Lazarus Rising

by David Sherman

  He looked around, satisfied. After living in the bachelor NCO quarters for a couple of years after his most recent marriage had dissolved, Myer opted for a small bungalow in a housing area not far from the infantry barracks. It wasn't much, the small living room crowded with the paraphernalia for the card game, but it had a bedroom big enough to entertain a lady when the occasion arose, and a small kitchen. Only one bath, though. Hell, if the line got too long later on, anyone who couldn't hold it could damn well go outside and water the neighbors' flowers.

  He belched again, puffed away to keep his Fidel going, and reached for an ale. But he put the bottle back before opening it—it wouldn't do for him to be tipsier than any of his victims, er, guests. Not if he wanted to clean them out.

  After three wives had left him, he'd decided to do without—at least for the remainder of his Marine career. All three had professed to love him, but claimed they couldn't deal with the stresses of the constant deployments and the uncertainty of whether he would live to come home to them.

  As if a first sergeant faced much danger, he thought.

  Maybe after he retired he'd get married again. Maybe one of his former wives would want to come back. He told himself he'd have to think about that.

  Knuckles rapping sharply on the door brought Myer back to the present. "Come!"

  The door opened to reveal the battalion sergeant major, Parant. He looked around, saw only Myer, said, "Oops, sorry to bother you, Top. Someone told me there was a party here," and started to close the door.

  "Get in here, Bernie," Myer growled. "You're early, that's all. Have a seat." He got a Reindeer Ale from the kitchen and opened it for Parant. "Have a brew."

  There was another knock on the door. It was Company L's gunnery sergeant, Gunny Thatcher, and Staff Sergeant Hyakowa.

  "Come on in," Myer growled at them, and got out ales.

  Moments later the FIST sergeant major, Shiro, and newly promoted Chief Hospitalman Horner arrived. After he gave them their first drinks, Myer briskly rubbed his hands together and sat down at the table.

  "All right, now that we're all here, let the games begin!"

  There was a moment of shuffling and scraping as the others took their places and rearranged their settings to their own taste.

  "Wait a minute," Parant said. "There's six of us and seven places. Who's missing?"

  Myer slapped the unopened deck in front of Hyakowa. "Open them, Wang. You're too junior here to try a fast one on us." He looked at Parant. "Charlie Bass. But you know him, he'd be late for his own funeral."

  After a few seconds, Shiro broke the silence that had slammed over the group. "Charlie's dead, Goldie."

  "No he ain't. Charlie Bass is too damn dumb to get killed in some silly-assed ambush."

  "He's dead," Horner and Thatcher said simultaneously. Hyakowa was too choked up to speak.

  "These are my quarters," Myer rasped, giving a gimlet eye to each of them. "This is my table, my game. As long as I'm in 34th FIST, there's a place set at my table for Charlie Bass. Anybody who don't like it can get up and leave."

  Parant had to clear his throat before he could speak. "You got that deck open yet, Wang? Let's cut. High card deals."

  Chapter 10

  It was the darkest time of the night, just before dawn. Charles and a select group of men had been working all night to prepare a defensive position in a draw half a kilometer south of the village. Although he was fast recovering his strength, Charles felt his endurance lagging and decided to return to New Salem for a short rest in the meetinghouse. He wanted to be fresh and on hand for the changing of the watch; the men working in the draw could finish what they were doing before sunrise and get under cover.

  Charles had decided to reduce daytime outdoor activity as much as possible from now on, to lessen the chance that anyone might spot movement in the village and come to investigate. In fact, the villagers had partially dismantled some of the unoccupied buildings in New Salem to give the place an uninhabited look, the watch was mounted just before sunrise and just after sunset, and the only foot traffic permitted out of doors at New Salem nowadays when the sun was up was limited to essential requirements, such as communications required by the people on watch. Everyone else slept during the daytime or attended to their domestic chores.

  They all knew of infrared sensors and how they worked in the dark, but keeping under cover psychologically increased the feeling that they were doing everything they could to protect themselves. Just like the "fort" they were building in the draw. Everyone knew if the Army of the Lord, much less the devils, attacked them, it would be useless for any long-term effective defensive measures. But the work kept them occupied.

  However, the draw proved to have some advantages as a possible refuge and rallying point. It was thickly wooded, and a spring bubbled in the center of the position, which backed up to a vast complex of limestone caverns. It could be reached quickly, and best of all, if it had to be abandoned, the caverns provided an ideal series of escape routes that led to hidden exits away from New Salem. Every centimeter of this cave complex was familiar to the people of New Salem, all of whom had been through them on youthful sprees, family picnics and outings, and lovers' trysts over the years.

  Several paths led from the village to the draw, all conveniently camouflaged by undergrowth that flourished throughout the area. Charles chose the one that led most directly back to New Salem. The fronds that brushed against him as he walked were heavy with morning dew. Overhead, the stars glittered in wild profusion. It was utterly quiet; not even a breeze stirred the vegetation.

  Charles wondered idly who he was. He knew at one time in his life he'd been some sort of soldier, but not in the Army of the Lord. Zechariah had often pointed out that he was too profane and not quite arrogant enough to have belonged to that army! Charles's dreams, when he could remember them at all, were full of military images, barracks scenes, what he took to be maneuvers, weapons, the faces of men he knew and respected. But he could never put names to the faces. The man named Chet, who had come with him from the prison cages, could now remember that he'd been a teacher or educator of some sort, but he couldn't recall where. And Colleen—Charles smiled when he thought of the redhead—could remember things out of her past too, but she was deliberately vague about them, and Charles wondered what she was trying to hide.

  Someone stepped out from behind a bush and struck him a heavy blow across his shoulders. Charles fell to his knees, temporarily stunned. Someone whispered, "Hit him again!" and another blow fell across his back, which sent him sprawling into the path. He saw a pair of feet in front of him, and the name "Dupont" flashed into his mind. He grabbed the feet and yanked. With a cry of surprise, the man fell with a thud. Charles crawled up over his legs and landed a heavy blow on the man's face. Then everything went black.

  Zechariah Brattle sat alone in the kitchen of his home, staring at his last bottle of beer, left over from their reconnaissance to the destroyed camp in the heights above the Sea of Gerizim. He had been among the survivors who'd made their way to some caves a considerable distance from the heights, and later returned to see what could be salvaged, always with the fear that the attackers would return and finish them off.

  On rare occasions since then he had privately consumed the beer, one at a time, the remaining bottles carefully stored at the bottom of the well out back. Like Charles, he had been up all night, constantly on the move between the watchers and the draw, observing, supervising, conferring, letting everyone see him. He'd even found time to drop in on the families of the men on duty. These were all his people, and he felt responsible for them.

  It would be light soon—"first light," Charles called it, that time of day when you could read the Bible without the aid of artificial illumination. The watch would have to be posted before then and operations shut down. He looked at his timepiece. He had half an hour to himself. Comfort and Consort were already in bed. They'd worked all night too, preparing emergency stores to take with them
into the fort if an alarm came. Three times that week Charles had called alarms, to test everyone's reaction. Zechariah had been pleased with the results. It took no more than five minutes to evacuate everyone to the draw. Charles, however, wanted it done in three minutes, and he promised to keep the drills up until they could do it in that time.

  Zechariah's thoughts wandered to the Sea of Gerizim, the turning point in all their fortunes. It had been there that the City of God was destroyed, and with it, all their hopes for the survival of the community of the Lord. He sometimes agreed with the other survivors that it had been the will of God, just punishment for the evil plot the elders of their sect had put into effect to destroy that cargo ship. He sighed. It is hard to keep your faith in the Lord when all around you is fear and desolation, he reflected. In meeting, where he often preached because he was the leader of New Salem, he never admitted to this weakness. But alone, at the end of a hard day, sometimes his faith wavered and he wondered what God's plan for his people could possibly be. His Bible lay open before him. He'd been reading the Book of Job again.

  Zechariah's thoughts turned now to Samuel. At times, when he was alone, he mourned the loss of his son. He'd had such hopes for the lad, just as they'd all had hopes for the City of God, before evil destroyed it, the same evil that had killed Samuel. He was sure that Sam was with the Lord, and to all outward appearances he had accepted that fact. But inwardly he still felt his son's loss as keenly as on the day Samuel was killed. He shrugged. Those thoughts were not good. He was responsible for a lot of other people. As Charles kept telling them, the leader's duty must always be to the job and his people; personal feelings had no place in the world of commanders.

  Zechariah opened the bottle and poured half its contents into an empty glass. It frothed pleasantly. His nose wrinkled at the malty aroma of the brew. He sipped cautiously and sighed. He'd never much cared for beer before the Sea of Gerizim, and now he wondered how all those years he could have been so ignorant of such a wonderful pleasure.

  Charles. Zechariah had come to think of him almost as a son, although he was only a few years older than the stranger. But if Samuel had lived, Zechariah would have wanted him to be the kind of man Charles appeared to be—a strong-willed man, but not without heart. Zechariah knew Comfort was infatuated with him. When the image of the two of them together came into his mind, which it did often these days, he thought of—grandchildren.

  But Zechariah was worried about his daughter, who moped around the house all day long, dutiful, as always, but taking little joy in helping her mother or the other women with their domestic chores. Whenever Charles came into the house, she would look at him with mournful eyes that said volumes she dared not speak. So Charles had moved in with Haman and Maria Dunmore, who had no children. Yet when he did visit the Brattles—which was frequently, because he and Zechariah often needed to confer—the tension between the former soldier, for that was how Zechariah had come to think of the man, and his daughter was palpable and distracting.

  Everywhere he turned, Zechariah thought, there were problems. But problems were the lot of mankind. He lifted the glass to his lips.

  "Zechariah?"

  He whirled in surprise. "Why, Charles! Please, sit down. Share this beer with me."

  Charles entered the dim circle of light that illuminated the kitchen table.

  "My God, Charles! What happened to you?" Zechariah stood and moved to help him into a vacant chair. "Consort! Comfort! Come here!" he yelled.

  Both women appeared, still in their night clothes. "Charles, what happened to you?" Consort asked. He only shook his head. She put Comfort to heating water and carefully took Charles's bloodstained shirt off. He groaned. "I think you have broken ribs, Charles. I'll bind them up, but you'll have to take it easy for a few days."

  "No. I'm going to be at formation tonight."

  Consort stood back, looked sternly down at Charles and said, "You are in no condition to be at formation."

  Charles nodded. "But I've got to show up tonight, Consort."

  "Here." Zechariah handed Charles the half-full beer bottle. "Drink up! You need this a lot more than I do."

  Consort made a wry face at her husband. "Into that stuff again, Zechariah?"

  He shrugged. "It's the last of its breed, Connie, and I've come to learn, in the wisdom of time and with the guidance of God, that a man and his beer should never be separated."

  "When we're safe at last," Charles said, "I'm bringing a Dragonload of cold beer down here and we're going to drink it all by ourselves, Zechariah."

  "What's a Dragon?" Consort asked, setting a steaming pan of water and some rags on the table. She was perspiring, and a strand of loose hair hung down one side of her face. She smelled fresh in her white undergown.

  "I don't know," Charles answered, then yelled "Owww!" as Comfort began washing the clotted blood off the side of his head.

  "More important, where's the ‘back’ from which you are bringing the beer here?" Zechariah chuckled.

  "Elneal!" Charles said sharply and groaned at the pain it caused in his head. "I remember I had beer on a place called Elneal." It came back to him: he'd killed a man on Elneal, wherever that was.

  "You'll need a dozen or more stitches to sew up this hole in your head, Charles," Consort said, not paying attention to his ramblings. "I'll give you some analgesic tea. That will relax you and dull the pain. Comfort, would you mix it up for me, dear? Next, get the poultices ready. The poultices will prevent infection, Charles, and aid healing."

  "What happened, Charles?" Zechariah asked.

  Charles finished the beer in one long gulp and burped loudly. " 'Scuse me, ladies. Someone jumped me. Two of them. I don't know who they were or why they did it."

  Zechariah did not believe Charles didn't know who'd attacked him or why, but he certainly knew why they did it. Some of the younger men were jealous of Charles and Comfort, and some thought he was a spy. But he kept that to himself. Like all the members of the City of God sect, his people were wary of strangers.

  "Ugh," Charles muttered as he sipped the tea, "this stuff tastes positively awful." But he drank it all anyway. "Now what?" He looked at the Brattles and burped again. "Damned good beer, Zechariah!"

  The next thing Charlie knew, he was dreaming. He was standing outside a complex of some sort consisting of wooden buildings. The day was overcast, cool and windy, and there was the smell of fish in the air. Before him stood rank after rank of young men in uniform. Their faces were hard, but some, he could see, had tears in their eyes. Strange, very strange, he thought. But they kept their gaze straight ahead, staring right through him. In the closer ranks he recognized the faces and tried to call out their names, but nothing would come. He turned around, and behind him stood several more men dressed in resplendent uniforms, standing on a low dais. "Dress reds!" he tried to say. He recognized them too, and his heart soared with joy, but he could not get their names out either. He tried, but it was as if his throat were stuffed with sand; no sound would emerge. One of the men on the dais, someone Charles realized he'd known for a long time, stared at him in astonishment and said, "Charlie! We thought you were dead!" Then the men in ranks began to chant, "Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!"

  "Charles? Charles?" Comfort shook him gently awake. She put a cool, soft hand on the side of his face.

  "Comfy? I was dreaming," he gasped as he tried to roll on his side to see her better.

  "Lie still, Charles. Mother sewed up the laceration in your head and I put on the poultices. Your ribs will heal in a few weeks."

  "What time is it?"

  "An hour after sunrise."

  Charles lay back on the pillows. "Let me lie here for a while, Comfy? I have to make the muster tonight. Ohhh, that potion your mother gave me really works!" He took Comfort's hand in his own. "Seems we just can't stay away from each other, doesn't it? You're always there when I need you the most, young lady."

  "I always will be, Charles," she said softly. She glanced at the doorway an
d added, "Charles, you have visitors." He looked, and saw Colleen and Hannah Flood, both with worried expressions on their faces. They came in and knelt beside Comfort.

  "We were worried about you, Charles," Hannah clucked. Colleen put her hand on Charles's arm and rubbed it affectionately.

  "I'll marry you all," Charles chuckled, but it came out sounding more like a croak.

  At first none of the women made any response, and then they all laughed.

  "The sound of women laughing is the best medicine for a man," Zechariah said from the doorway, "as long as they didn't cause his injuries. Well, how's our wounded soldier?"

  "The womenfolk of this household should open their own health maintenance organization, Zechariah." Charles grinned.

  Zechariah nodded. "Ladies, leave us for a moment, would you?" When the women had repaired to the kitchen, Zechariah sat at the foot of the bed. "We are making progress on our defenses, Charles. Consort wishes you to remain here under her care for a couple of days. I can supervise the men. They know what to do anyway. But you know, the growing season is upon us. We can't subsist forever on beef and potatoes, and our cattle herd is shrinking every day. We must soon resume farming in the daylight."

  "I know. When the time's ready, let's do it. Who knows, Zechariah, maybe we're safe now. Maybe the threat has gone away. We've been living here for weeks and nobody's come this way except the black woman and her child."

  Zechariah nodded. "You know, Charles, this world of ours was never heavily settled, not much beyond this continent—Paradise, we call it. The other places," he shrugged, "nobody had much contact with the people in Eden and Nirvana. At some point, Charles, we should try to make contact with the government in Haven, despite what the black woman has told us about what the soldiers did to her people. Also, the Confederation of Human Worlds has—or had—an embassy in Interstellar City. We need to find out what's going on in the rest of the world."