Lazarus Rising

by David Sherman

  "There was a name you spoke while you were delirious," Zechariah Brattle said when Military Operation's fever broke. They were sitting at the table, where Military Operation was drinking broth and eating chunks of black bread. "You said, ‘Charlie. Call me Charlie.’ Is that your name? Charles?"

  Military Operation looked puzzled as he mulled over the question. He became frustrated when he couldn't remember and pounded his fist hard enough on the table to slosh broth from the bowl. He shook his hand and swore at the bruising pain.

  "Charles, don't take the Lord's name in vain."

  "I don't know," Military Operation moaned, not hearing Brattle's admonition. "I'm Charlie... Charlie... Goddamnit, I can't remember!"

  "Charles, we are a God-fearing people. Please, your language."

  "My language?" Charles mumbled, sucking on the edge of his injured hand.

  "The Lord's name."

  "Oh." He blushed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry, I'll try to watch that."

  "Thank you, Charles." So even though he couldn't remember his full name, from then on he was Charles. Watching his language was something else he couldn't remember.

  "Goddamn, Comfort, you sure know how to construct a stew," Charles said as he finished the bowl Comfort Brattle had brought to him.

  "It's the best I could do under the circumstances, Charles," Comfort said. "Until Father slaughters another cow, we'll have to live on vegetables." She paused. "Charles, I really wish you wouldn't take the Lord's name in vain." Comfort's face reddened and she was forced to look down at the floor in her embarrassment.

  "Oh. Sorry," Charles replied. During the time he'd been in the Brattles' care, Zechariah, his wife Consort, and their daughter Comfort had steadfastly refused to call Charles "Charlie," thinking that too familiar a form of address for a person they did not even know. And they had all complained to him about his language. "Well," Charles continued, spooning up the last fragment of potato in thick beef stock, "if it hadn't been for you Brattles, I guess I'd have been standing before Saint Peter a long time ago, explaining myself rapid-fire to get all those black marks against my name erased from his Big Book."

  Comfort couldn't help herself and laughed at the idea of the man standing before Saint Peter. Comfort's laugh always made Charles feel better. He'd needed a lot of that laughter—and that stew!—over the weeks he'd been in the Brattles' care. "See, Comfy, we talk like men who live on the edge because..." A strange expression came over Charles's face. Carefully, he set the empty bowl down and smacked a palm into his forehead several times.

  "Have you remembered some more, Charles?"

  Charles shook his head, "I don't know, Comfort, I just don't know. That—what I just said? It—It just came to me." He looked up at her imploringly. There was moisture in his eyes. "Sometimes things come back to me, just images I can't identify? I think I was a soldier once, or maybe a policeman, but..." He shrugged helplessly. "I just don't know."

  "Well, whatever you were, Charles," Comfort said firmly, "you have a good head on your shoulders and a good heart. The things you have advised Father to do about our security here have made sense to everyone and we're glad you're here. The Lord looks after His people, Charles, and it was He who brought you here."

  He recovered enough to get up and move about, and when he wasn't feeling too tired, he had long talks with Zechariah Brattle. Zechariah had told him about their trek from the Sea of Gerizim and how they'd snuck by the devils'—as he called them—camp, where evidently Charles and his two companions had been held prisoner in the cave. Zechariah told him how they feared a return of the devils, and it was then Charles began to put his mind to the problem of security.

  "I think you need watches mounted around the clock, Zechariah. Everyone twelve and up should participate. That way you can divide up the duty. How many people would that be?"

  Zechariah counted mentally. "Thirty-five people, not including you and your two companions. Hmm. Well, some of our folks are rather on in years, Samuel and Esther Sewall, for instance, are nearly a century old, but they're spry and they'd hate to be left out."

  Charles thought for a moment. "How about two twelve-hour shifts each day, dawn to dusk, five people to a shift? One would be the sergeant of the guard, and four watchers, one for each quadrant. It'll be real hard on the older people, and the younger watchers will have to be supervised closely because they'll have a tendency to get bored, but there's no other way you can organize a watch—your numbers are so small and you have your own work to do during the daylight hours. The sergeant of the guard would continually make the rounds, checking on each watcher and helping observe. Pick your sergeants from the more elderly people in your group. With thirty-five people, you would have seven shifts, so the duty would come around about once every four days. When Colleen, Chet, and I are up to it, we'll be able to fill in. Who knows, maybe you'll even pick up some more people as time goes by."

  Charles was deep in thought for a moment. "We also need some kind of warning system, to alert us if anyone approaches. You don't have any kind of radio communication, do you?"

  "No, Charles. But we have plenty of scrap metal lying about. Why not rig up something for the watchers to bang on, something that we can hear even out in the fields?"

  "Excellent idea. But remember, if you can hear the alarm in the fields, so will any approaching enemy. We need to train everyone that as soon as the alarm for a ground approach is sounded, to drop what they're doing and take their positions or run to the rally point. And when you place the watchers, we've got to position them from the best places, to get good observation, but we've got to be sure they can't be seen themselves. We should build some kind of shelter for them, to hide them and also to protect them from the weather."

  "Yes, something like hunters use."

  "Exactly, Zechariah." Charles thought for a moment again. "What's your weapons status?"

  Zechariah shrugged. "Two shot rifles, my pistol, and two acid-throwing devices we captured from the devils. None of these weapons have much range, Charles; they're for close-in fighting. Comfort and another man have the rifles. They've actually used them to kill. I want them to keep the weapons at all times."

  "Okay. It won't be the job of the watchers to engage the enemy anyway, but to warn us of their approach. Tell me about these ‘acid-throwers,’ did you call them?" Zechariah filled him in on the captured devices. "I don't think the watchers should take them out there either. Let's hold them in reserve. You don't want to stand on guard for twelve hours with one of those things strapped on your back all the time you're out there. But we've got to be sure everyone knows how to use all these weapons. If we ever get into a fight, there will be casualties, and everyone's got to know how to pick up a discarded weapon and use it. We need a fortress or a rally point, a place where we can escape to so we can hide or defend ourselves. We can't do much to defend this village. We don't have communications, too little manpower, and limited ammo, I suspect, for the weapons we do have. Right? We don't have any ammunition for training purposes but we can teach everyone how to dry-fire the weapons. If we fight, we've got to consolidate our forces to multiply and concentrate our firepower and coordinate our defenses. If we flee, we've got to have escape routes and more distant rallying points."

  Zechariah smiled.

  "What's so funny?" Charles asked.

  "You, Charles." Zechariah chuckled. "Where did you come up with all these ideas so suddenly? They make good sense to me."

  Charles shrugged. "I honestly don't know, Zechariah. Just seems common sense to organize that way, don't you think so?"

  "The Lord God sent you to us, Charles, and at the next meeting we are going to thank Him for it."

  Comfort stood and took up the empty bowl. "I'll take this to the kitchen."

  "No! No, Comfy." Charles took her hand. "Sit here a spell? I—I seem to remember things best when my mind is on something else and, well—" He smiled wryly. "—you sure are ‘something else,’ Comfy." Though the Brattles refused to
call Charles by the diminutive of his name, he had no such problem; from the first he had called everyone by the familiar version of their given names. When he'd greeted the widow Flood as "Hannie" at their first meeting, for instance, she'd laughed so hard tears had come to her eyes. Hannah Flood had been a frequent visitor to Charles's sickroom since then, and while Comfort sincerely loved the sturdy old widow, secretly she was a bit jealous of her.

  Comfort sat back down. "Well, we have found a lot of potatoes in the fields and the men have managed to get some of the cows back into the pastures. And Father has organized a watch, just as you said we should, and we have people on guard around the clock and he's worked out a roster, to make it fair to everyone, and at night we don't let any lights show, and I'm on the watch too, and I am one of the two gunners we have at New Salem and—"

  "Hold it, hold on," Charles said, laughing. "Your tongue will get all twisted up! Tell me about your gun." He put his feet back up on the bed and lay back on the pillows. Comfort told him about the shot rifle and how she'd used it during the engagement with the Skinks—although she called them "devils"—and how her brother had been killed. Where had that word, "Skinks," come from? he wondered, but he didn't pursue the thought.

  "Aw, Comfy, I'm really sorry to hear about Samuel," he said, and sat up, taking Comfort's hand in his again. "Comfy, sometimes in combat people, your loved ones get killed and—" He smiled broadly. "Now where the hell did that come from? See? See? I remembered something there! I've been in a war! I know it! Holding hands with you is good therapy for me."

  "Comfort! Come outside at once!" Zechariah Brattle paused at the door to Charles's room when he saw the two holding hands. The growing intimacy between his daughter and their guest had not gone unnoticed by the patriarch, but he'd kept his peace about it. "Come outside. A stranger has arrived! Charles, come too, if you will."

  The small brown woman dressed in rags and carrying a tiny bundle slung on her back stood in the middle of a small crowd, obviously embarrassed at being the center of attention. She was also very relieved to be there, as clearly evidenced by the big smile on her face.

  "She doesn't seem to speak English," someone volunteered as Zechariah, followed closely by Comfort and Charles, came through the crowd.

  "Zechariah," he said slowly to the woman, tapping his chest. "What is your name?" He pointed at her.

  She knew what that meant. "Emwanna," the woman answered. She unslung the bundle from her back and held back the rag that had been covering her child's head from the sun. "Chisi," she said proudly, holding the baby out toward Zechariah. The baby's head was very big and its brown eyes enormous. It blinked at Zechariah.

  "The poor thing is starving," Hannah Flood said softly.

  "Do you speak English?" Zechariah asked slowly. English was the lingua franca on Kingdom, as it was throughout the Confederation of Human Worlds. All the peoples who'd emigrated there brought with them the languages of their forefathers but everyone used English, if not in their daily lives, then in their relationships with other groups.

  "Yes." The woman nodded. "Little." Her voice sounded like the rustling of old parchment. "Water?" she asked. Several of the onlookers rushed off to get the woman water. Someone produced a cup of milk for the child.

  "Where do you come from, child?" Zechariah asked.

  "Long way. From my people," she rasped, and pointed over her shoulder in the direction from which she had just come. She took the glass of water someone had given her and drank eagerly while one of the women gently removed the child from her arms and fed it milk. She drained the cup and bowed in thanks toward Zechariah.

  "Who are your people?"

  "Pilipili Magna. But all dead, all dead," Emwanna said tonelessly, and she drank deeply from her refilled cup.

  When Charles followed the Brattles out into the street, the first person he recognized was the red-haired woman who'd escaped from the caves with him, Colleen. The Sewalls had taken her in. Charles walked up to her, leaving Comfort with her father. "Long time no see," he said, putting his arm around her.

  "Charles, you saw me only this morning!" Colleen laughed and kissed him lightly on his cheek. Comfort noticed the intimacy and chided herself at the feeling of jealousy that surged up within her.

  Zechariah stood next to Emwanna and put his arm around her. "Friends, the Lord has seen to deliver this poor soul to us from the wilderness. It is our Christian duty to take her in, as we have Charles and Colleen and Chet. Who among us will care for this woman and her child?"

  "I will, Zechariah!" Hannah Flood bustled forward and took Emwanna under her wing. "I'll take that one too." She chuckled, pointing at Charles.

  "God bless you, Hannah. I believe—" He paused, looking for the right word, the ghost of a smile on his face. "—that Mrs. Brattle and I have grown very fond of Charles. Even if he does swear like a trooper," he muttered under his breath. "Friends," Zechariah addressed the rest of the crowd, "it's not wise to bunch up like this. Let us disperse to our homes and duties. Hannah will restore the woman and child and then we'll let her speak about her ordeal. Don't forget, guard mount changes in one hour." He beckoned to Charles, who joined him. "Charles, what do you think?"

  "I think she is only the first of many who will find their way to us, Zechariah. I think those things that killed your friends and held us in cages have devastated our world and they will be back for us." Although Charles could not remember what he had done in his former life, he was sure he was also a native of this world, like everyone else around him.

  Zechariah nodded. "The security measures you recommend, Charles, are very wise. You have had experience in these matters at some time in your life, that's obvious to everyone. I pray each night the Lord will restore your memory perfectly. I have a feeling we'll need all the advice we can get in the near future. When will you feel up to taking over the training of our able-bodied people to form some kind of defensive force?"

  "Tomorrow, Zechariah."

  "Good." He turned to Comfort. "Daughter, you go on watch in one hour."

  "Yes, Father." As she walked back into the house she frowned back at Charles.

  At first Charles was surprised at the look she gave him, and then his face reddened. Damn, he thought, she saw me kiss Colleen. The girl has a crush on me! He was both amused and alarmed. "Comfort," he called out, "wait up!" and followed her into the house.

  Spencer Maynard placed a hand on Reuben Stoughton's arm as they walked down the street. "See that?" He nodded at Charles and Comfort. "She's pretty sweet on that stranger." Spencer was twenty-five years old, and he'd been thinking of courting Comfort long before the community had moved to the Sea of Gerizim.

  "You are looking daggers at the man's back, Spencer," the older man observed wryly.

  "Lord forgive me for that," Maynard answered. They continued walking down the street. "But Reuben, is there something, you know, suspicious about the strangers? I mean, they come to us out of the night claiming they don't remember who they are, and we take them in. We really don't know who they are, do we? I do not trust them. In fact, Reuben," he leaned close and whispered into Reuben's ear, "I think they're spies." He nodded firmly.

  "Hmm, I'm not so sure," Reuben replied. "They came with no clothes and nearly dead—the other man and the woman would have died if we hadn't found them in the morning—"

  "Ah! You need only one man to do the job, but you send three? And what do we know about this ‘amnesia,’ eh? I looked it up, Reuben. They weren't hit on the head. We've all talked to them and they don't seem to be trying to forget something awful in their personal lives. They don't seem to be suffering from any diseases that would cause loss of memory, and if they were exposed to toxic substances, wouldn't that show up in some way? Oh, they talk about being tortured, but they remember that experience, they're not trying to forget it! They want us to believe the devils did it to them, but Reuben, the devils kill human beings, like they did all our friends, they don't just let them go! No, no, there's something about
these three that just doesn't add up, Reuben."

  "Hmm. Yes, maybe?" Reuben said doubtfully. He looked hard at his companion. He was fully aware that Spencer was jealous of Charles's relationship with Comfort, and he did not discount that as his motive for making such a slander. Still... He clapped Spencer on the shoulder, "Let us keep a close watch on the three of them, and if your suspicions grow into facts, we'll talk to Zechariah. Meanwhile, I've got the watch tonight."

  Spencer Maynard nodded and smiled. He'd get the facts, all right.

  Chapter 8

  Charles followed Comfort back into the house. She was slinging her shot rifle and picking up her coat when he caught up with her. Outside someone was giving the signal for the relief watch to muster at the meetinghouse—Bong!—one, two—Bong!—one, two—Bong!—one of the several warning signals Charles and Zechariah had worked out before instituting the watch system.

  "Comfort..." Charles paused, catching his breath. His long convalescence had weakened him. Comfort glared back at him. "Um, is that rifle loaded?" he asked.

  Comfort's expression changed to one of bewilderment. The Remchester 870 Police Model shot rifle was based on the simple design of the old-fashioned pump shotgun, with a tubular magazine mounted beneath the barrel; rounds were transferred from the spring-loaded magazine into the breech by working the slide to the rear and then ramming it forward to load the rounds. The Remchester was designed to fire a wide variety of ammunition, from ordinary buckshot to powerful explosive and armor-piercing projectiles. It came in a semiautomatic gas-operated version, but evidently the previous owner of this weapon preferred a pump action, because it was thought to be more reliable, if a bit slower to put into battery.

  "Never go on guard mount with a loaded weapon. The sergeant of the guard will inspect—" Charles smiled and held out his hand for the rifle, which Comfort passed over without comment. Then she smiled. He had remembered some more! Charles opened the breech and a live round popped out. "See?" he said, stooping and picking it up. He shoved it into the weapon's magazine. "Leave the action open, so you can look inside and see the round in the magazine and that the breech is clear. Put your finger into the breech to double-check that there's nothing in there. That way there's no chance of discharging your piece by mistake. You'd have gotten a gig for going on guard with a charged weapon."