Apocalyptic Organ Grinder (2 page)

Tanner stepped out from behind his cover and worked the bolt on the rifle.  The empty casing spat out of the chamber as another round took its place and he peered through the scope again, lining the crosshairs up with the center of the female Spewer's forehead.  Her face was contorted into a mask of fear and her pupils had dilated to the point that only a thin ring of iris edged them.  Her strained voice undulated in a series of short, piercing screeches as her legs writhed beneath the weight of the male.

Letting her live was out of the question.  There was a chance the mangy bitch had already been impregnated, that her womb would eventually push out another dirty little Spewer to taint the world with its foul presence.

He squeezed the trigger again and the top of the female's head disappeared in a spray of blood and bone as her body slumped to the ground.  Now that they'd both been neutralized, Tanner allowed himself to breathe again, exhaling quickly as adrenaline surged through his body.  Bagging a Spewer always made him feel as if the universe were smiling down upon him, bathing him a warm light that chased the tension from his neck and shoulders.  He felt as if he could leap from mountaintop to mountaintop as if they were stepping stones, as if every scent, smell, taste, and texture had been specifically designed for his pleasure.  He was alive and there were two less vermin in the world, two less threats to his daughter and community.  To humanity as a whole, for that matter.

He lowered the rifle and smiled behind his mask as he watched the bodies for the slightest sign of movement.  There was no chance that either one of them was still alive, but Sweeper training demanded that he go through this visual verification.  After two minutes of observation, he'd finally be able to take off the suit and enjoy the water sloshing in his canteen.  And he deserved it, damn it.  He'd done a good job today and a reward was . . . .

Something caught Tanner’s attention.  It wasn’t so much a sound or smell.  In fact, everything about the forest seemed just as it had been moments earlier.  No, this was more of a
feeling
– a cold certainty that puckered his ass and plunged him back into predator mode.

Someone’s out there.

He could feel the eyes piercing his soul, pinpointing him with a hatred so intense that it penetrated his white suit and bristled the hair on the back of his neck.  The swell of pride that puffed out his chest dissipated as quickly as smoke in a windstorm, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.  The rifle snapped back to his shoulder and he ducked behind the trunk of a gnarled oak.

Pressing himself against the bark as tightly as the fuzzy vines that encircled it, he peered around the edge of the tree and scanned the forest.  The carcasses of the two Spewers were still jumbled in the same heap he’d left them in, entirely motionless and definitely incapable of the rage felt beaming toward him.  The forest beyond consisted of tightly packed trees on undulating, grass-covered knolls.  Ferns and toadstools sprouted from the forest floor and mossy stones pushed their way through the earth like the crowns of enormous, misshapen heads.  He watched the overgrown thickets, the deadfalls of decaying limbs and branches, and low lying shrubbery.  Nothing moved.

The only sound was the thudding of his own heart as blood coursed through veins that felt as though they’d constricted into something no bigger than a pine needle.  Tanner’s instincts screamed
danger
and part of his mind babbled that he should run, to just leave the dead Spewers to the insects and crows and bolt through the woods like a spooked deer.  Somewhere out there, among the pristine flora, death awaited.  He was as sure of this as he was that the couple he’d killed would never infect a settler again.

Taking a deep breath, Tanner tightened his grip on the rifle until his knuckles throbbed with the frantic rhythm of his pulse and repeated the Sweeper mantra in a trembling whisper:  “I will do my duty to my family and community.  I will serve mankind and cleanse the world of blight.  I will lay down my life so that others might live.  I will do my duty to my family and community ….”

A Sweeper was not expected to be fearless.  They were simply expected to do what needed to be done despite cold chills and a palpitating heart.  To tilt the scales more toward
fight
than
flight
, the mantra was the first tool a prospective Sweeper was given.  It was drilled into his head along with multiplication tables and the history of civilization.  It was said, like a prayer, before bedding down for the night.  It was whispered as a greeting to another day of life upon awakening.  And it was effective.  Within four repetitions, Tanner’s breathing had calmed to the point that he no longer felt as if the Tyvek suit were squeezing the air from his throat.  By the sixth recitation, his hands were so steady he could’ve disposed of sweating dynamite.

I love you, Shayla.  This is for you, princess.

With that thought, he stepped out from behind the tree to face whatever the Fates might have in store.

III.

Lila stooped by the edge of the brook and looked into the clear water.  About fifty yards downstream, the creek gurgled over rocky shoals, but it was calmer here.  Minnows darted through the shallow pool like silver shafts of submerged light and a crayfish peeked out from beneath a rusted pipe.  The sky was clear and cloudless and the willow by the bank reflected on the surface as clearly as if were growing upside down.  She could also see herself there, semi-transparent, like a ghost that had become trapped in the gentle ripples that made her shift and distort.  Her red hair was matted and tangled  and her face was as hard and angular as the rocks which lined the creek bed.  She studied the blister that bulged from the side of her neck with blue eyes, angling her head slightly to judge how close it was to eruption.   A day, maybe two at the most.  Within a week’s time she would have another crater on her skin, another scar surrounded by pustules that would soon merge into yet another discharged filled sac. 

She’d have to remove her necklace, of course.  The twisted braid of leather would rub against the blister and feel as though stinging nettle prickled her skin.  She’d store the charm in a place of honor, somewhere she’d be able to gaze upon the gear-shaped pendant when she felt lonely or lost.  It may not be as physically close to her heart as it was now, but the connection would still be there.  She’d look upon it, thinking of Tolek as she ran the tip of her finger along the thin teeth of the cog.  Like the other widows in the village, the medallion was a reminder that even though her mate had been taken from her, his spirit was still an integral component in the machine of her life.

Lila plunged her hands into the stream and her phantom image disappeared on the concentric waves that radiated from her wrists.  Cupping her palms, she lifted them quickly, allowing the cool water to wash away the itch of newly forming blisters on her cleavage.  The relief would be fleeting, but it also made the heat of the morning more tolerable.  She doused the thin strips of cloth that served as clothing as well and stood with a frown.

The morning sun was almost directly overhead, which meant that Myra and Jarnell should have been back by now.  She could understand one of them being late … but
both
?  It just didn’t seem likely.  No, something was wrong.  She had the same nervous fluttering  in her stomach  as the day Tolek was killed and the forest suddenly seemed too silent.  The creek babbled and the wind whispered through the boughs of tree, but no other sounds contributed to nature’s conversation.  It was as if all the little animals had went into hiding, as if they sensed the same tense foreboding that wracked Lila and knew not to chirp or tweet.

Her eyes shifted to the long spear laying in the grass by her feet.  Carved from a single piece of wood, that weapon had been turned on the lathe with such perfection that it was as straight as a sapling.  Around the base was a decorative carving that looked like two intertwined snakes coiling around the shaft.  The heads of the serpents, however, disappeared into thick strands of hair encircled the wood just below the sharpened tip.  The hair was cut from the tail of a wild mustang, her first kill, and served several purposes.  In melee combat, the swirling fibers disoriented opponents, making it hard to focus on the trajectory of the lunge.  When the spearhead found its mark, the hair also absorbed blood and kept the smooth wood from becoming as slippery as a trout in her callused hands.  But, most importantly, it reminded Lila of her standing:  she was a hunter in the tribe of Clay, a warrior without equal … and that reminder helped her push her uneasiness to the back of her mind, freeing up space for more logical thinking.

She’d seen the way Myra and Jarnell looked at each other recently.  The way their eyes twinkled like a moonless sky brimming with stars.  The lopsided grins and playful teasing.  Just the other night, in the flickering glow of campfire, Lila had noticed Jarnell mopping discharge from Myra’s back and shoulders with the same light touch Tolek had once used.  The two were young and impetuous, obviously smitten with one another.  Chances were, they’d veered off their assigned paths for a clandestine rendezvous.  They’d be along soon enough.  She was sure of it.

At that moment, an echoing boom roared through the hills and valleys as a flock of birds rose above the tree line a short distance away.  Lila’s stomach felt as if it had been plunged into the cold waters of the stream and her breath caught in her throat.  For a second, she was trapped between two worlds.  Part of her watched the birds turn into dark specks against the blue sky.  But another stood in the past, staring down at the jagged hole in Tolek’s chest as the wound alternately sucked and bubbled the blood that welled within it.  She saw his hand reaching for her through the veil of time, quivering with the last of his strength before falling limply to his side.

The second gunshot snapped Lila firmly back into the present.  The ghost of her late husband disappeared and she snatched her spear from the ground in a single, fluid movement as she broke into a run.  Her leather sandals padded against the earth as silently as rabbit’s feet and the straps that wrapped around her calves fluttered behind her like streamers.  She leapt across an outcropping of rocks, never breaking stride or stumbling as she bounded from one craggy stone to the next.

The direction the shots had come from was locked in her mind and the forest blurred by.  Weaving in and out of trees, she sprang over fallen logs and ducked under low hanging branches.  Her face was set in a tightlipped expression that narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow with wrinkles.  The entire time, however, her breathing was steady and rhythmic, as though the breakneck dash through the woods was no more strenuous than a leisurely stroll.

Her subconscious calculated distance and velocity without effort and when she neared the area where the shot had originated, Lila instinctively slowed her pace.  No longer running, she slinked from tree to tree, staying low and quick with her hands firmly wrapped around the shaft of the spear.  Her eyes took in the entire forest in a single glance, though the details looked slightly blurry.  She’d relaxed her focus and allowed her vision to slip into what The People called
Cougar Eyes
.  The flowering bushes, pine cones dangling from conifers, and bark rubbed away by rutting deer were of no concern.  What she watched for was movement, for something that seemed foreign in the natural workings of the forest and stood out against an otherwise motionless backdrop.

The first thing she saw was a flash of white through a grove of trees about twenty yards to her left.  As soon as her mind identified this anomaly, the minutia of the forest was thrown back into sharp focus.   She knew where the dry twigs that would betray her presence were, which sections of foliage would offer her the most coverage if the man in white happened to look in her direction.  Though her breath had slowed to the point that her chest didn’t even seem to rise and fall, she was acutely aware of the scents in the air.  The strongest of these, she knew well.  It was a metallic tang with a hint of saltiness and an odor that was unmistakable to anyone who’d ever known the glory of the hunt: 
blood.

More faintly, she could smell traces of body odor waft through the aromas of the forest and it conjured images of sweat and grime in her mind.  But it wasn’t the unique scent of The People she detected.  No, this particular smell was the one which oozed from the pores of the clear skins, the ones who called themselves
Settlers
and lived in small communities on the outskirts of overgrown cities.  The ones who had made her a widow in the prime of her life.

She stalked forward slowly, her footfalls as soft as leaves falling to the forest floor as her grip on the spear tightened to the point that her fingernails carved crescent moons into the wood.  As she inched forward, her target’s uniform resolved.  She could see the silver tape that secured the wrists and ankles of the wrinkled, plastic suit to the boots and gloves.  The straps of the mask and goggles wrapping around the hood of the garment.  The walnut stock of the rifle cradled in his arms.

Tolek appeared in her mind again.  His body fell in slow motion, each drop of blood suspended in the air and reflecting the morning sun in pinpoints of radiance.  His spear tumbled end over end as sulfuric smelling smoke rose like a gray demon from the muzzle that had unleashed it.  The man on the other side of the river had been dressed so similarly to the one who now ducked behind a tree that it almost seemed as if he’d been spat out by the currents of time.

A tremor quivered inside Lila and her teeth ground against one another like a mortar and pestle pulverizing grain.  She imagined her spear running through the man’s gut so clearly that she could almost feel the spongy resistance just before the tip punctured the skin.  He’d gasp and clutch at the shaft as it shredded muscle and ruptured organs, but she’d throw her entire body into the thrust, ensuring that it emerged from the other side with his entrails dangling like a prize from the barbs notched into the wood.  Specks of crimson would speckle his mask as he coughed blood and she’d lean in so close that the hemorrhaging veins in his eyes would look as big as dandelion roots.  With blood, bile and shit leaking out of his vile body, she’d allow the blister on her neck to erupt over his evil face as the final insult.