By the Feet of Men

by Grant Price

  ‘La Talpa,’ said the woman.

  ‘What now?’ he croaked.

  Before she could answer, the door nearest to the desert truck opened and a pallid man with an elaborate moustache emerged. Dressed in a smart white uniform with a grey cape, the crew visibly stiffened at the sight of him. He was followed by four men in grey overalls bearing a stretcher between them. The man in white spoke quickly to the crew and then turned to Ghazi. His movements were precise and authoritative.

  ‘I understand you have a wounded man,’ he said in a lilting accent.

  ‘In the back of the truck.’

  The uniformed man clicked his fingers and the four-man team went to Warspite’s tailgate and dropped the hatch. Two jumped inside with the stretcher, and seconds later a prone form was hauled from the truck. As the stretcher passed between the great wheels, Cassady’s hand shot out and grabbed Ghazi’s wrist. The uniformed man clicked his fingers once more and the stretcher bearers stopped. With a superhuman effort, Cassady lifted his head and stared at Ghazi with frantic eyes.

  ‘Did we make it?’

  ‘We made it, Cass.’ He gripped the other man’s arm and used a sleeve to wipe the sweat from his brow. ‘Lie down now.’

  Cassady looked desperate. His lips twitched and his breathing became rapid. The men in the grey overalls stood impassively, waiting to take him away.

  ‘We failed them,’ he whispered.

  ‘Don’t think about that now. Be calm.’

  ‘No.’ He tried to grab Ghazi by the collar, but it was too much effort. He began to slip below the surface once more. His eyes closed and his breathing slowed.

  The uniformed man nodded, and the stretcher bearers disappeared through one of the doors, which slammed shut after them.

  Ghazi composed himself and addressed the authority figure. ‘Where are you taking him?’

  ‘To our medical wing. He will receive the best treatment possible.’

  ‘I want to go with him.’

  ‘As you wish,’ said the man in his lilting accent. ‘May we take the cargo from your vehicle?’

  ‘Do what you want with it.’

  ‘Then please follow me.’ He issued a flurry of instructions to the crew. The young woman with the scarred face turned a pair of pained eyes onto Ghazi.

  ‘Thank you for what you have done.’

  He could only nod his head, too empty to do anything more. The uniformed man entered a code on a panel beside one of the metal doors and it slid open to reveal a narrow, twisting corridor hewn into the rock, its walls and ceiling supported by a network of metal beams and steel wire. The floor looked to be made of a dull plastic mesh. As they walked, it sloped gradually downwards. The sound of their footsteps ricocheted off the rough walls. The stretcher bearers were a few paces ahead. One of Cassady’s arms slipped out from the side of the stretcher and bounced up and down with the forward momentum until a bearer gently lifted it back onto the board.

  ‘This is a miracle, you know,’ said the uniformed man. ‘We had given up hope.’

  Ghazi said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood for miracles. The passage branched off into other corridors, some of which ended abruptly in sealed metal doors, others which curled away into the rock. For all he knew, La Talpa could stretch for tens of kilometres under the baked earth. It certainly seemed that way. Their small party continued straight on, following lamps wired together along the ceiling.

  ‘My name is Omero,’ said the man. ‘I am the coordinator of the facility. You were sent by the four riders?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Are they still alive?’

  ‘Only Lupo. At least he was when we left him.’

  ‘Such a waste,’ muttered the coordinator, and ran two fingers across his moustache. ‘Please, what is your name?’

  ‘Ghazi.’

  He gestured. ‘And the man on the stretcher?’

  ‘Cassady. We lost another seven good men and women getting here.’

  Omero took his arm and they stopped in the middle of the corridor. His cape flowed like water behind his shoulders. ‘I am sorry. Truly I am. And I speak on behalf of the entire community here. For a long time we did not want to ask for help for fear that something like this would happen. Yet these are the decisions we make. I do not expect you to take comfort from it, but their deaths were not in vain. I promise you.’

  They started walking again. The coordinator’s words rang in Ghazi’s ears. There was something the man wasn’t telling him, but his mind was slow and he couldn’t work out what it was. He was a memory of his former self. His bones cracked and his eyes slapped together in sticky exhaustion and his skin was oily with dirt and sweat. He stank of the road. Only when he’d dug his way out of that hole would he be able to look around and see the situation for what it truly was.

  Colour-coded people passed them at intervals. Some kept their eyes to the floor, while others threw quizzical glances at the unconscious form in the stretcher and then at the grizzled man walking next to one of La Talpa’s most important figures. Finally, the stretcher team halted outside a thick metal door with a red painted stripe across its midsection. One of the men typed a code on a panel set into the wall.

  ‘The medical wing,’ said Omero mildly.

  The door opened. The medical wing was a large, cave-like space with air that was much cooler than outside, processed by a large, sleek conditioning unit that whirred rhythmically. Three women and a man in bold blue tunics buzzed around the wing, not yet acknowledging the presence of the new arrivals. Cots stood like a dull row of teeth protruding from the rock. Four were occupied. Two men and two women, all with their eyes open, all lying still. Equipment had been pulled close to these cots, giving each patient their own artificial audience.

  Omero cleared his throat. Now the staff in the blue tunics noticed the small party clustered by the entrance. One of the men directed the stretcher bearers to a corner of the room distant from the other patients, and they deposited Cassady on a cot. All four medical staff clustered around the stricken Runner, removing his clothes and hooking him up to IV drips and attending to his head wound. Ghazi stood back while they worked, leaning against the rock and closing his eyes against the dizziness that washed over him.

  ‘Please,’ came the lilting voice. Ghazi stirred. Omero stood in front of him, gesturing towards the four patients on their cots. ‘I wish to show you why you came here.’

  He approached with some hesitation. The patient closest was female. She wore a light shift across her midriff, but was otherwise naked. Her head was propped up on an uncomfortable pillow. Dark blue bruises covered her neck, arms and chest. Speckled green eyes watched as he came closer, and he stared back, feeling an echo of the pain she was surely in. Her lips pressed together, but she did not speak. Omero hovered at his shoulder.

  ‘Don’t worry. You won’t be affected once we synthesise the serum. And the chances of contagion are low anyway.’ He paused. ‘Albeit not low enough.’

  ‘She’s awake.’

  ‘Yes. Insomnia is the earliest symptom of the disease.’

  A vague memory stirred at the back of Ghazi’s mind. ‘Lupo mentioned something about that.’

  ‘This patient is at stage two. Localised bruising around the sternum and on the upper arms. This is followed by internal bleeding. Then expiry.’

  Ghazi looked down at the suffering woman and suppressed his fear and sadness. ‘How many people have you lost?’ he whispered.

  ‘More than I care to think about at this moment.’

  A wrinkle broke the placid surface of the woman’s forehead and her eyes closed for a moment.

  ‘She’s hurting.’

  ‘Yes. But thanks to you, she will survive. All of these patients will.’

  ‘Will the supplies be enough for everyone here?’

  ‘Your vehicle was full?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Then I believe so. It takes only a small amount to counteract the symptoms and inoculate an individual from
contracting the disease in the first place. We simply did not have the supplies we needed, and we paid the price for it. Until now, it has been a lottery. We wake up in fear, wondering if today is finally the day when the sleeplessness sets in and the small bruises appear on the arms and legs. Each night spent without waking is another victory, yet each morning looking out onto an empty desert makes us more and more certain we have been left to our fate. You cannot imagine how it has been, being held hostage by an invisible enemy. But now you are here. We are hostages no longer. And though we have suffered terrible losses, we shall rebuild.’

  There it was again. Rebuild, recover. Ghazi pushed it to the back of his mind, instead heading over to where Cassady was being treated for a nasty injury on his arm that Ghazi hadn’t even been aware of. The Runner was virtually unrecognisable under the beard and the dirt. Thin and frail, with sunken eyes and skin burned red by the sun.

  Omero consulted one of the medical staff who was busy sealing Cassady’s clothes in a bag. While he waited for the verdict, Ghazi took Cassady’s hand and squeezed it. The mismatched eyes didn’t flicker.

  ‘He has been sedated,’ said the coordinator. ‘He is lucky. The injury to his head is infected but is not yet bad, they tell me. It will take some time to heal. His arm will be fine once it has been cleaned. He also has a problem with his respiratory system. It has taken quite a beating and now his trachea is bruised and bleeding. Antibiotics should clear it up. With a steady course of fluids and nutrients, he should be out of bed in two or three weeks.’

  Ghazi didn’t take his eyes from his friend. ‘He’ll be okay?’ he asked, hearing the disbelief in his own voice.

  ‘Yes.’

  The last of his strength left him, and he grabbed the cot as his legs buckled. Omero reached out and held him under the arm with a muscular grip. The medical staff turned, alarmed, but Ghazi shook his head.

  ‘I’m okay. I just need to rest.’

  ‘You’re sure?’ asked Omero, still holding him. ‘Please allow our personnel to look you over.’

  ‘Later.’ He pushed himself upright once more and let go of the cot. Omero released him. ‘If you take me back to my vehicle, I can rest there.’

  Omero issued a command to one of the staff. The man approached with a device in his hand.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Ghazi.

  ‘It’ll take a blood sample. If we do this now, we’ll be able to see what your body needs and have it ready for later.’

  Ghazi rolled up his sleeve and the man pressed the device to his arm. The circular end was cold against his skin. He felt a pinprick of pain, and then the man pulled the device away.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’ Omero directed Ghazi to the exit. ‘Please follow me. We have a room for you. I believe it may be more comfortable than your vehicle.’

  Ghazi took a last look at Cassady before following the coordinator back into the corridor. After a few hundred metres they left the main atrium and took a narrow, curving tunnel that had a series of identical metal doors on both sides. Each door had a number near its centre.

  ‘Sleeping quarters for this section,’ explained Omero. ‘For the medical staff and our food growers, mainly.’ His cape swirled around his legs. ‘Several are empty now,’ he added.

  One of the doors stood open, revealing an empty room within. Omero marched inside without ceremony.

  ‘These are your quarters,’ he said. ‘Somewhat basic, but perhaps more luxurious than what you have been used to.’

  Ghazi hesitated at the door, unwilling to touch anything for fear he would contaminate it. Everything was pristine. A wide sleeping cot was set up against the far wall and looked more comfortable than anything he’d ever slept in. Warm light poured from a thin strip in the ceiling, adding to his drowsiness. A separate cylindrical cubicle sat against another wall, perhaps a shower of some kind, and there was a basic toilet next to it.

  Omero strode over to a metal locker by the head of the sleeping cot and flung its doors open. A handful of coloured tunics and robes hung from hooks inside.

  ‘You will find clothing in here. Wear whatever you wish. We will wash your clothes in the meantime.’

  Ghazi stumbled into the room. A terrible pressure was growing in the back of his head. His legs were in danger of giving way again. Omero frowned, noticing his discomfort, and went to a small rectangular cabinet built into the rock on the opposite side of the room. He opened it to reveal two shelves loaded with drinks and concentrated bars of food. He handed Ghazi a long, thin bottle similar to the one the scarred woman in the desert truck had given him, and the Runner drank from it. Almost immediately, the pressure in his head receded. His legs found new strength.

  ‘Drink one of these every hour. And eat as much as you need to. You will still need to be examined by the medical personnel. When you’re ready, of course.’

  Ghazi managed a small smile. ‘I hope this food is better than the pills Lupo gave us.’

  Omero frowned again. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They worked fine for a few days, but after that they did nothing for our hunger.’

  ‘I must apologise. The pills only have an effective life of a few weeks. By the time Lupo made it to you, they would have been close to expiry. After that they are quite useless unless they are re-synthesised. And it is only possible to do so here.’

  ‘In other words, the old man played us.’

  ‘He was desperate.’

  Ghazi waved the excuse away. ‘I don’t hold any grudges.’

  The coordinator bowed slightly. ‘I must let you rest.’ He pointed to the control panel next to the door. ‘Press this button if you need anything. I will attend you in person.’

  ‘Just let me know if anything happens to Cassady.’

  Omero paused on the threshold, clasping his hands together. ‘Please feel at ease here. You are among friends.’

  The door hissed shut. Ghazi eased off his boots and his fetid clothes and left them in a heap by the door. He staggered into the small cubicle in the corner. Concealed nozzles blasted cold green water at him from eight directions at once, and when the cycle stopped he felt cleaner than he ever had before. Naked, he went to the cot and collapsed onto it. He was asleep before the first drips had fallen onto the foam.

  A low chime roused him. He didn’t know how long he’d been out, but already he felt a good deal better. The light set in the ceiling became brighter and a screen next to the door switched on to reveal a cluster of faces in black and white. Controlling the fear that bloomed in his chest, he took a plain robe from the locker and shrugged it on before opening the door.

  Omero, stood at the head of the group.

  ‘Is it Cassady?’ Ghazi asked immediately.

  ‘No. Your friend is stable. We wish to speak to you about something else. May we enter?’

  Ghazi stepped aside. Two men and two women wearing identical blue tunics with gold braid on the shoulders followed Omero into the room. The last member of the group was an older woman dressed in flowing white robes. Silver hair cascaded down her back. Sharp lines were etched into her forehead and around her eyes. She could have been a sister of Katarina.

  ‘I hope these quarters are sufficient. Are you rested?’ asked Omero.

  Ghazi nodded, unwilling to engage in small talk.

  The coordinator took the hint. ‘I will get to the point.’ He gestured at the men and women accompanying him. ‘These are our most senior scientists. They are the driving force behind this facility.’ He nodded at the woman in white. ‘This is Isa, our lead scientist. She is responsible for continuing the work on the machine that was started by others.’

  The woman bowed. ‘You have our gratitude for what you have done, Ghazi.’ Her accent was strong, but there was steel in her voice. ‘The people here were ready to give up. We have suffered many losses since the four riders departed from La Talpa. Your arrival with the medicine has given them hope again. Already the mood here has changed.’


  Ghazi nodded. He thought he knew what was coming.

  ‘Some of the council do not agree with me, but I do not wish to keep any secrets from you, which is why you should know our previous lead scientist died three days ago. He was unable to fight the disease any longer. We learned what we could while we had the time, but his genius sadly died with him.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘The situation is complex. The machine is at an advanced stage, but it is not yet ready. Our work now will involve finding the answers to the final questions standing between us and its operation. Now that our survival here is assured, we are confident we will be able to do so over the coming months and years.’

  Ghazi swallowed. So they had been too late. She watched his reaction. ‘The sacrifice of your companions will not be in vain. I promise that. La Talpa has been saved because of you. And one day we will use our technology to save humanity.’

  She took a step towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘Rest now,’ she said. ‘There will be time enough to discuss this.’

  The coordinator ran a finger over his moustache. ‘I will come by again later.’ He opened the door, waited as the blue-uniformed scientists filed out, and then followed.

  On her way out, Isa took something from a pocket in her robe and placed it on the table. ‘When we analysed your blood, we found traces of something we did not expect,’ she said. ‘I thought you might want this.’ She strode out of the room and the door slid closed with a cough.

  Sitting on the table was a small metal box with no markings on it. Ghazi hesitated for a moment before picking it up. He turned it over between cracked hands, and the light collected on its surface. The scientist’s words filled him with a dull uneasiness. Open it. It can’t be worse than what you endured in the desert. And if it is, then you’ll deal with it.

  He moved to the cot and flipped the box open. Inside was a match tipped with blue and a single fragile paper stick. Copper shreds poked out of the end and they trembled when he breathed on them. He brought the stick to his nostrils and inhaled. A sweet scent he thought he’d forgotten made him gasp. His disbelieving eyes devoured the filter and the discoloured paper and the plug of cured leaves until he could taste the memory that had lain dormant for so many years. He reached over for the mug of water beside the cot and drank slowly until his lips and mouth were moist. Then, with trembling fingers, he pushed the stick between his lips. For a long moment he didn’t move. He simply savoured the presence of the tobacco, dry, unlit, waiting for him to choose when to fire it and inhale the beautiful silky smoke. Sitting on the cot, he looked around the room, noting how the rock’s sharp edges had been rubbed down to form a mottled wall, how the wires for the lighting and the door mechanism were on display, how the smooth air conditioning unit left the room feeling filtered and unnatural. And already he wanted to be away from this subterranean base in the desert. It was not his world. He had done his part to preserve it, for all the good that had done, but he did not belong. Static, surrounded by rock, subject to the rules of a community of men and women working to unlock the secrets of the world and then use technology to control them. No, he belonged with Warspite. Out there, in the dirt and mud, where the real struggles were happening.