by Lucas Cole
We are all silent for a time, maybe out of respect for Navarro. With all this talk about zombie behavior, I reach out to show my continuing acceptance of Mary, but she is gone. I wonder how much of Carly’s story she heard.
“A terrible experience,” Kimbrough says, which shows his kindness, considering what he himself has been through.
I hear sniffling. Carly is crying, something she would not have done in the light of day.
“Carly.”
The sniffling stops. “What?”
“We will deal with the reds. And when we are done with them, we will deal with Todd and his gang.”
“Who is we?”
“The blue brigade and me. All of us, here.”
“The reds. Spangler. Todd. We’ll take them on?”
“Do you doubt me?” And that darkness I had held at bay has entered my voice. It is the voice of Imperial Major Crisp, logistics officer, Roman citizen, strategist, tactician, sometimes killer for the Revived Roman Empire. For EMC.
“No.” Then she offers a glimpse of her own soul, her own darkness, her voice becoming hard and flat. “When do we start?”
“In the morning.”
I hear Gershom praying softly beneath his breath.
Pray, holy man. Pray for our enemies. They will have need of it.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XIX
Abduction
Carly left for the blue camp plateau this morning. Taggert and five blues accompanied her. Gershom insisted on going, too, partly to protect Carly, but I think he wants the opportunity to talk to deadheads while I am not around. This whole rising-from-the-dead thing bothers him and he wants to know more. Maybe he’ll convert a few blues, but I hope Taggert resists; I need him to stay as mean and deadly as he is.
As unofficial leader, I have to put everyone in harm’s way if we are to succeed. Carly will salvage what I’ve come to call the “tea weed” and bring it back here, along with soil samples to study in the station lab. Objective: transplant and nurture the miraculous weed to provide steady supply of the rejuvenation effects. Rejuvenation, mind you, is the word, not cure. A cure—at this stage—is not desirable.
A twinge of conscience brings Mary to mind, but I try to dispel the image of her face from my thoughts. Still, I find myself wondering about the possible lasting effects of Abe’s DNA floating around in my system and the potential for using my serum to produce an antidote. Am I attracted to this half-dead woman? Is this perverse or natural? In any case, I decide to set aside extra portions of the tea weed for her, until things are settled.
There are an abundance of clean utility uniforms in one of the locker rooms and the plumbing still works. I waste precious water by indulging in a quick, morale-restoring shower. After I change into a clean uniform, I risk a look in the mirror.
A deadhead stares back at me. After the initial shock, I risk a closer look: no, not a deadhead, but a leaner Ron Crisp, his hair long and uncombed, a rough beard sprouting on his face, his cheeks sunken from fatigue and poor nutrition. There will be time to rejuvenate when the mission is over. Rejuvenate. How that word plays such a part on Sybaris….
In the cafeteria, which has become our HQ, Peter waits for me patiently. Two other deadheads wait with him. Peter has a web belt and holster around his waist, a pistol tucked into the holster. He returns my scrutiny, his eyes taking in my nice clean uniform.
Self-conscious for some reason, I point in the direction from which I have just come. “There are more of these in the locker room. You should get your people to change into them, to protect their skin. Good for morale, as well. Just be sure they affix the blue cloth to the new uniform.”
The other two deadheads are an odd pair, one short and stocky and missing one eye, a terrible scar running down the side of his face. The other is tall and lanky, with a thatch of reddish hair sprouting from a head that is scabbed with crusty lesions. Upon closer inspection of the red haired man, I am taken aback to see part of his skull gleaming whitely through a torn flap of skin. These two fellows are particularly rank, but I resist the notion to hold my nose. I need the support of these dead…of these men.
“You know,” I tell them, “the showers are working.”
Peter has been chewing on the tea weed. So have the other two deadheads. Peter is flesh colored and animated, his movements smooth. Peter shakes his head. He pulls a small twig of the tea weed from his pocket and puts it into his mouth. He chews briskly, then pushes it aside with his tongue. “Wergh…we…we cannot tolerate too much water. Large amounts of water cause the skin to slough off.”
Another potential weapon against the reds. Only problem: water is scarce on Sybaris. On its surface, anyway. It explains why, though, the entire red brigade did not follow me through the underground passages. The streams of water. “I see. Sorry.”
Peter turns and introduces me to the short stocky fellow with one eye and deep facial scar. “This is Klaus.” He motions to the lanky man with red hair and exposed skull. “This is Spencer.” He inspects them critically and nods at some internal decision. “They are good men. They can have new uniforms if they come back.”
If they come back. They have a tough assignment. Maybe even an impossible one. It is best not to overrule Peter in front of his men, but I have to insist. “In new uniforms, they may be able to pass for Station A men.” At least…in the dark…and not within smelling range. “It may be helpful.”
Peter nods. “I see. They will change into new uniforms.”
The two blues have been studying me intently. Klaus seems particularly antagonistic. He approaches me and sniffs the air. “Yurgh…yur…you…smell like one of us. How is that possible?”
The effect of Abe’s DNA. No wonder that, back on the plateau, they intended to dine on Kimbrough, but left me alone. “It’s a long story, Klaus. I’ll tell you when we get back.”
“We will prevail…Major.” He looks up at me with his one eye, the socket on the opposite side a black cavity. “But if you betray us, I will eat your friends…after having my way with your woman.”
“Too much tea weed, Klaus,” I say. I have some experience with combat troops testing my leadership. “Save your passion and energy for the job ahead. You remember the Station A key code?”
“Three-six-five-two-two.”
“And you know the targets?”
He nods. “I know them well. I performed duties at Verona. I know where to find them.”
“Very good.” I turn towards Peter. “Ready to travel?”
“Yes.”
“Your weapon is armed?”
He pats the holstered gun. “Four pellets. It is the last of the ammo.”
“You?” I point to Klaus and Spencer.
They indicate the sheaths on their belts, each holding a hunting knife and each with a pair of manacles taken from the station brig looped on the belt. Spencer pulls his knife out and the blade is gleaming and well-honed. “Kughgh…knife…is ready to taste more blood.” He grins, revealing jagged teeth and I realize he has filed his teeth to sharp points. I wonder about his sanity. Peter motions to them and Spencer and Kraus start for the locker rooms.
“New uniforms,” Spencer says as he passes me. “They will just get all dirty…with the blood of Todd’s men.” Deadhead humor, I guess.
I ask Peter, “While they change uniforms, can you show me the reactor room? And the communications room. Is it safe to go near the reactor?”
He nods. “No radiation, no gas vapors. Just wreckage.” Without further comment, he turns and I follow him down a series of corridors and into the damaged part of the station, dunes of sand thicker here from the invading desert, the wind shrilly whistling down the halls.
Where the reactor had been is now a blackened crater from which girders and shafts of twisted steel and titanium emerge like the branches of a bizarre monstrous plant. Shrapnel holes and gouges deface the encircling walls. The reactor itself, at the center of the crater, resembles a crushed and mutilated egg shell.
Overhead, the sky is blue and cloudless.
“Could this have been an accident?”
“No. This is Todd’s work. First here, then at the mine. He lured Spangler and me—and our men—to the mines while his saboteurs destroyed this reactor. We were supposed to work together; Todd’s men would help Station C become the main processing plant and Spangler and I would share in a greater payment for the ore production. He set off an explosion here and at the mines simultaneously. Those of us in the mines—those of us who were not vaporized—dug our way out—but we were changed.”
“You died in that explosion?”
His face contorts—not in an effort to speak, but in emotion. Doubt. Anger. Pain. “Yes. No. I…am not sure what occurred.” He studies the effect of the violent explosion, the twisted girders, the pockmarks in the wall, as if they reflect the invisible wounds he still suffers. “I know that life, as it was, departed. There was darkness. Blackness. Void. Then I emerged, changed. What you see now. Man or monster…I no longer know the difference.”
“You’re not a monster.”
“Am I a man? A human being?”
“I don’t know. I just know we have common enemies. Spangler never intended to work with you.”
“And a common purpose?” He studies me. Amazing how the weed clears their eyes, restores their humanity….and sharpens their minds.
“Perhaps. I want to defeat Todd and Spangler. I want to restore the mining—improve production.”
“Your payment for this?”
“This planet. Sybaris. Minus the mineral rights.”
“Yes. So you said. You want to own Sybaris.” He smiles, then laughs—an unaccustomed exercise for his transformed body that causes the laughter to degrade into a harsh barking cough. “Excuse me. But Rome retains the ore. You get the desert and wasteland. A fool’s bargain.”
“I get a planet. A planet that has subterranean water sources. A planet waiting to be resurrected.”
“And you trust Rome? Elemental?”
“No. But I will not have to.”
“I do not understand.”
“It is not for you to understand. Not now. But if you support me, I will repay you. You have my word.”
“And my role?”
“To help defeat Spangler and Todd, then direct the mining—once we’ve gotten the obstacles out of the way. With the endurance of the blues, we can get production up and running, and in turn, improve living conditions, your lives, your future.”
His face is troubled. “You want us to go back down into those mines…”
“You can only die once, Gershom says. At least, in a normal sense.”
“We both know that is not true. As you said, there were exceptions, stories about rebirth in ancient times. I am still flesh, as altered as it may be. Someday—maybe soon—I will die a second death. The final death. And then, perhaps, the judgment Gershom talks about.”
Gershom has himself another convert in the making.
“The communication room. Is it intact?”
“Come.” Another series of corridors and then we enter into the Com Room, the rows of monitors intact. The decaying remains of a disemboweled corpse lies on the floor, its uniform shredded and caked with black dried blood, its head shattered and clotted, its thorax torn apart and empty of organs.
“One of Todd’s men. We got to him before he could escape. We think he is the one who sabotaged the reactor. A bomb made of black powder and ore.”
Men or monsters, indeed. I force my attention to the job at hand. “The communicators still work?”
“I believe so. I have heard transmissions, after the explosions. But none recently.”
“Have you tried to contact anyone? The other stations? Or EMC?”
Peter smiles. “We did not know the effects of the tea weed. To communicate, one has to be able to speak. I do not know Morse Code.”
I nod. Soon all would come to a head. Not my original plan, but the one that was evolving. Improvise. Improvise or fail.
Our talk finished, Peter and I rejoin the newly outfitted Klaus and Spencer—Spencer with his sharp-toothed grin, Klaus with his dour disfigured visage. But the new uniforms have given them some of their humanity back. They could pass for human at a distance.
The three blues regard me silently and I realize that it’s speech time. “Today, we take back our dignity and our futures. And while we’re at it, we take vengeance and justice.” The men look somberly at me, wanting more, I guess. Some kind of inspiration. I add, “God—if He can hear us out this far—will help us to defeat our enemies. He sent a sign—his prophet, Gershom. He would not send a prophet to help those He has not chosen.” Hearing this, Klaus grasps his knife handle and looks determined. Spencer grins horribly and licks his sharp teeth.
Peter looks thoughtful. “I would appreciate His help,” Peter says.
Spencer pulls his blade and its steel catches the light. “We will help ourselves.”
The suns are setting, the air suddenly still as if Sybaris itself were holding its breath in view of our foolish mission, the audacity of our hopes.
Peter leading the way, we depart Station C. Our destination: Portus Verona and Station A.
A siren splits the silence of the night. Station A alarms have been sounded. Only a few minutes to finish our end of the task, but there is an obstruction. A heavy one.
Captain Oster stands in the open hatch of the Provincial’s cargo port, his pistol pointed at my head. “I knew it. I knew if you were still alive that you’d come for your precious crate. Now, you’re gonna open it for me. No more of your dictates, sonny boy. I hereby take possession of the contents, as captain of this ship.”
Shouting of men’s strident voices ring through the night air, distracting the captain for a moment, his pistol wavering as he turns toward the noise.
I jump to the side as he turns back and fires, the pellet striking the hold behind me. A POP sounds from behind me and a red hole appears in the captain’s large belly.
“Arghh! I been shot!” But his girth prevents it from being a mortal wound. He clasps his hand over the spouting blood and starts backing through the hatch. He raises his pistol. Three more POPS in rapid succession and three more wounds appear in his chest and abdomen. The captain, his face blank, staggers backward over the rail and there is a soft crump as his body lands on the sand below.
“Quickly!” The crate is built onto a motorized truck with tank-like treads and a small driver’s seat at the rear. I step up a small ladder and onto the driver’s seat. I tap a key code on the control box set into the driver’s dashboard. “Jump aboard the crate.” Peter, his air gun still smoking, scrambles atop the crate.
The code is accepted and vapors hiss from each corner of the crate as its engine engages in a satisfying hum. I shift the tread wheels into gear and drive through the open cargo hatch and down the ramp, then swing the steering wheel hard to the right. We crash through the rail and plunge onto the sand, the treads biting into the soft ground, gaining purchase, thrusting us forward.
Soon we are over the first dune. The sirens are wailing and men shouting, the noise wrenching my stomach and compelling me to flee. I have to force myself to stop the vehicle and park at the base of the dune, the engine humming, Peter watching over my shoulder for pursuers.
“Hurry it up, hurry it up,” I say between clenched jaws. But I know that is an impossible task I have assigned Peter’s men. They will never make it.
“Here they come.” Peter points to the dune behind me.
Klaus and Spencer are sliding down the dune, each of them hauling a manacled and squirming figure over their shoulders. A testimony to the endurance of deadheads.
Peter reaches out and hauls the captives aboard the crate. One of the captured humans, despite his hands being manacled behind him and his mouth gagged, tries to leap off the crate. Peter pulls him back and then, with a quick blow to the head, stills the captive. He delivers a blow to the other human with similar results and I hope Pet
er has not killed them. The captives are precious cargo. Spencer and Klaus jump aboard the crowded crate and I engage the gears, the vehicle kicking forward through the sand. A wild shot from the station strikes the crate, but in a moment, we are over another dune and heading for home.
“Good work,” Peter says.
“You got the right guys?” I ask.
Klaus laughs, a harsh croaking sound. But he is fired up by an excess of the tea weed. “Oh, yes. There is no mistaking his royal highness and his chief bully man.” He pats the rump of one of the unconscious captives.
“We left behind a few others,” Spencer says, his voice lisping through those sharpened teeth. “A message from the blues.” He chuckles ominously.
I start to ask ‘what kind of message?’ dreading the answer, but Spencer saves me the trouble.
“I told you,” he says, grimly, “that we would get blood on our nice, new uniforms.”
The remainder of the ride back to Station C is made in silence, save for the dependable hum of the vehicle’s engine.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XX
Gauntlet
Who is this?” Spangler’s voice is harsh over the receiver. A brutality in his voice that, even in the military actions under his command, I had never heard before. Things are not going well for Spangler.
Peter, Kimbrough, Carly, Taggert, and Mary surround me, intently watching the communicator screen’s picture as if the Red King might leap out of the console. Spangler’s face crowds the screen as he tries to see who is contacting him.
“How are things, Colonel?”
“Major? Ah, so you’ve survived. I knew it.” Spangler’s face pulls back, smiles. “What are you planning, Crisp? And what do you want from me?”
Always to the point. The Colonel is a blunt man, blunt in his manner, blunt in his military philosophy. He has a fierce, straight-forward nature that carries a power, a shock-and-awe element that carries the day against his enemies. But the force of an opponent can be turned against him if one is agile enough. And lucky enough.