Gleeman's Tales

by Matthew Travagline

  “Maddie! I got us food.” She plopped down into her chair. “Oh, a message came in?” Madeline nodded, her fingers drumming on the handle of their phone. It rang unanswered. “What happened?”

  “Read the messages,” Madeline said, her frustration at the phone boiling over. “I’m sorry.” She glanced up at her coworker who seemed unfazed by her attitude. “I didn’t know one of the codes. Maybe you’ll know it.”

  “Hmm?” Janine hummed a shanty to herself. “You got everything. I’m not sure what P19 is. I’ve never seen it. But that’s fine. Having them sent over. I would’ve done the same.” She paused, looking over the message further. “Nothing came through on your end?”

  “No, but I’m not even getting static from my headphones,” Madeline said. “Trying to call support but no one is answering.”

  “Oh!” Janine snapped. “Support.” She paused, her smile thinning out. “He told me that he was working on your line yesterday and it’ll be down today. I was supposed to tell you to change your line out with a lesser one, so your messages would come through another receiver. Guess I forgot to pass that along.”

  “What?” Madeline’s throat dried in an instant.

  “Your receiving machine is being worked on.”

  “Worked on? Unavailable? Like, I should have been working through another line? That kinda worked on?”

  Janine said nothing but swallowed a visible lump. “Probably, but it’s Christmas. Doctors won’t even be working.” Madeline tuned out Janine’s voice. She hung up the phone and tore the health wire from her receiver. She dragged it over to a station reserved for parcel service and supplanted her own wire.

  The moment the contacts in the wire connected with the receiver, the machine flared to life, seemingly screaming in alarm. Her heart dropped at the dozen incoming messages. She plugged her headphones in to both disconnect from Janine and prevent herself from hearing the woman’s noisy chewing. She pulled out a memo pad and uncapped her pen, then fished another pack of cigarettes out from a desk drawer and lit the first, allowing a trail of smoke to ease her nerves. The earliest timestamped message received was dated back more than twelve hours. Madeline swallowed a lump and played the recording.

  [1941.12.24;23:34]

  From London General Hospital to all nations west of 20°W. Emergency. Epidemic-size event. Further details to follow.

  That is all the first message read. The next message, which was stamped minutes later, expanded.

  […23:40]

  Nazis deployed a biochemical agent to London at approximately 0346 GMT, 1941.12.25. Unknown casualty rate. Mass infection. Suspected airborne delivery system. Those who had no direct exposure are coming up sick. Symptoms are early to confirm, but reminiscent of potent avian flu. Heavy perspiration. Vomiting. Coughing phlegm and blood mixture. Aches. Sensitivity to sound and light. Chills.

  Madeline recorded the information, making note of the fact that the time difference was due to time zones. The first message from London General Hospital was sent out just short of an hour after the attack. She accessed the next message.

  [1941.12.25;00:55]

  Intel is reporting that the weapon deployed is called Zorax which is a Phosphate mixture. Codename established as P19.

  Madeline felt her heart begin to thrash in her chest the moment she translated P19.

  The first casualties are coming in massive waves. People who displayed no symptoms are dropping dead out of nowhere; those who have experienced the traditional flu symptoms are remaining sick, but not succumbing to the disease. It perplexes us. We’ve already lost a dozen people on staff at London General Hospital. At this time, we advise against any troop withdraws. We have also been in touch with all European leaders and all have agreed to halt intercontinental transport and commerce.

  Madeline dreaded reading the next messages.

  […02:46]

  The Nazis are parachuting all across London. Looking out my window, I see their troopers scattered about. The first of their numbers are already converging on the hospital.

  […02:47]

  They’re inside. I don’t know how long I have until they find me. Do not trust anything that comes across this line unless I say the phrase: ‘Yankee-Echo-Echo-Tango.’

  […02:53]

  Hello, ANOpC. We are requesting permission to send 10,000 injured civilians to any friendly hospitals in the West.

  […02:59]

  ANOpC, do you copy?

  […03:15]

  This is Michael Therau. Head of London General Hospital. Authorization code 86A. Requesting permission to transport injured civilians numbering 10,000 to western city hospitals.

  Madeline’s breathing became shallow, her heart hammered ferociously against her ribs. Tears trickled down her cheeks. She was glad that her back was turned. She wondered for a minute what Janine was up to but decided against turning to look.

  […04:45]

  Yankee-Echo-Echo-Tango.

  Madeline felt her throat constrict.

  […04:46]

  Do not respond to this line or follow the advice of any messages. London General Hospital is compromised. I overheard two of the soldiers bragging about how they would use the symptom-sick to transport the illness to the United States and begin the invasion of the US.

  Bile rose in Madeline’s throat. She would have vomited, had she eaten anything.

  European Command might also be compromised, if their banter is to be believed. Can’t write out more, but do not allow anyone free transit west. As I’ve watched the hospital over the past hours, I can affirm that none of the people stricken with the symptoms have died, but the massive amount of people who have died experienced no symptoms at all, though they did come in contact with the ill. The sick could very well be used as a missile-head to infect western nations.

  […04:47]

  I don’t know why you haven’t been responding, ANOpC. I hope that it is not because something has happened in the states. I won’t be able to write again. I have a feeling the Nazis are going to tire with this machine and simply kill me.

  The message seemed as if it should contain more, but it ended abruptly. Madeline scanned through the last three messages but found them to be obviously fake, urging her to accept patient transport. She sat back into her chair and ripped the headphones off her ears. In doing so, she pulled a few hairs from her scalp. The pain was a blessing. It seemed to be the embodiment of all that she had done wrong this day. Faintly in the background, she heard Janine talking, the oaf’s voice sounded hollow against the rush of blood in her own ears.

  She knew that there was no way for her to get in contact with A16 and tell them to change their course, realizing that it was likely Nazis piloting those planes.

  “Janine.” Madeline sounded surprised at the authority in her own voice. The makings of a plan forming in her mind. “You need to get in touch with the AAF. Tell them to scramble their fighters all up the eastern seaboard and divert any and all aircraft, commercial, private, military or otherwise from landing. Tell them that if the aircraft refuses, they must shoot it out of the sky over the Atlantic.”

  “What? Shouldn’t we call Arnold?”

  “Janine, I need you to shut up and do as I say. We don’t have time to wait for that bureaucrat to get his head out of his ass.” Madeline shouted. “Get a line with the air forces and pass the orders along. Make up whatever credentials you need. We cannot have aircraft landing. While you’re doing that, I’m going to see about closing our borders.”

  “What’s going on, Maddie?”

  Madeline took a long drag on her cigarette, though it no longer calmed her. She glanced to the wall clock, seemingly figuring how much time she had for explanations. “A16,” Madeline said as if that was the answer.

  “The Wastings. You gave them the go-ahead to land across our cities to bring in wounded. Some sort of chemical attack?”

  “The Wastings is the chemical attack. The messages I received were from the head of London General Hospi
tal. He detailed the life of this outbreak. Those that are showing symptoms are not those that are dying, but they are the ones passing the illness off to everyone else. The people who are dying have not displayed any symptoms of being sick. They were literally fine one minute and dead the next. So, I need you to shut your mouth, get on your receiver and transmit my message to the AAF. Do you think you can do that?”

  Janine merely nodded, her face visibly deflated of its energy.

  Madeline spent the next hour attached to her receiver. She first sent out messages detailing the illness to her contacts which would distribute the information across every hospital and doctor’s office in the nation. She then messaged the Civil Aeronautics Administration, urging them to ground all flights across the nation and hold up any international flights indefinitely.

  A mass of responses piled up, but Madeline ignored them. If she did not have time to explain things to Janine, she did not have time to explain them to someone without knowledge of the war overseas. Madeline worked tirelessly to throw messages out, hoping that people would react quick enough.

  In the middle of a message, she felt something hard thrust against the back of her head. Her headphones were yanked from her ears and a voice behind her spoke. “Stand up. Take your hands off the receiver.”

  “Janine?” Madeline asked, standing slowly. She saw her coworker sitting at her desk, horror plain on her face. At Madeline’s glare, Janine whimpered like a lame animal. “What did you do?”

  “You’re coming with us, Ms. Anderson.” The voice belonged to a black-tie federal agent. Flanked on either side by two more suits with guns. The moment Madeline was pulled off her receiver, another man entered and took control of her console. With no headphones plugged in, Madeline heard his every message. She only half paid attention to what the agents were saying to her. “Do you know what you have done? Started a nation-wide panic on Christmas. There’s already talk of stocks plummeting, and the market won’t open for another sixteen hours.”

  ANOpC to London General Hospital, read the agent’s message. Please provide a status report.

  A minute later a response came which affirmed no issues across the board. Everyone in the room looked to Madeline when the agent read the message. The agent shuffled over to Janine’s desk, then tapped out another message

  ANOpC to European Command. Please provide a status report.

  A minute after, a message came which indicated that war-activities were on the low for the holiday. Nothing else to report. Again, the group all looked at Madeline.

  “Well, the Nazis aren’t about to tell you that they’re Nazis,” she shouted. “Read through the message logs.”

  “That’s enough, Ms. Anderson. As it stands, you face charges of disturbing the peace. You are going to be held overnight until you can see a judge in the morning. You are entitled to a lawyer’s representation. If you cannot afford one, one will be provided to you at no cost.”

  ◆◆◆

  Madeline sat alone in her holding cell. The latest rotation of guards had shown her mercy and left the station radio tuned to national news. She listened to its Christmas broadcast, waiting.

  Well into the early hours of the next day, the radio station returned from commercial with a heavy air of seriousness that was not present before the break.

  “This is a breaking news from the office of the Surgeon General.” The voice of the radio host sounded tired and tinged with nerves, this much Madeline could tell. She shot upright and stared out through the dark cell toward where the radio sat.

  “The first reports of a virus are spreading across the Eastern seaboard. Symptoms are reminiscent and like those of the flu. If you are exhibiting these symptoms, it is recommended that you remain at home.”

  The announcer spoke at length about the other news. He ended his broadcast with a war update. “The United States has recently, in an effort to support overtaxed European hospitals, offered to care for some 10,000 soldiers and civilians for advanced medical care. They arrived late last night and are being treated across the east coast.”

  ◆◆◆

  Gnochi finished his tale and more than a minute passed without any movement. Cleo sat, taking in the drab sights of Nimbus. Much activity seemed to be occurring within the central tent. As night continued to darken the sky, more and more entertainers returned and ducked under the flap, most sparing a moment to watch the three seated at the table.

  “Skuddy?” Gnochi asked.

  “Well, the heavenly stars have aligned,” he replied. “Yours is a face I’d thought I might never see again.” Skuddy stood and motioned for them to follow. He led them around the tent over muddy paths until he arrived at some other entrance.

  With the tuck of a flap, Skuddy led them inside of a tent that resembled Dorothea’s. This one, however, was cleaner and had no restricting, dangling tapestries. Once inside, a slight din greeted her ears. She smiled out of instinct.

  A handful of entertainers lounged around. “Skuddy,” Gnochi said, chuckling. “You’ve put on weight from the last time I saw you.” He squeezed at Skuddy’s plump face. “What’s the matter? Is Blue sending you more meats and sweets than beets?”

  The two men erupted in laughter and abruptly met in a hearty embrace. Cleo furrowed her brow, evidently the only one among the three who had remembered the tension from only minutes earlier.

  “I see the roads have been good to you too my friend,” Skuddy said, his voice both soothing and demanding. His smile faded. “The limp is new. What of it?”

  “Damn you, Skuddy! Not even five minutes in, and you’re already seeing through months of travel fatigue. I have adopted this limp, after a battle wound,” he admitted.

  Cleo turned her head in shock and looked at the shadow-stricken face of her travel companion.

  “Like my leather gut, it works in my favor,” Gnochi said. “Who would fear a fat old man with a limp? I appear harmless.”

  “Oh, he’s modest,” Cleo interjected. “Gnochi got shot in the leg by a gun and he’s still healing, so the limp is more real than naught. Nearly took his life. I’m Cleo, by the way,” she said, offering her hand. Skuddy grabbed it with a wrinkled hand and shook it.

  Looking around in hesitation as if any of the entertainers might be spies, Skuddy offered: “Maybe we should talk in private?”

  “Yes,” Gnochi replied curtly, his voice brimming with what sounded like anger.

  “In my wagon.” Skuddy led them through the tent towards a wagon on the far side. As they approached, Cleo paused when she spotted a teen, not many years older than herself, holding a doll and staring in their direction.

  The boy’s pale face looked morbid, while the doll’s, in contrast, contained what Cleo would only call the animated spark of life. Its eyes seemed to track their every movement, down to the hair. The doll raised its hands and looked to be whispering into the ears of the boy who wielded it. Cleo rushed forward to catch up with Gnochi. She jumped up the stairs and slammed the door behind her.

  “You got shot by a gun?” Skuddy’s voice sounded of concern. He had lit a few candles to combat the darkness prevalent in the wagon. Cleo was able to discern most of the interior from the faint light. Contained with four stout walls was a small bed, neatly made, a floor-to-ceiling wardrobe, and a table around which the three stood; she spotted few personal effects. A curtain separated part of the wagon from the main living area, similar to the one that sectioned off the cots in Roy and Harvey’s wagon.

  “Cleo is scribing for me and apprenticing at the same time,” Gnochi said. “This is Skuddy, a longtime friend and the spiritual leader of Nimbus.”

  “It’s a pleasure,” Skuddy said, nodding his head in her direction. “Now tell me about this gunshot.” The tone in his voice warned against more stalling.

  “Got on the wrong side of Oceanmane’s angry leader.”

  Skuddy gasped at the nonchalance of Gnochi’s voice.

  “The wound got infected and nearly killed me, save for this one and h
er bone-flower.” Gnochi gestured to Cleo.

  “I have so many questions. Topping that list are: how did you manage to anger one of Oceanmane’s ilk? Where have you been over the past decade? But I suppose my more pressing question is for you, my dear,” Skuddy said, turning his head and addressing her. “How did you manage to get that stubborn coot to allow for your scribing?”

  Cleo, with cheeks inflamed, shrunk into the poncho, the closely woven material constricting her throat.

  “I’ll have you know that I’ve been trying, since he came first under my wing as a child, to allow someone to write his words down, but he’s always refused.”

  “Listen, Skuddy, there is a reason for my coming here,” Gnochi admitted, pulling the matte black pendant from under his shirt. The faint light from the candle reflected off its central red gem.

  Cleo waited, holding her breath to hear Skuddy’s reaction. He initially said nothing, then asked, “Why?”

  “They’ve gotten to Zelda and Pippa. I—I had no choice.” Gnochi looked down in chastised defeat.

  “Who is your target?” Skuddy asked, his voice flat.

  “Someone high up in Blue Haven proper.”

  “Wait,” Cleo said. “You told the menagerie—”

  “Yes, to throw them off so they would not suspect,” Gnochi interrupted. “I am going to need help with this one, Skuddy.”

  “Okay, let’s talk over some tea,” he suggested. He led Gnochi behind the curtain. Cleo could faintly hear whispering, but she did not press her luck trying to listen as every step on the wagon’s loose floorboards released a creaking noise akin to an animal-in-pain’s whimpering. After a few minutes, they emerged from behind the curtain bearing a tray of three teacups.