by Lucas Cole
“I see,” Kimbrough says. “Uh, my name is Doctor Calvin Kimbrough. What might your name be, sir?”
You’re kidding, doc, I think. This is not exactly a social event.
“Argh Gah,” comes from Tiny. His name? Or just a random escape of bottled-up air from an uncomprehending walking corpse?
“We come in peace,” Kimbrough says and I turn back around.
“Okay, fellas. Sorry to break this up, but I am dead on my feet. Pardon the pun.” I reach back and start pulling the straps off my shoulders and then I gently lower Kimbrough, facing Tiny, to the ground. I prop Kimbrough up and then slide down against the cave wall beside him. The pain of returning circulation buzzes through my arms and hands like angry hornets.
“You must be wiped out,” Kimbrough says, keeping his eyes on Tiny.
“Got nothing left, doc. And, by the way, I’m out of ammo.”
“Ah, I see.” Kimbrough addresses the deadhead. “We are in your hands, sir. Entirely in your hands.”
Tiny glances toward the back of the cave. Then, in a simple—but what to me is a profoundly meaningful and inspiring gesture—and one I will not soon forget—he raises his gnarled hand, palm facing us, as if to say “Wait here.” As if to reassure us.
His fingernails are torn and blackened. He skin is filthy and his uniform is encrusted with dried slime of various colors. His face is pale and scabbed. But his gesture, to me, speaks volumes. It tells me that Kimbrough and I may live yet another day.
Tiny, glancing once over his shoulder to make sure we’re not apparitions or to ensure we’re staying still, hobbles away and disappears behind a boulder.
Kimbrough and I remain against the rock wall, the only sound the dripping of water down the cliff’s face behind us. A breeze lightens the musky odor of the place for a brief moment. The pounding in my head and knee subside, but I can feel the knee stiffening. It would be hard for me to outrun a posse of reds about now. I grunt and groan like an old man as I pull myself to my feet.
Kimbrough watches me from the corner of his eyes and makes a clucking sound of disapproval. “Rest. Rest, man. You’ve earned it.”
“I’m a little nervous about our situation, doc.” I grit my teeth as I step onto my injured leg. I limp toward the outcropping of boulders for a better view of the surrounding area. “Caught between two deadhead bands. A megalomaniac waiting for us among the ‘normal’ humans. They’ve stolen your legs and what parts of me are still human hurt like hell. Other than that, we’re in fine shape.” I have no idea as to Carly or Navarro’s situation; it was good enough if they simply, under the bizarre circumstances, went on doing their jobs surveying the flora and fauna of Sybaris.
As I round the boulder pile, the desert stretches into the horizon on my right, while to my left, the land rises to become rocky and jagged. The cliffs behind me form the face of a fair-sized mountain with underhills sloping down to the desert. Tiny Tim was nowhere in sight.
In the midst of the desert stretch on my right is a massive thundercloud with the shape of an atomic mushroom blast, the cloud an ugly black and brown cauldron of twisting air, a dark sheet of rain beneath it, pummeling the desert floor. “You gotta see this, doc. A powerful rainstorm.”
After limping back to retrieve Kimbrough, I heft him up onto a small boulder. “Look at that.”
“I’m looking, but that is no rainstorm. That is sand. A Tsunami.”
“Tsunami? Thought that was some kind of tidal wave related to an earthquake.”
“On Sybaris, this is a Tsunami. A fierce sandstorm that whips the fine particles of sand into a force that will strip the skin from your bones.” Kimbrough turns his head, scans the horizon. “It’s moving away from us.”
“These things happen often?”
“Maybe once a month, but there is no predicting them.”
I think about the grotto entrance in the ravine, back by Station A. That massive “tsunami” looks to be heading in that direction. In a few minutes, the entrance will lie under tons of sand. “It’s one reason why this world has never been adequately mapped. The surface contour is always changing.”
“Ron, I’m sorry to trouble you, but I’m dry.”
“Sure, doc.” I lug Kimbrough back to where we’d lain and deposit him there, propping him up carefully, and let him drink. “Best to refill this while we can.”
Canteen in hand, I gingerly step among slick, smooth stones and uneven ground at the base of the cliffs and trudge up a small natural path until I find water pooling in an indentation of the wall. I scoop the rain water—cool and only minimally brackish—into my mouth and then into the canteen. The path I had been following continues to climb, tight against the cliff wall which angles gradually to the left in a westerly direction. My instinct tells me that this path may not be as naturally formed as I first thought.
Time to do a little exploring before Tim gets back. The path winds upward and my approach becomes more cautious as I step along the narrow trail and see that the ground is dropping quite a distance below as I proceed. The ground is at least a hundred feet down by now and the wind, a warm but clean-smelling gust, is picking up. My knee decides to ache at that point and I’m a little winded, still recovering I guess, but the path widens for a few feet.
The sand dunes, below, are more reddish in this area and there seems to be a plateau that is littered with fragments of black metallic-looking rock. The mountain cliffs rise on the other side of the plateau and take on fantastic shapes probably carved by eons of tsunamis and occasional downpours. One of the formations looks like an Old Earth elephant, no tusks, but a long trunk forever pressed into the ground as if rooting for the vegetation that it would never find. But all of this is window dressing for the main spectacle in the center background: the huge ore quarry and, just beyond it, the remains of Station C.
I can see where the reactor explosion had ripped the metal roof from the station and left large twisted girders pointing through the shattered dome cover like the warped stiffened fingers of a giant arthritic hand. Walls are blown out and blackened, yet no debris seems to be strewn around the perimeter; it must have all been salvaged.
And the salvagers are approaching, a thin line of them in their typically deadhead disjointed gait, with Tiny Tim at the lead and Peter Chan close beside him.
Peter carries a javelin of some kind and a metal axe hanging on his belt is slapping against his thigh as he leads his troops. The others carry a mean-looking assortment of cutting tools, axes, sharpened lengths of metal. The group approaches woodenly, no banter or grumbling as you would inevitably find among a human posse. The largest deadhead, a head taller than Peter and wearing a blue bandanna across his forehead, spots me and points.
I lift my hand in acknowledgement, but receive no sign in return. Peter merely scans the cliff face on either side of me, doubtless determining that no ambush is waiting, and then motions to Tiny to proceed. Time to rejoin Kimbrough.
We sit side-by-side and wait.
“They look antagonistic?”
“They look like zombies. What else can I tell you?”
“What should we do?”
“Well…we can make for the desert and be tracked down by them within the hour. We can go back the way we came and maybe run into Spangler’s gang. Or we can wait here and parley with Tiny Tim’s band.”
“You decide.”
My head votes for the cavern, but my shattered knee votes to wait. The memory of lugging Kimbrough through miles of freezing underground stream is a powerful deterrent. I lay my head against the wall and consider my position. I have no real position.
Kimbrough sighs. Resigned, consigned to his fate, I guess.
The crunching sound of feet on the stony pathway gets louder, then stops. Then, a single man—a single deadhead, by the sound of his scuffling feet—approaches. Around the edge of the boulder stack comes the most hideous face I’ve had to look upon on Sybaris.
Towering over us, height probably over six-and-a-half fee
t, and heavily built, with the parched look all deadheads have, comes a brute wearing a blue bandanna across his misshapen forehead. His nose is swollen and deformed, apparently fractured along with most of his facial bones. His cheeks are puffy and discolored, giving his face the lumpy look of a professional ring-fighter, the kind that competes for money in the arenas of Rome and the back alleys of Tibur. He takes another step closer, all the while scanning the area behind us for hidden enemies. In his hand is a massive wrench, the metal still gleaming and polished; this is a deadhead who cares for his tools. He takes another step toward us.
His greasy one-piece technician’s uniform is still intact. His name tag reads: “TAGGERT, MICHAEL, TECHNICIAN.”
He takes another step and lifts that large wrench. He can probably smash the two of us in one mighty swing of his arm.
“Mr. Taggert. My name’s Crisp. Ron Crisp. This is Doctor Kimbrough.”
Taggert freezes at the sound of his name, but that huge wrench is still raised.
“Doctor Kimbrough,” I add. “You must remember him. He usually has two legs to stand upon, but they were taken away from him by the reds.”
The wrench comes down—but not on our heads; it’s lowered gently to Taggert’s side. Taggert’s face makes bizarre movements—I’m not sure signifying what emotions—but he no longer is advancing upon us. He lumbers past us and peers down into the hole from which we had emerged, and then he walks back to the deadheads awaiting his all-clear.
Peter, Tiny Tim, and the other deadheads enter the clearing. Taggert’s face again makes the quivering motions and this time, they are answered by similar facial movements from Peter. Peter comes near and looks down at us. One of his ears is missing from what must have been a grievous wound, but he is otherwise a handsome man…or former man. Hard to know the right terminology at this point.
He points at Kimbrough. “Ergh…Umbrigh…”
Kimbrough stares goggle-eyed in surprise, but recovers. “Uh…glad to meet you. I believe I remember you. Peter Chan. How are you?”
Peter is struggling, his jaws grinding with the effort, his neck muscles clenched as if he would swallow but can’t. “Erghgor…Oombrewgh…”
“I’m sorry, I don’t…”
Thinking I know what Peter is trying to communicate, I foolishly intervene. “Doc-tor…Kimbrough…” I say, each syllable emphasized to make it easy to understand.
Peter angrily motions me to silence. The deadhead awkwardly bends his left knee and then his right and I can actually hear the creaking of his joints as he falls down onto all fours. He scrawls rapidly in the sand at my feet, then looks up at his monstrous lieutenant. Taggert unceremoniously grabs him by the arm and jerks him to his feet.
Scrawled in the sand are two short sentences. The first: “Welcome, Dr. Kimbrough.” The second: “I am a deadhead, but I am not stupid.”
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XV
Camp
Not receiving any offer of help, I strap Kimbrough once again to my back. The procedure seems to fascinate and amuse the deadheads, who, because of Taggert’s bandanna, I have named the Blue Brigade. The blues make those rapid facial movements toward each other and then grin ghastly jack-o-lantern smiles at the jokes they must be making at my expense. Better to amuse them than to anger them. Taggert grunts in our direction—skipping any finesse of facial movements—and we fall into line.
“Oh-oh, don’t look now, doc, but we’re taking the high road.” The troops start up the ledge that follows the rock wall, Peter leading the way. Even Tiny Tim is ascending, showing considerable skill in the use of his makeshift crutch.
“I cannot see where we are heading,” Kimbrough says. “I can only stare at this ugly fellow behind us.”
Immediately behind us is Taggert, who, upon hearing Kimbrough’s remark, actually forces a smile—and seeing what was left of his teeth and mandible, I wish he hadn’t.
“He understands everything you and I say, doc. Just something to keep in mind.”
“Yes. No offense meant, Mr. Taggert.” But, of course there is no reply.
I slip on a loose stone, but Taggert grabs me, pulls back toward the cliff wall. The stone pitches off the narrow ledge and down to the ground a hundred feet below. We’re still ascending.
“For God’s sake, man. Watch your step.”
“Sorry, doc. But I was thinking—.”
“Can you think and climb at the same time? If not, just climb.”
“Take it easy. I was thinking. The blues, the reds. Makes me think of Old Earth rival gangs, back in Europe and America. Known by their colors. Same thing going on here; in fact, you will notice that each of these dead—uh, these men—are wearing a strip of blue fabric on their arms. Taggert’s bandanna denotes his leadership role, I’m guessing. Lieutenant, right?” I chance a look back and Taggert grunts. I take that as an affirmative.
“Yes, their colors,” Kimbrough says. “Keeps them from harming their own men in a fight with the reds.”
The cliff wall and the ledge start to bend in a new direction and the view opens up below: the reddish sand, the plateau with its scattered black rock fragments, the large quarry, the warped metal fingers protruding from the remains of Station C. In the distance, the two suns of Sybaris gleam faintly as they descend toward a band of pinkish and purple hills.
“Doc, in a second, you’ll have a fantastic view. You’ll also see what’s left of Station C.”
“Yes, the explosions.”
“Explosions? More than one.”
“The first was within the station. Killed most of the scientists outright. The other two were in the quarry itself—where most of the miners and some technicians—like Peter—were gathered to meet with Spangler. That was the worst of it. These men—those who weren’t blasted into atoms—were trapped down there in the noxious atmosphere created by the blasts for a time. The results are—well, you can see for yourself.”
The path twists again, forcing me to keep my eyes on the line of men immediately ahead of me, their gawky gait and stiff limbs still providing them enough balance to keep them from plunging below.
A glance downward reveals the shattered bones and skulls of several deadheads, their bodies disintegrating gradually on the hot rocks. Not everyone makes this trip safely.
A shift of weight on my back. “Ah, yes. I can see it. Station C. Sad thing. Terrible accident.”
A grunt from Taggert.
“Not an accident?” Kimbrough asks.
Another grunt from Taggert.
“Hmm. Our friend Taggert—.”
“I heard him, doc.” My concentration is becoming a little more focused on the pathway. “I’m getting a cramp in my bad leg, doc. My knee is flaring. I gotta stop.”
Kimbrough pleads with the monstrous lieutenant. “Taggert! Can you help us?” Fat lot of good it will do.
But a series of grunts from Taggert forces the man in front of me to risk glancing around, long enough to catch Taggert’s facial tics. The man prods the next up and so on, until Peter raises his hand. The entire line of blues stands motionless, some of them watching me, their expressionless faces revealing neither contempt nor anger, both of which I might expect from humans.
My legs trembling, my knee flaring like liquid pain, I slide down onto my butt, as close to the wall as I can without crushing Kimbrough. I absently watch a drop of sweat fall from the tip of my nose onto a rocky outcropping where immediately the moisture is absorbed. Sybaris thirsts. Heat emanates from the stones.
Taking advantage of the respite, I gently massage the muscles surrounding my broken kneecap and take inventory of Peter’s small army.
Twelve in number—not enough to hold off a major attack from the reds or from Todd’s men, except for this narrow ridge that can be guarded by a single blue soldier. This is excluding the monstrous Taggert, who probably would take ten reds with him…unless he was picked off by Spangler from a distance. But these blues seem innately more intelligent than did the reds. No,
that wasn’t it. The blues, so far, have been more civilized. Did that make them more intelligent?
The heat of the twin suns causes the station in the distance to dance and shimmer. Peter would have left some of his people there, to guard the station from Spangler and Todd.
But what kind of future for the blues? To tramp through the dunes of Sybaris until time or a tsunami reduces the last of them to dust and bones? Do these…men…eat, sleep, drink? Do they have the sexual urges that drive most men, even in the worst of conditions? An intriguing question.
“Doc, no women on this hiking expedition. There were women in the red brigade.”
“Yes. Some former marines, like Spangler. But most were station personnel. There were women from both stations trapped in the explosions. Technicians, scientists, even some female miners. This seems to be a blue scouting party. Their women must be elsewhere.”
Peter waves his arm. Time to move on.
“Do you suppose that the deadheads attempt to…shall we say, copulate with their females?”
No sound of surprise or contempt from Kimbrough. “Oh, they try—I have seen them. But it seems very unsatisfactory for them. They seem to have successful unions only after a recent kill. Human sustenance seems to imbue them with a powerful but temporary rejuvenation. A restoration of their various organs—speech, manual dexterity, and even their sexual performance.”
Losing my balance for a second, I totter alarmingly, but pull myself back before Taggert is forced to intervene.
“Steady on, Ron.”
“I’m okay. It’s just that I’m getting as stiff as a corpse.” Our discussion is having an odd effect upon me: coexisting revulsion and excitement. What is coming over me?
The men ahead start their trek up the path. I trudge forward, but I can’t let the image go. “You’ve seen them do this? The reds? They slaughter and consume human beings, then engage in sexual intercourse?”
“Yes. A horrible spectacle.” Kimbrough’s voice is hushed. After all, as he speaks, he has to face the frightening visage of Taggert behind me. “Depravity at its worse. Even Spangler was put off by the sight of his male and female soldiers copulating among the bloody remains of human captives.”
