When they neared the edge of the forest a tremendous explosion of color came from both sides of the field. This was the agreed upon sign the two shamans used to signal the end of the conflict. Neither had participated beyond the charms of courage and blessings given to the warriors while they still lay asleep the night before. Both bands of combatants separated and formed ranks facing each other as they backed away. Although it seemed much longer to Marik, the battle had lasted less than five minutes.
As he regained his own senses, the warriors of both tribes stood yelling and gesturing towards each other as they exhausted their unsatisfied battle lust. Marik looked around at the remaining warriors to see if anyone was missing and noticed a young man named Juko was not with the rest. Juko was a tall teenager nearing manhood who had bullied Marik in the past, but he had been respected by his elders as a hard working future leader of the tribe.
Lying in the middle of the field were two broken bodies lying face down. Marik was surprised to find he could not tell if either of the two were Juko. Both bodies simply looked limp and ruined.
As tradition demanded, the men on both sides who were considered the heroes of the battle were called to the front to be recognized as such by both tribes. Marik’s father pulled up the recovering prisoner by the arms into a standing position. He then gestured to Marik to follow him.
Marik’s father leaned down and put an arm on his son’s shoulder. “You were just as responsible as I was for the capture of this prisoner. I am proud of you. Join me to receive your deserved praise.”
Marik beamed as he followed his father to the middle of the clearing a bit ahead of the other warriors of his tribe. The prisoner was walking now and being dragged forlornly, without resistance. Waiting there was an elder named Birani. Marik guessed Birani had killed one of the warriors lying in the middle of the field. Marik also noticed a warrior from the other side step forward to receive praises for his part in the battle.
Both sides cheered their heroes and Marik realized they had won the battle and he had been selected as a champion. His status as a man was firmly established and the smile on his face threatened to split it in two. He looked back as men he had admired his entire life celebrated exuberantly in honor of his achievement.
Marik’s father stood straight and proud showing off the prisoner to the cheering kinsman. His hand still rested comfortingly on Marik’s shoulder.
A loud crack suddenly exploded above all of the noise. The open field quickly became deathly silent. Marik had never heard a gunshot before, nor had anyone in his tribe ever even seen a gun. He was completely baffled when his father’s hand came off of his shoulder. This man he respected and revered collapsed slowly to his knees, then twisting, fell on his back to the ground. The warrior’s eyes died as his son watched in stunned silence.
Marik looked uncomprehending at the large red hole which now existed in the middle of his father’s chest.
~ Chapter V ~
Birani, the other champion, was first to react. He grabbed Marik’s wrist and the rope tied to the prisoner and started dragging them both towards the forest. Marik stumbled along behind Birani, unable to take his eyes from the prone figure of his father. The prisoner continued to docilely follow where led. The other warriors quickly turned and bolted at this awesome sorcery which had struck down a member of their tribe out of nowhere. Even Tanis was visibly shaken and quickly backed into the forest while casting charms of protection around his fleeing kinsman.
Birani pulled his charges behind a large tree and looked apprehensively back towards the field. Some of the other braver warriors stopped as well, while many of the young men continued to bolt. Marik walked away from the tree’s protection and stood forlornly like a statue. He was still unable to believe his father’s body was lying motionless within sight less than forty feet away.
Marik noticed a scuffle at the other end of the large field. Three warriors emerged dragging a fourth man struggling with every ounce of strength in his body. The other tribe’s shaman was walking ahead of the group carrying a shorter staff unlike any they had ever seen.
The group of five stopped in the middle of the field where the two shaman had first met. The dead warriors from the battle lay within feet of the small group on each side. The struggling man was pinned to the ground by the others and there was trussed with hands and feet pulled behind him and roped together. He continued to struggle and scream, but was going nowhere.
Tanis stepped timidly out of his hiding spot, wide eyed and wary. He stared into the field with a fearful mask of a face. After a moment he visibly shuddered, as if shaking off unseen demons, and the outward anxiety was replaced once again by his usual confident indifference.
Tanis signaled to some of the remaining members of the tribe to accompany him and headed out towards the middle of the field. As Birani walked by, he clapped Marik roughly on the shoulder.
“Come. If you are bold now you can take your father’s place,” Birani told him before walking away towards Tanis.
The boy was still too stunned by the day’s events to follow boldly, but he had been trained to obey his elders and walked forward automatically.
The shaman walked at a slow enough pace where the others were able to catch up to him. When the group reached the middle of the field, they stopped just shy of the enemy.
Tanis asked in a commanding voice, “what is the meaning of this… this witchcraft?”
The other shaman spoke with a voice like the deep rumble of the earth shaking. “One of our young men, the one you see tied before you now, left us to see the others beyond the forest. When he returned he brought this weapon back,” he raised the metal staff in his hand, “and claimed he could win this battle for us. I forbid him to bring this weapon into the field.”
He paused a moment and placed the weapon on the ground at the feet of Tanis.
“After watching his father’s capture, this young man disobeyed me and decided to use the new weapon to show me its power and avenge his father. In an effort to return the balance, I offer you the young man and his weapon. Do with them what you will.”
Tanis eyed the weapon at his feet without expression. “It is not enough,” he exclaimed loudly. “The life of a young and stupid child does not make up for the loss of one of our best warriors.”
“The weapon is yours also.”
“What good is a weapon we do not know how to use? I would rather have a sturdy staff,” Tanis spat.
The other shaman looked up sadly and said, “then do what you must. We are your dogs until balance is restored.”
Tanis replied, “I must meet with my tribe. I will send a man to you with our answer. Please leave now.”
The other tribe turned and slumped with heads down towards their side of the field leaving the young man tied behind them. When they had disappeared into the think foliage, Tanis picked up the long rifle. He held it as he would a staff with the end of the barrel stuck down into the dirt near his feet.
“Bring the prisoners and meet at camp,” he said to the men around him.
He turned and started walking quickly away.
The younger prisoner was still uncontrollable, so Birani made the decision to carry him back as they would a dead animal. A long sturdy branch was found and the prisoner’s wrists and ankles were lashed to it. Two warriors in front and two behind carried the prisoner between them. Birani followed this group leading the older prisoner by a rope tied around the large man’s neck.
Dangling underneath the branch, the young man soon started screaming for a different reason. The constant rocking against the rough branch soon left his forearms and legs raw and bleeding. Each movement became agony and blood started flowing in rivers down his arms and legs and falling in large bright red drops. By the time they reached the camp he was unconscious.
~ Chapter VI ~
Trinty, the captured warrior, was securely bound hand to foot. He was sitting upright agai
nst the substantial center support of a hut built entirely of sturdy bamboo poles. His son sat similarly secured facing the opposite direction. A single pleated rope went around the pole and each of their necks choking them both if either leaned forward. Near the entrance to the hut sat the boy responsible for his capture, whose father had been killed. The boy sat with his head hung low and had not uttered a word.
As an experienced warrior he was resigned to his fate. He had seen the ritualistic celebrations his own tribe conducted when an enemy was captured, and they always ended in sacrifice. Trinty looked closely at the hut in case the chance for escape presented itself, but even if it had, he was sure his own honor would not allow the attempt.
He was more concerned about his son’s life than his own. The boy was headstrong and stupid, but too young to be killed. His mother would be devastated losing them both. The time spent away from their tribe had made him selfish, but he was still blood and Trinty had strong feelings for the young man. He knew he would help his son escape if the opportunity presented itself.
Trinty knew a captive of his own tribe would have been subjected to extreme torture. The skin of their screaming sacrifices was carefully flayed in long strips, cooked, and consumed by all members of his tribe as the bleeding victim watched. The prisoner was then carefully cared for to insure he did not die. This ritual was repeated for five nights, until the suffering man or woman was finally sacrificed and the Feast of the Fathers was held.
He had heard rumors that his captors were not cannibals like his own tribe, but he was sure the end result would be the same. He anxiously awaited his fate, not fearing death, but instead fearing the unknown suffering he and his son would face.
Many men showed up just as the heat in the little hut started to become uncomfortable. They brought in newly cut leaves as large as the men themselves and wooden buckets full of what looked like mud. Trinty’s son started yelling obscenities at the men as they worked, but they just snickered and jovially returned the boy’s insults.
The men were insuring the little hut was as airtight as possible. They sewed the leaves together and plastered over the edges of each leaf with the mud-like mixture. They first sealed the walls, and then moved to the ceiling. One man was tasked with digging a deep hole slightly larger in circumference than a man’s head. His arms had fully disappeared into the hole before he was finished. A pile of dirt sat just to the side and was not removed.
When they were done inside, they left, and Trinty heard the men working on the outside walls as well.
When the preparations were complete, the men untied Trinty leaving his son secured to the post. His simple loincloth was removed leaving him completely naked. Trinty was then secured to the bamboo floor with hands stretched over his head and legs spread wide apart. All of the men then left. Soon after this the boy left as well, and the two were alone. Darkness descended early in the hut.
The sounds from just outside started to increase. Murmuring turned to laughing, laughing turned to song, and song turned to shouts. The fire on the other side of the door soon became so fierce Trinty realized its light was penetrating the layers of leaves and he could see his trembling son tinted in dark green. The hut itself trembled as dancing feet stomped forcefully on the ground just outside the door.
The old warrior struggled against his bonds, but neither the lashings nor the poles allowed any possibility for escape. His son struggled as well, but also with no success.
The clamor stopped and a lone voice was lifted with reverence. The one voice offered prayers to ancestors, while others outside moaned loudly in sympathetic agreement.
After the prayer, the door to the hut opened. Trinty watched as the shaman walked in. He was naked except for many necklaces made of bone, wood and other material which clattered as he moved. The ancient old man was painted from head to toe with streaks of white contrasting against many dark colors. He simply held a stone knife.
Behind the old man the young boy whose father had been killed again entered the hut. The boy held a simple wooden box carved with many symbols. Hanging over one shoulder was a large bag bulging with its contents. He walked over to the opposite side of the hut and sat silently.
Four other men walked in silently, each with bowls full of water so large they struggled to lift them. The men placed these bowls on the ground near the back of the hut and hurriedly left.
The old shaman stood over Trinty with the knife, closed his eyes and muttered indecipherable words under his breath. The warrior lay tied to the ground steeling himself for the stabbing final blow. He closed his eyes and waited for his last moments. A sudden pain just below his ribs involuntarily made him flinch, but he managed to not cry out. He waited quietly for the end to come.
Trinty was surprised to feel pain again under one of his arms, and then again on his other arm. He realized now the pain was not the sting of a stab, but instead was the throbbing of a slice. He opened his eyes just as two more slices were made to his inner thighs up near his naked genitals. As the pain started to become more pronounced and he became conscious of his son’s uncontrollable flailing and weeping. Two more cuts were made to the outside of Trinty’s knees. The warrior could feel blood slowly seeping from each of the wounds.
The shaman took the now bloody knife, carried it over to the boy, and laid it at his feet. After saying a few words Trinty could not hear, the old man exited through the door and closed it. Trinty could hear men outside the door again working and assumed they were sealing the last of the cracks to the outside world.
Eventually, the young man tied to the pole calmed down. He was sobbing silently.
Finally, the boy spoke.
~ Chapter VII ~
Marik’s voice was only loud enough to be heard by the three in the hut. “You took my father. When I realized he was gone, I blamed myself… made myself suffer. I wanted to die. I thought it should have been me instead. Now, I hope, watching you both suffer will ease my pain.”
Marik paused, wrestling with his thoughts.
“You will both be shown the traditional way we perform our sacrifices. The father will be first. The son and I will both watch.”
“The father’s anguish will pale in comparison to what the son will experience.”
Marik stood up and walked over to the still bleeding warrior. Towering over the constrained man, he opened the box and poured the contents onto the man’s stomach near the cuts underneath his ribs.
The larvae had not grown since Marik had found them. In the wild they lived in and fed on the cotton tree, but Marik knew there was another source of food they would be attracted to. The inch long white worms were drawn to the blood and immediately started feasting on it. The warrior remained stoic with eyes closed, wordlessly whispering prayers.
Marik picked up the larvae one by one and placed each directly on top of one of the cuts. When he was done, seven white worms were spread over the man’s dark body. Each was attached to flesh and was eagerly devouring. The eighth, and last, larva was placed back in the box.
Marik walked over to his bag and pulled out a deep ladle attached to a large handle. He dipped it into the nearest water bowl and brought it to the warrior lying on the ground. The man looked up obstinately with hate and fear in his eyes. When Marik dribbled water onto the man’s lips the warrior refused to drink.
Marik walked over to the man’s son. The young man refused to drink as well. Unperturbed, Marik brought the water to his own lips and drank deeply as both prisoners watched. He then went back over to his side of the hut.
The boy was exhausted. He had not slept much since the battle two days prior. He always seemed to be needed. He had arrangements for his father’s death journey to attend to. His mother was a wreck without her husband and had required his presence seemingly every minute. He was now the eldest man of his family and had to deal with unexpected issues such as finding an eligible man to take in his mother and younger siste
r. He also had expressed the desire to be here in the hut, which was usually the shaman’s duty. The rituals and instruction required before he was allowed to participate in the sacrifice were extensive.
Lastly, the celebration he had just come in from was physically exhausting. He spent the first thirteen years of his life watching the men dance, but now he was expected to dance as well. Only the unbelievable amount of energy given from the special meal the shaman had prepared for the men made it possible to push his body that far past its normal limit. That energy had dissipated as soon as the dancing had finished.
Marik lay down and rested his head against his bag. He was unable to keep his eyes open. His final thought was spent wondering if the angry men sharing the hut with him would be able to get loose as he slept, but even this could not keep him awake.
He slept dreamlessly.
His eyes opened many hours later. He could tell it was day outside from the green tinted light filtering through the new leaves.
The man on the ground was moaning softly. His head lolled to one side and his body seemed to have wasted away drastically during the night. The larvae were no longer visible on top of the skin, but near each cut an inch long pulsing welt marked the progress each had made. The cuts no longer bled. Instead a luminous foamy discharge oozed slowly from the cut’s lowest point to pool in a small white puddle on the dirt floor.
The son appeared to be sleeping restlessly. The bonds kept him from getting comfortable and he constantly fought to keep the rope around his neck from cutting off his airway.
Marik got up and drank a few ladles of water. He relieved himself in the deep hole and threw a handful of dirt in when he was done.
The activity brought both father and son around, though each seemed to struggle simply grasping their surroundings. Marik offered water again to each and both eagerly drank unable to help themselves.
The day wore on. Occasionally Marik would move around performing tasks, but mostly he meditated quietly. He fed the prisoners hard biscuits in the afternoon, and ate when he felt the need. The hut heated up and started to smell of stale sweat and urine.
Undead Genesis: Zombie Page 2
