The Damn Disciples

by Craig Sargent

  Stone was staring into the face of a badly burned man whose vacuum eyes were trained right on Stone’s now. They looked at each other’s noses for a good five minutes, Stone getting lost in the dripping nostrils. Suddenly there was a clanking sound, and metal cups were put out in front of them. These were quickly filled with Golden Nectar, which was poured from a large pitcher by the kitchen staff. The Group Leader ordered them to drink. And watched care-fully, to make sure every drop was swallowed by every mouth.

  Then they were allowed to eat. Other servants carried loads of gruel and watery soup around to their tables. Though few of them were hungry. But the Group Leader commanded them, “Eat!” And they did so, letting their arms drop, grabbing a piece of bread, dipping it mechanically in pasty gravy and then lifting it into their mouths. Their jaws chewed repetitively over and over without the slightest sense of taste or enjoyment. They ate because the Group Leader commanded them to. And he ordered them to because their bodies would die without sustenance. And the Guru needed their strong bodies for his holy works.

  When they were done, they were led back to the barracks as the sunset died out to an inky blackness that suffused the sky. There were few lights around the place. The authorities didn’t care whether their underlings smashed into things or not. Devotees were a lot more expendable than the fuel needed to maintain lights. The Group Leader led them back down the main street at a slow gait. He had lost two pods in the last week already. The dumb bastards had walked right into the sides of buildings, smashed their faces up so bad they were useless. Pods without the proper guidance were like chickens with their heads cut off.

  He led them back into the bunkhouse and headed them back to the various beds like infants who didn’t quite know where to go or what to do. Once they were all sitting on their mattresses, the Group Leader stood at the front of the log room and screamed out.

  “Sleep!” He waited a few seconds, making sure they had heard. “Lie down,” he bellowed again, and they all followed his orders. “Close your eyes.” And like good and obedient children, they did close them. And lay there in stupors. Comas without dreams, cessation of activity without rest, sleep without peace.

  SIXTEEN

  When Stone awoke the next morning, someone was banging on his head, a voice was screaming into his ear. His eyes slowly opened, though they sure as hell didn’t want to. He didn’t feel like anything, didn’t even feel human. Just a fuzzy dumb thing that followed the commands that were given it.

  “Rise, rise, you worthless pods,” the Group Leader yelled as he rushed around, smacking at all of them, forcing them from their beds so that some crashed out onto the wooden floor cracking things here and there.

  “When a Group Leader commands you, you will obey at once! Do you hear me, pods?”

  “Yes, Group Leader,” they all answered back though some could hardly mumble the words, their mouths open with a constant stream of saliva coming out like an old alcoholic. One of the side effects of the large amounts of drugs in the Nectar was a problem with many of the bodily functions. Drooling, vomiting, pissing, shitting in pants and bed were not uncommon. Group Leader led them down the street to a circular wooden building about forty feet in diameter. Inside were other pods, already down on their knees as they prostrated themselves before the image of the Guru, with a huge rainbow aura behind him.

  “Bow down on your knees, scum,” the Group Leader screamed, kicking and smacking them as he led them to the altar, where candles were burning all around the six-foot-high portrait of Guru Yasgar behind glass.

  “Thank you, oh Great Yasgar, for perfecting our imperfections,” the Group Leader intoned.

  “Oh, thank you, Great…” they all mumbled after him, their faces squashed down into the wooden floor.

  “And though I am a worthless scum floating on a swamp…”

  “I am worthless scum floating on…” Stone muttered vacantly after the rest of them.

  “Still, I am grateful for the love that Guru Yasgar has shown for me.”

  “Gradeful for love that Yasgar has thrown me,” Stone mumbled incoherently, letting his lips go slack as soon as he was done.

  “Now rise, worms, and have your morning Nectar.” As Stone rose up, he was handed a goblet from one of the robes who walked around dispensing the “cleansing” water. Again they drank it down under the watchful eyes of the Group Leader. Then they were all led outside again. They were taken along the main street, and as they came to different buildings the Group Leader would take some of the pods and direct them through the doors, where they would be put to work at different tasks. The Guru harnessed their abilities. That was, after all, their great “contribution” to the cult. Their work would enable Yasgar to expand his cult into the surrounding mountains, then the state, then… All of them were left off at one place or another until the only one left was Stone and the Group Leader.

  “Come with me, Pod number 47,” the Group Leader said, whacking Stone along the shoulder with his stick. “You shall be given a most prestigious job—that of stirring the Golden Elixir.“ He led Stone for about five blocks, until they came to a windowless building with guards all around it. The place had the best security in the whole town. The Group Leader gave a signal to the guards and 1 ed Stone inside to along warehouse-type setup with huge canisters, vials, powders all over the place with chemical names stamped in red letters on their sides. In the center of the floor were two immense stainless-steel vats a good ten feet high, perhaps six wide, with platforms built around their tops. And on one of the wooden platforms was a robed man, a gray robe, walking around the platform with a huge paddle dug into the vat, which he stirred.

  “This, Pod number 47, is where the sacred Golden Nectar is made.” Stone looked on dumbly as he saw an elephant appear from out of the shadows at the end and pick up a large black canister. It walked with the thing in its trunk up to the vat where the man was stirring, and holding it up, shook some of the green powder into the brew until its handler, riding on its back, kicked it on both ears twice and it stopped pouring, turned, and set the canister back down.

  “You see, Pod number 47,” the Group Leader said, leading Stone up the wooden stairs that led to the platform around the lip of the unmanned vat. ”We keep this brewing operation going twenty-four hours a day. Or how would we supply the at need we have for the God-given liquid? You will work a twelve-hour shift, then be relieved. This is your new job, Pod number 47. You are fortunate indeed. It usually takes brownies, stage four, many months to attain this high station.”

  “I am a worthless worm,” Stone began, though it wasn’t he who spoke. Rather it was some drugged-out part of him that had taken possession of his mind and body. “I do not deserve such an honor, Group Leader.”

  “That is absolutely correct, Pod number 47,” the Group Leader replied as he reached the top of the platform. He and Stone stepped onto it and looked down into the cauldron filled with thick liquid. “But the Guru has entrusted you with this job because he knows you can do it.” Stone looked down into the boiling vat of gunk. It was yellowish, the consistency of tapioca pudding.

  “Once the fires are turned on underneath,” the Group Leader said, reaching down and igniting a jet that instantly lit a whole set of burners beneath the vat, “you must not stop stirring until the flame is turned off again—or someone relieves you here. Or the Nectar will burn. The sacred drink will burn. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Pod number 47, the seriousness of this job?”

  “Yes, Group Leader,” Stone replied, already feeling dizzy from the fumes arising from the vat.

  “Now, all you must do is walk around the vat and stir with this paddle.” He demonstrated, slowly moving around the platform as he dug the long aluminum canoe paddle deep into the drug mush so every bit of it was stirred around like a chef making stew for a giant.

  “Now you try it, Pod number 47,” he said after about twenty seconds.

  Stone took the canoe paddle, and felt nervous. He was such a worthless
piece of spit. He could not handle such an important job. It was too hard, too complicated for his mind to understand. But the loud crack of the Group Leader’s stick right over the bridge of his no, which sent a jolt of pain even through the drug fog, made Stone start walking. He held the canoe paddle hard because the stuff below was so thick that it kept threatening to suck the whole implement down. With the flames on, the cauldron of yellow gunk began to bubble quickly, and Stone could see what the Group Leader had meant about the stuff burning. For he had to stir faster and harder to keep it from coagulating on the bottom and along the sides. It was hard, straining his tired arms and brain to their limits.

  The Group Leader stood behind him, following Stone around the platform like his shadow for about ten minutes as the liquid gradually changed from yellow to gold and grew thinner in texture. Stone’s stirring and the heat broke up the various powders that were in it and evened the consistency. Suddenly, from above, on a wooden platform that Stone hadn’t seen before, a foreman ran over and looked down into Stone’s vat.

  “That’s it—you’re cooked,” he screamed out, motioning for Stone to turn down the flame. Stone looked confused, but the Group Leader showed him how to reach down and turn the gas knob to the left. It seemed like quantum physics to Stone’s tortured mind. But he tried to learn it. He knew they were depending on him. It was a very important job.

  With the gas jet down, the Group Leader motioned for Stone to step back. The elephant walked forward, around the front, and grabbed hold of the great vat. Placing its trunk over one edge, it pulled the whole thing over so it swiveled on huge bolts, and poured the mixture into a long trough, where it flowed away bubbling like lava from a volcano. The trough automatically fed the Nectar into rows of bottles all lined up with little funnels in their openings. The whole thing was very ingenious, allowing a few men and an elephant to make vast quantities of the stuff so that other pods could just come in and take the bottles off for the constant mouths that had to be fed.

  “Good, Pod number 47. Now the elephant will refill the vat with the right proportion of chemicals,” the Group Leader said as Stone watched the elephant pull the now-empty vat back upright so it locked into place on some catches. The huge beast headed back about fifty feet over to a wall, directed by the gray robe atop it. The trunk wrapped around a green barrel, and the elephant walked quickly back to the vat above which Stone stood. It emptied the powder in until the canister was empty, then went back for another.

  “Now you must water it with this hose,” the Group Leader said, showing Stone how to aim the stream down and get all the powder evenly wet. “The elephant will be adding dry powder; you must wet it enough to stir. And then just enough so it is the consistency of the Golden Nectar.” It was all too much for Stone’s brain. He felt a pounding headache surge through his skull. How could they expect him to remember all this? But he watched and then tried to imitate the Group Leader. He aimed the hose, though his hand shook. Everything shook from the drugs. It was hard.

  He stepped out of the way as the elephant came back with a load—this time black chunks of stuff that had a sour smell.

  “That is the opium,” the Group Leader said. “Make sure to break it up fine. Sometimes you must smash it with the paddle.” Stone tried to do what the Group Leader said, lifting the paddle and forcing the chunks against the side of the vat. Yes, it worked. Even a useless worm like him could do something. Stone felt a surge of infantile pride surge through his zombie brain.

  It took nearly ten minutes for the elephant to fill the vat up again. Under Group Leader’s watchful eyes, Stone kept watering the gunk down until it looked about right. He reached down and turned the gas jets, and they sprang into flames below. Within minutes the huge vat was starting to puff and boil, and Stone had to move fast, walking around the cauldron with the long paddle dug deep into the drug soup. The Group Leader watched the whole operation two more times and then finally left, satisfied that the pod knew how to handle it.

  For hours Stone stirred the stew of ten of the most powerful mind-altering drugs known to man. He had no idea in his 40-IQ-level brain what it was he was making. Just that it was important. The Guru was depending on him. And the Transformer, with his red eyes. So he concentrated all the mental power he could generate and walked around the vat, stirring for his life. For Stone had still a tiny speck of imagination somewhere within the “cleansed” brain. And that dark vision kept visualizing the elephant turning on him if he made even a single mistake. It would lift him high in its trunk, then dash him into the boiling chemicals. Even a zombie brain didn’t want to go out like that.

  SEVENTEEN

  Stone was exhausted by the time he was relieved that night. He could hardly move a muscle. But at last the Group Leader came and collected him, and he joined the line of other pods. They were all marched back to the mess hall for more Golden Nectar before a hearty meal of unknown meat and overcooked dumplings. Every time Stone even vaguely started coming out of his trancelike state, they were right there with more of the potent brew. The Guru knew exactly how much to give his disciples—and then a little more, just to be on the safe side.

  So by the time Stone actually got to eating, the drug was already in his bloodstream, and instead of eating gustily he just stared blankly down, like all the others, and took one slow forkful at a time, as if he could take or leave the slop set before him. When they were done, the Group Leader called them to their feet and marched them to the Temple of the Aura, where Stone had first been “initiated” into the cult.

  When they walked inside, there were already a number of pods and gray robes around the floor. The Transformer him-self sat in his robe on a great throne made of skulls in the center of the room. Even from across the floor, Stone could see those ruby eyes burning, and a shiver shot down his backbone. There is a fear even among the comatose. The Group Leader led them to form a circle around the High Priest, joining in with several dozen others who had already started moving in a slow line.

  Drums and rasping hornlike instruments sounded from the shadows, and the Group Leader motioned for them to bend down and pick up what was at their feet. Skulls. Stone shuddered inside and his hand twitched a little even as it followed the command. The thing had been dead for a while. It was mostly bone, though there were still clumps of flesh, a few matted little pieces of scalp still attached to the surface, as if the thing had been scraped but was not entirely clean of its former covering of flesh. Stone was far more terrified of the Transformer—or even the Group Leader—than the cold skull he held in his hands.

  “Dance, dance around the High Priest,” the Group Leader screamed, smacking at them with his stick. They began turning, holding the skulls out in front of them, waving them up and down. The drums grew faster, and suddenly they were all zooming around, and Stone felt dizzy and as if his legs were about to collapse under him. The High Priest stood up on his throne of shimmering ivory bones and exhorted them on. And under Stone’s drugged gaze he seemed to grow, to rise into the air right above them until he was as tall as the ceiling itself. And again Stone didn’t know what was real, what was not. The question didn’t even have meaning. Just that he was in a world where he understood nothing and dumbly feared everything.

  The dance seemed to become a tornado of motion until they were all whirling around the room, their robes spinning out wide and the drums pounding, their heads all twisting around as if there was thunder in their skulls. And just when Stone was sure he was going to fall down and smash his face into the floor, the Transformer suddenly screamed “stop” and held both of his long skeletal arms up. The dancing scores of pods came to a stop, though many of them collapsed immediately from the dizziness or kept going around like psychotic tops, smashing right into the walls, cracking their faces into bloody pies.

  “Fast comes the holding of the skull,” the Transformer intoned, his voice booming out over them making their very bones rattle. “Then comes the holding of the flesh.” With the word flesh, dozens of wom
en came streaming out of curtains on each side of the room. They were all young, beautiful, though none of the drugged men could particularly recognize the aesthetic charms of the young creatures. The unclothed women came running up to the pods, each one picking out her particular Love Pod. Instantly they were all over them, wrapping their arms, their legs around their chosen man. Kissing him, making cooing and aching noises. A petite blonde not older than twenty and wearing nothing but bones over her breasts and loins wrapped herself to Stone like wallpaper to a wall and dragged him down to the ground. Stone didn’t know what the hell was going on—but it was the High Priest’s orders.

  The woman stroked him and fondled him and groped him, and in spite of himself, in spite of not knowing where the hell he was, who he was, or what was going on, Pod #47 suddenly felt his pulse quickening and his manhood stiffening. And before he knew it, she was atop him and riding him as she writhed and made weird sounds. And though Stone’s brain was in another dimension, his body was in this one. For the body is an animal. It doesn’t need the brain around for it to take care of business.

  EIGHTEEN

  And so it went for days, perhaps weeks. Stone didn’t even know time was passing. In the zombie mindset of his drug-induced trance, he was able to carry out basic functions—eat, sleep, shit—and perform his work at the drug plant, where he stirred the huge vat for long hours at a time, feeling himself grow even headier from the fumes that some-times threatened to topple him over into the boiling muck. Not that he knew real fear under the Golden Nectar. Nor pleasure, nor pain. There was just obedience. Like ants carrying out their duties without question. Guru Yasgar had successfully turned men into an army of the living dead. And he had only begun.