by Eyal Kless
The young guy in front turned. “Bukra’s balls,” he said, the intonation suggesting this was a swear of sorts, “where the fuck did you come from?”
“From behind you, dumbass,” the man holding the bow answered, without taking his eyes from me. “She’s been tailing us for a while, but your head is too full of moonshine to notice.”
“I’m just lost.” I heard my own voice as I spoke out loud for the first time in this existence. It came out weak and high-pitched. I hated it.
“Balls you are, there’s no one living here for miles.” Another man walked out from behind a large tree trunk, halfway between the youngest man and myself. I figured my chances for a peaceful resolution went down another significant notch. From the three of them, he looked the most dangerous. Almost double my height and definitely triple my weight, his oversized bald head was full of scars, but I didn’t pay attention to the rest of him since I was concentrating on the sawed-off shotgun that was levelled at me. It was an antique, the sort that had to be manually pumped and shot metal bullets. I was not about to find out if it actually worked.
“Where’s your crew, bitch?”
“I . . . I have no crew, I’m just . . .”
He raised the shotgun as he walked slowly towards me. From the way he moved, it was obvious he was an experienced warrior.
“This is no-man’s-land. The only creatures here are two-headed lions and Salvationist crews tired of Lizard hunting in the valley. You are no lion, old bag, so I’ll ask this again before I’ll start inflicting pain: tell me where’s your rusting crew, right now.”
“Half a mile behind me,” I answered quickly. There was no point in trying to persuade him otherwise. “We found an old emergency bunker and I was sent to scout.”
He paused. I could see the bowman relaxing a bit. I was not an expert on medieval weaponry but I figured there was only so long you could maintain an aiming position with such a bow before the strain on your arms became a problem.
“You lie, we know this place well. This area has no bunkers.”
“It was well hidden under a large rock.”
The youngest male climbed back down and was heading our way. “I know,” he declared enthusiastically, “let’s fuck her.”
From my peripheral vision I saw the bowman twisting his face in disgust. “Ooh, Malk, look at her . . .”
“Hey,” the younger man called Malk protested, “when was the last time you had better?”
The bowman seemed to consider this and finally shrugged. “You might have a point.”
“What do you say, Dun?” the enthusiastic rapist asked the shotgun-aiming man, who smiled.
“Yeah, we’ll fuck the bitch some new holes, but first we need to interrogate her.” He moved forward with intent and I backed away, raising my hands.
“No, please—”
“I take dibs,” Malk declared.
“You go last,” the bald man grunted as he stepped towards me.
“Oh man, Dun . . . I always go last . . .”
Dun lunged at me and caught my arm, his oversized palm completely enveloping my forearm. He held the shotgun with his other hand, but once he caught me he felt secure enough to raise the muzzle to the sky, probably planning to hand the gun to the younger man.
My vessel was a noncombat type, but every vessel has an ESM—emergency survival mode—when you pump your vessel with enough adrenaline to kill an average elephant. Once it passes, it leaves the vessel in a weakened state, but for just a little while you become a killing machine. I was proficient in three dozen martial arts to a fifth dan or equivalent degree, and the fact that my bones had hardened to metal strength and I moved at nearly double my normal speed made the whole affair almost easy. With my free hand I punched the bald man in the chest and felt, as well as heard, his ribs crack. He was not feeling the damage yet, but his mouth gaped open from the shock of the impact. With all my senses heightened, I heard the stretching sound of the bowstring as the man to my right began to react. Moving the brute once my second punch dislodged his jaw was as easy as throwing a rag doll. My timing was not perfect but I still managed to place him in the path of the incoming arrow. It buried itself in his back with a satisfying thud, causing him to arch backwards with a guttural howl of pain. I plucked the shotgun from his loosened grip and rolled sideways before his collapsing girth buried me.
Kudos to the archer—he had a second arrow already cocked when I rose to my feet, but I pulled the trigger and shot his leg out from under him before he could release it.
He screamed and toppled forward, losing the bow and flailing his arms, then hitting the rock below face-first.
The younger man was already charging at me, sword in hand, as I turned, pumped the gun, and pulled the trigger again. The weapon jammed. Antique or not, poorly maintained weapons are a menace. I only had a split second to raise the shotgun to defend against the coming sword slash. It should have blocked a normal sword. The faint blue colour surrounding the metal told me, too late, that this was a power short sword. I stepped back just as it cut through the barrel of the shotgun, throwing enough sparks for a children’s fireworks display. The ease with which my attacker cut my weapon was also his demise. He overreached and momentarily lost his balance, then tried to recover with a low backhand. I broke his left knee, hand, arm, and nose before he hit the ground.
I stood in the dwindling silence for several heartbeats, trying to figure out if the combat had attracted attention. When no one else came out of the woods I went and looked at the archer. He was still alive, but half his face was broken and his lower leg was almost entirely blown off. He opened his healthy eye, coughed out some broken teeth, and moaned.
I went back and retrieved the power short sword. It was worn, torn, and patched up, but it still was, I must admit, a thing of beauty. I powered on the sword, then bent down and grabbed the bowman’s left leg. He twisted and moaned, then screamed and passed out when I sliced his lower leg off with two bloody hacks. I am not a sword master, but it was close to a clean cut and, basically, a fair deal. There was the smell of meat searing itself shut. The archer might live, and I’d gotten my nourishment. I went and picked up the bow as well but the man’s fall had cracked the wood. I kept it anyway for firewood. There were a few crude looking metal coins in his belt pocket, a water skin filled with the most terrible wine I had ever tasted, and a lethal-looking skinning knife with a chipped blade.
Dun was dying fast, and I made sure he got there by cutting off his head. He had a heftier coin bag. I opened it and spilled some of its contents into my hand. Dark metal coins, mostly half the size of my hand but a few smaller ones. It took me a few seconds to remember what their use was, and if I needed proof of how far humanity had fallen, it was lying in the palm of my hand. You’d have to go to the most remote places in the world to find people who still used paper money, let alone coins, yet here they were in my hand. Each coin had a faded but unmistakable emblem of four towers of Tarkania, which made my heart race again. I closed the pouch and turned to the enthusiastic rapist.
He was conscious. Maybe the bowman’s screams had woken him up. His eyes were still fixated on the severed head of Dun when I approached him, holding the archer’s stump in one hand and the bloodied power sword with the other.
He looked up at me with bloodshot, frightened eyes.
“Please,” he begged.
I waved the stump in my hand in front of him. “I have some questions for you, young man.”
This was how I learned about the Catastrophe, that Dun was an ex-Salvationist from Tarakan Valley who had broken the contract with his guild and fled to make easy pickings in what was now called the Radiated City, one of several cities that were utterly destroyed. With a sinking heart, I learned what had happened to my people and that the once-magnificent Tarkania was now defiled by the remnants of humanity who no longer remembered its name and call it “the City of Towers.”
Several deep roars from the forest proved Dun was at least not lying
about the beasts that lurked here. It was time to go.
“Please,” Malk begged when I turned away, “please, mercy.” His broken knee was protruding from his skin.
I don’t know if he wanted me to give him a clean death or carry him across the ruins, but I left him for the two-headed lions and limped away slowly, my new body punishing me severely for the ESM I had put it through.
If what Malk just told me was true, I was not walking in a ruined city, I was walking in a destroyed world. By his body language, I knew Malk believed in what he’d told me, but I still refused to accept it. Perhaps that was why I left him there.
A little while later I heard him scream one last time.
Chapter 3
Twinkle Eyes
Not withstanding the horrible memories of my demise, waking up from the dead the first time was a pleasant experience, to the point where for a moment I’d wondered if I was in one of those heavenly gardens many of the different religions promised you ended up in if you followed their creed. This time I woke up in a place which was the extreme opposite of paradise.
Various metallic instruments that must have kept my new body alive withdrew into darkness, and the bed simply tilted and I slid down to the metal floor. I lay there, gasping for air, blind and horrified, surrounded by darkness, pierced by the periodic flashing of red lights accompanied by a deafening siren. As I tried to get up, a calm yet loud female voice spoke, informing me that I was in danger and must leave the premises. I did not need her encouragement. My skin stung, not in a certain place or two, but over my entire body, as if the air was on fire. I knew to the core of my new being that whatever I was breathing was killing me. I coughed, sneezed, vomited, and lost control of my bowels in nasty succession, while trying in vain to get hold of something to push myself up with.
Amid all that fun one instinct remained true. I tried to deepen my sight, the curse that touched me in youth and the only edge I had on most of mankind. It didn’t work. Not at first, anyway. When it finally did, it was not as I remembered. My sight flickered through various mediums of vision, a few of which I only knew about from stories. The quick sequence left me completely disoriented. Whatever progress I was making in getting up was lost and I hit the floor again, sitting in my own bile and bodily fluids, covering my eyes with my hands and wishing this life would end faster than my previous death had taken.
The sirens and the urging female voice were too loud for me to hear steps, but I felt their vibration as someone ran towards me. I tried to look around, flailing my arms in the darkness, but my sight was out of control—I was completely blinded by the flashing of various shades of light and darkness.
A hand caught my arm, and as I was hauled to my feet I felt the grasping fingers burn my skin.
“Try not to breathe.” I didn’t recognise the voice, but the accent was familiar.
“I can’t see, I . . .” Another cough caught me as my body battled whatever I was breathing, and this time my rescuer had to hug me to prevent another collapse.
He was naked. We both were. The strange thing was that I registered that our naked bodies were touching, but it was more a thought in my mind than what I remembered a naked body should feel. The notion was so eerie that for a moment my mind cleared.
“Slow your breathing.” His voice was at my ear as he picked me up with ease in a bear hug. “You can block some of the shit out.”
And lo and behold, there it was. I thought it, and my body slowed its breath. Whatever was coming down my throat was somehow more acceptable, even though I knew it would still kill me—well, us—shortly.
“We need to get out of here,” I croaked.
“Rust, you think so?” The man coughed out a dry chuckle. “There is a ladder here, attached to the wall.”
“I can’t see. Where does it go?”
“It goes somewhere, better up than to stay here.”
“I can’t see.” My hands flailed in the darkness.
“Here, feel this . . .”
He pretty much slammed me into the metal ladder, the first sign that he was losing the battle against the elements as rapidly as I was.
“I can’t see.” Panic was gripping my throat as painfully as the cursed air I was breathing.
“Climb first. If you fall I might be able to catch you.”
“I can’t, I’m too weak, I can’t see.” I wheezed, gripping a metal rung.
“Well then, been nice knowing ya, even briefly.” His hands began shoving me aside and I felt his leg brush past mine and push against the first rung.
“Wait, no, I can do it.”
The thought of staying down there and dying in agony was enough to charge me with the strength to turn around and begin climbing up the metal ladder.
He ended up carrying me on his shoulder more than half of the way. It was an amazing feat of strength, balance, and singlemindedness, especially when we reached a trap door which he did not manage to open despite several brave attempts. By this time my sight was back and I could cling to the ladder as my rescuer charged up into the metal door shouting colourful obscenities with each failed attempt to pop it open.
With careful concentration, while holding on to the ladder, I enhanced my sight and looked around. The metal lever and the paintings describing the direction in which to pull it were an arm’s length away.
I tried to speak but was too weak to say anything. My throat felt like I had swallowed nails. As sweat rained down on me from above and another loud ding echoed around us, I reached out with an aching hand and pulled the lever. It was surprisingly easy, and immediately there was a hiss from above. The door opened upwards and my rescuer whooped in triumph. A rush of hot, poisonous wind came from below and my knees buckled, but before I passed out and fell to my death my rescuer grabbed me again. I was pulled up and thrown onto cold, wet ground.
It was still unnaturally dark and blissfully cold but the air was as sweet as a woman’s caress. All I wanted to do was cling to the wet earth and keep breathing, but my rescuer had other plans.
“It’s a cave, but I can see light ahead,” he said, helping me to my feet. We waded through a stream, bending every few steps to wash the gunk off our naked bodies. Eventually we emerged into sunlight and collapsed on the bank. For a while all I could do was lie on my back, feet submerged in the water, arm shielding my face from the sun. Then I got thirsty. I turned on my side, came up to my knees, and turned around on all fours. When I lowered my face, the water felt cool on my skin, soothing, and when I opened my mouth it tasted pure and cleansing. I knew it for a fact. I knew it was pure as I tasted it and even knew the temperature of the liquid. I just didn’t know how I knew it. The water was refreshing, but I had the knowledge of its effect more than the actual feeling. It was unnatural. It was strange, but not as strange as my reflection in the water.
The face, the bald head, the eyes, the lips. I was staring into the reflection of someone else’s face. Only at a second glance did I realise what I was not seeing and managed to stifle a yelp with a hand to my mouth. My eyes were clear blue, but the thin black symbols which had appeared overnight during my adolescence were gone.
I sat back, dumbstruck, and looked around. My rescuer must have been going through the same revelation regarding his body. I saw him sitting on his haunches several yards away, staring at the water. Sensing my gaze, he turned his head and looked back at me.
“Maybe you can tell me what this rust bucket is all about?” he called. His voice was unfamiliar, but now that we were out of the deathtrap we awoke in, I recognised the dialect and it warmed my heart. Like me, he was bald—no, completely hairless, loins and all—but that was where the similarities ended. When he stood up I couldn’t help but envy his physique. It was perfection. Strong, long limbs, a lean but muscular body, and his skin as pure as a baby’s—which was more than odd, it was simply impossible. No one could be that strong, carrying me all the way up from the abyss to the surface, without having been touched by the curse and further amplified by
a Tarakan device. This was a Tarakan combat vessel—he looked nothing like the man I used to know, but I didn’t care.
“Hello, Galinak,” I said.
“Who are ya?” He eyed me suspiciously as I walked towards him. “And what was that rust below?” He gestured at the cave. “And if you can answer both those questions, how about telling me why we are standing butt naked in the middle of the rusting wilderness?”
“It’s me, Twinkle Eyes,” I said.
“No, you’re not, and that’s far enough.” He took a half step away from me. I stopped.
“It’s me, Twinkle Eyes. We just have different bodies, both of us.”
His eyes narrowed. “You’re rusting me, and patience was never one of my virtues. I’ll ask you for the last time. Who are you?”
I sighed. “You have a signature hip throw. You are terrible at cards. The odds in the fight we had in Vincha’s shack was five to two. You and Vincha had a weird sexual tension between you but you never actually got to . . .”
I watched his suspicion turn into a broad smile with every word I said.
“Well, rip my wires. Is that really you, Twinkle Eyes?” he finally asked.
I nodded and pointed at my eyes. “Just without the marks around the twinkle, I guess.”
“Bukra’s balls.” Before I could react, Galinak stepped forward, grabbed me in a crushing bear hug, and lifted me in the air like a little child.
“Galinak, put me down, you crazy Troll.” I tried to struggle, but it was like pushing against metal.
“It’s rusting Twinkle Eyes,” Galinak called out as he spun me around in his arms.
“Damn it, we’re both naked.”
“Who gives a silver wire?” Galinak shouted but eventually plunked me down on the ground and put a steadying arm on my shoulder. “I thought we were both goners,” he said. “I mean, I heard you over the Comm, negotiating with those Tarakan arse rusts when we were surrounded by those Lizards, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘Twinkles has some Salvationist spirit in him after all.’ But then the Lizards began breaking in, I heard you screaming over the Comm and . . .” Galinak’s eyes darkened.
