Mort: Deluxe Illustrated Edition (The Fearlanders)

by Joseph Duncan

  Mort’s head was pounding. The metal barrel of the weapon felt very cold and slick against his temple.

  “I’m sorry that happened to you,” Mort said.

  The killer reared back, looking angry for a moment. Maybe even a little confused. He put his lips to Mort’s ear once more. “You pity me? Save your pity. I pity you. And do you know why? Huh? I pity you because you’ve only learned the truth now, at the end of your life. You see, my father made me promise never to tell. ‘You can never ever tell, Richie. Never tell anyone. If they suspect you know the truth, they’ll put you down like a mad dog.’ And I promised him.”

  “But you just told me,” Mort said.

  “I know,” the madman replied slyly.

  “Oh, God.”

  Da Vinci pulled the trigger.

  Mort’s body stiffened as a slim steel bolt, about six inches long, shot from the barrel of Da Vinci’s phallic weapon. With a bang and a puff of acrid blue smoke, the rod punctured Mort’s skull, plunging into his brain, before recoiling into its barrel.

  It happened in less than a second.

  Da Vinci tossed back his head as Mort twitched between his powerful thighs. He held Mort tight between his legs, his buttocks clenching, his eyes squeezed shut, blood and cranial fluid dripping from his face.

  “Mort! No! Mort!” Pete cried in horror. “You fucker! You killed my best friend!”

  Da Vinci straddled Mort’s thighs until the body finished quivering, his expression almost saintly in the intensity of his relief. Finally, the muscles of his back and shoulders uncoiled. He exhaled slowly. Opening his eyes, he stood and turned toward Pete. There was a broad moist circle at the front of his pants.

  The fatso’s redneck boyfriend was next, Rourke decided, and after that, the chink. Save the best for last. Oh, yeah, he was going to enjoy himself tonight! Just like Nero, playing the fiddle while Rome burned. He was going to fiddle all night long!

  The redneck was crying for his dead friend. His raw emotion was enticing. Da Vinci wanted to lick those tears from his face. Taste his pain. Eat it. Have it inside him.

  “Let me out of this fuckin’ chair so I can kill you,” the redneck hissed, tears running down his cheeks.

  Da Vinci chortled.

  He dropped the captive bolt pistol on the cart with a clang. The barrel of the weapon was stippled with beads of blood and gelid globs of brain matter. He’d have to clean it later, painstakingly, lovingly, but for now he perused the other instruments on the table. His eyes lit upon a particularly cruel looking implement and his cock began to stiffen once more. No big surprise there. It had been a while since he’d entertained a lover. He was pretty backed up.

  He lifted the instrument delicately. It was a very fine thing, one of his most beautiful creations. It gleamed like gold in the lantern light, but it was oh so sharp! There were two hoops at the base through which he could insert his erection, and rear-facing barbs just below the slivered curve of the blade. Went in like a hot knife in butter, but when it was pulled out…

  Yes, this would do just fine!

  The assassin put his fingers to his forehead. He frowned. It felt like someone was poking his brain with red hot needles.

  The redneck stiffened in his seat then, mouth twisting in discomfort. “The fuh…?”

  Behind the killer, Mort stirred. He had a hole in his head and blood was trickling down his cheek and neck, but somehow, amazingly, he wasn’t dead!

  Mort blinked around, eyes dim with pain and confusion. He was drooling. Urine had puddled on the floor between his feet. “What? Where am I?” he gurgled.

  He wasn’t dead! Somehow he wasn’t dead! Da Vinci forgot about the strange prickling in his skull. He stared at Mort, aghast. The fat one was still alive, and he knew…! He knew Da Vinci’s secret! The one he’d sworn to his daddy he’d never ever tell a soul!

  Rourke snatched a knife off the table and turned back toward Mort, ready to finish off the resilient fellow. The hot needles were still digging into his brain, but it was more important that he kill his confessor. No one could know the Secret and live!

  The door of the storage room blew off its hinges.

  It opened with such force it shot across the room and clapped off the far wall, narrowly missing Mort and the assassin. It hit the floor with a bang and bounced into a filing cabinet, crumpled like a parking ticket.

  Rourke and Pete gaped at the man who stepped into the room. Mort just continued to drool.

  “Here you are!” the stranger said mildly.

  He was tall, slim, dressed all in black. His skin was pale, his eyes dark. Long black hair flowed down from a high widow’s peak.

  Pete squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. Looking at the newcomer made his head hurt. The pale man seemed to shimmer as he strode into the room. His image wavered like he was more mirage than man.

  “My apologies. We had a bit of trouble finding you,” the pale man said. “The radiation, I believe. For a moment I was afraid we would have to abandon you to your fates.”

  Two others followed him into the room, a male and a female. Like their leader, the newcomers were tall and pale, dressed in armored, black leather garments with large dark eyes and narrow, angular faces. The female rested her hand on the pommel of a very large sword. The second male was coiling a whip.

  Da Vinci eased toward his cart, head lowered, eyelids slitted. There was a curious, almost bemused expression on his face, but he did not speak. Without turning his gaze from the newcomers, he let his fingers glide across the instruments on the table. They fluttered over several delicate implements, then seized upon the handle of a large, strange-looking cleaver. With a yell, he brought the cleaver up over his head and charged across the room at them.

  “Oh, no you don’t.” The one at the fore said in a gentle voice. He flicked his long white fingers like a man preparing to play piano and Da Vinci froze in mid-charge with a grunt of surprise. Narrowing his eyes, the newcomer murmured, “That’s better. Now, let’s have a look in there and see what we can see…”

  Da Vinci’s face twisted. He mewled in pain. “Stop it! That hurts!”

  “Goodness, you’re a rotten one,” the pale man said softly, as if to himself. “Such a corrupt philosophy. You’re a very, very naughty boy, aren’t you, Richard? I’m afraid we can’t take you with us.”

  He looked over his shoulder to his companions. “HaMerkavah, Gabriel, could I trouble you to dispose of this one? I’m afraid he’s far too dangerous to take with us to New Jerusalem.”

  As Pete watched in mute astonishment, the two pale interlopers took Da Vinci by the arms and led him from the room. Pete expected their captor to struggle, but the big man did not put up much of a fuss at all. He allowed the strange beings to escort him from the room, meek as a lamb.

  Mort tried to follow the exchange, but he was having trouble staying conscious. His head felt like a squashed tomato. Warm fluid trickled down his neck and chest. Dao-ming lay on the floor on her back, trying to see what was happening. “What is it? Who’s here?” she asked. “What’s going on, guys?” It was almost funny, the pitiful state of their group.

  Da Vinci finally objected as the two pale beings led him through the doorway and into the hallway outside, but there was no force in his voice. He sounded like a sleepy child being led back to bed. A moment later, out of sight, there was a brief scuffle, a cry and then moist slurping sounds.

  “My name is Metatron,” the pale man said as he approached Mort, looking sympathetic. “We’ve come to save you.”

  Mort sucked his drool back into his mouth and tried to speak. “What are you?” he croaked.

  “What do you think I am?” Metatron asked.

  Mort peered into his eyes. They were jewel-like, the pupils broad-rimmed and deep. His brain prickled vaguely, but no glamour swept across his thoughts to blind him to the reality of the thing. The creature standing before him was gaunt as a concentration camp inmate, chalky skin stretched taut across bone. He had red lips and row
s of sharp, shark-like teeth. Blue veins wriggled beneath his flesh like strands of yarn. Mort opened his mouth to name the creature, but found he could no longer recall the word. He frowned and shook his head, which made his thoughts waver and go far away for a moment.

  Metatron leaned close. His nostrils flared. He stood straight, a smile of satisfaction on his lips. “You’re a little worse for wear, my friend, but don’t worry. We’ll nurse you back to health in no time. You—and your companions—are so very precious to us. More than you know. So very… precious.”

  The others had returned to the room, ruddy and satisfied. Da Vinci was nowhere in sight.

  The one called Metatron turned then toward Da Vinci’s cart and selected a blade from its surface. He examined the instrument’s keen edge, eyes half-lidded, then cut away the bands of tape binding Mort to his seat.

  Despite his bulk, Metatron lifted Mort into his arms and carried him from the room as if he weighed no more than a child.

  Mort did not resist.

  The others were helping Pete and Dao-ming to their feet. Both of his friends looked wobbly and confused, but for some reason Mort knew they would be safe in the care of these emaciated creatures. Though he could not recall their name, not so much as the shape of the word, he knew the one carrying him had spoken the truth. We are precious to them, Mort thought. Of course we are. It’s a no-brainer.

  Outside, the city burned. A great black cloud of smoke loomed over the skyline, belly as red as a ruby. Hot flakes of ash drifted down around them, incandescent orange. Mort gaped in wonder as the being called Metatron floated with him into the air. It was as if they’d suddenly become buoyant, like bubbles in a pool, unshackled from gravity’s pull.

  He was flying, like a character in one of his comic books!

  DuChamp receded beneath them. The city looked as if it had been stitched together by fire. The wind whipped and gusted, chilling his skin, making whooshing sounds in his ears. They passed through a billow of smoke, its warmth and acrid stink enveloping them for a moment, and then they were clear of it. Their ascent slowed. They hung motionless in the sky, weightless, like a pair of wandering spirits. Metatron wheeled slowly in the air, pointed west. The moon at their shoulder, the city below, they flew.

  13

  The Infirmary

  “Good morning, Mort. Remember me? I’m Marilyn Beecher. I came to see you last Thursday. I was hoping you felt well enough to talk to me for a little while today. You don’t mind, do you?”

  Mort woke from a dream of flying and blinked at the woman who’d just walked into his room. He scrubbed his bleary eyes, then pushed himself up in his bed and smiled. His cheek was creased from his pillow and his hair was tousled—what little hair the surgical team hadn’t shaved off when they treated his head injury. Which wasn’t much. Although his face was still a little swollen and bruised, the warm pink flush of good health was returning to his cheeks. He’d recovered speedily in the last three weeks.

  Marilyn Beecher was a nice-looking woman. A psychologist by profession, she was blonde, thin as a rail. She had a narrow nose and a smattering of freckles on her cheeks: a girlish face she tried to disguise with rectangular granny glasses set low on the bridge of her nose. She was dressed in a light blue scrub jacket and a dark skirt today, and carried a clipboard and a stack of square white cards. The cards were eight inches by eight inches.

  “Good morning,” Mort said hoarsely. He winced and touched his throat. He hadn’t done much talking lately. “Come on in.”

  It had been three weeks since the flying creatures rescued Mort and his two companions from the psycho called Da Vinci. Mort had spent the first two weeks in the critical care unit of New Jerusalem’s hospital, which everyone simply called the infirmary. At first, Mort’s caregivers-- and Mort himself, to be honest-- weren’t too sure he’d pull through. Da Vinci had wounded him grievously. The captive bolt pistol the killer had shot him in the head with had done quite a bit of damage, and Mort had lost a lot of blood. Nearly five pints, they told him, which was usually fatal. Mort had spent his first two weeks in New Jerusalem in a dreamy haze of pain and confusion, so drugged up at times he couldn’t remember his own name. Yet somehow Mort had survived. He’d clawed his way back from the grave. None of the staff could quite believe it. Some of them had even told him so now that he was on the mends. A few days ago, the staff had moved him from CCU to the unskilled ward.

  Ms. Beecher set her clipboard and flash cards on the bedside table and poured him a cup of water. Mort checked to make sure his IV wasn’t snagged on the sheets, then reached for the cup. He bent his mouth to the bendy straw. The water was warm and flat, but it soothed his rusty throat. “Thanks,” he sighed, smiling in gratitude. He handed the empty cup back to the psychiatrist.

  “So how are you feeling?” the woman asked, placing the cup on the bedside table. She sat primly in the chair beside his bed, sweeping her skirt beneath her with one hand—a feminine gesture Mort had always found attractive. She crossed her legs at the knee, placed her clipboard in her lap, clicked an ink pen. She had very nice legs. Tan and smooth in nude hose. Mort tried not to stare at her legs as he replied.

  “Better. Still a lot of pain. Especially when it rains. But I’m doing better.”

  “Have you had any seizures since our last session?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Hallucinations? Phantom smells?”

  “No.”

  Ms. Beecher moved down her checklist, ticking off an assortment of ills and complaints, most of which Mort answered negatively. He said yes to headaches, yes to memory loss, yes to weakness of the extremities, yes to feelings of depression.

  “I was wondering if I could get a message to my friends. Peter Bolin and Zhao Dao-ming?” Mort said, growing impatient with her note-taking. “Pete came to see me when we first arrived. After those… things… saved us--”

  “The Archons,” Ms. Beecher interjected, frowning a little.

  “Yeah, the Archons,” Mort conceded. The people around here always seemed to get upset when Mort called them things or monsters, but for some reason he had a hard time remembering the name the creatures insisted they be called. It was probably the brain damage. He did get shot in the head with a cattle gun, after all. “Sorry. I can’t always remember that word.”

  “It’s all right, Mort. That’s not surprising, considering the severity of your injury.” His apology mollified her. The little frown disappeared and her normal kind smile took its place, like the sun peeking from behind a dark cloud. For some reason, her smile reminded him of pink divinity, the candy his mother used to make at Christmas. “You should try to call them something besides ‘things’ or ‘monsters’, though. The other survivors might take offense. I know they seem strange, perhaps even frightening, but the Archons are trying to save our species. If it wasn’t for them, neither of us would be sitting here right now.”

  Mort nodded, flashing back on the supply room, Da Vinci breathing into his ear, the beings who had burst in to save him and his friends. “I know. I’m sorry.”

  Marilyn laughed softly, patting his hand. “Quit apologizing, Mort! I’m not reprimanding you. I’m only telling you so you don’t have problems when you integrate with the general population. Which, considering the speed of your recovery, may be sooner than you think.”

  Mort smiled. “Good! I’m getting really tired of hospital food. Lime Jell-o and chicken broth every day.” He pulled a face and shuddered, which made Ms. Beecher laugh again.

  He realized then that the pretty blonde had derailed him. He supposed the small and overworked staff here in New Jerusalem’s only medical facility was tired of him asking about Pete and Dao-ming, but he couldn’t help himself. He was lonely and wanted to see them. He hadn’t spoken with either of them since the night the… the… Archons delivered them to the Appalachian complex. He’d seen his friends briefly as they were hurrying him into surgery. Dao-ming had hugged and kissed him, telling him to be strong, and Pete had threatened
to kick his ass if Mort up and died on him, and then the medical staff had whisked him away to surgery. One of the nurses (he couldn’t remember her name) told him later that a little bit of his brain was hanging out when the… the... Archons! delivered him into their care. No one had expected him to survive. But he did, and he thought his friends would come see him after he awoke, but they never came, and he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of them since.

  It annoyed him how smoothly Ms. Beecher had distracted him, but before Mort could press her about his friends again, the therapist picked up her flash cards.

  “Okay now, Mort, you know how this works. You’ve suffered damage to the part of your brain which processes visual information. We’re going to do some exercises that will help you with your disability. I need you to look at the pictures on these flash cards and tell me the word you think is most closely associated with the images you see.”

  She held up one of the eight by eight cards, smiled encouragingly.

  Mort squinted at the image. It was red, round, but not perfectly round. Kind of lumpy, fatter at the top than the bottom.

  “Uh… ball?” he said.

  Marilyn smiled sympathetically. “Close.”

  “Something you eat…” Mort ruminated, thinking hard.

  Ms. Beecher waited for a little while, giving Mort plenty of time to work it out for himself. After a minute, she said, “Remember what we talked about. Do your word associations. You have to train your brain to think around the sections of it that are damaged, relearn how to recognize the things your eyes are seeing.”