“Okay,” he said. “I give up. How did you do that?”
“I told you,” Dr. Beck said. “They won’t harm us here.”
“Who are you really?” Donald said. “Why do they call you the Truth Bringer?”
“Because I brought them the truth,” Dr. Beck said. “It’s a little difficult for some people to accept. The people down here most of all.”
“I thought I was going to have to fight my way out of here,” Donald said. “A firefight for sure. Instead, you sent them running without firing a single shot and muttering a few words? Are you a wizard?”
“If only,” Dr. Beck said. “Although some of the things I helped create might look like magic to those from the past. If you go back far enough everything looks like magic.”
Who knew what magic the Bugs were now capable of, Dr. Beck thought. The only difference was humanity had developed enough to know magic was not real, even if it did have that appearance.
“Let’s go,” Dr. Beck said, hobbling on his stick.
10.
IT WAS AN odd sight, Donald thought, to see an entire commune built underground. It was safe, to be sure, as few Rages would even notice this place existed. And yet, it wasn’t completely unusual. The City had essentially been built inside a mountain. How much difference was there really between that and the village they were looking at now?
It was deserted. No sign of the people they’d seen earlier. Donald spied a couple of curtains twitch as they walked through the dirt streets. The worktables and benches had been abandoned in short order. There was even a plate of food with a potato missing a mouth-shaped hole. These people were terrified of something.
Out the corner of his eye, he glanced at Dr. Beck. He had to slow down to alter his default walking speed or else risk leaving the old man behind. What was so scary about him?
“These people recognize you,” Donald said. “You’ve been here before.”
“I make it a point of knowing my immediate neighbours,” Dr. Beck said. “You were the leader of a commune. You were good—had to be, what with the things you were forced to deal with out there. You ensured you knew of all the dangerous threats to you and your people?”
“Sure,” Donald said. “But none of them were terrified of me.”
“You give yourself too little credit,” Dr. Beck said. “Any and everyone in your area was afraid of you if you were bigger and stronger than they were. What if you decided to take it into your mind to destroy them? What if you decided you didn’t want to compete for resources with them any longer? What if you wanted to dominate everyone else around you? What then?”
“I would develop good relations so they trusted me and knew I wouldn’t do such a thing,” Donald said. “You didn’t answer my question. What did you do to these people?”
“Their leader is a not a good man,” Dr. Beck said. “They call him the Preacher. He’s selfish, jealous and rules with fear. I told them the truth about him and everything he taught. It was my hope the people would overthrow him and replace him with someone better. I can see they have not.”
“Then how do you know my kids got out of here alive and aren’t dead somewhere?” Donald said.
“Because their prison is empty,” Dr. Beck said. “See?”
He gestured to a small room with bars around the sides and top.
“If they were still here, they would have been placed inside,” Dr. Beck said. “They’re not.”
Donald was not pleased with that answer. The only way to know for sure was to ask the locals. Little chance of them approaching him with the information he needed.
If the mountain will not come to Muhammad. . .
He launched out with a vicious kick at the nearest door. One hinge snapped, the other—barely—managed to hold on. The children inside screamed, hugged by their mother, who backed into the corner. The father stood before them, arms outstretched to protect them.
“Please, don’t harm my family,” he said. “Do whatever you want with me. I will not fight you.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Donald said. “I want to know what happened to the kids you had here not long ago.”
“Kids?” the father said.
“Four of them,” Donald said. “One older boy and three younger ones, around thirteen.”
“Oh, you mean the prisoners,” the father said.
“Where are they?” Donald said.
“They escaped,” the father said. “With a trader from the surface.”
“What trader?” Donald said.
“A girl by the name of Isabelle,” the father said. “We no longer speak of her. She has been banished from here and may never step on our holy ground again.”
“I’m sure that will come as a real blow,” Donald said. “Where did she go?”
“We do not speak of the—” the father said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Donald said, making circle motions with his hand for the man to hurry up. “You must know something about her.”
The man wet his lips. He knew he should not speak more about her but he wanted to protect his family.
“She escaped via the tunnel,” the father said.
His wife hissed at him. The father raised his hand. Let me handle this.
“Then where would she go?” Donald said.
The father shrugged.
“On her usual route of sin,” he said. “Fornicating and murdering the innocent.”
“Sounds like a real charmer,” Donald said. “Not the actions of someone who rescued a bunch of kids from an underground religious cult.”
The father stuck out his chin and looked down his nose at Donald. Donald sighed. He was used to those looks. Every time a travelling menagerie of missionaries came to Mountain’s Peak, it always ended the same. They began polite and humble, preaching their love of their Father and the Holy Lord. It soon turned ugly with aspersions of sin and degradation. Donald forced them to leave, no matter how they cursed. Their interpretation of the doctrine was as dangerous as the Rage virus.
Donald believed in God. He’d been brought up to respect the devout, but there was a line. He would not allow the commune to descend into a sect of faith where the doctrine was more valuable than survival. They’d lost three commune members to the worst travelling group. He wished them well but he could tell from their expressions they did not reflect his wishes. He doubted they would last long. No amount of praying was going to stop a Rage from tearing their throats out. Still, everyone chose their own way. It was not his business how people spent their lives.
“Thank you for your time,” Donald said, turning to leave. “Apologies for the door.”
He ducked his head to fit under the doorframe. Dr. Beck stood before him, hands on his hips.
“Well?” he said. “Learn anything useful?”
“They escaped,” Donald grumbled.
“Huh,” Dr. Beck said. “Who’d have thought.”
“All right, all right,” Donald said. “You don’t need to rub it in. They said a girl, a trader, rescued them. She left via a tunnel. I assume you know where that is?”
Dr. Beck nodded.
“Other than that, he didn’t know where she went,” Donald said.
“I hope your tracking skills are sharp,” Dr. Beck said.
“They are where I’m from,” Donald said. “I won’t be used to the terrain up there.”
They resumed their walk through the peaceful village. So much better when there weren’t other people around.
“What the Preacher here doesn’t understand is that once a brain has been washed it makes it easier for others to replace instilled beliefs,” Dr. Beck said. “Especially when you have the evidence to back up your claims.”
“You’re saying people stopped believing?” Donald said.
“Some did,” Dr. Beck said. “There’s an old story. About a stranger, alone in a part of the world he didn’t know. He’s lost, stumbling through the woods at nighttime. A blind old man comes to help him. Used to these surrou
ndings, he feels his way through the woodland. But when the light comes and dawn breaks, the stranger would be foolish to follow the blind man now. He can see the light and find his own way.
“The old man is religion. It was our first attempt at explaining the mysteries of the universe. It was a poor explanation, mostly because it was the first. Now we have science, and no supernatural explanations are required. I simply informed the people here of the truth. The human mind can recognize the truth from a mile away. They know when something is a lie, even if they choose to believe it anyway.”
11.
DR. BECK led them out of the village and up a short rise. A pair of helmets and crossbows lay in the dirt, discarded. The guards had sought safety back in the village, no doubt. The walk up the incline in the pitch darkness was not pleasant, especially with Dr. Beck straggling behind.
“Can I carry you?” Donald said.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Dr. Beck said, panting from the exertion.
They emerged from the tunnel and into the warm sunshine. Birds, trees, animals, nature.
“This is living,” Donald said. “Not subsisting beneath the earth like some kind of mole.”
He turned to look back at the hole and paused when he saw what had been placed above the entrance. A sign.
CONTAMINATED
KEEP OUT!
Donald turned to Dr. Beck, the question clear from his expression.
“They’re not infected,” Dr. Beck said. “Not with anything physical anyway. Something has clearly touched their minds though.”
“I’ll take the sign down,” Donald said. “If others see this, they won’t enter.”
“Leave it,” Dr. Beck said.
“The people will die,” Donald said.
“This is none of our concern,” Dr. Beck said. “We should pass through this part of the world without making too much of a disturbance. Besides, it might force some of them into the light. Literally as well as figuratively. Starvation might give them the kick up the pants they need to change their course in life.”
Donald considered the statement. Perhaps he was right. He didn’t really know these people. It was best not to get involved.
“So,” Dr. Beck said, clapping his hands together. “Which way now, Tonto?”
“Tonto?” Donald said, not understanding the reference.
“He was a tracker,” Dr. Beck said. “Looked at twigs and leaves and crushed dirt. Show us which direction your kids went.”
Donald did as he suggested and bent down, appraising the cartwheel tracks. They were well-preserved and easy to follow. Down the path, then around in a circle, working their way back to the short rise above the commune entrance.
“They stopped here,” Donald said. “Red paint. Bark stripped from the tree. This is where the sign was made.”
“Hell hath no fury,” Dr. Beck said with a cackle.
The cart the horse was pulling was clearly heavy, and made deep tracks that carved through the soil. It was not hard to follow. But how far would they take them?
“This might be a long trek,” Donald said.
And he was travelling with an old man with a walking stick. This trip could very well take a long time, and Donald had no time to waste.
12.
SUMMER HAD finally cleared the long and windy road of refuse and dead leaves, restocking the clothing winter months had stripped it of.
The sporadic rain was intense, falling in a deluge, often giving mere seconds for Donald and Dr. Beck to find shelter. The curtain of rain halted fast like a stopper had been placed in the end of the leaky tap. The sun came out, the birds ruffling their dampened feathers. Mother nature had her tantrum and gotten the problem out of her system. They waded through the thick treacle-like mud.
In such an environment it was easy to forget Rages were present, wandering nomads with nowhere to go, hungry for a piece of flesh in whatever form it came in. Donald felt good, stronger than he had in a long time. Or perhaps it was his fading memories and he’d forgotten how he felt before. He could have picked up the old man and carried him on his back without slowing at all. Donald was only half-joking when he made the offer to the doctor.
“I’ve used my own two legs for sixty-seven years,” he said. “I don’t intend on using yours anytime soon.”
Donald had laughed. He wasn’t laughing now.
The old man was slow. His walking stick got stuck in the mud every other step and he often struggled to tug his feet out from the thick sludge. Donald spent a great deal of time standing around, waiting for Dr. Beck to catch up.
The worst part was, the doctor actually seemed pleased with himself that he was making good progress. A joke was becoming a very serious suggestion.
“Let me carry you,” Donald said.
“Nope,” Dr. Beck said obstinately.
He simply wouldn’t be goaded. It was beginning to get irritating. Donald’s kids were ahead of them. He didn’t know how far, but it might not have been distant at all. The tracks in the mud were fresh—and that was despite the relentless rain they were having. If he picked up his pace, he could outpace a horse loaded down with a cartful of kids, not to mention the goods the trader no doubt carried.
But there was a problem. The old man.
“My kids are up ahead on this road somewhere,” Donald said. “You’re slowing me down. I can’t keep waiting for you. Either come up with a way to speed up or let me carry you. Those are the options.”
“We’ll catch up to them,” Dr. Beck said. “And we’ll do it in my own sweet time.”
“You in yours, mine in mine,” Donald said. “You’ve made your decision, now I’ve made mine.”
Donald marched ahead at his own fast pace. This time when he got too far ahead, he did not stop or slow down or even look back. He just kept on going. He lengthened his strides and pulled ahead even further. Each stride was at least twice the length of Dr. Beck’s, and he was walking twice as fast.
Donald was a caring and considerate leader—ask any of his commune and they would tell you so. But they would also tell you never to get in Donald’s way. That was never a good idea.
It was something Dr. Beck was beginning to learn.
13.
DR. BECK worked hard to make up the difference, but it was no good. He simply couldn’t match Donald’s pace. By being bullheaded he’d completely lost control of the situation, and it was a situation he was wise to try to maintain.
Dr. Beck looked down and focused on his feet to avoid any twigs, dips in the dirt or anything else that might trip him up. He hopped forward on his bad leg and carried the momentum forward on his good one. He was making good progress. He was certain he could keep up with the younger man at this pace.
He glanced up. Donald had moved even farther ahead. It took him by surprise. His bad foot failed to reach out properly and caught on the edge of a slight dip in the mud, his momentum carrying him forward. He fell to the ground and got a mouthful of leaves and dirt for his trouble.
He spat the taste of nature out and pushed himself up onto his weedy arms. He didn’t know if Donald noticed his fall or not. He certainly hadn’t stopped to check if the old man was all right. He was instead pulling even further ahead.
14.
DONALD HAD indeed heard the old man’s yelp and tail end of his fall as he hit the deck. He paused momentarily, hesitating about heading back to help him but resisted the urge. The old man had to realize he couldn’t get what he wanted all the time. He pressed on.
Donald was curled up in his sleeping bag by the time the old man had finally caught up with him that night. He’d eaten from the food they’d brought with them and set traps in the surrounding forest and made a small fire. He pretended to be asleep when Dr. Beck noisily ate the food Donald had prepared for him and hit the sack.
The next morning, Donald repeated the same procedure. He woke up early, washed and packed his things in his backpack before the old man had even stirred. Donald checked on the traps and found
one had been successful. A young rabbit. He gutted it, skinned it and cooked it over the dying embers of the fire. Not totally heartless, he had once again cooked extra for the old man.
A creature from the forest would likely get to it before he did if he wasn’t careful. Donald cleared his throat and stomped on the ground to rouse the old man, pretending like the cool early morning air was getting to him and he needed to warm up. But the old mule was still fast asleep, dead to the world.
Or maybe he really was dead. . . He wasn’t a spring chicken anymore and the previous day’s exertions would have taken their toll.
Donald approached the old man, making sure to step on every unbroken twig and kick over every rock in an effort to wake him before he reached him. The old man didn’t stir.
“Dr. Beck?” Donald said. “Dr. Beck?”
He prodded the doctor. No response. The old fool had died in the night.
Donald felt such a wave of shame at his own selfishness he could hardly bear it. He stood and ran his hands through his hair. Of course, the old man needed to travel slower than him. Not only was he old, but infirm with his gammy leg. He’d suffered a stroke and needed help with getting around. And what had Donald done? Ignored the old man’s wishes and pushed on ahead without him, leaving him defenseless in a world he didn’t adequately know. Donald shook his head, ashamed of himself.
Then Dr. Beck snorted. His watery eyes squinted, barely able to open.
“Uh?” he said. “Oh. It’s you, Donald.”
Donald stared as if watching a ghost rise from its grave. Dr. Beck stretched, yawned and smacked his lips.
“Sleep well?” he said.
“Fine,” Donald said.
“Is that breakfast?” Dr. Beck said. “Smells delicious.”
After the Fall- The Complete series Box Set Page 45
