Mort: Deluxe Illustrated Edition (The Fearlanders)

by Joseph Duncan

  He limped out the front door at six am.

  The sky was clear, the sun a brilliant silver coin clutched between the knuckles of the Unicoi Mountains. It had quit spitting snow sometime during the night, but it was bitterly cold. Before he’d even walked halfway across the compound, Mort’s nose was red and running and he was shaking all over like he’d stuck a fork in a power outlet. Even with the cane, Mort slipped on the icy sidewalks a couple times. The second time he almost took a girl down with him. The young woman had noticed Mort floundering on the treacherous walk and trotted over to lend him a shoulder.

  “I’m so sorry,” he gasped, clutching at her for support. “Did I hurt you?”

  “No, I’m fine,” the girl snorted, amused by their slipping and sliding. “Maintenance really should salt these sidewalks before somebody breaks a leg.” She was young, maybe twenty, with long brown hair, high cheekbones and the hooked nose of Native American ancestry. She was pretty, but skinny. Bony, really. “I’m Jean, by the way.”

  “Mort.”

  “Careful Mort!” she cried as his legs went out in the splits. She laughed as he clutched her coat, putting her arm around his narrow waist. “Oh my god! We almost fell down again!”

  She delivered him to blue yard cafeteria, then hurried on her way with a cheerful wave (and maybe even a brief interested glance down and up).

  Since he was on light duty, Mort was only required to work four hours a day to receive his allotment of credits. Mort’s supervisor was a stout older man named Burt Maguire. He was gruff-- a retired marine, he said-- but he didn’t seem inclined to push Mort harder than was necessary. After looking over Mort’s papers, he gave Mort the grand tour, outlined his responsibilities, then set Mort loose so he could tend to his own duties.

  Mort was grateful to have something to do. It was boring just hanging around the dorm. He sat at one of the stainless steel prep tables and peeled potatoes for lunch. Breakfast was still being served out front, but the blue yard cafeteria served several hundred people every day and lunch had to be prepped while diners were still coming in for their morning meal. Large pans of ground beef slathered in tomato sauce were lined up on the table next to him, ready to be slid into the ovens. White beans bubbled in five gallon pots on the stove.

  Mort peeled potatoes as quick as he could while the rest of the kitchen staff scurried to and fro around him. A few of them stopped for a moment to introduce themselves and welcome him to the crew, but none of them tarried to chat. There was just too much work to do.

  When Burt stopped to check on him a couple hours later, Mort confessed he didn’t feel like he was helping much.

  “Don’t worry about it, son. You’re doing fine,” the old fellow said. “Besides, this is just your first day. We’ll have you slinging hash with the best of ‘em soon enough.”

  Before he knew it, Mort’s four hours were done. Mort found his boss and said, “I’m not really tired. You mind if I work a little longer?” What would he do back at the dorm? Watch those blank faces float around the TV some more? Count the cracks on the wall?

  Burt pulled a large pan of meatloaf from the oven and slid it onto the prep table behind him. “That would be great, son. The other guy that was supposed to start today never showed,” he said. He slapped a ladle in Mort’s palm and told him to go up front and help serve. Mort spent the next two hours scooping mashed potatoes and gravy onto lunch trays.

  Some might consider such work demeaning, but it was not much different from working at his comic book shop. He enjoyed serving others, and even chatted with some of the diners as they scooted their trays down the bar slides. He didn’t know any of them, save a nurse he’d seen once or twice during his stay at the infirmary. It was just good to be among people, to feel as if he were contributing to society again-- as diminished as that society might be now.

  The lunch crowd began to pile in at 11:30, and by noon the cafeteria buzzed with conversation, every table occupied. Mort worked as quick as he could, sweat trickling down his ribs, his leg and head throbbing, but he was determined not to punk out. Not until the lunch rush was over.

  Someone plucked at the shoulder of his shirt. He turned to see what the guy wanted and fell back against the counter, his mouth dropping open.

  “Burt told me to check on you,” a slim black man said. He was dressed in a white tee-shirt and pants, with an apron and a black doo rag-- no gaudy leisure suit, no jewelry-- but there was no mistaking that face: leonine and gaunt, with disconcerting gray eyes. It was Lavender Baasim... the last living pimp! “You okay? You need someone to relieve you?”

  Mort’s mouth flapped open and shut, but for a moment or two, he was too stunned to speak. Finally, he managed to sputter, “Luh-Lavender?”

  The slim man frowned at him. “Huh?”

  “Lavender Baasim?”

  “Lavender?” the black man repeated, and he scowled at Mort like he was one card shy of a full deck. “I don’t know no Lavender. The name’s Lawrence.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “Look, you need me to relieve you or not?” the slim man asked testily. “If not, I got things to do.”

  “No. No, I’m fine,” Mort said. “I was planning to work until the lunch rush is over.”

  “Fine,” the man said and stalked away. “He’s fine, Burt!” he yelled before disappearing into one of the walk-in coolers. Burt looked up from a big industrial mixer and gave Mort a thumbs up. Mort turned back to his station, confused and embarrassed. He scooped mashed potatoes and gravy onto a diner’s tray and splattered the guy’s shirt.

  “Hey, man! Watch it!”

  “Sorry!” Mort said quickly. “Sorry!” He handed the diner a towel and the guy mopped himself off.

  The fellow Burt sent to check on him was Lavender Baasim! He was certain of it! Somehow the lunatic had survived. The Archons must have rescued the guy, just like they’d rescued Mort and Pete and Dao-ming, and brought him here to New Jerusalem.

  Mort peeked back at the guy, who was opening a #10 size can of green beans now. He certainly looked like the pimp Mort had encountered in DuChamp, but he didn’t act like the guy. Lavender Baasim had moved with an exaggerated slinkiness, like the Pink Panther, more parody than person. This guy, Lawrence, was bopping around like a regular dude.

  Mort turned back to his station, rubbing the scar on his head.

  Maybe he was wrong. The psycho named Da Vinci had turned his brain into scrambled eggs. He had trouble just finding his shoes in the morning now. The part of his brain that processed visual imagery was gone, blasted with a captive bolt pistol.

  Yeah, that must be it, Mort thought. Brain just short-circuited there for a second.

  The guy must think Mort was nuts.

  Mort concentrated on his duties, promising himself he’d apologize to the guy later. He didn’t want his co-workers to think he was a headcase.

  In the press of the hungry crowd, Mort didn’t see Pete come in the front door—but Pete saw him.

  “Mort!” Pete declared. “Fuck me sexy Jesus! Mort!”

  Mort looked up in shock as Pete elbowed his way to Mort’s station. A couple people snarled at him for cutting into line, but Pete ignored them.

  “Pete!”

  “Mort! I’ve been looking for you since I got back!”

  Mort grinned, forgetting all about Lavender/Lawrence. “You have?”

  “Yeah!”

  A guy standing midway down the serving line hollered, “Come on, guy! You’re holding everybody up!”

  Pete waved him off, asked, “How much longer you got to work? We should hang out.”

  “Actually, my shift was over a couple hours ago. I’ve just been helping out.”

  “So fix us a tray and we’ll have lunch together. We got some catchin’ up to do.”

  Mort nodded, “All right. Just a second.” Flustered and elated, he handed his ladle to the worker next to him. The guy blinked at him, a ladle in both hands, and Mort shrugged apologetically. “Sorry! He’s an old f
riend,” he said. He abandoned his station, untying his apron. “Hang on!” he called after Pete.

  Mort went back into the kitchen and explained to Burt what was going on. His boss nodded, told him to go have lunch with his buddy, they had everything under control. “Thanks, son. You’ve been a big help today,” Burt called after him as Mort hurried away. Mort prepared a couple lunch trays and carried them out into the dining area. Pete was sitting at one of the far tables. He saw Mort limping toward him and jumped up.

  “Here, let me get those,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “Damn, that psycho did a number on you,” Pete said, eyeing Mort’s head as he sat down across from him. “I can’t call you lardbutt anymore either. You’re skinny as a beanpole. To be honest, I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve lost a lot of weight. I’m doing better though. Today’s my first day back to work.”

  “How’s your brain? I mean, after... you know...” Ever the sensitive one, Pete put his finger to his head like a gun and pulled the trigger. “I thought that psycho killed you.”

  “I have some damage to my visual cortex, or something like that. I have trouble recognizing what I’m looking at now. Faces. Objects. My eyes see them, but the part of my brain that identifies them is messed up. It doesn’t… you know… compute. For instance, I have trouble finding my shoes now. I’ll see them on the floor, but my brain doesn’t lock onto them and say: there are your shoes.”

  “Fuck! That really sucks, man, but I’m glad you’re out of the hospital.”

  “Yeah. They kicked me out of the infirmary a few days ago. It got pretty crowded in there towards the end, what with all the survivors those… uh…Archons keep bringing in.”

  Pete leaned in close. “Yeah, what do you think about those things? Pretty crazy, huh? My gramma always told me about guardian angels and stuff like that, but I never thought it was really real, you know? I always thought all that Bible stuff was made up so people would feel bad and go to church, but I guess it’s all true.”

  Mort shrugged, noncommittal. He wanted to talk to Pete about that, but not in such a crowded setting. The other survivors could get really worked up about the Archons, especially if anyone questioned the strange beings’ motivations or origins. He’d seen two men nearly come to blows over the Archons in the commons yesterday evening. One thought they were aliens. The other insisted they were Biblical angels. Bob and Kelly had pulled them apart before anyone got hurt, but only just.

  “So what have you been doing?” Mort asked, changing the subject. “I thought you’d come see me at the infirmary, but you never showed.”

  Pete looked a little ashamed. “I did come see you a couple times, but you were really out of it. I sat and talked to you once, but you just kind of mumbled like you were talking in your sleep. I signed up for the scouting crews after that, been outcamp ever since. The scout crews go out, look for survivors, bring back supplies. I just got back, actually. I went to look you up at the hospital as soon as they let us out of quarantine, but when I got there and asked about you, they said you were gone.” Pete laughed. “At first I thought they meant you were dead and I about shit myself, but then they said you weren’t gone like that. They meant you’d been discharged.”

  Mort snorted along with Pete. “Sorry about that.”

  Pete shook his head. “It’s all good, man. I’m just glad you ain’t dead.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So anyways… I went to housing to find out where you were staying. They said dorm eight, but you weren’t there either. I asked around and some pregnant chick said you were working. I says where and she says blue cafeteria… so here I am!”

  “I’m glad you came to see me. I’ve been pretty lonely. You don’t happen to know what happened to Dao-ming, do you?”

  Pete frowned. “Last I heard, she signed up to look after the orphans in one of the dorms in Yellow Yard. They keep all the orphaned kids in one dorm. They call it the orphanage. You mean she hasn’t come to see you?”

  “No.”

  “That’s weird.”

  Mort felt a pang of sorrow. Pete had found him easily enough. Dao-ming had been here in the camp all this time and hadn’t bothered to come looking for him. That could only mean she didn’t want to see him.

  “Do you think she blames me?” Mort asked. “You know... for Dongmei?”

  “Why?” Pete asked. “Mort, that wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was my idea to drive out of the city,” Mort pointed out.

  “Yeah, and you were right about that plant blowing up, too. You couldn’t have known about that psycho. Besides, if we had stayed, we’d all be dead from the radiation by now. Jesus Christ, Mort, you saved us! You can’t blame yourself for every bad thing that happens in the world.”

  Mort scooped up a spoonful of mashed potatoes and let it drop back onto his tray. Plop! “Yeah... I guess.”

  After eating, the two retired to Mort’s room. Pete ragged his buddy over all the Christmas decorations, and when Mort said it had been Tina’s idea, Pete confessed he wouldn’t mind tickling her tinsel. Mort laughed. “You’re incorrigible,” he said, and Pete replied, “Well, I don’t know what ‘incorrigible’ is, but that baby would come out brain damaged, I’ll tell ya that!”

  Pete decided they should toast their reunion. He left for a little while and returned with a six pack of beer. Alcohol was prohibited in the dorms, so he smuggled it in in a beat up duffel bag. They closed Mort’s door and cracked open a couple brews.

  “To good friends and good beer,” Mort said, raising his can.

  “Here’s to Hell!” Pete replied. “May our stay there be as fun as our way there!”

  Mort wasn’t much of a drinker. He was tipsy by the time he’d finished his first beer. They finished getting caught up as afternoon proceeded toward evening, and Pete-- four beers down the hole by then-- convinced Mort to accompany him to the orphanage so they could find out why Dao-ming had never visited Mort in the infirmary.

  Mort was reluctant to go, but allowed Pete to talk him into it. With his cane in one hand and Pete’s shoulder under his arm, they walked across the cold compound to the dorm where the orphaned children were boarded. Pete was swaying a little and Mort’s bad leg buckled at least twice on the way, but they managed to get there without sprawling on the icy sidewalks.

  They didn’t even have to go inside.

  Dao-ming was standing outside the front door with a tall muscular guy in blue jeans and a sweater. The guy’s broad back was turned to Mort. Dao-ming was facing them, but she did not look in their direction. She smiled up at the guy as he smoked, then nodded, laughed, said something too low for Mort to understand. Mort’s heart sank as Dao-ming drew close to her suitor, putting a hand on his big bicep.

  “What a fuckin’ bitch!” Pete snarled.

  Feeling suddenly nauseous, Mort said, “Let’s go back, Pete.”

  “No way! Let’s go kick that cocksucker’s ass! I’ll hold him down and you can whip him with that cane.”

  “No, Pete! Please! Just... just help me walk back to the dorm. I don’t want her to see me.”

  Pete objected, but Mort refused to confront Dao-ming. What was the point? She had moved on, and why not? What could he offer her now? His eyes felt hot and watery. “Come on,” Mort hissed urgently, and Pete relented.

  They shambled back toward Dorm Eight. Halfway there, Mort felt his lunch and the two beers he’d drank with Pete come rocketing up from his belly. He doubled over and puked into the slushy snow.

  “Aw, man!” Pete groaned, but he held onto the back of Mort’s jacket as he vomited.

  Mort stood up, wiping his chin. He started to apologize, then doubled over to ralf again.

  “There there… let it all out,” Pete said sympathetically. He patted Mort on the back.“Ew! It still looks like meatloaf!”

  Mort started laughing then. Snot dangling from both nostrils, he stood humped forward, waiting to see if anything else was
going to come shooting out of him. When he felt like he was done puking, he raised up, wiped his mouth and nose and said,“You got any more beer?”

  Pete grinned.“I think I can locate us another six pack.”

  They got really wasted.

  18

  Orientation

  The scouting crews had their own barracks, but Pete slept over at Mort’s place that night to drink and reminisce, which they did. A lot. Sometime after midnight, Mort announced he needed to get some sleep. He was supposed to report to work early the next morning. “Yeah, I’m pretty bushed, too,” Pete admitted. “You got sheets for this top bunk?” Mort did, and after they had made the second bunk, Pete stripped to his skivvies and climbed in. Mort dozed off to the comforting din of Peter Bolin snoring, which sounded by turns like a sputtery push mower chewing through high grass and an old man drowning in a bowl of congealed oatmeal.

  Pete was still snoring the next morning when Mort woke.

  Mort swung his legs out of bed, knocking over a couple empty beer cans. He checked his clock to see how much time he had to get ready, but it was still early. No rush.

  Mort grabbed his cane and stood up gingerly, testing his bad leg before putting too much weight on it. His head began to throb as he limped around the room, picking up beer cans and hiding them in his trash can. Booze was verboten in the dorms. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he got caught drinking, but he didn’t want to find out. Bob and Tina had been too good to him to put them on the spot like that.

  How many of these did I drink? he wondered, concealing the cans under some soiled paper plates and crumpled wrappers. The way his head felt (like there was an invisible imp standing on his shoulder, jabbing it with a pitchfork) the answer could only be: too many. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he’d had such a bad hangover, or if he’d ever had such a thumping morning after. The veins in his temples felt like they were ready to pop.