Man-Eater

by Griffin Barber

  “Hooah, Major,” the partners chorused, even though neither of them were, or had been, Rangers. The query-and-response had been ubiquitous among the Airborne guys in Mogadishu, and some things spread—and stuck in the head—like herpes.

  The link went dead.

  “I’m still driving,” Chalmers said, rushing around to the driver’s side of the buggy.

  Jackson let Chalmers go, ratcheting the come-along until their packs were held firmly in place.

  Chalmers hopped in and started the little rear-engined vehicle, which came snorting to life.

  Startled by the sudden, angry growl from so close at hand, Jackson banged his head against a roll bar and spat a string of invective at Chalmers in multiple languages.

  “Sorry, man.”

  * * *

  CLARTHU: MISSION DAY 052

  “Sorry, man,” Jackson said.

  “Fuck you,” Chalmers grunted, rubbing his back just above the kidney, knowing he’d have a muzzle-shaped bruise there in the morning.

  Chalmers had stumbled over a prone Ked as he entered the storehouse. Jackson, following too closely, had inadvertently jammed the muzzle of his .45 into his partner’s back.

  Reaching blindly with his left hand for a pulse at Ked’s throat, Chalmers drew his own pistol with his right. Trying to do too many things at once, he failed at all of them. Forcing himself to slow down, he found Ked’s neck and the carotid. A strong pulse pushed against his fingers.

  “Lights,” Chalmers hissed, fumbling with his left hand for the newly manufactured Vietnam-era, L-angle, red-lens flashlight they’d been issued for the mission. He slid the switch to on. If the other Lost Soldiers were as troubled as Chalmers was over using a device manufactured on a fucking asteroid some hundred and more years after the original design was considered completely outdated, they hadn’t shown it. Then again, Li-ion batteries and LEDs were not always better than alkaline and incandescents and second chances didn’t always result in improvement. It was another sign that, regardless of whether it was a second chance, it was fucking weird, this life. Then again, the same could be said for Army life, though there had been more people to look at and shrug in silent commiseration back in the Green Machine.

  Immune to his thoughts, red light illuminated the short hall to the storeroom. Unlike Clarthu’s homes, the storehouse didn’t have a doglegged entrance. Rather, the hallway was broad, probably to facilitate transportation of the harvest in and out of the place. One of the two rough-hewn wood doors at the end of the passage was ajar, a few inches of blackness showing in the opening.

  “Cover,” Chalmers said.

  “Covering.” Jackson modified his stance, the pistol steadied with the hand holding the flashlight. He’d been to the range with some of the Vietnam-era boys, it seemed.

  Chalmers looked down. Ked’s head was damp, slick with blood that looked black under the red light. There wasn’t a pool under his cheek, so he wasn’t bleeding that much.

  “No one got past you, did they?” Chalmers whispered.

  Jackson shook his head.

  “All right. Let’s clear it.”

  “Copy.”

  The pair advanced on the doors, each to one side of the hallway, Chalmers on the side with the door ajar.

  Ked started snoring, the sudden noise shattering the quiet and nearly startling Chalmers into pulling the trigger. He shook his head and, grinding his teeth in frustration, watched the doors as they advanced.

  The doors opened toward them and Chalmers nodded at them as they drew close enough to pull the big wooden handles. Sweat began to prickle his hairline.

  Jackson reached across and pushed the one in front of Chalmers all the way open with his flashlight.

  Gun up, Chalmers rolled in as swiftly and smoothly as he could. A long, empty aisle stretched about twenty yards, ending on a wall. Every third yard an opening yawned on either side of the aisle, each providing access to a bin-like holding area, fronted by a knee-high pony wall.

  Jackson entered and went to the other side, pistol and flashlight up and at the ready.

  Sweat began to roll off Chalmers’ brow and threaten his vision as he sliced the pie to take a look inside the first chamber opposite.

  There were great big—he did a double-take; no, Indiana Jones-sized—baskets stacked two high across the width of the chamber, tight fitting lids in place to defy any monkey that might give away their quarry. He was tempted to shake his head to get rid of the movie image. “Hope this guy brought a sword to a gunfight, too,” Chalmers muttered.

  Jackson’s stifled “What the fuc—?” was interrupted as a figure trailing a fog of grain dust burst from the opening he was covering and ran straight at him.

  The sergeant’s .45 didn’t bang, it BOOMED, straining Chalmers’ already-frayed nerves to the breaking point and just beyond. The warrant officer, never a steely-eyed gunfighter, yelped and flinched, yanking the trigger on his own Beretta. It BOOMED, too. Missing both Jackson and the person rushing him, the fat lead round spanged off the bricks beside Jackson and ricocheted down the corridor with an evil wheet-wheet sound that made Chalmers’ sack draw up.

  Meanwhile, the silhouette rushing Jackson folded and fell into him, wheezing wetly.

  “God damn!” Jackson yelled, shoving the wounded figure back, hard, with the muzzle of his still-smoking gun. The person toppled over onto their back.

  Ignoring the persistent EEeeeeee in his ears, Chalmers steadied his flashlight on the target, saw it was a woman and blinked, wondering where he knew her from.

  “The medic or whatever,” Jackson said, the .45 in his hand rattling loudly as he lowered it. The after-effects of adrenaline were making the weapon—an exact copy of the Vietnam-era .45s carried by some of the older Lost Soldiers—shake.

  Chalmers nodded. It was the healer. The one who’d treated both Kenla and the hetman. She coughed, blood touching her lips, a knife gleaming wetly in her left fist.

  Jackson fell to his knees, then across the woman’s legs.

  “What the hell?” Chalmers grunted.

  * * *

  AUKSKANIS MOUNTAINS: MISSION DAY 051

  Chalmers grunted and slowed the buggy to a crawl as sentries waved to him from a guard post located just below the crest of the pass. They’d been under observation for at least the last ten kilometers, from well-concealed watch posts they only knew of because of the images the SpinDogs had given Murphy and by roving patrols they had caught glimpses of once or twice in the hours it had taken them to come this far.

  A large man, with dreadlocks, a broad, scarred face, and wearing the loose, flowing tunic and pants that seemed something of a uniform for the indigs, came out of a rampart-like arrangement of felled timber, earth, and stone. He barked something that Chalmers lost the meaning of somewhere between the thick accent and missing teeth.

  Chalmers put the buggy in neutral and braked to a stop but kept the motor running.

  Jackson smiled and called back in the same language, “We’re here to see the chief.”

  The man smiled, showing dark spaces where his front teeth should be. “The Kedlakis-Ur waits for you with son and daughter at tent something the something.”

  “Can get this in?” Jackson asked, gesturing at the buggy.

  The guard nodded and said, “I send warrior with you to make sure you not something on something.”

  “Understood,” Jackson said. Chalmers really didn’t want to think how hard his life would be without a good partner. Jackson truly had the gift of tongues.

  “Mayal, you go with something. Guide past the something.”

  A skinny warrior—Chalmers did a quick double-take as he made out the fine features and beardless chin—woman came out of the defenses and eyed the buggy suspiciously.

  Jackson smiled and waved the woman to the back seat, which she promptly climbed into. Chalmers eyed her in the rear-view. The woman named Mayal held herself tightly and didn’t strap in until Jackson leaned back and showed her how to work the th
ree-point restraint. She seemed a lot younger perched nervously in the unfamiliar seat, one of the long-barreled single-shot rifles favored by better-equipped nomads held muzzle-down between her knees. She smelled of nomad, too. A not entirely unpleasant tickling of the nose that fell somewhere between sweat and sage.

  Once she was situated, Chalmers put the buggy into gear and eased past the guard post. About a hundred yards on, the saddle at the top of the pass narrowed to the width of a football field.

  Mayal tapped his right shoulder and pointed to the right.

  Chalmers obeyed, and, after they covered about twenty yards on the new heading, she tapped his other shoulder, pointing to the left. He changed direction, but she tapped him again, directing a harder left.

  “Shit!” Jackson said, looking down.

  “What?” Chalmers asked, taking his foot off the gas.

  “Didn’t you listen to the guard boss?” Jackson spat.

  “I fucking listened, man,” Chalmers answered, mildly angry at lying. “I just couldn’t understand him past the lisp.”

  “Right,” Jackson said, shaking his head and gesturing at the ground to the right, “Pits, man. Covered pits. Big enough to swallow a rider…or us.”

  “Jesus.” Chalmers made sure to drive slowly for the next ten minutes as Mayal guided them through another series of changes of direction. When she relaxed in her seat, he relaxed. By then, though, they’d climbed to the top of the pass and turned up a defile that was only a few feet wider than the buggy.

  They drove out of the shadow of the defile into a larger box canyon, a narrow, side-hugging shelf that descended to the canyon floor, which held the tents of the encampment.

  Chalmers nervously kept the driver’s side wheel next to the wall of the canyon. The last thing he wanted was to go over the edge and down the two hundred yards or so to the floor. He whistled after a moment. What he’d first taken for a scattering of only twenty-odd tents resolved, after a more careful study, into nearly a hundred.

  “This is a freaking town, not a camp,” Jackson said, his eyes on a forge being worked under an awning of one of the larger pavilions, located hard by the spring that had presumably helped carve the network of draws and canyons that made up the territory Chalmers and Jackson had just come through.

  Their engine noise attracted the interest of a great number of the locals, who paused to watch them as Chalmers navigated the narrow track. Some started moving onto the trail head.

  “Major Murphy did say something about the tribal leadership summoning the clans after the beating Moorefield gave the J’Stull.”

  Jackson nodded, but the sergeant didn’t otherwise answer. Chalmers could see the sergeant’s fingers twitching as he kept counting tents.

  “Figure a family a tent, a hundred tents…” Chalmers mused. “What do you figure, one or two military age males per family?”

  “Stop throwing numbers at me. I’m trying to count.”

  Chalmers shut up.

  “Jesus,” Jackson said after another minute. “There’s ninety-six tents in view. Call it at least two hundred, two hundred and fifty, military age people,” Jackson said, hiking a thumb at the woman in the back seat.

  “I wonder how things ended up that way,” Chalmers said. “No religion’s saying it’s a no-no, maybe?”

  “Gotta think it’s more than that,” Jackson said, sounding thoughtful. “They inherited their way of living from the Ktor. And I think the decline in tech was faster and mentally easier to accept than the disintegration of social norms.”

  Chalmers chuckled.

  Jackson shot him a look. “What?”

  “You talk a good game, but I think you had more schooling than you let on,” Chalmers said, navigating the last turn of the trail before reaching the bottom of the canyon.

  “I had occasion to read a lot,” Jackson said, looking sidelong at his partner, “and a library card is free, yo!”

  Chalmers was prevented from talking shit when Mayal pointed at a nearby tent and said, “There.”

  A large number of indigs were already gathered around their destination, with more arriving every moment. The crush of bodies forced Chalmers to slow to a crawl. All ages were represented, though the people were generally thinner and just a little shorter than most 20th Century Americans. Everyone was armed in one way or another, the richest having some form of rifle and smoothbore muskets for the slightly less affluent.

  “Lots of bandoliers filled with shells, almost enough to equip the extras on Blazing Saddles,” Chalmers said nervously. The crowd was parting for them, but slowly, and everyone was eyeballing them like they wanted to cut a flank steak from their bodies.

  “Not that many bandoliers in that flick. You’re thinking Three Amigos, man,” Jackson said, nerves making his voice high.

  “That the one with Chevy Chase?”

  “Yup.”

  “Dammit,” Chalmers said, shaking his head. “I always get them mixed up.”

  “Good way to keep ’em separate is to count n-bombs. Not an n-bomb in Three Amigos, while Blazing Saddles has them all over the place. Then again, that’s ’cause there’s not a single black person in Three Amigos, and Mel’s always interested in punching people in the face with their own racism and bigotry. Love that old bastard.”

  “Probably dead, now, though,” Chalmers said as he parked in front of their destination.

  “Why you gotta be a dick, Chalmers?” Jackson shook his head. “Mel will live forever, man! The 2000 Year Old Man is immortal!”

  “Sorry, Jacks. Guess I’m just not that nice a guy.” He shut the motor down.

  “At least you own it,” Jackson said as a tall woman stepped from the tent. The crowd quieted. Not that they’d been that loud to begin with. The newcomer looked about forty, which meant she was likely in her mid- to early thirties. A nomad’s life wasn’t easy, not even for the wealthy, not unless they were filthy rich, by which point they’d carefully chosen to remain nomads.

  “Who is the chief, again?” Chalmers asked.

  “Not sure Murphy had a name for us, but the guard said Kedlakis-Ur, right?”

  “Awesome.”

  “Just like the regular Army,” Jackson said, grinning.

  Shaking his head, Chalmers concealed his own smile until Jackson wasn’t looking. No use letting Jackson know in just how high a regard Chalmers held the small sergeant.

  * * * * *

  Chapter 7 – Cry Wolf

  CLARTHU: MISSION DAY 052

  Chalmers held the small sergeant in his arms, tears streaming down his face. All he could think was that he’d gotten his only friend in the world killed.

  He was still holding the sergeant when the indigs found them a few minutes after Jackson had shot their healer.

  Their response to the situation was strange: they did not seem angry. Not in the least. They picked up their healer, causing her to cough up a great gout of blood. He thought sure it was her death rattle, but she was mumbling as they carried her from the storehouse. They left him almost alone and feeling entirely desolate. Almost alone because one of the villagers stayed behind. He was a thin-faced guy with a sparse beard and pockmarked cheeks. Chalmers was pretty sure he could take this local easily, even without the Beretta they hadn’t bothered to confiscate. To his surprise, the man knelt and gently disengaged Chalmers’ arms from around his friend.

  The villager surprised the warrant officer once again by grinning at him, eyes laughing.

  “What the fuck you smiling at?” Chalmers hissed. He said it in English, forgetting his debased Ktoran in the moment but trusting that, regardless of language, his tone conveyed his meaning.

  Maddeningly, the man smiled more broadly and said something Chalmers didn’t understand.

  “Fuck you!” Chalmers snarled.

  The bastard snorted and, lifting Jackson’s arm at the elbow, slapped Chalmers in the face with one limp, warm hand.

  Chalmers surged to his knees, spilling his friend to the ground. “You mo
ther—”

  Which is when it dawned on him that Jackson’s limp hand was warm, not cold. And not cooling, either.

  “He’s alive?” Chalmers asked, in English.

  The man grinned wider still and mimed wiping away tears, then laughed at Chalmers.

  “Get your shit together, Warrant,” Chalmers told himself, pressing a shaking hand to the sergeant’s neck. Sure enough, a slow, steady pulse was there.

  “What happened?” Chalmers asked.

  “She gave him the slap of sleep. Like Kedlak,” the other man said, once he’d stopped laughing. The bastard was wiping actual tears away. When Chalmers clearly had no idea what he was talking about, the man pointed a red-ochre stain on the other side of Jackson’s neck from where he’d taken the pulse.

  “Why did Ked have a-a head—bad”—he struggled to find the right word—“a head-hurt then?” Chalmers asked, glad he hadn’t touched the stuff, and angry the man had given no warning.

  A careless shrug. “Hit head when he fell.”

  Chalmers wanted to choke the smirk off the man’s face, not least because he’d been such an unsympathetic witness to his moment—okay, moments—of weakness.

  “When will he wake?”

  Another shrug. “Morning.”

  “Can we wake him up before?”

  “Safer not to. You want help carrying to tent?”

  “Yes, please.”

  They gathered Jackson up. Chalmers stared at Ked as they carried Jackson past, confirming he was still snoring.

  “You put in good word with his sister?” asked the helpful villager.

  “What?”

  “I like her like you like him,” the man said, nodding at the unconscious Jackson slung between them.

  “What?” Chalmers, addled by his evening, simply could not comprehend what he was being told.

  “Man like you,” the man waggled one scarred brow, and said very slowly, “with begroag something juices marking his leg, has hard time looking for love, no? That’s why you let begroag something your leg, to show you are ready for love.”