Emma felt her gorge rise. “The ones in the… sating room? They looked drugged.”
Dillon looked uncomfortable. “Those are known as sheeple. The pluribans modified them so that they’re pretty much brainless animals.”
Emma felt her gorge rise again. “That was why…”
“Why what?”
“When I asked one of them the way out, she just looked at me and made noises.”
“They can’t speak – they’re not smart enough.”
“Oh, God!”
“Think about it: Back home, would you want cows and pigs to talk?”
She thought of Animal Farm, a book on last year’s summer reading list.
“Amelia wasn’t kidding! We are food here!”
“Not as long as you’re useful in other ways. But the sheeple… they exist for one purpose. Very little of them goes to waste. The nossies take the blood, the zombies like the brains and organs, the pluribans occasionally use pieces of them for spare parts, and lycans…” He made a face. “Lycans like them as steaks and chops.”
Through the fog of horror enveloping her, a word floated back to Emma.
“The carvery,” she said.
He gave her a sharp look. “How do you know about that?”
“I heard one of the workers back there mention sending the dead ones to the carvery.”
Dillon pushed a strand of blonde hair from his eye. “There’s a meat-packing plant not far from here.” Her expression must have conveyed her revulsion because he changed the subject. “What’s Humania like?”
“Not like here, I can tell you that.”
“I’m trying to imagine a world run by humans.” He shook his head. “I can’t.”
“Why is it so hard?”
“Because I grew up in a world where we’re such a down-low underclass. Can you imagine a world run by monkeys?”
“Actually, we had a series of movies–”
“Are you having an easy time accepting Nocturnia? Could you have imagined it?”
Shaking her head, she said, “I see what you mean.”
“I imagine Humania as awfully dull.”
“It’s not dull at all!” she said, taking offense.
She remembered all the times she’d been bored with her life. If she ever got back – when she got back – she swore she’d never be bored again.
And she swore something else: If she ever got home she’d tell the world about this place and somehow, some way, she’d return with an army to free the sheeple.
“How can it not be dull?” Dillon was saying. “Just humans, with no nossies, no zombies, no djinni, no Ethereals, no Silent Ones, no–”
“Ethereals? Silent Ones?”
“Ethereals are like a mist. And the Silent Ones – no one’s ever seen one of those, or at least lived to tell about it.”
“Then how do you know they exist?”
He shook his head. “Oh, they exist all right. With what’s been happening lately, anyone who doubted them in the past is now a believer.”
“What’s been happening?”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t know how to begin to explain, and even if I did…” He pointed to a cluster of low buildings ahead. “No time. There’s the farm.” He patted her hand. “I’d hoped to get you a break, instead you wound up seeing awful things.”
A tingle ran up her arm from where he’d touched her. She’d made a friend. And he was cute too.
But why did it have to be happening here? Why couldn’t this be happening at home?
Well, if nothing else, Dillon was proving to be a bright spot in this awful nightmare.
Part Five
Falzon
18
The long, low-slung automobile reminded Ryan of the German staff cars he’d seen in the old movies about World War II. But this one sported an even longer hood, hiding a steam boiler vented through a series of chromed manifold pipes. The car snaked its way along the rural roads, away from Armagost Farm and back toward the Uberall compound.
He’d put his T-shirt on over his bandages. Good thing he hadn’t been wearing it or the whip would have shredded it as well as his skin. He was glad he’d saved it. The one the nurse had offered him was made of something that made burlap feel like silk.
He sat in the back seat next to the spindly Simon whose long limbs seemed to fill the interior. In the front seat, their driver, a young athletic-looking lycan, handled the swales and curves in the road with skill and familiarity. As they sped along, Ryan felt slightly sick to his stomach, but more from stress than any real ailment, and fortunately not enough to provoke any hurling.
No, no… his problem was far simpler. He was upset with himself, angry, actually, that he simply had no filter when it came to talking. He had a real talent for saying way too much, and this time he was afraid he’d taken it too far.
They’d fed him some soup at the infirmary, and for the first time in days he wasn’t famished. But upon entering the car, Ryan had noticed a change in Simon’s demeanor. No longer was the tall man trying to act friendly or helpful. Much the opposite. The guy had clammed up and resumed his usual aspect of staring down his long nose at people and keeping his jaw tight, his lips stretched thin. Ryan seemed to have become invisible to him, and that only served to make things more tense.
He kept thinking about Emma and how every mile separated them farther and farther. Would he ever see her again? How could he have botched things so badly? If somehow he made his way back to her, he promised himself he would be more careful, more quiet.
But even as he was thinking this, he heard himself talking!
“How come you stopped asking me questions?”
Shut up! he told himself. Just stop it!
He couldn’t believe he was doing it again…
Simon looked down at him imperiously. “I have no questions – for the moment, at least. But that will change soon.”
“You mean when we get to the ‘compound’?”
“Precisely.” He frowned at the i>u on Ryan’s shirt. “What does that mean?”
If you can’t figure it out, Ryan thought, I’m not about to tell you.
“Nothing.”
He was getting antsy. The cuts on his back were beginning to itch beneath the bandages. He wanted out of the car; he wanted away from Simon. Being back at the farm would mean he was with his sister and out from under the cold eye of creepy Simon. Even cruel, ugly Ergel might be preferable. At least he knew where he stood with the troll.
Crossing his arms and closing his eyes, Ryan feigned sleep as the car glided through the countryside. No more foot-in-mouth disease for him.
19
Ryan awoke when the car came to a stop. He hadn’t intended to doze, but he’d had so little sleep lately. He opened his eyes to see a pair of tall gates made of heavy latticed steel. Flanking the entrance, high walls of immense stone blocks gave Ryan the impression of a castle or a fortress. It clearly had been built to send a message of power and strength. A guardhouse off to the left held one of those guys in the yellow jumpsuits and goggles, and he was watching them with great intent.
Ryan looked around. The fortress-like structure marked the center of the compound, surrounded by a collection of outbuildings, one of which had housed him and Emma when they’d first been snatched into this awful world.
But this wasn’t where he’d seen Telly.
Just a glimpse, just for an instant, but against all logic, Ryan would bet anything the lanky figure had been his brother.
But how was that possible?
Then again, how was this whole world possible?
The driver had slipped from behind the wheel and stepped around to open the rear door.
“Get out,” said Simon.
Without hesitation, Ryan slid off the couch-like backseat and onto the hardpack driveway. Simon moved behind him like an overly large arachnid and placed a bony hand on his shoulder.
“Open the gates,” said the driver to the guardhouse guy.
> Instantly Ryan heard a grinding of large gears, creaking and groaning as the gates parted and swung inward with awkward hitches and starts.
“We walk from here,” said Simon, nudging Ryan forward.
And walk they did.
Across an open courtyard, through an atrium, then into a maze of intersecting corridors. The spaces were largely devoid of decoration or even furniture, punctuated only by the occasional “Uber” in a yellow one-piece outfit that must have been a uniform of some kind. At first, Ryan tried to keep track of their pathway, but too many turns, and too many interiors that looked exactly the same. Like being in one of those shooter videogames with no guide map on the screen. He had to admit – he was lost within this labyrinth.
Eventually Simon led him into a room where a sickly looking uniformed Uber, with a dime-size area of skull showing through the rot on his forehead, sat behind a large desk.
“A zombie?” Ryan whispered.
Simon smiled, “You’d do well to use their preferred term: necro.”
Stacks of paper and parcels littered the desk’s expansive surface, and the creature did not look happy to be disturbed from whatever task occupied him. He looked down at Ryan with a mixture of contempt and revulsion.
“This better be good, Simon… bringing that… that thing in here.”
Simon did not appear cowed by the zombie’s manner. Instead, he dared a thin-lipped grin. “Oh, it’s quite good. Or depending on how you look at it – quite bad.”
“Stop with your word-games.” The zombie splayed his hand on the desktop as he leaned forward. “Out with it.”
“We may have a spy in our midst – a human spy.”
A spike of guilt, as sharp and cold as an icepick, shivered through Ryan. He knew what was coming next as Simon smacked him on the shoulder. “This one has an older brother. And he says he’s here.”
The zombie's normal, ashen complexion seemed to grow paler. “What? A human spy? How? For what?”
“I only said I saw someone who looked like him!” Ryan blurted. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing.”
“Perhaps,” Simon said. “We will need to verify it, of course.”
“Of course!” The zombie rose from his desk, began to pace behind it, then turned to Simon. “Does… Falzon know?”
“Not yet, but you must tell him as soon as possible.”
“He…he’s not going to be happy.”
“Perhaps not, but he will be much unhappier if the spy is found and he learns no one told him.”
The zombie appeared a bit distracted. “‘Unhappy’ does not come close.”
“Where is Falzon now?”
“In his chamber. But he was preparing to leave this evening. For the Commonwealth.”
“I am thinking he may have a change of plans,” said Simon. “And I would suggest you get word to him as soon as possible.”
“You telling me how to do my job?”
Simon shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The necro’s shoulders slumped as he headed for the door. “Wait here until Falzon summons you.”
Ryan was upset and scared but he folded his arms and tried to hide it as he looked around the cluttered, unorganized office. He wondered if such general disarray was part of the zombie culture. It made sense – if your own body was half-falling apart, it might seem pointless to keep the rest of your surroundings in the best of shape.
He glanced up at Simon, who still wore his black Derby – an improvement over his combed-over dome. Right at that moment he felt nothing but disgust for the thin man.
“So much for all your concern for my family, huh?”
“Sarcasm at a time like this… you have nerve, boy, I give you that, at least.”
“Why’re you doing this to me?”
“I owe you nothing.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that.”
Simon chuckled. “Have you ever seen a rakshasa?”
“I’ve never even heard of one.”
“They’re fanged, flesh-eating demons. Very powerful and extremely short-tempered.”
“So?”
The door opened then and the zombie leaned in. “Falzon. Now.”
Simon said, “You’re about to meet one.”
20
“I don’t understand it.”
Dr. Manfred T. Koertig despised not understanding something, anything, for that matter. Some said that attitude was a failing of his race. He quite disagreed. The hunger to know rather than merely suppose or believe made pluribans like himself the great innovators of Nocturnia.
A pair of unknowns plagued him at the moment. The first was his suspicion that the portal to Humania was being activated without his presence or knowledge. He didn’t know when or how – since only he knew the combinations that would allow it to operate – but he suspected it was being opened in secret. For what purpose, he couldn’t imagine. But the bigger mystery was how someone could bypass his controls.
Of course, he might be wrong. After all, he had no solid proof that it had been opened at all.
The second unknown was more concrete: He had witnessed it himself.
He sat before the cardonite detector and stared at its exposed innards. The tubing and circuitry were all in order. He could find no fault in the siren connections that would have caused that false alarm two days ago.
“Perhaps there is no understanding,” said his lycan assistant, Trant.
Manfred gave him what he intended as a withering look. “With sufficient data there is always understanding. In this case we lack sufficient data.”
Manfred removed his pincer forearm – always handy when he needed to work in confined spaces – and reached for a more conventional model.
“Maybe it just…happened.”
Bottling a surge of fury, Manfred restrained himself from smashing Trant in the face with the forearm.
“Nothing ‘just happens,’ you witless wolfling – nothing! There is always a reason, always an explanation.”
He attached the forearm, flexed the fingers, then closed the inspection port.
“I installed this to detect cardonite in the recovery chamber, to make sure none of it ever came over with the rescuees. It howls when it detects cardonite. It howled when we brought those two kids over, therefore it must have detected cardonite.”
“Maybe there were some traces in the tornado debris,” Trant said. “Couldn’t it have been blown through, then sucked back out by the vortex? We had trouble closing the gateway, remember?”
Koertig considered this. “A good thought, but it doesn’t fit the facts. The alarm was triggered after we closed the gateway – remember?”
Trant scratched his head with a furry-palmed hand. “Oh, right.” He suddenly brightened. “Maybe it malfunctioned and reacted to something other than cardonite – something like cardonite!”
“There is nothing like cardonite on Nocturnia or anywhere else. But it is possible the detector’s proximity to the gateway generator has altered its settings, making it sensitive to something else besides cardonite.” Manfred pointed to the door. “Go get the cardonite sample.”
Trant swallowed. “M-m-me?”
“Yes, y-y-you. Don’t worry. It won’t bite you. You can drop its container from a rooftop without damaging it.”
Looking like a nossie who’d been told he had to run through sunlight, Trant hurried off.
When he was gone Manfred rose and stepped to the large pane of glass that overlooked the recovery chamber. Staring through it, he reran the events of that day through his head.
The previewing had indicated the coordinates of two people, a man and a woman, who were destined to die in that tornado. He’d guided the gateway to arrive at those coordinates at exactly one minute before the winds would rip the life from them. Everything had worked perfectly except the rescuees turned out to be children instead of adults. That in itself was an anomaly that merited some study, but it could not have been the cause of anything concerning cardonite.
But even so, he would not have given the incident much further thought, relegating it to the status of a curiosity, if not for that damned alarm.
Those kids had triggered the cardonite alarm, he was sure of it. But when he’d rescanned them… nothing.
Again, if the alarm had been a response to anything but cardonite, it wouldn’t matter. But cardonite mattered. Enough of it exposed to the atmosphere of Nocturnia would prove catastrophic, igniting a cataclysm of unimaginable proportions.
The end of life as we know it – such a tired cliché, but not in this case. Where cardonite was concerned, it was a grim reality.
Two anomalies, somehow connected: instead of an adult human couple, a pair of sibling children were rescued, closely followed by the sounding of the cardonite alarm.
Those children… something not right about them, something disturbing he couldn’t put his finger on. He wished Falzon hadn’t leased them out so quickly. He would have liked to examine them more closely, experiment on them.
Manfred also admitted to a vague feeling the situation had been manipulated – that he was being manipulated – but couldn’t imagine how. And this in itself was an oddity because Manfred was not the type to pay attention such frummery as “feelings” or “vibes” or any other mystical sensations. It went against all his training to give in to such a scientifically unfounded speculation. After all, who had the intellect and wherewithal to manipulate him or the mechanics of this sort of thing?
The only man ever even remotely capable was long dead.
He heard noise below and saw Trant entering the recovery chamber, gingerly wheeling a heavily riveted steel cube on a dolly. It contained a pinhead-size nugget of cardonite, the last cardonite on Nocturnia. As Manfred pulled on heavy leather gloves and grabbed a pair of cobalt-tinted goggles, he spoke into the microphone.
“Come up here Trant and watch the equipment while I’m down there.”
A minute later their positions were reversed. Manfred pressed six of the rivets in the top of the steel box, then lowered the goggles over his eyes. Taking a breath he raised the cover a millimeter for a millisecond during which blue light flashed across the chamber, then pressed it closed again.
Definitely Not Kansas (Nocturnia Book 1) Page 12