by Arthur Stone
“You mean like, heal it?” Cheater asked, after a pause in which he tried to holster his pistol.
Despite all his Accuracy, for some reason he couldn’t manage to put it in where it needed to go. His hand would not obey him.”
“Why did you take me along, if not to heal?” she asked. “That’s the only reason I’m here. Alright, I’m done. You’ll be fine. It will hurt a little, and freeze up on you, but two hours from now, you won’t even remember which leg it was. Just make sure you wash your clothes, or replace them. I’m no washerwoman. I don’t do clothes.”
“I can take care of them. I’ve never been around a healer before. You really are a helpful member of the party.”
“I guess. You should remember what I said about Gangrene, by the way. I was serious.”
“What’s up with him?” Cheater blinked, confused by the mention.
“He’s dead! A bullet nearly tore his head off. That same bullet nearly killed me, too; I was sitting next to him. Unless you bring him back, I won’t be with you for long. He’ll teleport me to himself. We have that kind of connection.
Cheater had no desire to delve into the healer's strange statements yet. He had no desire to think, in fact. His mind was muddled. But he understood the main point and nodded. “They’ll bring March, Clown, and Gangrene back, don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried. You are the ones who should be worried.”
“Nipple!” Goblin squealed, lying near the cab. “Help! “I’m dying! And guys, kill that bastard, before he strikes again. You hear me, Cheater? Kill him!”
“What bastard?” Cheater looked around, expecting to see a surviving devil, or the infected returning.
“Fatso! The bastard shot me. Kill him!”
The wounded man’s voice became hysterical.
Nipple stayed where she was. “Goblin panicked and drove off, and Fatso was unable to stop him. The man shouted, but Goblin wouldn’t listen, so Fatso shot him through the rear window. Only then did we stop.”
Cheater nodded, finally understanding something fully. He himself had killed an enemy driver the same way a few minutes ago. In closed-body trucks, that window was kept open so that the driver and others up front could communicate with those in the back. A bullet in the lower back was a cruel way to get your driver to stop—but Fatso had likely been doing the only thing he could think of. Cheater wasn’t about to blame him. Much less kill him.
The flight of the truck could have had perilous consequences for the expedition. With each passing second, the truck had been taking the priestess further and further away from those who needed to be quickly raised from the dead. Fatso had done the right thing, having no time for persuasion.
The Janitor stopped swearing for a moment. “Hey, where’s that damned nurse? Leave Cheater alone—he’s barely even scratched. Sew my arm back on, and fix my legs?”
“Would you like a penis sewn on, too?”
“I mean, sure. Being a quasi, I’ve been dreaming of getting that back for half a year now. Just make it a good long one. Come on, let’s go!”
“What if I don’t?”
“I still have one good arm. That’s more than enough to tear you in two. So move it!”
* * *
A priestess’s art was, by nearly any metric, a morally upright one. But just as the sun has spots on its surface, there are some dark aspects to the act of resurrection.
Cheater had, in the first crossing, been amazed to see people with utterly decimated organs and limbs come fully back to life. Sometimes, a whole half of the person had been blown off. What was left, though, was enough for Button.
How? Was conservation of mass not applicable here? He had no idea. Having a whole head was the most important part. If it was in perfect shape, resurrection occurred at near-instant speed, and with no long-term side effects.
March’s head was not in perfect shape. A 14.5 round had slammed through it. It would be enough to remove a sizable chunk of you no matter where it hit. Even glancing blows were best avoided.
March had very much not avoided this one.
Still, the priestess’s ability worked, and the campaign’s leader was once again alive.
He looked like he had just spent the last few days drinking—and not beer. It also seemed that among his drinking binges he had added in some of Nut’s favorite substances.
March was not himself. He was slow, ignored any and all opportunities to communicate, and did not try to resume control over the battered party in any way. Button, who was still running on the temporary sanity Cheater had slapped into her, explained that this was normal. In something like half an hour, perhaps up to two hours, March would be back to normal. Or at least close. Before then, he should be allowed to rest.
So they left March alone.
With a supply of beer.
Even a bullet to his head had failed to quench his indefatigable thirst.
Nut, of course, took this as evidence that substances were the best cure for everything. In fact, the man’s poor functioning was entirely explicable by the fact that he had been deprived of beer for those few minutes he had been dead.
Nut then segued into a tale of a certain friend of a certain comrade of his, a man who had recklessly mixed substances using the wrong proportions and so had suffered terrible nausea. He had the poor luck of, that very day, going on a date with a hot young lady. Overall, it was just another one of Nut’s typical stories.
Anyhow, they had to let their leader be and sort all the consequences out on their own. First, they had to shout some sense into Goblin, who was eager to violently dispatch Fatso. This had to be repeated with Gangrene, who immediately sided with his angry comrade once they had brought him back. At last, they were able to shut them up only with threats, promising to boot them out of the vehicles and let them walk to the border on foot.
The truck had to be repaired too, both from the bullets and from Goblin’s careless driving style. Clown handled the minor damage quickly and skillfully. He had come back from the dead all gung ho and ready to go, thank God for small favors.
Cheater was not the only one who had suffered minor injuries. Nipple handled them all, and well.
A healer was indeed an excellent addition to any team.
Their main remaining problem, then, was the artillery truck. Handling that fell not to Clown but to Janitor and Cheater.
The truck was the most important piece of their convoy. A piece which now did not exist. The truck itself could, in theory, be restored to working order, but not under the circumstances. Anyway, it would be easier to pick a replacement from dozens of similar trucks that could be easily found.
New ones, too.
It was not out of the question to search for such a vehicle. A sense of déjà vu came over Cheater as he remembered his role in helping procure transportation at the beginning of the previous crossing campaign.
They would find a truck somewhere, sure. But what could they do about the antiaircraft gun? These were valuable weapons, not to be found lying around on the road. Both guns had been utterly destroyed by large-caliber bullets. Only a well-equipped workshop, with access to many replacement parts, would have a hope of repairing them. Doing such work out here was out of the question.
The party’s main weapon was gone, and on the first day of the campaign—many miles from the border itself.
Not a good start.
However, as Cheater considered this, a solution came to him almost immediately. It had its drawbacks, but it might just work.
He had to convince the Janitor. Efforts to do so did not go well at first, evoking only a stream of insults directed his way.
But though the quasi was a stubborn player, his mind still worked, despite the severity of his wounds. He came to his senses before Cheater’s eyes, and before long.
The Janitor gritted his teeth, and admitted it: Cheater’s idea was, in fact, the best solution.
* * *
Cheater sat down next to March. “How’s your
head?”
Still staring off into nowhere, March touched the body part in question with his hand and sipped from his can. “Well, it’s still there, at least. I think.”
“How do you feel?” Cheater pushed.
“Like I just pulled this head out of my ass. You know, I’m starting to understand more about Button. Poor girl.”
“I slapped her in the face. Twice,” Cheater admitted.
“In some situations, that’s the perfect motivation for some girls. And some guys, too. So I can forgive that. What were you and the Janitor fighting about?”
“We weren’t fighting. We had something important to discuss.”
“So you didn’t include me. I guess you’re including me now. What was it about?”
“Are you sure that you want to hear it right now? You don’t look too good, March.”
“Eh, I’m almost back to normal. Sure, the resurrection hit me hard. But three cans of beer is almost as powerful a force as a priest’s ability. I bet they can even raise the dead. Anyway, what was your quarrel about?”
“You’ve probably noticed that our artillery truck is out of commission. Well, I was proposing an alternative. He criticized my plan at first, but ultimately agreed.”
“Agreed to what?”
“With the plan.”
“Right. What plan?”
“It’s not the prettiest plan, but it’s what we’ve got. We’ll take the enemy’s truck, in place of our own.”
“The one with the four machine guns?”
“Right. It’s the only one still in working order—and in fact most of its windows are still intact, even. The armored personnel carrier is on fire, and the other truck took a lot of bullets. Its turret and engine are demolished. I can’t believe that truck didn’t catch fire, in fact. But this truck is fine. Clown says it’s in good shape, and we’ve even got some spare parts. Not everything, but hey, they could come in handy. It looks like they took good care of this vehicle. We doubt it’ll give us any problems.”
“But Janitor had some kind of issue with this plan, I take it?” March asked.
Cheater nodded. “He didn’t like the weapon.”
“Well, I can understand that. Just machine guns. No cannon.”
“Plus,” Cheater added, “it’s inferior in every way, except for the rate of fire. The emplacement is at least twice as heavy and does not swivel as quickly. Plus, Janitor has never operated a gun like that. He just keeps swearing up a storm.”
“Those machine guns won’t take down an elite,” March noted.
“I know. But they’re solid machine guns. I once mowed down a massive mob of ghouls with just one gun like that. While the vehicle was stationary. The Devils have enough ammunition packed away in there to take out several hordes. We have grenade launchers, we have my rifle, and we have the Nold shoulder gun. That’s enough to deal with an elite. This truck is here, and it’s ready. We can drive it now. Looking for another vehicle to replace the one we’ve lost would mean an unknown delay. Where would we even go? Anti-aircraft guns are a rare thing, and I don’t see signs of a stable nearby.”
“You haven’t ever seen a real horde either, have you?” March asked.
“No. But I can imagine one well enough.”
“No, you can’t. You wouldn’t say such things if you could. We’re going to a place where encountering a horde is all in a day’s work.”
“Alright,” Cheater allowed, “so let’s say a machine gun won’t stop a horde. But it’ll stop a large flock with no trouble.”
“A cannon is a cannon,” March pressed. “Reliable.”
“Yes. I would give a whole lot right now for a big gun. But we don’t have a cannon. What we do have is a truck, ready to drive out. That’s what we really need to get to the border. It will be harder without a cannon, yes. But not impossible.”
“I still think you’re not seeing the difference between an antiaircraft gun and that clump of iron rods.”
“Steel rods,” Cheater corrected. “But why are we still fighting over this? Even the Janitor admitted that this is the best option we have. So we don’t have an antiaircraft gun. That’s hardly our biggest problem. I still fail to understand why we had to bring such a large group along. You yourself said that fewer people made for an easier crossing. But now we have this dubious babbler of a sapper, as well as Gangrene and Goblin, who have been nothing but trouble. I understand the value of a good team. Why then did we assemble such a shit team? You and I could get across on our own, along with Clown and Fatso, with no problems. And the Janitor could come along, too—I’m just not in the loop on whatever agreement you two have. Then, we simply don’t go where the big hordes are. Borders are huge things. We could find a way. Anyway, March, there’s no point o talking about the antiaircraft gun further. It’s done for. So we take the machine guns.”
“I’m not arguing with you, Cheater. I’m just pissed at what happened here. We weren’t romping about carelessly. Everything was thought through. We asked about this road. People who seemed smart enough swore to us that the Devils had not been seen in these parts for a very long time. I’m not like you. I don’t collect my maps from garbage heaps. I know where to get good information. My damned abilities forced me to get good at that. For me, information is crucial. So either they were all lying to us, or the situation changed very rapidly. I don’t like either of those possibilities. I don’t like fast, serious changes. Especially this far from the border. I’ve already died once here, on the first day. Now, I know that happens to everyone. But it shouldn’t have happened this soon. Given that, I dislike even more the fact that we no longer have an antiaircraft gun. That was a very important part of our crossing. You can take it from me. This isn’t my first one.”
“Enough about the antiaircraft gun,” Cheater pleaded. “Cheer up. We won. If they had killed us all, it would have been a catastrophe.”
“We won. But it’s a Pyrrhic victory,” March said as he crushed a can and reached for another.
“What did you say?” Cheater blinked, as March had gurgled the sentence through a mouthful of beer.
“A shitty victory. A Pyrrhic one. Don’t you remember what that is?”
“Sure, from Ancient Rome. The general Pyrrhus scattered the Romans like cockroaches. Time and time again, he smashed them. But each time, he suffered losses, and in the end, those losses were the undoing of his kingdom, so—”
Cheater hesitated.
“How do I remember something like that? These memory blocks are so strange. I can remember these worthless facts and stories, but nothing about myself. Plenty about who some ancient general was, and nothing about who I was. It’s fucked up.”
“I know some guys who set up a discussion group and talked about questions like this day and night.”
Cheater cocked his head. “What did they come up with?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. Whenever you’re considering to either let your head get filled with riddles or let it get riddled with bullets, specifically 14.5mm bullets, I’d recommend the latter. It’s the clearly superior choice. Three direct hits will do less damage to your brains than puzzling over those questions. This place is a little short on shrinks and madhouses, after all. And respawn does not cure all forms of mental illness. So, better here to grab a beer than a book. Beer can wash away all those nasty thoughts. What the hell—”
March stood abruptly, staggered slightly, and froze, can held with both hands.
“What’s wrong?” Cheater said as he moved to spot him.
“Oh, nothing. Or maybe something. More like someone. Someone strong.”
“As strong as these Devils?” Cheater pointed to the APC.
“Stronger.”
Chapter 16
Life Nine. The Armored Beetle
Strength can be measured in a variety of ways. One factor or another can be more significant in various situations. Even in clearer circumstances, everyone will measure strength in different ways.
On the Contine
nt, however, there was general agreement that anyone using a fully restored tank was strong. Especially if it was not a piece of junk yanked out of some museum and hastily restored. Restored tanks were made from burnt-out shells, which their factory-released incarnations often became after encountering some sort of high-caliber armor-piercing projectile. Spare parts could be found to replace the various innards. But what could replace the metal damaged by the high temperatures of the engulfing flames? Armor embraced by inferno retained its thickness, but not its protective properties. Even the colossal military industrial complex back on Earth would not undertake to repair such damage. The metal would be melted down.
