the Red Brigade be their enemies and not their allies? It was just a hunch. But, just in case, I am judging the distance between Tiny and me, wondering if I should snatch up a rock and try to brain him or instead try to outrun him. Either choice seems dismal. I am exhausted.
“What’s going on?” Kimbrough asks.
“Hang on, doc.” It is pretty much Tiny’s play, now.
The deadhead looks past me, then leans stiffly to the side, trying to peer at my cargo.
“Doc, don’t panic.” I turn around very slowly until Kimbrough is facing Tiny.