Unbound Brothers

by Rob Rowntree

  “Not doing so well Conway?”

  “Is that an observation or a question?” Conway sounded exhausted. “Of course I’m not doing well. That bitch cracking funnies back there shot my knee to hell and the damned wound won’t heal. The flechette that Pickering couldn’t remove, dig and twist, spike and burn; it’s bloody painful.”

  Alan didn’t really care whether Conway’s wounds were healing or not, or how Conway felt about them. Instead his concern came from a deep seated desire to leave this place, and for that he needed the crew’s expertise; even Conway might prove useful.

  The road switched left offering sight of several of their native guides leading the way, most of whom had already reached the next turn in the road.

  “Conway, I do sympathise with your situation, I really do. Your leg hurts. I get it. Okay, so grin and put up with it. We, in turn, have to put up with you. You want to get home, have your leg mended in some slinky private clinic? Fine. Be nicer.”

  Conway stopped; he looked surprised and maybe uneasy. “You wouldn’t leave me behind.” Conway’s old bravado shone with a vengeance. Jabbing his finger into Alan’s shoulder, forcing each word home, Conway continued, “You – Don’t - Have – It – In –You.”

  Alan hesitated, reflecting on Conway’s comments. “Conway, you are absolutely right. But I think that makes me the better man.”

  Turning away before Conway could respond, Alan headed towards Woodland who walked alongside the wagon. Fly analogues drifted in and out of the wagon, their tiny little wings buzzing with excitement. They swarmed around the wagon’s canopy, tap, tap, tapping as they repeatedly butted against the unyielding material.

  Woodland indicated them and said, “Is that us, battling against futility?” Woodland paused, momentarily lost in thought before he observed, “I don’t think much of the place up the road. It’s exposed, difficult to defend. We’d be better waiting for our rescue somewhere safe and quiet, say, back up there.” He pointed the way they’d come, “In the mountains.”

  Without any cue they both laughed. Perhaps a sense of impending doom had freed some dormant inhibition.

  Alan said, “I’m pretty sure that in the long run we’ll manage. There’ll be help and provided we can find water, we should survive for several weeks. Let’s get down into the valley and check things out.”

  Woodland grunted a reply. Turning from him, Alan froze as a large shadow played over his body.

  Below he caught glimpses of their native guides waddling away, melting into the countryside fast. What? Something moved in his peripheral vision. Turning, he saw and heard a winged native land with a thump on the track ahead. Caught in a down draught, dust roiled from the creature’s impact.

  Alan backed away, bumped into Woodland.

  The creature flap/hopped nearer, big slick leathery wings slapping together in a loud clap. It snorted and came on, step after step.

  A fetid stench of rotting meat and mucus reached them. This creature before them bore the physiology of the native guides but there the resemblance ended. Huge muscles arced around the back from the wings, to join onto a blade down the centre of its chest. Its whole musculature spoke of exercise and power and animalistic prowess.

  Smaller than its bound brothers, it moved more gracefully, each move hinting at menace. The chattering of its bladed teeth, accompanied by the whistles spoke of aggression, intimidation and expectation.

  From behind, Alan heard gasps and cries from the crew.

  Turning, he ran towards the commotion. Several of the winged aliens circled Gibson, prodding and poking, wafting and slapping with their wings much as wolves harry injured prey. Gibson stayed on his feet, dancing this way and that, the movement not now as amusing as earlier. It wouldn’t last forever.

  As he ran Alan, bent and snatched up a sizeable pebble from the road. Several more winged attackers moved in for a piece of Gibson. Instinctively Alan let fly. The pebble flew straight and hard, a natural missile set free.

  The rock hit hard and Alan heard an encouraging snap as an alien’s head wobbled before dumping its owner on the floor. But no sooner had that alien fallen, than another and a second took its place.

  Stowe’s and Kiki’s screams canted in and around the steep hillside; Pickering sat on the ground clutching his chest and Conway had tumbled over. Above the screams the sky howled with a thousand voices, clicking. and whistling.

  Close by, Woodland bent to scoop up another rock. So did Alan. He threw his and watched it bounce harmlessly away.

  Closing on the mêlée, Alan wondered how he would intervene, afford himself safety, and look out for the others.

  Suddenly his world spun. The ground came up hard and smacked him in the face. Eating dust, he felt something grip his ankles, strong gnarled fingers or claws clasped tightly and then flipped him onto his back.

  The sky fizzed with a shimmering curtain of flapping motes. Something touched his shins. There must be thousands of them. A raking claw along his thigh. Sunlight rippled across the underside of the alien cloud. A prod at his genitals, hard and uncomfortable. He felt the breeze now, created by thousands of wings...

  Darkness came as the creature clawed its way up Alan’s prone body. A damp, cloying stench caught in Alan’s throat as the creature’s wings expanded and then lowered to surround Alan’s upper body and head.

  Could this be it? To die on some dirt track on an alien world, no marker for his grave, no grieving words said over his laid out body.

  Alan saw the creature then, for the first time he really saw it. Unlike the land trapped brothers, these aliens possessed very different facial characteristics. ‘Their religion is based around the folds on their eye lids.’ The eyes and the lids were different, no folds and those eyes held a real sense of purpose, menace and intelligence.

  Its mouth and lower jaw were heavily muscled and the teeth, although arranged the same as their cousins, were cracked and jagged.

  The creature lowered its face to within a few centimetres of Alan’s and quizzically turned it, inspecting Alan’s face. Saliva dribbled from between food stained teeth, into Alan’s mouth. Twisting away, Alan coughed, fighting to control his guts.

  It looked into his eyes; a long deep penetrating stare. Alan’s mind shuddered. Fear and latent survival-instinct fuelled a sudden desire to be free, to escape these winged harpies.

  He bucked, kicked out; the creature whistled loudly, out of annoyance perhaps, and fluttered into the air to land several meters away.

  More screams and shouts reached him. Scrambling to his feet he ran towards the noise.

  A large crowd of aliens surrounded Kiki, Stowe and Gibson. Woodland lay nearby, two of the aliens on his chest. Blood trickled from his forehead. He was alive but Alan couldn’t be sure about the others. Taking a quick look at Pickering and Conway, Alan decided Gibson, Stowe and Kiki’s need was greater.

  He raced at the crowd, barrelling into the outside layers and knocking several aliens free. Pushing and shoving, he managed to embed himself in the mass of wings and aliens. They moved easily, like tossing small children aside.

  As he neared the open, central patch of ground, the creatures packed more tightly, forming a wall of flesh around his trapped comrades. He could leap it; only a few rows of aliens in the way.

  Tired, and wretched as he felt, still gagging from the alien spit, he must do something. Summoning strength from some unknown depth, he leapt forward into the air, tucked and rolled, to land with a thump, air slammed out of his lungs.

  Momentarily dazed, he struggled to understand what he saw.

  The women clung to each other on the far side of the circle. Gibson not so lucky, staggered about with a small winged alien on his back. He appeared to be doing one of his new silly dances. Gibson’s face twitched and fluttered, muscles locked in an uncontrollable series of spasms.

  Something hung from Gibson’s scalp, hard and red stained white, a piece of skull, knocking against Gibson’s head. Blood washed down over matted hair. Th
ere was something else... As he watched Alan saw the alien atop Gibson’s body reach out with its small claws and touch inside the wound. Gibson twitched and danced, smiled and frowned, blinked and winked out of existence.

  Repulsed, Alan jumped to his feet and ran at Gibson. The baying aliens chattered and clicked, whistled and crushed forward. Sweat poured from Alan’s body, his muscles hurt and his arms and legs felt sluggish.

  Reaching Gibson, he leaped, grabbing the alien by the head and pulling it free as he swung by. The crushing thud that followed silenced the crowd. Alan screamed in rage, “No more you fuck. No more.”

  Twisting he heard the creature’s neck break. The snapping sound acted like a trigger. Aliens swarmed in. Alan’s last sight of Gibson saw the blue-space engineer sitting on the ground, a perplexed look upon his face as he reached to push his own fingers into his wound. Perhaps he was searching for what he’d lost. Alan felt sure that Gibson wouldn’t be the last one here searching for that.

  Later the winged aliens moved the survivors back to the wagon, leaving the carrion for the beasts.

  ***

  Alan woke, pulled from his sleep by a half-dreamt sound.

  Unmoving, he stared at the wooden flatbed of the truck. Through cracks in the boards he saw night’s glow casting shadows over the track below: sharp-edged shadows highlighting the gravel-like nature of the ground. It looked painful to walk upon.

  Again. The sound; or was it the sound from his dream, a calling from the dark, from Jimmy. The dream came back now, memories in fits and starts. Here was Jimmy, his shoulder pointing at Cosmic Journey and smiling and dribbling and – I tried the hero bit Jimmy. It got us nowhere.

  It came again, a mewling sound from outside the wagon.

  Sitting up, Alan winced at a few aches and pains. He edged back against the wagon’s awning. The women sat with Pickering, huddled in one corner. Next to Pickering sat their translator. It hadn’t surprised Alan. How would their captors retrieve information without him?

  Conway sat near the exit, hands massaging his damaged leg. Woodland lay next to him, breathing steadily. Alive then.

  All except poor Gibson. Alan remembered the jovial man he’d met on an airship, his uneasy and at times awkward devotion to Conway. Those bastard aliens tossed him aside like yesterday’s leftovers. Brutal yes: but their behaviour appeared enlivened with a fevered anticipation and enjoyment.

  “You thinking about Gibson?” Conway still clutched his leg, “You should be.”

  “Yeah.”

  Conway stopped massaging his leg and fixed Alan with a stare, “Not biting, Alan? Not playing the indignant hero?”

  “Conway, leave it. We need to concentrate and work out a way to survive. Gibson would want that.”

  “Alan. None of us are going to survive.” A resigned statement if ever. “Your plan to sit tight and await rescue died the moment we were forced to evacuate the shuttle. How are any prospective rescuers to find us out here?”

  Alan knew Conway’s remarks held truth. He had hoped to stay with the shuttle and use its transponder as a beacon to draw any rescue vessels. But now... “Yes,” he admitted, “it’s a problem.”

  “You hear that Pickering? Alan is as lost as we are.”

  Conway’s belittlement, although idle, forced Alan to appraise their options. Few presented themselves. They could make a break for it and try and scrounge out a living in the wild – not a choice Alan would be making anytime soon. They might survive for a while, but eventually, hunger and inexperience would see to them all. He placed that idea at the back of his list. What else? They get some sort of accommodation sorted with the Unbound. It looked like it had worked before, the Peterson’s crew survived for quite some time. The idea held merit but whatever did happen before proved less than satisfactory.

  The strategy Alan liked best would require a commitment from everyone here.

  “Conway, suck it up I have an idea. It’s a long shot but it might work.” Looking at Kiki, Alan said, “Hey Kiki, if we got back to the shuttle could you purge the cabin area and make it habitable for a short time?”

  “What? Well I... Yeah, I guess. Need a couple of hours though.”

  Conway coughed, then said, “Alan you seem to be forgetting our current predicament as guests.” Conway looked around like he’d scored a debating point. “You have a plan for that?”

  “For a man that runs multinationals, you lack a certain creativity Conway. I thought keeping an eye out for opportunities might score high on your skill list.”

  “Pah! Your daydreaming is exceeded only by your ego. I sense a need in you to be needed, wanted.” Alan felt his skin blush as blood circulated a little heat. Conway continued, “Ah. It’s guilt that drives you. Over Jimmy. I am right?”

  “That’s enough Conway,” Stowe stood wavering as the wagon swayed. “You aren’t helping matters.”

  Conway’s laugh sounded hollow and dead. “Helping matters. Hah.”

  Alan seethed, “If you mention my brother again, make sure you accompany your comments with niceties and a little civility. If you don’t, I will finish the job Kiki started. You got me Conway?”

  “May I remind you Alan that you are in my employ. One word from me and no monies for you, no monies for Jimmy.” Conway made a little exploding sign with his hands. “Gone.”

  “You know what, I resign. Oh and one other thing. On a planet this dangerous...who knows what might happen.”

  Pickering stood and joined Stowe hanging onto the awning. “You two shut up. Talking of escape and surviving and money, you’re both just pissing up walls to see who can reach the furthest. It’s pathetic. What we need to do is think of the here and now, deal with each moment as it comes. If we survive a day then let’s talk about escape and rescue. Okay?”

  Pickering’s emergence as a forthright and effective field doctor amazed Alan. The man revelled in his new found responsibilities which apparently included peace negotiations. Nodding, Alan said, “Okay, fine. I’ll try and put our differences on hold. But keep that man away from me.”

  Pickering looked to Conway, “How about it?”

  Conway snorted and turned away, like a spoilt child.

  Alan fell sideways as the wagon jounced over an obstacle in the road and turned sharply right. Conway gasped and gripped his leg, and let out a moan.

  Woodland stirred. Alan waited while the navy man pushed himself up. A small grin spread, “You have one heck of a good throwing arm. Nearly took that alien’s head clean off.”

  Alan rubbed at his spore ports which itched terribly, “Baseball, semi pro. You?”

  “Navy champions, three years in a row.”

  Alan marvelled at how easily they slid into reminiscing. Perhaps it reflected their situation. The wagon bounced once more and then tipped as it headed down a steep incline. For now, all Alan had were his memories.

  ***

  The wagon stopped.

  After several hours of jostling turns and a steadily increasing descent, the atmosphere in the wagon stank of bodily odour and mounting fear.

  Woodland, now more fully recovered, sat by Alan. They’d whiled away the hours with more reminiscing over past times in the service, places they’d been, things they’d done and seen. Navy and Merchant Man always two sides of the same coin.

  During the journey downward wind noise grew, increasingly shifting the wagon about on the track. Creaks and groans plagued, each one of them wondering if they’d make it. Several times the wagon tipped threatening to hurl them into unseen chasms, both real and imaginary. Now, and with the conveyance apparently down, the wind howled louder than ever.

  Pickering’s translator gesticulated. After a few moments of rapid hand movement, Pickering said, “He says they’ll leave us here until sunrise.” The alien tapped him on the shoulder; Pickering read more gestures. He turned back to Alan, “He’s added that it’s his opinion. I guess he doesn’t want to commit. Apparently this is their preferred way of softening up prisoners. Something about co
nfined spaces.”

  Stowe interrupted, “Maybe for winged beings confinement like this is an awful restriction, claustrophobic maybe.”

  Woodland agreed, “Sound’s good.”

  Alan said to Pickering, “Ask it where we are and how come it knows so much about prisoner transportation.”

  While Pickering did his stuff, Alan went over to Stowe and Kiki. Stowe seemed calm, her expression resolute. Kiki however, had a wild cast in her eyes, fear picking away at her paranoia. He said, “I don’t know what they have in store for us. I promise I will try my utmost to get us out of here. Don’t lose hope. Okay?”

  Stowe reached out a hand, gently clasped his and squeezed.

  Pickering moved away from his friend, “He says he’s been here before in a wagon like this. He and his comrades were left for a night and then hauled before the...” Pickering frowned. “I didn’t understand whatever name he just tried to tell me, but they have to go and vouch.”

  “Vouch? For what?” Conway’s interruption halted Pickering in mid flow, Alan seeing the resentment there. Perhaps Pickering’s and Conway’s pasts had collided before.

  Pickering answered, but not merely for Conway’s sake; he wanted the others to know, even if it was only guess work on his part, “Some sort of proving of one’s adherence, maybe he meant allegiance, to the faith. To the truth. It requires great strength to get through the ordeal.”

  “Religious crap,” Conway said. “I for one won’t allow a bunch of savages to dictate my belief system.”

  The alien translator started hand signals again and Pickering responded. “He wanted to know what you were saying. He apologises for not explaining properly. Vouching is not an act of opening to The Free, nor a welcoming of their doctrine. It’s more of a purging of falseness, a cleansing. He says it is very painful. Apparently The Free demand physical offerings.”

  Kiki whimpered in the corner. Conway looked shocked.

  Suddenly the wind increased. Alan shouted in an effort to get his voice above the abrupt roar, but from the expressions on the faces of his companions he knew they couldn’t hear him.