Rise of the Scorpion

by Scott McCord

  “Do you expect me to believe Slitters, the scourge of Community, are nothing more than a ragtag group of one hundred and thirty-seven?”

  “I don’t care what you believe, but watch your language. These people are Utugi.”

  “These people are kidnappers!” I blurt.

  Rosie stops chasing the boys, Jack looks up from stirring Mary’s pot, and an older, leathery woman cranes to stare at me with the rest. I look over the ordinary faces regarding me. There is no paint, no piercing, no grotesque scars, no savage standard making them different from the people I’ve been with all my life. If one of them asked about the dangerball season, this place could be easily mistaken for a lesser version of Group 14.

  “That was an accident. Jack and Mary thought they were helping,” Johnathan says.

  I glare at him, but he offers no more explanation than that. I shake my head in disgust and shuffle off to plan my escape.

  Three more days of meat and most of my strength is back. I ask Rosie for a knife to cut my food, and she obliges without a second thought. It’s dull and not much of a weapon, but it will do. I bide my time, waiting for an opportunity to leave.

  §

  Lying in the darkness, I listen to the sleeping camp until the routine of the sentries is burned into my brain. I want to avoid an altercation, so I let the night deepen and slide through a gap in the patrols under the blanket of predawn. They’re not as inept as the slumber guards of Community, but I get by them even so. I disturb nothing and leave no signs, although it won’t be hard to figure out where I’m headed when Johnathan wakes and finds me gone.

  Slitters are different than I thought…not evil…I don’t think…but clever. They said a lot without telling me much of anything. If I hadn’t been so worried about Will, and getting home to make sure he’s okay, I might have stayed to learn more. But murdering Evan in the arena probably has Will in a hole somewhere, or worse, strapped to a culling post, and that’s not something I can let go.

  The trees are friendly, but their silent company gives me no comfort as a sickening dread gnaws at my insides. Every step convinces me further that Will’s been condemned in some horrible way. I have to get back. I have to save him. If it’s bad, I’ll need Tommy…unless he’s arrested too. Damn! I won’t ask Gas for anything. He and Ellie are paired by now, and it’s better if he’s not involved.

  The sun is breaking through the canopy above, and I stop for a sip from my stolen waterskin. I’m more tired than I should be. I work to control my breathing and listen for pursuers. There aren’t any. It won’t be long before I’m home.

  I lift the waterskin to my lips for another drink when something piques my ears. It’s faint, but it’s there—barely within my ability to perceive it. Men, a lot of men, moving my direction, away from Community. I circle off and move in, quieter than before, to see what’s happening.

  Two dozen Scorpions not doing a terrible job of concealing their presence, are in the forest. They’re much better than those idiots who tried to sneak up on us at the practice field. These guys aren’t surveyors, but they’ve been trained well enough. It’s scary—Scorpions this far from Community. They can’t be looking for me…I’ve been gone too long, and they’re not surveying…not with that many men. So what? Why are they out here? I lie quiet, watching, realizing they’re hunting…hunting Slitters. They’ll easily annihilate those pathetic people who kidnapped me, and those they don’t kill, will hang on a culling post…or worse. For my father, it will be worse. I’m not sure I want that. He’s been dead a long time, and he probably should have stayed that way, but I don’t want that. I have to get Will. He’ll come with me, and we’ll figure this whole thing out. I crouch low, allowing the men to approach my position.

  An officer holds up a fist, giving his troops the silent command to halt as he continues forward, alone. He moves in harmony with the trees like he belongs to the woods, and if it weren’t for his black and crimson uniform, he’d be impossible to see. He can almost sense my presence, and it makes me uncomfortable. If I had my bow, I’d finish him before he does too much damage, before he leads his Scorpions too far. Who is he?

  The officer moves through the shadows, listening to the forest. The trees sway, allowing a brief glint of sunshine to light his face. Will! It’s Will. What is he doing? When Will said he wanted to be a Scorpion, I thought he was joking. I was coming back for him…to save him…and here he is training these black and crimson ass-wipes—giving away Dad’s secrets like they belong to him. How in the hell did this happen?

  I ease off and circle away. I’ll find Will later, when he’s alone, and talk some sense into him. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. Will doesn’t know there really are people out here, and if he brings Scorpions in…well…that will be the end of them. They’re not my friends, but something bad is going to happen, something I’m not sure I can live with…at least not yet…not until I know the Slitters deserve what’s coming…not until I know Johnathan, those boys, that old woman, and the annoying girl who wants to take me darting oxies, a little better. The Scorpions get Will, so the Slitters get me…at least for now. Dammit, Will, I’m furious you’re making me do this. You’re turning me into a traitor when all I want is to come home.

  I move out in front of the Scorpions and carve an inverted T with a gouge in the bottom left corner, partly to let Will know I’m okay, and partly asking him to stop—this is my area. I hope he remembers. There’s no time for anything else, I have to get back to Jonathan and the Utugi. I have a lot of questions before I decide if they’re worth helping.

  5

  Will

  It’s weeks after I find the carving, and we’re training again. We do it for days on end. I told Starter the only way to acclimate to the forest is to immerse yourself in it. Talking about surveying or drawing pictures on the floor of your tent won’t do. The woods will teach its secrets, but you have to be present to learn.

  So here we are, among the trees where I’m most at home. I only wish I was with Mim instead of two dozen left-footed Scorpions. Okay, that’s not fair, the men are doing better, but their success belongs more to Tommy than me. I play the role of Scorpion sub-lieutenant very well, ready to chew off anyone’s head for the slightest mistake, but Tommy is more of a coach, a nonmilitary consultant who the men have grown to rely on. He strikes the perfect balance between a dead serious scout and a light-hearted prankster. The men revere him, and without Tommy, there’s no way the squad trailing behind me could have come this far.

  We’re three days out on a four-day training patrol, wandering through our side of Middle Ground when I notice something’s off. I hold up my fist, giving the signal to halt. Tommy relays it to the men, adding the silent order to get low and take cover. They do it in near silence. I’m impressed. Only Gas makes any real noise, but that’s to be expected. He doesn’t join us on maneuvers very often, but Starter was insistent this time, so Gas has been traipsing along, talking too loud and making everyone else look better than they really are.

  Gas’s initial assignment was teaching hand-to-hand, but as it turns out, Gas’s considerable prowess often depends on massive feats of strength. Picking up a giant boulder and throwing it, or pulling an oak tree from the ground to use as a club, are incredibly effective strategies…if you can actually do them. Not one of Gas’s pupils could. With his first assignment a bust, Starter put Gas with a detachment of civilian builders, giving the government a presence in one of the most vital responsibilities of Community. Gas is happy. I’m sure my father is not.

  I motion for Starter to join me on point. He slides up quietly. “What is it?” he whispers.

  “Not sure. Look at that stand of privet and tell me what you see.”

  “Bushes.”

  “Dammit, Captain, I thought you wanted to learn.”

  “Okay, I see green………bushes. What am I supposed to be seeing?”

  I take a breath, letting it out through my nose. I point to the outside edges of the privet. “Th
ere and there, notice the stems. They grow straight up for sunlight, but in the middle the bushes bend slightly to the left and right, opposite directions. It isn’t natural. Do you see?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Something came through here…something big…less than an hour ago.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nod I am.

  “Okay, I’ll have the men fan out and we’ll flank whatever it is.”

  “No, don’t do that. It’s an Ark bear or maybe a giant boar, either way, it’s not a good idea to make it mad, and we certainly don’t want to surround it.”

  “Then what do you suggest?”

  “Let’s keep going. These men are too loud to get the drop on anything. Whatever it is will probably move off ahead of us as long as it gets the opportunity. We’ll give it a wide berth.”

  “All right.” Starter nods. “You have point.”

  I stand, signaling the squad to rise behind me. There’s a heavy shuffle somewhere back in the brush, and I know it’s Gas coming to his feet. All eyes fall on me, wondering what the punishment will be for such an obtrusive noise. This isn’t Gas’s realm, and it never will be. I’m not sure why Starter insisted on bringing him along. I give the sign to move out, and we do, as quietly as we can.

  It’s hard to concentrate, to hear the woods through the rattle of amateurs behind me. For twenty stealthy paces I try to focus, listening so intently that I nearly step in a pile of steaming scat that would cover my leg clear to the knee. “That’s embarrassing…ambushed by bear shit,” I say under my breath. We’re not as far behind the animal as I thought, and judging by the load it left, it’s either twelve feet tall or this is the first dump it’s taken in four months.

  I sigh, smiling to myself before signaling back the area is booby-trapped, and for the squad to follow me exactly, in a spaced, single file line. Later I’ll pretend I led them over the scat as some noble lesson on paying attention, but really, I’m just trying to get the jugheads to step in doo-doo.

  We move in silence for another hour before I raise my fist to halt the group. We’re coming up on a meadow, a natural place to stop. “All right, dookey-feet, you morons too stupid not to step in shit, get to that tree and clean up. I’m tired of smelling your stink. Everybody else, up here with me.”

  “Ha, ha, ha!” Starter’s laugh echoes through the branches as a half-dozen shamed men skulk away from the group. Starter smiles. “Belay that order, dookey-feet. You will not clean yourselves, you will clean the man next to you instead. Make sure there is not a piece of doo-doo on him, or you will all be nose-diving in every pile of dung we pass from here on out.” Starter turns to me. “Sometimes, it has to be about teamwork.”

  “That’s hilarious,” Tommy says, walking up.

  I look over at the world’s most elite fighting force dabbing at each other with leaves, doing their best not to touch poop with their fingers. A ripple of laughter snakes through the more fortunate Scorpions as they gather around me.

  “Take a knee,” I say, and the men do. When they’re settled, I begin making up stuff about the perils of moving from the cover of woods into an open meadow, signs to look for, things to be wary of, and tactical options for crossing an open space. I talk about the expectation of ambush and methods of setting one up. Tommy doesn’t call BS on anything I’m saying, and I’m grateful. He’s the only one who knows I’m just killing time until the dookey-feet rejoin us. When they do, we move into the meadow with bows ready and arrows nocked.

  The grass is ankle deep, there’s a small maple in the middle of the clearing, and a thick stand of bushes with striations of purple growing on the far side.

  “Bear berries,” Tommy whispers.

  We haven’t seen any middle ground markers, and we’re nowhere near the Edge, so I take the men in with unnecessary caution…mostly for drama…just playing the game. Starter motions for a patrol to check the perimeter, only to find we are safe and alone. Tommy waves Gas up and when the all clear sign comes, they both head for the berry bushes.

  “Those things attract all kinds of animals. Keep your nose up, you don’t want to surprise anything bigger than you are,” I call after them.

  “Where are they going?” Starter asks.

  “To get a treat.” I pause, watching Tommy lead Gas across. “You might want to send the rest of the guys with them before those two take everything there is.” I shake my head. “They’ll wait like one pig waits for another.”

  “It’s safe to eat?” Starter asks.

  “It’s great to eat.”

  Starter gives a sharp whistle and waves the squad across the field.

  Tommy and Gas are shoving fistfuls of berries into their mouths, smiling, and making noises of immense satisfaction. Their fingers are stained and their lips are deathly blue, but that doesn’t slow anyone else down. The fruit is sweet and a lot better than the grain we’ve been eating, so we gorge ourselves until every one of us is tight as a tick…except me and Tommy. We know better. Even a benign fruit will give you the squirts if eaten in excess—a lesson my trainees are learning now as they recline in the meadow, moaning uncomfortably, trying not to move until their bloated stomachs recede. Their hiatus is not to last.

  “Everybody on your feet!” Starter barks. The men groan as they push themselves to standing. “I don’t want to hear your belly-aching. Nap time is over, berry-snappers, it’s time to do some work.”

  The squad drags into a shoulder-to-shoulder line as Starter waits. Tommy and I stand alongside him, but Gas, for some reason, joins the line of troops. They look like little boys next to him.

  Starter sighs, drops his head, catching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He rubs his eyes, summoning every molecule of patience. Starter sighs again. “Sub-lieutenant, why are you in formation with the regs?”

  Gas blushes red when he realizes he’s standing on the wrong side. “Uhhh,” he says. I’m afraid he’s about to make a smartass remark, but he doesn’t. He simply steps out of line, does an about-face, and stands next to Tommy. Nobody snickers. Gas is attached to a civilian building group so he’s not used to this military crap.

  “Thank you, sub-lieutenant,” Starter says without looking over. He drapes his arms behind his back to address the men. “Contrary to popular presumption, the cargo bags you have stowed in your gear are not pillowcases. They are not there for you to stuff with leaves to keep your soft heads off the hard ground. Those bags are for retrieval of anything I judge useful for Community. Am I clear?”

  “Yes sir!” the men answer.

  “As much as you pigs have snorted down, there is still ample fruit to be had from these bushes. One man, one sack—fill it, and join me in the meadow. If you are a dookey-foot you will be responsible for filling both the officers’ and the consultant’s bags as well as your own. Do you understand?”

  “Yes sir,” the men respond.

  “Thatcher, do you have the item?”

  The Scorpion I used to know as Twenty-two, the man from the Grand-championship, the player Gas saved in the Lopper pit, takes a hobbled step forward. “I do,” he answers.

  “Give your bag to one of the dookies, and bring it to me. The rest of you men know what to do, so do it!”

  The troops break for their gear, and Thatcher limps off to his.

  “These guys can be the biggest assholes on the planet,” Starter remarks. “It’s good for their humility to pick berries like an urchin from Group 2.”

  Tommy smirks in approval.

  As the men dig through their gear looking for cargo sacks, Tommy, Gas, Starter, and I stroll out to the little maple tree and wait in the skinny shade for Thatcher to join us. He’s slow.

  I gaze over the meadow. The fierce black and crimson warriors moving meticulously through the bushes, carefully plucking and bagging little purple fruit, is like a weird dream.

  “Therapy,” Starter says.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re wondering why
I bring Thatch along when he can hardly walk and makes more noise in the woods than the incredible Gas. So I’m answering before you piss me off by asking.”

  Thatcher starts our way with a dangerball in his hand.

  “He looks better,” Tommy remarks.

  “Better, not well. The tendons on the back of his left leg were bit clean through. There’s nothing to be done. He’ll never heal. He’ll never be what he was. Thatch was one of the fastest, most talented wings I know, but now look at him. He’s nothing but a gimp. If he was civilian, he’d already have a culling post with his name on it.”

  Thatcher skip-limps toward us, grinning, with the ball under his arm.

  “Scorpions don’t go to the Cull?” Gas asks.

  “Have you ever seen one?”

  “No, but until recently I haven’t seen much of anything outside of Group 14.”

  Starter glances at Gas before turning his eyes back to Thatcher. “When Scorpions get old, or injured, or of questionable benefit, we go to Battle-Out, The Body’s favorite event.”

  “Battle-Out? I’ve never heard of it,” Tommy says.

  “I know, you’re a civilian. I’m going to stand for him, but it won’t do any good. Ayden will put Thatch in the Fangs no matter what I say.”

  “The Fangs?”

  Starter shakes his head as he watches his former teammate approach. “Therapy or a long goodbye, either way, I can’t leave him moping around Community.”

  Thatcher limps up and the conversation ends. The formerly great Number Twenty-two hands Starter the ball.

  “Here you go, Cap. Think I can play?”

  “Not today, maybe next time.” Thatcher’s expression sags. “I need you on the perimeter. You see that tree? Do you think you can get yourself up to those middle branches with your bow?”

  Thatch glances to the tree-line surrounding the meadow and nods he can.

  “Good. We’re exposed here, so I need a decent archer with a good vantage to cover us if we have to blow out of here fast. Can you manage?”