Emma said, “But we saw two vampires and a guy who – now that you mention it – had to be a zombie.”
“They have immigration here, just like back home, and Lycanthum has a fairly easygoing policy, so there are enclaves of all the various Nocturnian races throughout this country.”
“But–”
Amelia held up a hand. “We can discuss more as you practice picking blossoms.” She motioned them toward the nearby wire-and-fabric bush. “You must learn the sangreflor harvesting technique before Ergel returns.”
“But I need to know so much more!” Ryan said.
Amelia ignored him as she handed them each a ring with a sharp little outward-curving blade.
“This goes on the tip of the middle finger of your dominant hand. So if you’re right handed, on your right, and vice versa.”
She demonstrated on her own hand. Ryan followed. He was a righty, so he adjusted it to the end of his right middle finger. The little curved blade jutted beyond the tip like a steely talon.
Amelia rattled on about picking only mature blossoms and how to grab the stem an inch or so behind the blossom with the thumb and forefinger and cut it off with the little blade, but Ryan’s buzzing brain could only half listen.
Trapped in a world of monsters where humans were either slaves or food? Crazy. Impossible. It made no sense. Amelia sounded like a total nut case. But he’d already run into a troll, a zombie, vampires, and werewolves. He couldn’t deny what he’d seen with his own eyes. Still, something didn’t sit right, something didn’t fit.
And then he knew.
“English!” he cried.
Emma had already begun practicing on the fake bush. They both stopped and looked at him.
“What are you talking about?” Emma said.
“The language here! They speak all English! It’s totally impossible for beings on two different worlds to develop the same language. It can’t happen.”
“It can when there’s seepage,” Amelia said.
“What’s seepage?”
“As I told you, the two worlds occupy the same space but in different dimensions. The barrier between them isn’t perfect and now and then people and things cross at certain points. Seepage is somewhat similar, but more subtle. As it was explained to me, seepage occurs through the barrier on a subconscious level. Ideas, concepts, language seep back and forth. The primitive parts of our brains pick up the seepage, which then slowly worms into the consciousness. Some languages we share are more Nocturnian in origin, others are more human. But over time they’ve equalized in both worlds.”
“I did it!” Emma said, holding up a cut fake blossom.
Ryan was still fixated on seepage. “Is that why the vampires and werewolves and such here seem so familiar? Seepage?”
Amelia nodded. “Smart boy. Our subconscious minds are aware of Nocturnia through seepage. The images of beings from this side that leaked across for ages caused nightmares, and gave rise to frightening legends and myths that writers turned into books like Dracula and The Werewolf of Paris.”
“When we were brought over, we saw a creepy scientist who replaced his arm. What was he?”
“A pluriban. They’re fashioned from parts of dead bodies.”
“Like in Frankenstein?”
The older lady almost smiled. “Seepage about them was the origin of Mary Shelley’s story.”
“But who ‘fashions’ them?”
“They do. They use parts from all the races and species here to make new pluribans and improve their own bodies. They are the mad scientists of Nocturnia.”
“Mad? Do they–?”
Another bang! Ergel had returned.
“Youse had long enough, crone!” he shouted. “Ready or not, they’s haulin’ out into the fields!”
“But Mister Ergel!” Amelia cried with alarm. “They need more practice! Especially the boy.”
Ergel grinned at Ryan. “We’ll see about that, won’t we, brat.” He snapped his whip against the table. “What the old lady ain’t edumicated yer, me ten-tailed girlfriend Bessie will. Now move!”
Amelia leaned close and whispered, “Never surrender.”
With shaking knees, Ryan followed Emma in the direction Ergel was pointing. He had only the vaguest idea what he was doing. The troll already had it in for him. How was he going to keep from getting whipped?
13
“Oh, no!”
Ryan had thought he was in a bad spot until he reached the field and stood beside the waiting Dillon. Then he realized what sort of “blossoms” they’d be picking.
Those bloodsucking flowers from last night.
He’d called them “triffids,” but Amelia had called them sangreflor. It hadn’t hit him then, but now it smacked him in the face. Sangre meant blood, and flor obviously meant flower – bloodflower.
And now, instead of one spreading bush, he faced an endless plain of the nasty blossoms. Laid out in long rows like corn, the tops of the plants rippled and waved in a soft breeze all the way to a faraway ridgeline.
“Miles and miles of flowers that want to suck your blood,” said Ryan. “Great. Just great…”
“I can’t believe they grow them on purpose,” said Emma. “Like a crop.”
“Not like a crop,” Dillon said. “They are a crop.”
Ryan’s stomach rippled as he turned to Dillon. “Don’t tell me people eat them.”
“They’re considered a delicacy. They’re sated, coated, then shipped off to the NF, where people pay dearly for them.”
Under different circumstances, Ryan knew he’d be asking what sated meant, coated with what, and where “NF” might be, but he had more immediate concerns.
“Fine, but what do we do with them after we pick them?”
The dark-haired boy looked at him. “Didn’t Amelia train you?”
He couldn’t admit that he didn’t know what he was doing. “She, um…”
“Ergel didn’t let her finish with Ryan,” Emma said.
“Oh, that’s not good.”
Tell me about it, Ryan thought.
Dillon pointed to one of the many little wheeled carts that marked the entrance to each row of plants. It looked like a kid’s wagon, but it carried a greenish metal container about eighteen inches on a side. Copper? Rivets studded its surface and its hinged lid.
“Put them in the chest. There’s water inside to keep them fresh. When you fill it up, bring it back here and dump them into that big tank over there. If you keep them in cool water, they’ll stay alive for days. But they die very quickly without it. So plop them into the water as soon as you slice the stem.”
“And then go get some more, right?” Ryan was not looking forward to such a repetitive and menial task.
Dillon nodded as he grabbed a cart and pulled it a few steps into a cultivated row. “We’d better get going before Ergel comes by on rounds. We each work our own row.”
Emma looked at Ryan. “I’ll be in the row next to you. Watch me. Let me know if you need help.”
Ryan was determined not to ask for help. Really, how hard could this be? To his right he watched Emma grab the stem behind a white blossom – just an inch back, if he remembered – and slice through with the blade on her third finger. She held it up, grinning, and dropped it into her wheeled container.
No biggy, Ryan thought. I can do that.
He bent over the plant and breathed in its honeysuckle odor. Then he noted with unease that the tubular blossoms were angling toward him. Each was about an inch long and half as wide, about the size of a man’s thumb. And yes, the edge of each innocent looking flower was edged with tiny white teeth. The inside of the tube wasn’t hollow but honeycombed with filaments that formed a complex matrix.
People really ate these things? And liked them? He shuddered.
He shuffled to his left, and the blossoms angled toward him. He shuffled right and they followed. Did they smell his blood? Did they want a taste? Fat chance.
“Okay, you hungry little d
udes,” he muttered. “Time to show you who’s boss.”
Gingerly he snaked his fingers around the nearest and tallest blossom, pinched the stem about an inch behind it, just like he was supposed to, and –
“Ow!”
The little monster had latched onto the web between his thumb and forefinger. Ryan snatched his hand away and the flower came with it, pulling free of its stem. He tore it off, threw it on the ground, and stomped on it.
“Don’t let Ergel see you do that!” said Dillon from his left. He’d straightened and was looking around with a worried expression. “You’d think these flowers were his children, the way he protects them. He’ll whip you sure.”
Ryan looked down at the crushed blossom at his feet. What could he do? Of course. Bury the evidence. He knelt, dug a little hole, and pushed it in.
As he covered it, he whispered, “Rest in peace, you nasty little – ow!”
He’d leaned too close to the bush and one of the blossoms had attached itself to his ear. He tore that off and smashed it with his fist, crushing it. But his elbow swung close to the bush behind him and–
“Ow!”
He tore the third from his arm and stomped that too. Keeping his head and his limbs back and away from the bushes, he quickly buried the second and third blossoms, then rose to find Emma and Dillon staring at him. Dillon seemed to be fighting a smile.
“What’s so funny?”
“You. You’re like a comedian. I’d be laughing if you weren’t putting yourself in such danger.”
Ryan turned to Emma. “You think I’m a riot too?”
But he could tell immediately from her worried expression that she didn’t.
“Of course not. But you’ve got to start filling your container, Ryan. Move quickly and carefully, before the flowers can react. We have small hands that can get in and out without being bitten. That’s why Master Simon chose us, remember? Small hands.”
She bent and went back to work.
We have small hands that can get in and out without being bitten… easy for you to say.
Ryan paused for a few deep breaths. He could do this. He could.
The hours dragged by as Ryan and Emma plucked the blossoms with their hook-rings. He’d removed his T-shirt and wrapped it around his right arm. He knew he was risking a sunburned back, but his arm needed protection from the hungry little blossoms. Over time he gradually developed a motion and technique that was getting the job done with a minimum of scratches and bites. Every so often someone would come by with a water jug, but they weren’t allowed to leave their row.
As the sun neared its midpoint high in the sky, Ryan heard raspy breathing behind him and turned to see Ergel’s squat, toad-like body approaching along Emma’s row.
“Time to checkify on me bloody blooms,” he said in his rumbling voice.
Ryan remained neutral, saying nothing while tension wound like a spring inside him.
Lifting his goggles and racking them on the stiff brim of his helmet, Ergel pointed to Emma’s harvesting cart. “Let’s examicate what the new girl’s done.”
Emma lifted the lid on her container. Ergel bent closer for a look.
“Not bad fer a beginner.” He pointed back toward the building. “Go add yers to the big vat. Youse earnified lunch.”
Lunch! Ryan was starving. He didn’t care what they served, he was ready to eat anything. Well, except maybe these flowers.
“I’ll wait for my brother,” Emma said.
“Youse do what I tells ya!” Ergel roared, raising his whip. “Now git!”
Emma moved off, but verrrrrry slowwwwly.
Ergel stepped over to Ryan’s row.
“Yer turn, brat – open up yer retainer and let’s examicate whats y’gots.”
“Actually, it’s a con-tainer,” said Ryan, lifting the lid and instantly wishing he could keep his mouth shut. Idiot!
“It’s whats Ergel says it is!” the troll bellowed just before he boxed his ear with a fleshy fist.
The impact made Ryan’s head almost ring like a bell as the pain lanced through him. White spots blinked before his eyes, dizzying him.
Emma cried, “Stop it!” from somewhere behind the troll.
As Ryan fought to keep his knees straight and his body upright, Ergel reached past him and opened the lid.
Backing away, Ryan steadied himself.
“Half a day gone, and this is alls youse gots?”
“Well, it’s my first day on the job…I’m still learning how to do it efficiently.”
Ergel slammed the lid shut. “I wants this retainer brimmin’ over full next time I examicates it, ya hears?”
“I hears you.” Ryan resisted a mad urge to laugh.
He couldn’t help himself. The troll was so odd-looking and talked so funny and the awful absurdity of their plight… if Ryan didn’t laugh at it all, he might go crazy himself.
But he tried to keep it together, stifling a small giggle as he turned back to the nearest clump of blossoms.
“Izzat you larfin’ at me?”
Ergel’s booming frog-voice filled the air just before the business end of his whip snapped across Ryan’s spine. Instantly, his back erupted in fiery pain. The impact so stunned him, Ryan’s knees buckled and he fell forward into the base of the nearest plant. Several sangreflors attached themselves to his cheeks and his shoulders. As he half-rolled and tried to pull them free before the mini-suckers could get a good grip, he heard the crack of the whip again.
More splitting wounds across his back like they were on fire. Never in his life had anything ever hurt like this. He howled this time, fear and rage blooming within as he glared at the troll looming over him, looking tall and full of menace even though he was actually short, wide, and ugly.
Somewhere in the background he heard Emma screaming. “Leave him alone! He’s just a little boy!”
Ergel was staring at his whip. One of the lashes was streaked red with blood – Ryan’s blood. The troll stuck out a beefy tongue and licked it clean. Amelia’s words came back to him.
Humans are a major food source on Nocturnia.
“I b’lieves you wants another taste of him, doesn’t ya, Bessie?”
Ergel raised his whip for another lash, when a long shadow blotted the sun.
The cadaverous Simon, dressed in black and seated upon his equally black floating bicycle, loomed over them. He’d traded his top hat for a derby.
“That will be enough, Mister Ergel.” Simon’s voice was deep, almost mellow, and its effect on the troll was instantaneous – he lowered his whip and turned almost as if at military attention.
Sensing the worst was over, Ryan tried to sit up. Blood dripped over his shoulders. The whip had sliced him.
“This brat was needifyin’ of some larnin’, Master Simon…”
Simon’s thin lips twisted in disdain. “He looks like he received his lesson quite well. Isn’t he is one of the new rentals?”
“That he is, sir.”
Simon’s long pale face had been stoical, but now his deep-set eyes narrowed and his jaw tensed in anger. “He won’t be of much use if you maim him, idiot! Or worse. Try to imagine what Falzon would do to you if you ever killed one of his slaves.”
Ergel slumped away from Ryan, holding the whip behind his back, as if hiding it. “Ergel’s sorry, Master Simon. He really is! Won’t happen again, promix!”
Without a word of reply, Simon drew a short pole that hung from his belt like a sword and jabbed it toward Ergel. With a sharp bzzzzt! a blue-white spark arced from its tip and danced across Ergel’s neck and shoulder. The troll bellowed like a stricken beast. He dropped to his knees, bowed his head, as if to receive a second shock.
“Get up, you miserable creature!” said Simon. “Never forget who you work for! Never forget that I own only half these humans. And never forget who owns the rest! Or you’ll be listening to your joints popping loose as you’re stretched on Falzon’s rack!”
Ryan edged away from both of them and
slowly pulled himself to his feet. He was bleeding pretty badly and he felt weak. Up and down the nearby rows, he saw other human slaves daring to look up from their work to see Ergel getting humiliated. Dillon’s face wore a strange, stricken expression while Emma stood with both hands over her mouth.
“He’s bleeding!” she cried. Her words were muffled by her hands but clear enough.
Then, without warning, Simon leaned down and grabbed Ryan’s arm, the one wrapped in his shirt. In a great sweeping motion, he felt himself lifted from the ground and looped around to land on the seat behind Simon’s, facing his long narrow back and bony shoulders.
“Hold on!” said the master. “We need to get that bleeding under control.”
As if sensing a signal that the worst was over for him, Ergel wheeled on the nearby humans. Although cowed by his boss, the troll radiated fury at being shown up in front of the slaves.
Spittle flew angrily from his thick froggy lips as he yelled, “Let that be a lesson to yers! Back to work!”
Ryan saw him take a step toward Emma, who turned and pulled her cart away.
He wanted to signal her – that he was okay, that he’d be back for her somehow – but Simon had wheeled his balloon bike into a tight circle, then accelerated off toward the collection of buildings that formed the central hub of Armagost Farms. Ryan had no choice but to grab the back of the tall, thin man’s coat and hope he would not object.
The bike hung suspended from the elongated football-shaped balloon. A propeller powered by Master Simon’s pedaling moved them forward. He used handlebars to steer like a bike, but the bars angled vanes on the cycle and on the balloon that controlled its altitude and direction. They picked up speed, passing fields of crops and white clapboard outbuildings. The breeze of their passage cooled the throbbing wounds on his back and he wondered how bad it looked.
He also wondered where this creepy guy was taking him. Only one way to find out…
Definitely Not Kansas (Nocturnia Book 1) Page 9