by Lucas Cole
Turmoil. Someone yanks Tiny’s body back from the ashes of the fire. A fist buffets me on the side of my head and slams me back into the shelter. Scuffling sounds. Someone grabs my small knife from my hand and I wait for the steel blade to enter my throat. But instead, sparks dart into the air and down to the ground. Someone is making a fire. Sparks ignite a new clump of weeds at my feet and the flame illuminates the scene. Several deadheads are standing around us, Peter crouching over the campfire with the knife blade and flint in his hand, his lieutenant Taggert is piling on more of those precious weed clumps to keep the fire burning. Tiny Tim lies inert, spread-eagled in the sand.
My head still throbbing, blood obscuring the vision in my left eye, I ignore the menacing glares of the deadheads and crawl to Tiny and look down at his face. His eyes are frozen in an icy white haze, his mouth open in a last contorted effort to speak. No whisper of breath comes from his nostrils as I place my ear close to listen. This time Tiny is truly dead.
Peter nods, opens his mouth to speak, angrily snaps it shut at his inability to communicate. It strikes me then, how the spoken word can elevate a man from the depths of depravity and primitive behavior. How words transform and control.
Peter reaches across the fire and grabs the canteen. Without thinking, I make a motion to stop him, but he flashes my knife blade at me in warning, so I pull back. Peter unscrews the lid and, finding the canteen empty, motions toward Kimbrough and then to me.
Kimbrough, quick to understand, hands his canteen to me.
Peter points the knife blade at the weeds burning.
Obediently, calmly—because I am not in charge of whatever follows—I crush another handful of the weed and pour the powder into the canteen held forward by Peter, then taking the canteen, I shake the contents vigorously and place the canteen over the fire. A few minutes later, after allowing the canister to cool, I hand the canteen containing the herbal concoction back to Peter.
The leader of the blue tribe sips from the canteen, then takes a full swallow—but perhaps only a sixth of the amount Tiny had guzzled. He caps the canteen but keeps it.
A full minute passes without a single movement among men and deadheads. The dying fire crackles and hisses, alerting Taggert to drop a few more of the potent weeds onto the flames. We all watch Peter’s face, firelight colors dancing upon his features.
If he drops over dead, I am running for it. Kimbrough will perish…quite horribly, I realize. But I will be lucky to make it down the trail. Better to die from a fall, though, then to be torn to pieces by Peter’s angry followers.
Peter bows his head. A small cough escapes his usually silent lips and I can see his facial muscles working, loosening. A deep sigh as he uncharacteristically—for deadheads—takes in a full deep breath and then he raises his face to meet my gaze.
“Can you speak?” I ask him.
“Thaghh…this…drink…” he says—and I find his voice deeper than I expected, intelligent, perhaps even sensitive as he continues, “packs a wallop.” He smiles, and then laughs, causing the deadheads to stare at him and marvel. Peter’s laughter echoes among the boulders of the plateau. Laughter from a monster, from a walking corpse.
A simple drink has just changed the course of events—likely the course of history—for Sybaris. That is, if the blues—and I—survive to tell the tale. Peter starts to take another sip, then, seeing Tiny’s body, thinks twice about it, and caps the lid. He hands it back to me, then turns to Taggert. “Don’t…don’t burn any more of these bushes. No one touches them.” He coughs again and his face hardens, his expression bland, his humanity masked once more. He hands me my canteen and departs the light of the fire. The deadheads disperse and someone drags Tiny’s body away.
“Are you okay?” Kimbrough asks. His eyes are wide with astonishment—darting from me to the dim campfire—and back again, a hundred questions no doubt being formulated by his agile mind.
But I am wiped out. Emotionally and physically spent. Exhilaration from the effects of the herb drink are wearing off, excitement about the transformation of the deadheads giving way to fatigue. Under the fatigue is grief for the sudden loss of Tiny Tim, someone I did not even know…so why does it bother me? I am getting soft, I guess. “Tired, doc. I’m fine.” Then I remember the blow to the head and touch the already clotting area of my scalp. “I just need to sleep.” I lie down in the sand within the shelter. “I don’t want to talk. Just…sleep.”
Sleep is slow in arriving. The night wind is cold and taunts me with shrill sounds as it sweeps through the camp. Visions of Tiny Tim’s face—and the human being he once had been—plague me. I force myself to think about my mission. About Sybaris and two elements that hold life and promise. Two elements over which somehow I have to gain control.
One is a scraggly weed that, for all I know, grows only on this windswept plateau. An unimpressive little scrub brush that holds the promise of life for the deadheads. A promise of resurrection from a horrible existence as dumb vicious monsters into articulate, functioning men who can speak and handle tools and weapons. Like mutating from a Neanderthal to a Roman Legionnaire overnight. A remedy that may not require my blood with its Abe-induced antibodies.
The other element is one that has already fueled battles, rebellions, and prosperous settlements on three planets. An ore that, once refined, could propel men to the farthest galaxies, farther and farther from our origin. Farther from Old Earth. An ore that has defined, motivated, and incited the Elemental Mining Corporation and the Revived Roman Empire to once again become a major force—and allowed them to conquer the distant worlds. And, I suspect, will allow New Rome the power to one day challenge Old Earth again in a final battle. Rome would not forever retreat or avoid the power that ruled Earth—even if it turns out to be the Jewish Messiah Himself—the legendary Son of God—Christ on the throne, as some now were saying.
These thoughts, then, lure me to sleep, visions of ambition and conquest and power, the logistics of serving the needs of Rome while simultaneously serving my own. Thus, cushioned in the familiar mind play of logistics and politics and conniving, I settle into the sleep of the innocents.
Go to Beginning
CHAPTER XVII
Coalition
“NO!” It is a word easily expressed by Peter after only a sip of the herbal concoction. “We need to test this more…” And then, seeing my face, he smiles and pats me gently on the shoulder. He has regained excellent verbal skills and has shown impressive manual dexterity after periodic imbibing of the weed-tea. He demonstrated deft handling of the pistols after just a few sips of the brew, this while he is in what I have taken to call the “thawed mode.” He motions to the next deadhead to come forward. “Just a few more, Major…then we go, okay?”
I shrug and step back to watch another tea-drinking experiment. “You have already lost three men. The red army outnumbers you as it is.” And, I add silently, if you decimate your blue army, you lose your usefulness to me.
Peter is perched upon a small boulder and watches as the next deadhead, a large former maintenance man with unruly gray hair down to his shoulder, takes a gulp from the canteen. The deadhead’s face contorts, then he belches. The camp members who are currently thawed laugh at this as if it were high humor. The deadhead, encouraged by his audience, stretches and bends, demonstrating the sudden laxity of his joints.
“Easy!” I call out. “Your joints aren’t used to the stress.” But it falls upon deaf ears.
“Ergh…I can move good, now…” the deadhead says and then thinks to impress us by lifting a large boulder. “Waughhhh…” he cries out, as the tendons in his right shoulder POP audibly, rendering the deadhead useless, as far as I am concerned.
I shake my head. Kimbrough, sheltered from the twin suns, is propped up in a lean-to and watching the show. He diplomatically looks elsewhere.
Peter avoids my glare and merely waves off the man whom he addresses as Merton. “Merton…you still have one good arm, eh?”
; Merton, being a good sport, waves with his left hand, but grimaces in dismay as he walks away with his right arm flopping limply by his side. Merton passes the naked bodies of three deadheads stretched out in the sand. One of them is Tiny Tim. “At least…I not like them,” Merton brags as he walks away.
The three bodies are pathetic, their desiccated appearances even more pronounced with the absence of clothes. Every strip of cloth, belts, and deteriorating boots have been removed and designated by Taggert—through a decision process known only to him—to those who needed it or deserved it most.
“Okay,” Peter says, and his voice is becoming hoarse, almost incoherent, as the tea effects wear off. “We go to Station C…as you desire, Major Ron.”
The “Major” title came from unfortunate comments made by Kimbrough in several talks with Peter. It was information that Peter did not need, but I could not fault Kimbrough for trying, in turn, to ply information out of the blue brigade leader while the effects of the tea lasted.
Peter nudges me in a conspiratorial fashion. One of the female deadheads has come up, uninvited, to take her turn at the tea-sipping ritual. This particular female is petite and probably was quite attractive in her human state, but now her hair is missing in patches and her skin is dry and dingy. Her uniform, however, is fairly well-maintained. Her name tag reads: “LOUDEN, MARY, REACTOR SPECIALIST.” She glances at me over her shoulder self-consciously before taking the canteen and cautiously sipping.
The transformation is swift in the female. She arches her back, then stretches luxuriously like a cat awakening from a nap. She faces Peter and me and we see the changes: her face is soft, her cheeks not quite rosy, but definitely flushed, her lips moist, her eyes a luminous, deep blue color. She smiles shyly. She glances at me. “Tankh…thank you, Major…for discover…discovering this.”
I nod. “You can dispense with the ‘Major.’ Call me Ron, if you like.”
The female deadhead walks away, knowing that, unfortunately, the results of the tea drink seem to be short-lived.
Peter looks amused. “You have admirh…admirers, Major.”
Kimbrough comments drily. “They are not admirers. They are worshippers.”
“We go now,” Peter commands.
As I help to strike camp, I smile cynically. Worshippers. Followers. Either will work for me. As long as they are willing to fight and help me achieve my objectives. But the childlike admiration of the female dead—rather, female blue named Mary places an unwanted sense of responsibility upon me. They are zombies, Major Ron, nothing more. So, why, then, do I suddenly find it difficult to refer to this half-woman as a ‘deadhead?’
Now that the previously ignored clumps of weed growing on this mountain shelf have proved so valuable to the blue brigade, Peter stations two guards at both entrances: the cliff route and the less difficult canyon route. As Peter bends to pull up a few clumps of weed, Kimbrough and I point out that the bushes will need to be cultivated from now on. Peter selects a few branches, not disturbing the roots beneath the sandy soil.
We are to descend by way of the cliff trail, but I am given an unexpected break: Taggert hoists the makeshift papoose containing the upper torso of Kimbrough. Lashed to the huge blue lieutenant’s back, Kimbrough seems remarkably at ease.
“Quite an honor for me, I suppose. Riding the back of Peter’s number one man.”
“Glad you’re happy, doc. Doesn’t take much to please you.”
It will be a both an advantage and a nuisance to be facing Kimbrough all the way down to Station C. Yes, we can communicate, but Kimbrough, when he is not depressed, is prone to chatter incessantly. The tea seems to have a more and more lasting effect upon the doctor and me. Invigorating and strengthening, though our hunger persists and my stomach rumbles frequently, causing the blues to observe me with amusement.
Mary, the female blue who addressed me as ‘Major,’ takes the spot behind me as we approach the descending cliff trail single file. I notice that her hair—a dirty blonde color—has taken on a slight sheen now and is less brittle. The bald patches have filled in slightly. Perhaps, there is a more lasting tea effect upon the females, as well.
She seems to be making an effort at tidying up her appearance. Mary is still hard to look upon: the zombie features, the taut mask-like face still unsettling. Nevertheless, I offer her a smile and this seems to affect her; she lifts her chin and manages a slight grimace which I take as her attempt to smile back. Poor woman.
Kimbrough winks at me when I face forward. “Careful, my friend. We do not know the complexities of deadhead social schemes.”
“I’m just being friendly.” And, in a lower voice, I add, “Win their hearts and minds and all that. But I would refrain from calling them deadheads, okay?”
“Of course! I wasn’t thinking.” He studies me in silence a few moments as we make our way down the winding cliff trail, the ground a mile below us, the mountain breezes trying to pluck us from the narrow path. Finally, he offers this commentary: “I cannot decide if you are an ethical man or merely a practical one.”
“Does it matter?” I am starting to regret not placing someone between me and the talkative doctor.
“For me, no. I believe I will benefit from my association with you. I have, so far. For you, though, for your soul, it makes all the difference.”
“My soul. You should have a nice long talk with Gershom. You can discuss the niceties of spirituality until doomsday. I’m not sure which of you would tire first.”
“Ah, yes. The mysterious prophet from Old Earth that you mentioned. Yes, I would like to speak to him.”
Taggert, no longer under the influence of the tea, grunts in annoyance. The vibrations caused by Kimbrough’s constant chatter, no doubt, radiate through the blue lieutenant’s back in an unaccustomed way. Taggert’s complaint renders silence for a time, the only sounds the wind in my ears and the crunch of gravel underfoot.
I feel myself slipping into a philosophical mood. I admit that I am feeling slightly euphoric, due to several influences: the tea, the success of enlisting the blue brigade to my cause (though they did not know this yet), our journey, finally, to Station C, and the faint possibility—growing slowly—that I might actually achieve my objectives and complete my mission. Play your cards right, Crisp, and keep your hand close to your chest.
The remainder of the descent is uneventful, but near the cave, trouble awaits: two red brigade scouts. We stumble upon them unexpectedly, both sides startled.
Both of the reds are armed with pistols. The only pistols among the blues are mine and they are both empty.
“Take cover!” I yell. “Take cover.” And I jump behind a boulder just as the reds pull their weapons and start firing.
The first of the blues is only a few feet from them and his head explodes into powder and small grey gobbets of brain. More wild shots and several blues take non-lethal wounds in the torso, one in the neck, before we can all move to cover. I grab a rock and take my best shot. The rock smacks one of the reds in the chest with a satisfying crunch and he goes down, dropping his pistol. In another moment, rocks are raining upon the two reds—most of the stones ill-aimed, but many connecting. The blues throw volley after volley of rocks and even small boulders. Dust hangs in the air, but there are no more gunshots. A pile of rubble marks the location of the two red scouts; a clenched hand projects from the pile. An ooze of zombie fluid seeps from the rubble onto the cave floor.
“They found their way here the same way Kimbrough and I did. They may still be searching for us. I doubt they know this leads to blue territory. But…” I bend to pick up a pistol and hand it to Peter. “…you need to block the entrance. We can always unblock it later.” I had it in mind to use this route as a means to attack the reds. How practical that was, I wasn’t sure.
Peter directs, through the standard facial grimaces and gestures, his men to find the other pistol and then to block the entrance to the subterranean passageway. An hour later, we proceed to Station C and leav
e behind one guard armed with a confiscated pistol to shoot red stragglers.
Clearly, Peter can see the difference weapons will make in the final showdown between red, blue, and Todd’s men. Throwing rocks is okay when your enemy is trapped in a cave, but out in the open things will be different.
The terrain is uneven, probably more here than anywhere else on Sybaris. These clumps of mountain ranges and hills are riddled by barren plains and plateaus, forming areas where the infrequent but massive downpours of rain cause flash floods and instant rivers. The paths of previous deluges have carved winding canyons, gullies, and ravines that our troop now tediously crosses down and back up again, turning our march into an all day expedition. After walking for several hours, I can turn and still make out the cliff-side trail that leads up to the blue camp. It will be near nightfall before we reach the station.
If the gullies and ravines were minor delays, the mining site was enough to cause a major detour in our march.
It opens below me like a chiseled man-made Grand Canyon. Hundreds of sharply hewn passages and ledges, some of them still lined with metal scaffolds and walkways, cling to the canyon’s walls. At the bottom of the massive canyon are heaps of debris, stone, and, I recognize with a palpitation in my chest, mounds of the volcanic-like ore. The precious ore is heaped here in tons, ready to be salvaged. In a separate pile to the side is a black mountain of dust or dirt.
Peter approaches, points to the ore and makes a motion like that of a rocket heading up to the sky. This much is obvious. But he points to the black heap of dust and slaps his hands together. When this does not get a response from me, he points again and makes a ball shape with his hands (as best as he can). He spreads his hands apart in violent gesture, then looks at me.
