The Forever Man 6 - Dystopian Apocalypse Adventure: Book 6: Rebirth Page 4

  ‘Ah, I see,’ said the Highman. ‘Humor. Nevertheless, I shall pay you for all of the alleged kills then. Fifty gold units.’

  Nathaniel decided that he had better rein himself in. After all, he figured, he was speaking to the defacto leader of all that he had thus far surveyed and only a mad dog challenges the alpha for no reason whatsoever.

  ‘That is very generous of you, sir. How does one prove a kill? I don’t exactly fancy bringing bags full of heads back to town every time I’m successful.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Alou. ‘That would be barbaric. Proof would be provided by means of a Calotype.’

  ‘What’s a Calotype when it’s at home?’

  Alou opened a desk drawer and took out a small box that he slid across to Nathaniel. Then he leant back against the padded pole and gestured to the marine to pick up the box.

  Nate held it up and studied it. It was about the size of a cigarette packet, made of black steel, a slot on one side, a small glass window on the back and a lens on the front.

  ‘A camera?’ Questioned the marine.

  ‘I am sorry, I do not know that word. This is a Calotype.’ The Highman took another couple of items from his drawer. ‘You load these silver nitrate sheets in the side,’ he continued, showing Nate a container. ‘Then point it at the subject, slide the shutter across for two seconds and it records the image on the sheet. Then you remove the sheet and keep it safe in this box, ensuring that it is not exposed to light. You record each kill thus and on return from each mission you present the proof to the paymaster general and he imburses you accordingly.’

  Nate nodded thoughtfully. ‘Okay. I’m in. Now what?’

  Alou pushed another metal object across the desk.

  Nate picked it up. A steel shield. Two inches high and about an inch wide. Engraved in relief on the front, two crossed sledgehammers. Above that, the word Hammerman picked out in gold, underneath – Sumerus in Posterium.

  ‘Latin?’ Asked Nate.

  The Highman tilted his head. ‘I do not know the word.’

  ‘The language.’ Nate pointed at the motto.

  ‘It is our native language,’ responded Alou.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘It’s not important. It simply wouldn’t translate. Take the Calotype and the badge.’ He counted out some gold units and placed them in a pouch that he handed to the marine. ‘Here is the gold. Now – the rest is up to you.’

  Nate nodded and left the room.

  The office door closed automatically behind him with a hiss of steam, as did the entrance door. There was no driver waiting for him when he stepped outside so he simply started to walk in what he remembered to be the general direction of his rented room.

  Before he pulled down his goggles he took one last look at his new badge. He had seen the language before. Or at least he had seen something very similar. It was not quite Latin. But it was close enough to get the gist of its meaning.

  Sumerus in Posterium.

  We Are The Future.

  Chapter 7

  The youth ducked into an alleyway to regain his breath, hiding in the shadows, trusting in the murk to conceal. One could not rest for long as the sounds of the pursuers boots slapping the pavement were close by, their hobnails ringing on the cobbles.

  Crouching in the dark, the youth took out the apple and looked at it. As green as the turf on a lover’s grave.

  It was the first apple that the youngster had ever seen. In fact it was the first piece of fruit. Indeed, the youth had never actually laid eyes on any food that wasn’t soy based. With a feeling of trepidation, after removed their mask, the youngster raised the jewel of fruit and took a bite.

  It was unlike anything either expected or dreamt of. Juice ran down the adolescent’s smooth chin and their mouth exploded with taste. It was tart and sweet at the same time. The consistency, firm and crunchy, but as they chewed, it softened and released yet more layers of subtle flavor. A jaw cramping overload of sensory input.

  No matter what the jail term, this one mouthful had made it worthwhile. It made one understand why the vendors charged a full two gold units for the fruit, restricting its availability to only the Highmen and the very wealthiest of humans.

  The youth swallowed and then took another bite, continuing until only the core was left.

  The remains were pocketed for later and then they stealthily left the alleyway, moving slowly in order to avoid detection.

  ‘He’s over there,’ shouted a voice in the smog.

  The teenager took off again, legs pumping, skidding around a corner, arms windmilling to keep balance.

  And ran straight into a burly man dressed in brown leather and carrying a short billy club.

  A watchman.

  ‘Got you,’ he grunted as he raised the cosh and slammed it into the youth’s face.

  Stars clouded the thief’s vision. Even staying upright was a struggle, then more pursuers were there, grabbing and punching.

  Blows rained down as the teenager rolled back and forth in an attempt to escape the punishment, but there were too many of them. Eventually a boot to the head brought an end to it and they faded to black as unconsciousness took over.

  ***

  Nathaniel had money to burn and nothing to spend it on. It appeared that he had a choice of soy based food, soy based drink, weapons or clothing. He honestly felt like he couldn’t stomach another bowl of soya mush, he had clothes and he didn’t feel like shopping for weapons just yet.

  So that left drink.

  He wandered through the fetid streets and kept an eye out for a stained glass sign advertising the sale of alcoholic beverages. Eventually he saw a flickering advertisement with an arrow that pointed down to a basement entrance. The sign simply said, The Royal Drinking Establishment, in fancy yellow script.

  ‘Well that can’t be too bad,’ said Nate to himself as he descended the steps and pushed the entrance door open.

  The moment that he entered he knew that he had made a mistake. The owners had obviously been either going for ironic humor or had simply purchased the sign first and then run out of money. Nate had been into some serious dives in his time but this was by far the worst.

  The door seals didn’t work very well and the air filters on the ventilation fans needed cleaning. As a result the air in the bar was only marginally less smoggy than the exterior.

  Someone was playing some sort of hurdy-gurdy in the corner, cranking the handle to produce a slow wailing dirge. Behind the bar stood a barman that looked as though he was recovering from a bout of scurvy. Patchy hair, a rash on the side of his neck and yellow jaundiced eyes.

  The barman watched Nathaniel approach. ‘What you want?’ He asked.

  ‘What you got?’ Countered the marine.

  He shrugged. ‘The usual. Soya vodka, sweet soya wine and soya beer.’

  ‘Got any whisky?’

  The barman laughed. ‘Funny man.’

  ‘No, serious.’

  The scurvy man sneered. ‘Really? Well, you got fifty gold units a tot you can find it. But not here.’

  ‘Fine then,’ sighed Nate. ‘I’ll take a soya vodka. Large one.’

  The barman slid a scratched tumbler of clear fluid across the counter top. Nate took a sip. It tasted bitter. Herbal. Strong. He’d had worse before. He downed it and ordered another.

  Barman poured. ‘That’ll be two steels.’

  Nate fumbled in his pocket and dropped a handful of steel units on the bar top. Then he slid four across.

  ‘Have one yourself.’

  ‘Cheers,’ responded the barman as he poured himself a tot and slammed it back.

  As Nate sipped at his foul tasting vodka, the door banged open and someone walked in. Nathaniel turned to look. The newcomer was massive. As wide as the door and almost as high.

  The barman swore under his breath, reached beneath the counter and pulled out a three foot long pole with two prongs on the end. He pushed a button on the handle and a bright white gas flam
e crackled between the two prongs. Nate could feel the heat from where he was sitting.

  ‘Hey,’ he shouted, brandishing the weapon. ‘I’ve told you before. We don’t serve your sort here.’

  The large newcomer moved towards the bar and the barman held his firestick out in front of him. Nate noticed that he was shaking in fear. ‘Back off.’

  ‘I just want a drink.’ The man rumbled.

  His voice was unlike any that Nate had ever heard before. Deep and rumbling, almost like a quiet growl. Full of menace and barely controlled fury. A voice that makes any listener sit up straight and start to reach for a weapon.

  Nate simply sat back in his bar stool and waited for the scene to play itself out.

  And then the man pulled back the hood of his cloak.

  Nate did a double take. The man standing there was not a man. Not as such. In fact, if Nate had to put a name to the creature, he might have described it as a werelion. Half man half lion. His face was basically humanoid with a slightly protruding muzzle and a dark leonine nose. It was covered with a golden beard and framed with long golden hair that swept over his head and down his back like a mane. His eyes were golden orbs that glittered in the darkness and two large canines peeked out from under his top lip.

  ‘We don’t serve your sort here,’ insisted the barman, his voice gruff with fear.

  ‘What sort?’ Asked Nate, as he stared at the man lion.

  Both the man lion and the barman turned to look at him.

  ‘You trying to be funny?’ Growled the man lion.

  Nate shook his head and took another sip of his awful soya vodka. ‘No. Not really.’

  ‘Splicers,’ spat the barman. ‘We don’t serve Splicers.’

  ‘You served me.’

  ‘You’re not a Splicer.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Nate. Well give me a couple of vodkas then. One for me and one for my leonine friend here.’

  ‘Just told you, we don’t serve Splicers. You stupid or something?’

  ‘Might be “or something”,’ quipped the marine. ‘But I’m not stupid. Anyhow, you’re not serving him. You’re serving me. I’m simply sharing.’

  ‘Semantics,’ said the barman. ‘He doesn’t drink here and that is that.’

  Nate noticed that other patrons had started appearing out of the darkness, gathering like jackals around a fresh kill. He had no idea that so many people were hidden in the shadows of the gloomy dive. Fifteen, maybe twenty of them.

  ‘I assume that you gentlemen are not gathering about us in support of my argument,’ he said, a slight grin on his face.

  ‘Bloody Splicers,’ grunted a patron. ‘Ain’t natural. Don’t want no Splicers here.’

  There was a general buzz of agreement.

  And then the unmistakable sound of a steel bade being drawn from leather.

  Nate’s grin didn’t drop as he held his hands up. ‘Whoa. Someone here is about to make a serious mistake. Why don’t you all sit down, I’ll buy everyone a round of drinks, including lion dude here and that way, no one will get hurt.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said the man who had drawn the blade. ‘I think that it’s time that someone got hurt. Particularly the Splicer and his friend.’

  The smoggy room filled with the sound of more steel blades being drawn.

  The hurdy gurdy stopped wailing and a heavy silence settled over the room like a blanket, cut only by the rasp of heavy breathing and the hiss of the gas powered burner that the barman was wielding.

  Then Nate heard a sound he had never heard before. It slid through the silence like a stiletto and was akin to silk rubbing over steel, magnified a hundred times.

  He looked at the lion man who held his hands up in front of him, arms wide. Extending from the ends of his large fingers were ten, six inch long claws, razor sharp and polished to a high white sheen.

  Nate got off his barstool and unclipped his battleaxe from his belt.

  A murmur ran through the crowd as he did so and he made out the words, ‘Cutters Pass’ and ‘One hundred and fifty Untouchables’.

  Then the lion man roared. The sound boiled out of him in waves and crashed around the room, shaking the bottles in the shelves and shivering the windows. The sound grabbed the very souls of everyone in the room and latched onto them at an atavistic level. It was the call of the saber tooth tiger, the howl of the Alpha wolf. The primeval call of the wild. It was warning every two legged creature and telling them to beware, the top of the food chain has just arrived.

  The silence after the roar seemed even quieter than before.

  But was it a lull before the storm, or was it the eye of the hurricane?

  The crowd started to withdraw. Melting back into the darkness. Metal was slipped back into leather sheaths. Steel put back to rest, unbloodied.

  The barman waited for a few seconds and then he flicked the switch on his burn stick. The flames sputtered and then flickered out.

  ‘You want a drink?’ Said Nate to the lion man.

  ‘Not thirsty anymore.’

  ‘Don’t blame you. Come, let’s go somewhere else.’

  The marine held out his hand. ‘Nathaniel Hogan.’

  A massive paw enveloped his hand and Nate felt the unbelievable strength behind the grip.

  ‘Leon,’ rumbled the lion man.

  ‘Leon who?’

  ‘Just Leon.’

  Nate smiled. ‘Okay, Just Leon. Let’s go.’

  They walked out together, putting their masks and goggles on as they left.

  ‘So,’ said Nate. ‘Know any place that we can drink without a bunch of rednecks taking offence?’

  ‘Rednecks?’

  ‘Bigots. Ignoramuses.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Leon. ‘Assholes.’

  ‘Yeah,’ agreed Nate. ‘That.’

  Leon shrugged. ‘Most places don’t welcome us. Maybe the Windmill. It’s down here.’

  Nate followed. As they walked they notice that the pavement was becoming more crowded. People started bumping into them, heading in the opposite direction.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Asked Nate.

  ‘Looks like there’s a disciplining,’ answered Leon

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Depends. A misdemeanor could mean a flogging. If it’s theft then the head-separator will be called into play.’

  ‘Head separator?’

  Leon brought his hand down like a blade. ‘A machine that chops your head off.’

  ‘A guillotine?’

  ‘Maybe. Don’t know the word, but if it means a machine that chops your head off then yes, a guillotine.’

  ‘For stealing?’ Asked Nate. ‘Stealing what?’

  Leon shrugged. ‘Pretty much anything. Food, a blanket. Anything. You steal, you lose your head. Highman law.’

  Memory hit Nathaniel like an avalanche.

  Small gray men with overlarge heads and black eyes. Rows of humans hanging from wooden gallows. A profound feeling of loss. Sorrow. An ocean of grief.

  He staggered and leant against the wall as the world spun around him.

  ‘Hey, are you alright?’ Asked Leon. ‘You don’t look good.’

  Nathaniel didn’t answer. Instead he stood up straight and followed the crowd, his face a mask of resolute anger.

  At the end of the street the crowd spilled out into an open square.

  In the center stood a small stage and around the outside, a horseshoe shape of wooden bleachers.

  On the stage stood a fifteen foot high guillotine, its shiny steel blade suspended at the top, held by a rope and pin.

  A youth was being dragged, kicking and fighting onto the stage by four men, who were also taking every opportunity to punch and kick him while they did so. His gas mask had been knocked off and hung around his neck but his goggles were still on and his features were concealed by the hood of his cloak that he wore pulled up over his head. As the men continued hitting him, his struggles slowly diminished until he seemed to give up and simply lay on the floor, not m
oving.

  A burly man, dressed all in black leather, ascended the steps onto the stage and held his hands above his head like a boxer entering a ring. The crowd started to chant and jeer, their voices robbed of humanity by their masks, causing the sound to remain loud but become devoid of expression. Like drums muffled for a funeral cortege.

  ‘This person has been caught stealing,’ declared the executioner as he held up the remnants of an apple. ‘Taking the fruits of men’s hard labor without thought nor recompense.’

  A titter rippled through the crowd in appreciation of the executioner’s play on words. He bowed in acknowledgment and this raised a few more laughs.

  Then he waved his hands to quieten the crowd down, reminding them that, although this was entertainment, it was also a serious business. ‘As such, according to the Highman laws, I shall carry out a summary execution. So let all scroungers and miscreants be warned, the penalty of theft is death by separation.’

  ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Nate. ‘They’re executing that kid because he stole an apple?’

  Leon shrugged. ‘It’s the law.’

  ‘Well the law sucks,’ grunted Nate. ‘Screw that, I’m not letting this happen, it’s not right.’ He started to push through the crowd heading for the stage.

  ‘Hey,’ shouted Leon. ‘You can’t do that. The crowd will tear you to pieces.’

  ‘No they won’t,’ said the marine. ‘They’ll try to tear me to pieces.’

  Leon shook his head. ‘Darn,’ he growled. ‘Wait for me.' As they surged forward he grabbed Nate by the shoulder. ‘What’s the plan?’

  ‘Don’t have one,’ responded Nathaniel. ‘Let’s just wing it.’

  ‘Excellent,’ grunted the lion man. ‘As long as we know what we’re doing.’

  Nate stormed up the stairs onto the platform and grabbed the youth by the arm, lifting him up.

  ‘What do you think that you’re doing?’ Asked the executioner.

  ‘Not that sure,’ answered the marine as he cocked his right arm and punched the black garbed man in the face, knocking him off his feet and laying him out flat on the platform.

  The crowd surged forward, shouting abuse as they did.