by J. C. Staudt
During most of his shifts, Merrick passed the hours by creating hypothetical scenarios about these types of attacks and playing them out in his head, throwing in whatever imaginative twists he could think of. It was hard not to get bored, but bored was better than dead, and either was better than getting banished.
That was what Wax did to the comrades who disobeyed his orders, or proved themselves unfit for service; he banished them. The mark carved into the flesh between Merrick’s right thumb and forefinger depicted three claws, each shorter than the last, with a curved line through the base like a set of knuckles. Every man who accepted the mark of the Scarred Comrades knew that to do so was to bring the hatred and jealousy of thousands of southers upon himself. That made banishment a fate worse than death.
Nobody had been able to unite the city north the way Wax did when he brought the comrades together. He’d established a territory where people had real jobs and homes and food for the first time since the Heat. Granted, they were dead-end jobs and half-ruined tenement homes and more of the food tasted like it was grown in a vat than in the ground or on legs, but it was a more prosperous place than most in the Aionach.
Merrick considered himself lucky to have been relegated to the Sentries instead of being banished. He hadn’t done anything wrong, per se. He hadn’t gone against orders. He’d just made a bad decision. He’d seen comrades banished before; bound about the ankles, ridden out into the desert, and left to fend for themselves against whoever, or whatever, happened to be roaming the sands at the time. And if by some cruel chance you were picked up by nomads with the mark on you, you’d survive only long enough to wish you hadn’t.
His breathing slowed as he rested his head on the back of the chair, letting himself slip into a daydream. He remembered the night they brought him before Wax. Until a month ago, he’d only seen the Commissar up close a handful of times. It had been the longest, hottest part of the year. Merrick would’ve savored the cool of the evening if he hadn’t been so nervous. The thick ropes had been eating at his wrists, turning his hands purple, and the guards at the jailhouse hadn’t let him take a piss all afternoon.
Wax had spent half a minute looking Merrick over before he spoke. Merrick had wanted to be brave, but he’d had to settle for trying to hide the signs of his fear.
“I hear you did something dumb,” Wax had said. He’d vaulted down from the loading dock to stand in front of Merrick, resting his clasped hands over his groin. He was tall and scruffy, with hair the color of oatmeal and sunken green-gray eyes that became pools of shadow in the torchlight. Grimy black stains tarnished his denim, and there were smudges of grease across his face and fingers, the type of smudges familiar to a man who worked with his hands. His hood-scarf was draped about muscular shoulders, his arms and chest rippling beneath a loose-fitting tunic. Usually Wax would’ve been in the Hull Tower, his headquarters. But tonight he’d ventured to his personal warehouse to work on some mechanical project of his, which was the way people said he liked to spend his leisure time. That didn’t sound too leisurely to Merrick, but every man has his own way of blowing off steam.
“I did what I was told,” Merrick said in earnest. Saliva caught in his throat and he tried not to gulp.
It should have been a simple task, clearing out a bunch of zoom junkies from inside an empty cistern. Merrick hated zoomers even more than he hated muties, so he’d been looking forward to the assignment. The underground tank was just south of the Row, and Wax wanted to fortify it and turn it into a supply depot from which he could stage his operations in the city south.
Merrick’s commanding officer, Captain Malvid Curran, had been friendly and informal when he briefed him that day. “Enter the structure and clear out everything you find there.”
So when Merrick had arrived at the end of the tunnel after a painstaking, hours-long creep through the network of pipeline, he had done what he’d been ordered to do. The air had been dusky with the token stench of zoom; acrid, bitter, and stinging to breathe. The only light in the cistern came from the two pindrops beaming down through the tank’s filling holes. Most of the zoomheads were sleeping or too wasted out of their minds to move. They had at least exercised the courtesy of designating a place a few hundred feet down the pipeline as their lavatory, but Merrick had already walked through that.
The muzzle of his rifle began to wake up the darkness, presenting the zoomheads as a series of brief snapshots. The light strobed, and their garments sprouted crimson flowers. A din rose, bullets puncturing the metal skin of the tank and clattering around them, while those least impaired gave cries of pain and surprise. Merrick swiveled at the waist, every bright burst illuminating a new splash of red. Wherever a figure moved in the shadows, he took aim, and didn’t stop until the last of the lethargic forms had succumbed.
A month’s worth of good deeds done in thirty seconds, Merrick had commended himself. Belmond is cleaner by a tankful. He had propped his weapon between his legs and lit a torch. He’d nearly dropped it when a desperate, high-pitched scream echoed through the cistern. The sound was so foreign to him, he hadn’t realized what he was hearing at first. He’d picked up his rifle, raising the torch high with his other hand.
The form of a woman was slouched against a rounded corner of the cistern, leaning back in lifeless tranquility. Swaddled against the breast, a tiny contour wriggled inside a red-stained cloth. A few steps closer were all it took for Merrick to make out the screeching pink face of an infant, its still-toothless jaw rent aside.
Concussive waves of awe and horror struck him in tandem. How did a bunch of zoom-riddled vagrants get a child? Commissar Wax had been vocal about his desire for a healthy child, born or unborn. As promiscuous as the Commissar was, it seemed he wasn’t having much luck on his own. Not many people were, anymore.
Merrick’s breath began to run ragged as the anguished, tortured screams continued. The gunsmoke and zoom vapor were making his eyes and nose burn. His legs went soft, and he kneeled, letting both his rifle and the torch slip from his grasp. When he shut his eyes and put his face in his hands, he was shaking all over.
He had stayed there, dazed and unable to rise, for a long time. When he had finally scrounged up the will to take action, sweat was running down his face, and his clothes were soaking wet. The torch was almost out. In its dying light, and the light cast by the two pinholes above, Merrick dropped his rifle’s empty magazine and jammed another into place. He hoisted the weapon to his shoulder and sighted in, settling on the tiny shape that squirmed on the dead woman’s chest. The child had grown lethargic, its screams reduced to delicate whimpers.
“Children are our most valuable commodity,” Pilot Wax had said later, as Merrick stood bound in front of him.
There had been so little feeling left in Merrick’s hands, he was sure they’d have had to amputate if they didn’t free him soon.
“We can grow food, forge weapons and tools, and make ammunition, all because this city provides us with the resources we need to do so,” Wax had said. “The underground spring that flows into our territory from the northeast is the only good source of water for horizons around, and it requires minimal filtration to make drinkable. We have storehouses, and guards to protect them. Cloth and leather enough to clothe us all, and roofs over our heads to keep us sheltered from Infernal’s heat. This city is the greatest gift our forebears could’ve left us. But we will end if there are no children to carry on after we die. You. Your name is…”
“Merrick. Uh, Corporal Merrick Bouchard.”
“Bouchard. You killed three of them, Bouchard. An infant and two older children.”
It was true. The comrades who had come to clean up the mess later had discovered two girls between ages three and five among the dead. Merrick had left the cistern too quickly to inspect the rest of his victims.
“Yes, I killed them,” Merrick admitted. The words came out feeble, apologetic.
“You did. You admit it. You’re reckless. When dealing with transients
and misfits, we always take stock of what we’ve got before we proceed with the task at hand. You learned this in your ingress training, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Merrick shifted, trying to find a comfortable position for his hands.
“A severe transgression begets a severe punishment,” Wax said.
Merrick knew he deserved to be punished, but he didn’t feel the least bit ready to die. Those children probably hadn’t either. His whole body was pounding, the dread of his inevitable banishment gripping him like a cold hand. There was no wind, as if the air itself were listening for what came next.
“I’m going to treat this incident as a momentary lapse in judgment,” Wax had said. “I don’t think you’re fit for duty with Mobile Operations right now. We’ll see how your common sense fares while you’re part of the Sentries. If you can prove yourself worthy of more responsibility while you’re there, maybe we’ll reinstate you in a few months. One more screw-up, though, and I won’t be so lenient. Captain Robling, this man is the newest member of your security team. Get him acquainted.” Wax had hopped back up onto the loading platform and disappeared inside his warehouse.
Merrick had been surprised, relieved, and about to piss his pants. The men had cut the ropes from his wrists, and Captain Robling, the Sentry Commander, had beckoned him to follow. That was the last time Merrick had spoken to Pilot Wax.
A voice from behind seized Merrick’s daydream away. He was still sitting in the rusty folding chair, gazing up at the crystal chandelier three stories above him. The late afternoon had taken the last rays of light from the walls and left the room in drab gray shade.
“I can’t imagine how you keep yourself entertained up here.” Seaton Jamerton stood in the doorway, lighting a cigarette with his striker. The striker’s metallic scraping took Merrick back to the cistern, but he shook the memory away.
“All I have to do is think about how much handsomer you get every time you smoke one of those,” Merrick said, smirking. He inhaled, wondering how he’d missed the sound of Seaton’s boots coming up the stairs.
Seaton took his first drag and pulled the cigarette away. “Don’t you lie to me. We both know I couldn’t get any handsomer.”
“Right, whatever. Jackass.” Merrick stood, and the two men embraced.
“Anything big happen over here since last shift?”
“Yeah, the old lovebirds from Providence Hills came to life and started humping each other.” Merrick motioned toward the billboard across the street, then held out his hands and thrust his pelvis. “Nah, it’s been mostly quiet. A couple muties showed up, but someone took a shot and they ran off.”
“Uh oh. I’m telling the Captain. Wasting ammo. That’s a big no-no. I’ll have to make a report.”
“Shut up,” Merrick said, laughing as he slung his rifle across his back. “Yeah, not much else. Nothing since Praul.”
Seaton shook his head and took a long drag. “Praul. Those bastards got what they deserved.”
Merrick looked at the ground. “Sure enough.”
When Merrick looked up again, Seaton was staring down the street, lost in thought. He looked like a brick oven with his red clay skin and the smoke venting from every orifice in his head. When he spoke again, the rest of the smoke poured out. “Welp, you’re off, buddy. Enjoy it.”
“You too, comrade,” Merrick said.
Seaton flapped his lips together, mimicking the sound of flatulence. “We both know that’s not gonna happen, Comrade Dickhead.”
“You’re right. I’m about to have a way better time than you are.”
Seaton made a rude gesture.
Merrick saluted his comrade before starting down the creaky wooden stairs.
CHAPTER 5
Preparations
The corpse’s skin was powder-white, like the surface of a sandswept rock after too many windstorms. Sister Bastille traced a line from sternum to pelvis with a resolute hand. Her scalpel was a seafaring vessel, the flesh parting beneath its keen edge like a wave. A thin red ribbon flooded the gap and overflowed, washing both sides of the abdomen in crimson.
“When you arrive at the genitals, you needn’t cut any further.” Her voice echoed loud and level in the stark flagstone room. The familiar scent of cold entrails wafted up from the incision. Performing these rites had become second nature to Sister Bastille. She only hoped one of her pupils would show interest in learning them as well.
Against the back wall of the room, four ceremonial robes dangled from hooks like purple ghosts. Bastille’s robe was trimmed in black velvet, pronged archaic symbols stitched into the panels. The acolytes who owned the other three robes were standing in front of the high concrete slab where Bastille was working, green-faced and trembling, hugging themselves against the subterranean clime.
Bastille gave her students a glance before she began peeling the skin. Two women and a man, her smallest crop of new pupils in months. What dreadful specimens, she thought. If these people are the future of the Order, may the Mouth devour us all. “Ultimately the heart is to be removed, but we’ll get to that later,” she said. “First, the skin is separated and the muscle is cut from below the ribcage, like so.”
She took a flap of skin between her fingers and pulled. It was cold but supple, and it made a sound like a cheese grater shredding a hard vegetable. With her other hand, she slipped the scalpel between the dermis and the underlying muscle. The flesh broke from its moorings as she worked the blade through, leaving a viscous froth on the sheeting of muscle beneath.
It had been harder to butcher her first calf as a girl in Wynesring than to dissect her first human as a priest of the Order. Bastille remembered the strange warmth of blood spray on her hands, the surge of adrenaline that had shot through her as she felt the life leaving the animal’s body. How her father had stayed with her while she was sick in the back room. The way he’d encouraged her despite the poor job she’d done, letting her try again—forcing her to try again. Butchering takes guts, he always said, laughing at his own wit.
Her father hadn’t been there to walk her through her first human, but the process had been similar enough. The Mouth is the perfect enemy of all living things, and there is no mystery of life that it cannot unravel, she thought, quoting the scriptures. She scooped a tangled mass of intestines onto the table and held the tin lantern aloft so her pupils could see inside.
“With the abdominal muscles pinned back, we have access to cut free the stomach from beneath the rib cage, here. Stand a little closer if you have trouble seeing. Look down into the opening, just there.”
Her students shuffled closer to the slab, its porous surface stained with the fluid of countless subjects. They regarded the corpse with wide eyes, peering into the abdomen with varying amounts of curiosity and disgust.
“After we’ve cut the stomach and its adjoining organs free,” Bastille said, pointing to the locations in question, “we should be able to reach into the chest cavity, assuming the lungs are deflated, and find the heart.”
Sister Jeanette gave a crude grunt, then clapped her hands over her mouth and fled the room, leaving the door open behind her. Bastille sighed. One down already. “Close that door, will you please?” she said, motioning toward her male student, Brother Mortial.
Mortial was tall and underweight, with a curved spine that made him lean to the right. Thick medium-blond hair grew long around his ears and over his gray-green eyes. Bastille’s demonstration was making his skin go paler than its usual shade; he and the remaining young woman both looked as though they were ready to join Sister Jeanette in the privy, but Mortial obeyed Bastille’s request and returned to his place without a word.
“Uh, Sister Bastille? Kind Sister?” The door creaked opened again, and spry old Brother Soleil was poking his head inside, gripping the doorjamb with a bony hand. Soleil was one of the four priests who formed the Most Highly Esteemed, the Order’s most prestigious rank. Feather-white hair crowned his spotted scalp, and gentle laughing crow’s feet spr
outed from the corners of his eyes.
“Kind Brother Soleil. Welcome,” Bastille said, forcing a smile. Smiling always made her feel too transparent. She ceased her rummaging, but kept her hand inside the corpse so as not to lose her grip on her subject’s esophagus.
“One of your charges has surrendered her bowels to the lavatory, I fear,” Soleil said, chuckling. “Sister Jeanette, I believe. Best not to urge her back here. We shall find service for her elsewhere.”
“Very well, kind Brother. Thank you.”
Soleil observed Bastille for a moment, a gleam in his eye, then slipped out again.
“Few are fit to perform the sacrificial rites,” Bastille told her two remaining pupils, resuming her work. “I’m sure you’ve both met Brother Soleil before. He’s our most skilled practitioner, and the only member of our Order experienced in both the sacrificial rites and the surgical Enhancements. A great many of our Cypriests were converted by Brother Soleil himself. If either of you is selected to undergo the full training, it will be your privilege to study under him, as I did.”
Bastille picked up a small cutting saw and shoved her other hand through the opening. A hollow, serrated chewing sound came from within as she began to work the blade. The corpse’s limbs lurched and wobbled along the joints like something coming to life.
“Tolerance for this kind of work is only half the requirement, however. One must also learn the systems of the body in both part and function. Familiarity with the flesh is a learned skill, and one that requires a certain amount of… firsthand experience. Ah, here we go.” Bastille withdrew the blade, then propped one hand on the ribcage and pulled with the other. There were two short pops as the stomach gave way. She wedged her slippery prize through the opening and added it to the pile.
“Kind Sister?” Brother Mortial half-raised his hand.
“Yes, kind Brother. What is it?”
