The Advisor's Apprentice

by Karpa, Boris

  - "Pine Tree, I am Parrot. I am in, Over."

  - "So am I," – said the Mayor. – "Hallway, over and out"

  - "Pine Tree, I am Ferret. At the door, over."

  The Mayor did not bother replying. He simply stepped back out of the room and stood in the hallway.

  There they stood – Team Ferret and Team Parrot – the Mayor thought they'd be humorous names for the two groups of three he divided his troops into. Now they were simply three troops – three men with Army rifles and fixed bayonets, standing in the hall.

  - "Okay people." – he said, breathing out. – "We started out with ten people. We have six."

  - "We can still do it." – Martin said. For a brief moment, Arthur was afraid – again – that the Mayor would order a retreat. But the Mayor simply glanced at the men gathered around him.

  - "They killed Doctor Cook."

  A burst of profanity from all sides was the reply. Swearing terribly – one of the men moved past the Mayor like a football player moving past a defender – but the Mayor simply grabbed him by the shoulder. – "Let's do it the right way or not do it at all. Arthur," – he turned to the youth – "Who's in charge here?"

  - "You are, Sir." – Arthur replied.

  - "Serenity Bay!" – the Mayor barked – "Who is in charge of it? What does he look like?"

  - "Mr. Simmons. He's fat and has a moustache."

  - "Well, people. Anybody see a fat man with a moustache, he's-"

  - "Grenade!" – Martin shouted.

  There was no time to even think anything, much less utter a word. The Mayor leaped back into the very room they found the ghoul in. Arthur had no chance to even leap anywhere – Martin simply leaped at him, grabbing him around the shoulders, propelling him into the door opposite. Wood splintered as they flew through a flimsy desk. Behind them, there was a powerful explosion – and the screams of the dying and injured.

  Arthur's entire body blossomed with dull pain. For a second, he could not even comprehend what was going on. Martin rolled off him instantly, readying his rifle again – and then another man was in the room – a drillmaster in the same grey sports uniform they always wore, a baton in one hand and a pistol on the other.

  Martin's long rifle clicked as if was being dry-fired. The drillmaster smirked and raised his pistol as if he was about to simply execute the advisor, who still stood in a kneeling position where he had just rolled into.

  The long rifle burst forward in Martin's hands, as if it had been independent of him, but rather a living creature he was holding on to, like a cobra snake. The drillmaster did not scream out in pain – but the pistol fell from his arm, blood appearing where the small bayonet-knife had struck. The man swiped at Martin's rifle with his rubber baton, deflecting another stab, as if it had been a spear. But Martin moved again – the snake moved again, rushing almost along the floor, stabbing into the man's ankle. There was a loud crack, and the drillmaster fell to his knees. Once more, Martin stabbed, the bayonet-knife plunging into the heart of the grey-clad man. As he withdrew his rifle, his enemy fell to the floor, face down.

  - "Here." – Martin said, jabbing into the back of the enforcer's neck with the bayonet. There was a loud snapping sound. Arthur did not hear him – as much as heard his lips move. Outside, guns were still being fired – rifles, pistols, shotguns. Sometimes there were cries of pain – and the firing went just a bit more quiet.

  Then there was a brief, deadly pause – and then, the Mayor's voice was heard – "Up the stairs! Up the stairs!" Martin and Arthur stepped out into the hall – and saw the Mayor, followed by two of his men, rush up the stairs, clearly pursuing an enemy. – "Take the basement!" – the Mayor shouted at Martin, and disappeared into the second floor.

  Martin nodded. – "The basement it is."

  - "What even happened?" – Arthur asked, shaking his head. His entire body seemed to ache, from his head to the very tips of his toes. Worse yet, his head swam as if he was slightly drunk. He did not understand at all what this basement stuff was about.

  - "The holding cells, Arthur. Remember? We need to take them. There's kids like you there."

  Arthur nodded. He remembered now. Down the stairs they went. It did not matter what he felt. Overhead, there were gunshots, stomping, shouting as the Mayor and his two last soldiers struggled from room to door. That did not matter either. The basement door. They had to reach it, kick it open, and-

  For one last time that day, Arthur was surprised. The door was already open – bright open. Inside it, he saw the cages – five cells to each side of the door, spaced in a checker-board fashion so no inmate's cell faced another's. In them, he knew, would be ten half-naked human beings, their bodies bruised and injured, lying or crouching on the naked floor.

  Mr. Simmons was here too. He lay on the ground, his broad belly like an upwards dome. At first, Arthur did not understand how the man died – but then he saw a large, bloated red spot on the side of his head, and a pistol lying on the floor next to him. And finally, there was one last man – a slender old man, bald, with thick black eyebrows, still dressed in grey pants, a white shirt – and a tie. With shaking, dry-looking hands he fiddled with one of the lock, struggling to get the key in.

  - "What... what are you doing?" – Martin asked.

  - "I... opening the gates, Sir. Letting the prisoners out, Sir."

  - "Did you kill Tyrone Simmons?" – Arthur asked.

  - "Yes, yes I did. I killed him, yes. He was a thug and a sadist. He made us all do it... your name is Archie, isn't you?" – the man let go of the keys. They fell to the floor with a clank.

  - "You..."

  - "I remember you when you came in, Archie." – the man spoke – "I saw you. You remember me, maybe. I came out of my office. I was Tyrone Simmons' accountant... and his secretary. I didn't hurt anybody. I only helped him with some decisions... fill out forms... work shifts – he was never good at scheduling, and he said – he said, you help me, Dobson, and I'll let you stay here. I budgeted the food for everybody – I didn't steal from you." – he backed up with every word. Martin and Arthur approached. – "Don't hurt me! I didn't make the decisions. Arthur, you've never seen me beat anyone, did you?"

  - "No." – Arthur nodded. – "You did not."

  - "Well then! You know that it's not my fault! You should let me go!"

  - "That's right." – Martin nodded grimly – "You know what you should do. Consider it... another lesson."

  Arthur looked into the advisor's eyes, seeking confirmation. This man was weak – and he'd never seen him swing a baton or hurt an inmate here. But it was also the man who set the work schedules that drove them half to death, that helped define the rules under which they were beaten – and he's worked here Before. Suddenly, with a painful realization, Arthur remembered that these cages had been built Before.

  - "Where you here when they've built the cages?" – Arthur asked.

  - "What?"

  - "Where you here when they built the cages?"

  - "Yes... five years ago... you need to understand..."

  Arthur saw the accountant's eyes – really, really close now, wide with terror and realization. He put his whole weight on the rifle. For a brief moment, he saw the eyes widen in pain, and the accountant gasped. The man's fingers gasped reflexively, painfully, onto Arthur's forearms – but that wouldn't stop him. There was only slight resistance as the bayonet pierced the skin just under the accountant's ribcage. He gasped for one last desperate breath of air – and then his fingers relaxed on Arthur's arms, and he fell back to the cold floor of the basement.

   “I'd say you learned it.” – Martin said, and there was a touch of pride in his voice.

  *

  Serenity Bay burned. Fire burst out from the lowermost windows of the central building, then spread rapidly through the corridors. They spread gasoline along the floors – the inmates helped them gratefully when it came to carry the heavy jerry cans full of fuel. It did not matter that fuel was precious. The entire place h
ad to burn.

  By the time that they began moving the prisoners out of their wooden barracks, the main building had already been completely enveloped in flames, from basement to roof. By the time the inmates began loading onto vehicles – trucks and buses, some sent from the Republic, others that were captured in the fight – the barracks had also been set ablaze. They stood there and watched them burn – adolescents as young as twelve and young men and women aged eighteen and nineteen, holding captured rifles and shotguns. They stood, and the red blaze shone on their faces and in their eyes. By the time the last truck drove out of the gate, there was not a single building at Serenity Bay that was not on fire.

  Even the guard shack had been torched. The guard within had risen – and nobody bothered to put the ghoul to rest. Arthur looked at it from the Yo-Mobile as they drove away, its burning arms flailing at the window, attempting pointlessly to grasp them as they left.

  17:30

  It was already beginning to get dark – not only because of the hour, but because the clouds were getting thicker overhead. From the Mayor's office window they could see the trucks and buses that had carried in the former Serenity Bay inmates lined up in front of the hospital, with their light on.

   “It will rain today.” – Theodore Jackson uttered, standing in front of the window. One did not need to see his face to know what he was looking at – the three long shapes lying by the hospital wall, covered in cloth.

   “Yes.” – Martin nodded. It was a non-subject. A way to keep the conversation away from what they both wanted to actually talk about.

   “You know.” – the Mayor said – “The ghouls. Their senses dull in the rain. Not very much.”

   “I do know. I just wanted to say... I'm sorry about Amanda.”

  Theodore Jackson shrugged. His voice was low, even deeper than usual – as if talking from the bottom of a well. – “There's nothing to apologize for. We were friends. Not even like you and me. I just happened to talk to her often. She volunteered. She knew the risks... and she volunteered for a reason. I've had people die before. Some of them I cared for more than others.”

  There was a silence. Nobody wanted to say anything, and they have already ran out of the things they were supposed to say. After a while, Theodore turned toward the advisor, and spoke again.

   “Martin, do you think there is a way we could do it even today?”

   “Yes. You have fresh people, right?”

   “Always.”

   “Then the only people who have been out are you, me, and Arthur?”

   “That is right.”

   “In this case, we need tea.”

  For a moment, the Mayor looked dumbfounded. – “Tea?”

   “Order someone to bring us a full package of tea leaves, a metal kettle, and three metal mugs and I will do the rest. And start preparing the people. Can you find enough volunteers that fast?”

   “What do you need so much tea for? And why metal mugs?”

   “Because certain things need to be done in the traditional and proper way.”

   “What?” – the Mayor simply looked on.

   “You have some kind of secretary? An aide, something?”

   “Well, I have Roxanne. She's-”

   “Call her in.”

  A minute later, a short woman with a pudgy complexion – how she managed to keep her weight was anybody's guess – appeared in the room.

   “Yes, Mr. Jackson?” – she inquired. – “Is there anything you need?”

   “His Honor the Mayor needs a full pack of tea and three metal mugs.” – Martin said.

   “Is that right?” – Roxanne repeated, looking directly at the mayor.

   “Roxanne, do what this man says. If he says we need three metal mugs and a pack of tea, then so be it.”

   “All right.” – the woman nodded.

   “Oh, one more thing.” – Martin added – “if you can, bring a large pot. Surely there's one in the kitchen. Say that the Mayor needed one.” – he turned towards the Mayor – “Theodore, you have a heater, right?”

   “A heater?” – Arthur interjected – “You're going to warm the room?”

   “He is going to warm the water.” – the Mayor replied. From his desk, he removed a strange object – a black electric cable ending simply in a rough-looking metal coil. – “I bet the young people of today have never used one. Although I have to say, I'm not sure what our friend Martin needs the thing for.”

  With that, he raised his radio to his ear. “Excuse me, Martin. I'm going to tell the patrol teams to start preparing themselves. It's going to take them some time to round up as many people as we need.”

  For the next few minutes, the Mayor spoke into the radio, made requests and barked order. Martin, in the meanwhile, sat in his seat, reading a book that he had fished out of one of the shelves in the office. Arthur, on the other hand, looked out of the window, watching the last of the gray-clothed youths from Serenity Bay slowly walk away from the trucks and buses. The injured and sick had long entered the hospital, and the others were even now vanishing into the crowd. He could already see a tall fellow trading his gray shirt for a blue one, and a girl with long red hair enter someone's tent in the park.

  They're going to simply enter the town and live here, Arthur realized, in a few days there'll be no telling them apart from all the people who live here. Maybe some of them will learn to do something that the people here live – but even if they won't, they're not kicking anyone out. How do they feed all of those kids? What will they do tomorrow?

  He was still contemplating that when Roxanne returned, bearing a metal kettle and three large, rough-looking, unpainted, metal mugs. – “Would that be what you need?” – she asked

   “Yes, thank you.” – Martin replied. – “Can you just fill the kettle with water?”

   “Sure,”- the woman said, and rushed out once more. Minutes later, she returned with the kettle, now filled with what appeared to be clean water.

   “Just what we need. Now, come. Arthur, I want you to look at me as I do this – this is another little trick for you to learn.”

   “What are you doing?” – Arthur asked.

   “I'm going to turn His Honor's Office into a drug lab.” – Martin replied, propping the kettle up precariously on a cardboard box in a corner of the room. – “Theodore,” – he asked the Mayor, who looked upon the proceedings perplexedly – “All of the power outlets are live, right?”

   “That is right. We have our own generators, remember?” – Jackson answered – “But what is it that you're about to do?”

   “First off,” – Martin replied as he plugged in the heater and tossed the coil end into the water, – “I'm going to bring the water to a boil.”

   “You're making tea?”

   “Not quite as simple. As I said, I'm turning the office into a small drug lab.”

   “What kind of drug are you going to make from tea and boiling water?” – Arthur asked.

   “Ah, Archie, you disappoint. I'd think six months in a prison with drug-using kids would have taught you a trick or too.” – Martin smirked, squatting next to the metal kettle.

  Theodore Jackson smiled, showing a row of yellowing smoker's teeth. – “Come now, Martin. I know you. You don't like talking about anything – unless you're teaching someone about something they don't know. You're dying to start a lecture on something. I've known you for years.”

  - “Ah very well. None of you have ever heard of chifir?”

  The young man and the older one just looked at each other, and then shrugged.

   “Ah, very well. What we're dealing with here,” – Martin said, straightening from his squat – “Is a stimulant drug made from tea. It is not tea in the conventional sort – a lot of the stimulant effect is produce by chemicals that are not really dissolved in regular tea and are only dissolved after the long boiling that chifir p
roduces. It was used by labor camp inmates in Soviet Russia and military reporters during the Second World War – the first, because they had no access to drugs and almost no alcohol, and the latter, because they needed to keep awake for forty-eight hours on end. Ordinary tea or coffee just plain did not cut it.”

  As the former English teacher kept talking, pacing the room as he elaborated on the strange new drugs, Arthur heard a growing tapping noise outside the office window. Rain – first a light tapping, and then the buzzing noise of a heavy, torrential rain became the background of the conversation.

   “…and so what we need to do is first let it come to a boil,” – Martin concluded. – “And then start pouring in the tea.”

   “Pouring?” – the Mayor stared.

   “Two to three tablespoons for every portion.” – Martin nodded. – “Happily I have a spork,” – he added. From a pocket of his pants he produced a small, green folding spork and unfolded it with one movement. – “Still watching, Arthur?” – he inquired as he began throwing sporkfuls of tea into the kettle. “We'll say... nine spoons, since this isn't a real tablespoon.”

   “Wait wait wait.” – Arthur asked – “Isn't this going to be the strongest tea, ever?”

   “Well, no. It's going to be chifir. It's not tea in a culinary-”

   “Yeah, whatever. But isn't it going to be rather... hard to drink?”

   “Yes.” – Martin replied simply and pulled the heater out of the kettle. – “And now we close the kettle and wait. Theodore, how long is it going to take your men to prepare?”

   “I'd say about half an hour, maybe an hour. We don't go out in big groups often.”

   “This is perfectly fine. It's going to take this about fifteen minutes to be really ready. You are both healthy people, right? ”

   “Right.” – Theodore replied, smiling – “You've known me for years, Martin.”

   “Why?” – Arthur asked.

   “Because if you have a heart disease.” – Martin uttered – “It could kill you where you stand.”