The Dirt Eaters

by Dennis Foon

  Roan sits far away from the others, observing. Feeder is serving the soup, and it’s clear that everyone’s attitude toward him has transformed. They no longer ignore him or act as if he’s invisible. Instead, they talk and joke with him and compliment him on his fine cooking. Whose soup will you eat once Feeder’s blood is on your hands? wonders Roan.

  Brother Asp joins Roan at the table. Roan looks at him, trying to understand how he could be so wrong about a person.

  “You seem bothered, Roan.”

  “Saint told me about the Visitations,” Roan says in a low voice. “I wondered how you feel about these events.”

  Asp sighs. “The Visitations are an important part of the Friend’s work.”

  “But you’re a healer.”

  “I heal the brethren and those who worship the Friend.”

  “What about the others?”

  Brother Asp looks down at his plate. “If they fall outside the Friend’s light, they are not visible.”

  A blast of horns shatters their dialogue. High, wailing trills and the roar of Saint’s motorcycle capture everyone’s attention. Clambering up onto a table, Brother Raven announces, “Everyone to the Assembly. A joyous victory for the Friend. Come!”

  Surging with excitement, all the Brothers are out of their seats within seconds. Brother Asp grips Roan’s hand. “This is the moment you’ve been waiting for, Roan. Come!” Roan puts on his pack and tightens it on his back as they join the throng.

  Just as the brethren settle onto the tiered benches, Saint rides to the center of the arena, gets off his bike, and addresses his followers.

  “Brothers! The Friend is great!”

  “The Friend is great!”

  “For years the renegade leaders of Fandor have eluded us, a blight in the eye of the Friend. Today, with a handful of our best, and with the Friend’s blessing, we went to Fandor and liberated their chief and his lieutenant.”

  The brethren stomp their feet and cheer as Brother Wolf, his tunic torn and bloody, enters at the head of the band of battle-worn Brothers. Pulling on coarse hemp ropes, they lead two hard-looking men, battered and bruised and limping from their wounds, across the rough wooden floor.

  “Roan of Longlight!” Saint calls. “Join us. Meet the ones who murdered your people and destroyed Longlight.”

  Roan, heart racing, walks down to Saint and the prisoners, all eyes upon him.

  “I promised that you would find justice, Roan. It stands here for the taking.”

  Pain and fury boil inside Roan. He stares at the accused killers. “You attacked Longlight? You killed my people?”

  The taller of the two looks at Roan, dazed. “Yes,” he says in a flat voice, “we killed everyone.”

  “Why?”

  The prisoner speaks with difficulty. His teeth are broken, and blood oozes from his mouth. “The City paid us. Take the two, they said. Kill the rest.”

  “Who are the two?”

  “You and the girl.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “For what purpose?!” shouts Roan.

  “I don’t know,” the man repeats. He looks down at his feet.

  Roan spots the bulging wound just behind the captive’s ear. The same as Feeder’s. Whatever that thing is, the Friends use it to make people say and think what they want. But Roan knows the truth. These two men are innocent. The real killers are all around him.

  “Are you satisfied?” Saint asks him.

  Saint is so sure of me, so sure, Roan thinks. That is his weakness.

  Roan nods ever so slightly. He looks at the Assembly, at the expressionless faces of the Brothers. They are unified in their desire to obscure the truth, to keep Roan happy so that he will become one of them.

  “The time has come for your final trial,” says Saint. “Though it will be more of a pleasure than a pain. You are being given the honor of making the offering.”

  “Use your weapon,” Brother Wolf says, nodding at the beautiful hook-sword crafted by his own father. “For the Friend. For your family.”

  Wolf unsheathes the sword from the side of Roan’s pack and puts it in Roan’s hand.

  Saint smiles at Roan. “It’s what you’ve been waiting for. Justice. Take it.”

  Roan doesn’t move.

  The Prophet whispers in Roan’s ear. “The thought of killing is hard for you. That’s why this is your final trial. Do not hesitate. You swore to kill the people who destroyed Longlight.”

  “I did.”

  “This is your chance. Use your sword. Take them.”

  “Take them! Take them! Take them!” chant the Brothers.

  Roan stands still, clenching his sword.

  The Prophet whispers again. “Now, Roan. Do it!”

  Roan looks at the brethren, their faces twisted with blood lust. Their chant has changed now, to “Kill, kill, kill!”

  “Roan!” yells Saint. Roan looks into the Prophet’s eyes, and for a moment time stands still. Roan places those eyes, he remembers them at last. They are the eyes that lay behind the red mask of bone. This is the man who stole his sister, the man responsible for killing everything Roan loved.

  “I have seen you!” cries Roan. He leaps at Saint, swinging the blade, slashing Saint’s head, his ear, his neck.

  The Prophet falls without a word, blood pouring. Brother Wolf flies at Roan, but Roan dodges him at high speed and drops the master with a smash to the chest. The other Brothers converge on him, but Roan sees the path between as clearly as if the men are slowly falling grains of sand. Slipping through his assailants, he leaps onto Saint’s motorcycle, kick-starts the engine, and is gone.

  THE DEVASTATION

  THIS IS THE WAY OF THE BLOOD DRINKERS. ON THE THIRD DAY OF THEIR THIRTEENTH YEAR, THEIR EVERY TOOTH IS FILED AND SHARPENED, THEIR EARS CUT OFF AND BURNED AT THE ROOT, AND FROM THAT DAY FORWARD THEY ARE SUSTAINED BY BLOOD.

  —THE WAR CHRONICLES

  AS THE SUN CASTS its last light of day, Roan starts climbing the trail up Barren Mountain. All around him are delicate amber blossoms. Their sweet fragrance entices, but it is a deception, for these are flowers of the deadly Nethervines. He rides with care. The touch of even one of the black thorns can be fatal.

  Roan doesn’t stop until he reaches the summit. By then, storm clouds have rolled in over the peak. He scans below. There’s not enough light to see through the downpour. But the rain will erase his tracks, and maybe wash some of the evidence of his crime from his clothes. He tilts his face into its wet sharpness and allows the impact of what he’s done to penetrate him. He has drawn blood. He has attacked another person in anger. In one blind moment, he lost all self-control, broke every rule he had ever been taught, and mortally wounded another human being. He’s become one of them. They are all the same monster.

  Tomorrow he’ll enter the Devastation, and he’ll probably wander there until he dies. The worst that happens, he’ll deserve.

  Soaked, Roan pulls the bloody hook-sword from its sheath. He winds back his arm to hurl the weapon over the cliff. But the cricket stirs. It scurries out of his pocket, leaps down his arm, and sits on the sword.

  Roan tries to coax the cricket off, but it doesn’t move. Finally he surrenders. He wants to throw the sword away so he can forget what he’s done. But the cricket seems to be telling him to keep it. To remember.

  Pulling a blanket from his pack, he throws it over the bike, creating a shelter. Under the makeshift roof, he wraps himself in his bedroll. Trembling with wet, cold, and terrifying emotions, he waits for dawn.

  He runs through it again and again. The feeling of the sword in his hand when it struck Saint. How easily it cut through his flesh. And Saint falling. Did I kill him? I hope I killed him. Roan feels his finger. Saint’s ring. He’s rev
olted at its touch, but then he thinks, I should wear this. To remind me of what I did, what I am. He wants to cry, but his rage stops the tears.

  When first light breaks, Roan gets up and looks over the precipice at the lands below. In the distance, riders. The Brothers. Like a swarm of mad hornets, they’ll be after him, hungry for vengeance. His trail will have been washed out by last night’s rain, so they’ll have no leads. He feels sure they’ll head to the other side of the river, to the Lee Clan lands. They’ll suspect he’s joined their enemies there. But once they’ve scoured the Farlands, they’ll try the Devastation. How long does he have? A week, maybe two if he’s lucky. Nothing more.

  Roan walks the bike to the other side of the mountaintop. Eventually he finds not so much a trail as a sliver of a dried-out creek, water-eroded stone. He kick-starts the bike, plummets over the ridge, and bounds down the scarred, rocky path. It’s still morning when he reaches the annihilated valley. There’s not a tree in sight, not a bird. On either side, steep charred mountains. Before him, as far as the eye can see, are festering craters filled with a putrid blue-black froth. Roan’s been told stories about this place. Here, the last of the Resistance had its secret camp. They were well hidden, but also trapped. The planes that came dropped poisons as well as explosives, turning lush meadow into moonscape. Every last member of the Resistance was massacred, and the land was made toxic. No matter where Roan looks, he sees the twisted skeletons of long-dead rebels. No one could enter to bury the dead and survive.

  But someone has come back, and recently, for scattered throughout this abysmal graveyard are tiny, ragged shrines of ripped fabric and dead flowers. Someone cherishes these people, he thinks, keeps their memory alive. He hopes the visitors are friendly.

  There’s no time to pay his respects to those who died here. He once knew their cause, but what was their fight for? Simply to oppose the City? It’s not clear to him anymore. So he accelerates. The craters go on, the stench grows worse, and Roan’s anxiety increases. The sun is past its peak in the sky when the motorcycle sputters to a halt.

  At first Roan refuses to believe it, trying again and again to turn over the engine. Finally he has to admit it to himself: he’s out of fuel. From this point on, he’ll have to go on foot. There’s nowhere to hide the bike, so he strips his gear off it, pushes it to the edge of a crater, and rolls it in. The brackish waters come to life, crackling and bubbling. Saint’s cherished motorcycle dissolves into nothingness.

  By the end of the day the last fetid crater’s behind him. The air smells better. Grass grows on the flats. He turns, searching in the twilight. Listens. No one in pursuit. Not yet. He searches for a protected place to settle, eyes looking everywhere. The ground suddenly gives way under his feet, but the fall is shallow and the cavity just deep enough for him to lie down in. He’ll be difficult to spot from a distance. He lays out his bedroll, sips some water, eats a bit of Feeder’s goat jerky, and opens Plato’s Republic, a vision of a perfect society and the philosopher-kings who reluctantly rule it, scanning its first few words in the fading light. Roan hopes that his escape cancelled the final sacrifice, that his erstwhile friend is still alive, though Feeder would never forgive him for ruining his claim on eternity. Straining to keep his eyes and his mind on his book, he drifts to sleep.

  THE RAT’S BLACK EYES MEET ROAN’S. “YOU’RE TROUBLED.”

  “I KILLED SOMEONE.”

  “AND IF ONE PERSON DIED SO TWO COULD LIVE?”

  “IT’S MURDER. HIS BLOOD IS ON ME.”

  “NO NEED TO FEAR. HE STILL HAS MANY LEFT TO KILL.”

  “YOU MEAN HE’S ALIVE?”

  “THAT’S SOMETHING YOU MAY REGRET.”

  Roan snaps awake as the sun breaks through mud-yellow clouds.

  Saint alive? If he is, nothing will stop him, nothing.

  The snow cricket, nearby, feeds in the turf. Slipping the precious book safely into his pack, Roan lifts himself from the cavity and surveys his surroundings. To the west, the orange-tipped grass goes on for miles. Behind him, Saint and the brethren are sure to appear. His only hope is to gain as much distance as he can. He moves swiftly, packing up his bedroll and obscuring any trace of his presence. After he eats and drinks a little, he cups the cricket carefully into his pocket and ducks into the cover of higher grass. The going won’t be easy, but he’ll be well hidden.

  By early afternoon, the valley opens into a great plain and he sees smoke. A village? Should he risk shelter? The cricket, agitated, wriggles in his pocket. Roan looks again at the smoke. It’s moving their way. Dust. It can’t be his pursuers—they’d be coming from the opposite direction. Taking no chances, he dives into the long grass and waits.

  Within a few minutes the ground’s trembling. Fast approaching is something unlike anything Roan’s ever seen. The creatures, completely hairless, have hoofed feet, short curved horns. Their hides are sagging, blistered, and scabbed. Eight of them are stampeding in his direction.

  Then Roan hears a shrill whistle. Coming up behind the beasts are half a dozen men on horseback. As they draw closer, he sees their skin is waxen, their eyes pink. Their mouths hang open, revealing sharp fangs. None of the men seem to have ears. They are a vision of horror. Albino riders, swinging weighted ropes over their heads.

  With a screech, the riders throw their ropes. The rigs make a hissing sound as they fly end over end through the air, entangling themselves in the beasts’ legs. One by one the creatures topple until the entire herd is lying in the grass, panting and wheezing.

  The ghoulish riders are immediately off their horses and upon the exhausted animals. Roan shudders with revulsion as he watches each man pick a beast, place his arms around its neck, and sink his fangs into its throat. The attackers gulp mouthfuls of blood as the animals lie heaving, eyes bulging.

  One of the Blood Drinkers is so close Roan can see the scars where his ears once were. The man sucks intently on the trembling animal, then raises his head, blood splashed across his torso, his mouth a gash of red. He sniffs the air. Roan, perfectly still, thinks nervously of his own blood-splattered clothes. But after an excruciating moment, the drinker goes back to his meal.

  Finally, the riders are sated. They go to their horses and pull large plastic bottles out of their saddle bags. Roan knows bottles of that size are hard to come by; it’s been many decades since the last plastic was manufactured. Unless the Masters of the City have found a way.

  The fanged men drain more of the animals’ blood into their bottles. The beasts passively accept this further insult. Then the men untie the beasts, return to their horses, and head off. The injured animals slowly get back on their feet and walk unsteadily away.

  Roan waits until both riders and beasts are long gone before he dares move again. He is deeply shaken by what he’s witnessed, and the sight of the blood-sodden ground fills him with pity.

  Keeping as fast a pace as he can, he travels until his feet are sore, his eyes so exhausted from constant vigilance that he has no choice but to stop. Tomorrow, he promises himself, he’ll parcel out his energy more efficiently.

  Scouting a place to camp for the night, Roan trips over what he assumes is a log. But where would a log come from, when he hasn’t seen a tree for miles? Warily, he bends down and peers through the grass. It’s the desiccated remains of a man. Noticing the puncture wounds on the victim’s neck, Roan guesses that the vampire riders have an appetite for two-legged prey as well. The dead man looks about the same age as Roan’s father.

  Without warning, all that Roan has been spared overtakes him. He pictures his father’s anguished face, imagines what he must have felt as he watched Saint and his fevered brethren sack the village, then turn on the houses. Did his father hold himself over his weeping mother, attempting to shield her from the death blows that rained on them? He sees his friends, Aiden, Rolf, Esta, and the others, run screaming from the masked intruders, but they f
ind no escape from the Fire Hole. This was the Visitation. Saint’s Holy Quest. Roan feels a hate so dark, so rich, he can taste it. As it rises from his stomach, he hears his father’s voice.

  That’s not our way; that way is for others.

  But I am other now, Father, Roan thinks. My hands are stained with blood. I can never return to what I was.

  Roan finds a soft place in the tall grass a few yards from the dead man. He lies down and closes his eyes. He will sleep with the dead. The dead are his brethren.

  “ROAN! ROAN!”

  STOWE IS FAR DOWN THE ROAD, ON A HORSE-DRAWN WAGON. SHE’S LOOKING FROM SIDE TO SIDE, SEARCHING FOR ROAN. ROAN RUNS TOWARD HER, BUT THE GROUND TURNS TO QUICKSAND, SLOWING HIM DOWN. HE HEARS STOWE CALLING FOR HIM.

  “ROAN? MOMMY AND DADDY ARE DEAD. THE BIG MAN KILLED THEM, DIDN’T HE, ROAN? DIDN’T HE? ROAN?”

  ROAN TRIES TO SHOUT AN ANSWER, BUT HIS MOUTH IS FILLED WITH SAND.

  “I KNOW YOU’RE THERE, ROAN. I CAN SHOW YOU. TOGETHER WE CAN DESTROY THE BIG MAN. WE COULD KILL HIM, ROAN. WE COULD KILL HIM.”

  HER WAGON BEGINS MOVING.

  “ROAN…ROAN?”

  SAND RISES IN A WAVE, CARRYING THE WAGON AWAY.

  “ROAN? MOMMY AND DADDY ARE DEAD. THE BIG MAN KILLED THEM, DIDN’T HE, ROAN? DIDN’T HE? ROAN?” SHE CONTINUES SAYING THE SAME PHRASES OVER AND OVER.

  TROUBLED, ROAN OFFERS NO RESISTANCE AS THE WAGON AND HIS SISTER, HER CALLS BECOMING MORE AND MORE MUTED, DISAPPEAR FROM VIEW.

  Roan wakes in a cold sweat. It’s still dark. The moon’s a burned husk in the sky; even the darkness seems charred. Roan sits up and listens. The snow cricket is singing. Roan can’t understand why he’s crying, but tears keep falling and will not stop.