I don’t understand why they call it Wolf Creek. I’ve never heard of wolf in this area, coyote maybe. I see them frequently, but they stay a safe distance, even from me. I suppose it might be named after the old flash flood channel where I sometimes overnight, at least in warmer weather. I’ve never seen a drop of water in it, but an old ‘bo once told me he lost his best friend and his dog, or maybe he said his dog was his best friend, doesn’t matter; the point is several people died in those floods, but that was something like fifty years ago.
I’ve made my way to the rest stop without realizing it. I’m not too good at tracking time, but this must be Wednesday because I always try to hit this spot on Wednesdays. The County empties the three fifty-gallon metal barrels of trash on Friday, but by then there’s too much chance of spoilage. Of course, if I come earlier in the week, there’s little likelihood of forage.
I find two half-eaten boxes of McD’s fries, there are always fries. They are cold and stale, the grease coating my mouth with an unpleasant film, but they are filling, and grease is a good compact form of energy. The salt helps too, here in the high desert, as long as I stay hydrated. There’s also an untouched cherry turnover, but even I have standards. Score! Three apples in a clear plastic sack, with only a small bruise appearing where they touched. The sweetness is heaven.
That’s about it for this week, not a bad haul, and at least no diapers. I detest diapers. The old station across the street used to be the last stop out of town before entering the desert proper, and the turn-off is still used by travelers preferring to avoid the business route and avoiding the two-light town of Wolf Creek. Oh, wait, what did I miss back here?
Oh damn, just a couple of bottles of trucker’s lemonade. I once asked a good ol’ boy why they don’t pee alongside the road like everyone else, and he just laughed and said time is money. Still, it is amazing what people throw away. The flannel shirt tied around my skinny hips I found right here in the middle barrel. It was brand-new, except for a large mustard stain on the front. I just mushed a broken aloe leaf on it and rubbed in the little stand, and no one could tell the difference.
It’s quickly turning cold, so I untie the shirt and put it on, heading into town. A few minutes later, I see one of those million-dollar RVs pull up to the rest stop and wonder if it would be worthwhile to backtrack, but the driver just gets out and pretends to hide behind the bumper to relieve himself. As he drives off into the night, I see a woman and two kids by the light over the small table, seeming to enjoy their dinner.
I think I was a kid like that once, but if so, I was very young. An errant memory threatens to surface, but I need to stay focused on my mission. My clan is counting on me to breach Yojimbo Castle and retrieve the sacred statue. I stay to the shadows, avoiding both the city guards and the wandering security teams of the local Yakuza boss.
The security fence is high and strung with sharp barbs, but my thin frame and years of training allow me to squeeze between the chained and padlocked gate. The secure vault is twice my height and four times as long, with only one small opening along the top. I climb up between the vault and the brick wall, dropping flat on the top as a searchlight sweeps the area. In darkness again, I squeeze into the chute, practically dislocating a shoulder, but I succeed.
I’m in total darkness. I light a match and behold, I am in the treasury! Not only is there a sleeping bag and all the cardboard I can carry, but a brand-new pair of high-top sneakers close enough to my size. Some may pity me for living rough, but isn’t all living rough, in one form or another?
~o0o~
The zipper on my new sleeping bag is broken, but it is big enough that I can fold the top over and lie on it. It is soon going to be too cold to stay on the streets, but I’ll avoid the shelters until I begin to get frostbite. The food is steady there, but they make me take pills that only make me super sleepy and keep me tied to the mundane world. The counselors tell me that I won’t live long if I keep up my lifestyle, but they don’t understand the number of lives I live when I’m in the wild and med free. I pity them, those that live one life but hardly live at all. They are all miserable and simply going through the motions of survival while I get to have grand adventures. We’ll see who has the biggest well of memories to draw on during the Long Sleep. Speaking of sleep, I better get some. I’ll need to be fresh for tomorrow's delights.
~end~
Chapter 10: Crimson King
They suffered; oh how they suffered!
Jarn sent his wife and children into the wild lands at first light He prayed they could maintain a steady crawl long enough to escape the oncoming gravity increase in advance of the Dream Festival. He rose to his knees to cast a hateful glance at the strutting Dream Temple priests but quickly dropped back to all fours to save energy for the hard day ahead. His eldest son normally helped drag supplies, but tonight was also a Full Moon, so his labors were required elsewhere. Most importantly, the livestock needed to be herded into sheds before dark or their stampede would leave nothing but bloody bags of broken bones.
Jarn whistled the roundup call to his coyote-dogs, who struggled onto their muscular, low-slung legs and slow-loped around the herd while belly fur dragging along the rocky ground. They co-operated not so much out of loyalty, but for the food provided, saving energy for later scavenging. Jarn crawled along, protected somewhat by thick leather shields covering his palms, knees, and foot dorsals. The sheep bleated in pain as they left anemic blood trails, squirming ahead of snapping teeth that forced them into the shed.
He closed the gate just as the sun disappeared between distant peaks, and slowly climbed a ramp onto the four-foot-high roof to watch through the night. He could see his few neighbors atop their own livestock sheds dotted around the one-acre farm lots, but all were too weary to call a greeting. Besides, the Full Moon was soon to arrive, and each had to steel their resolve before they faced that ordeal. All heard the crackling line of fire that spread across the boundary between the moon and the lower atmosphere as the bloated satellite approached.
~o0o~
While the Crimson King snored upon his throne, he relished the experience of a young girl’s nightmare of drowning in a fiery lake. His court stood quietly, each locked in a private hell. The lightened gravity, the ornate furnishings, the reflective carved, metal surfaces and rich fabrics; all joy was abrogated by the overwhelming horror which was their liege.
The Armchair Throne itself caused mental breakdown in some. Dozens of human arms, severed from fallen enemies, were attached to one another’s shoulders, elbows, and wrists with artistic flair. They constantly shifted as they grabbed one another to lessen the strain of supporting the immense weight of the King. Along the bottom, dozens of legs and feet bent beneath attached hip joints, which caused a random rocking and swaying. The movements gently comforted His Highness during his slumber-dreams.
All attention focused upon the King as the replayed dream came to an end. Each surviving member of the court became an expert at reading the King's nuanced moods. Death, or often worse, could result in inappropriate responses. Tension receded from extreme to merely high as a sonorous, bubbling chuckle filled the air. Every member slightly relaxed their vigilance and strained once again to come to terms with their untenable situation.
Few remembered the King’s appearance before he had donned his overcoat of circulating blood. Towards the end of the war, as he defeated the world's last twelve resisting heads of state, he realized he would have no more enemies of note whom he could terrorize. Unwilling to face a future bereft of chastised trophies, he pulled the very blood from their bodies while leaving them technically alive as fully conscious desiccated mummies. To keep their life forces viable, he enjoined and encased his own body with ever-swirling ribbons of their blood, giving him a bloated, vaguely human, balloon-like shape.
The young girl's delicious nightmare he just consumed had not only raised his spirits but had also stimulated the King’s predacious nature. His bubbling, sonorous command is
sued against the silence.
"Peter! Bring me a toy!"
The Crimson King was the first wizard in history to combine the liquid power of Essence with the science of Magic, but he was not the first to fall victim to the malignant nature of the unnatural mix. That honor belonged to his Grand Vizier, Purple Peter, so named for the aura of mauve semi-permeable energy that trapped him half within this realm and half within the Other. As Peter moved towards what he called the Peanut Gallery to select a toy for his King, his eyes locked on his twin sister Jesse with aberrant lust.
The King had convinced him that their intimate congress would free Peter from this perpetual half-life, as well as permit full access to the same power the King enjoyed. She was denied him as long as she provided amusement to the court, but the King had made promises. She, as always, pretended not to notice, but also, as always, felt an inner shiver of disgust mingled with pity. She knew in her heart that their liege was engaged in yet another twisted game, but her brother lived in agony and held on to the small hope.
The King allowed small numbers of vanquished stragglers to occupy the outer fringe of the lessened gravity gradient that surrounded his travelling court. There were always a few refugees that chose between the rumored horrors of their king and the proven horrors of living in the chastened lands. Few stayed longer than a couple of days, despite the respite from the overwhelming gravity increase. Even so, there were a steady stream of replacements willing to exchange their last shreds of dignity for just a few hours of relief.
Peter approached the frightened herd and ordered two servants to grab the first elbow within reach. His King no longer maintained a preference for male over female, young over old, or even beauty over repugnant ugliness. He only required was that they were alive and pliant. The chosen victim stumbled two steps towards the throne and tensed, ready to flee. Peter had thousands of similar experiences. Rather than waste his efforts by grabbing another, he willed a small amount of Magic to his bidding. He pushed his insubstantial hand through her skull and into her brain while his purple nimbus increased in intensity. The young woman screamed a moment from pain and terror and then stood slack as a light purple glow subsumed the intelligence behind her eyes.
Peter brought the object before the King's throne, performed a quick but sincere genuflection, and retreated three paces. The Crimson King reached out to twine his fingers through the hair at the back of her head and pushed down. Peter turned away. As inured to the King's ways as he was, he also preferred not to dwell on certain aspects of his liege's behavior.
The toy began to suffocate ninety seconds later, but in no particular hurry, the King allowed her a few breaths. Bloody gobbets covered her hair and face, which congealed and dripped when flung outside the field of Magic that held the undulating red streams against the King's body.
Twice more the King thrust his toy into position, and on the third, raised a finger towards Peter. He withdrew his aural Influence and resumed position with the rest of the court. Reason momentarily returned to the girl as he cast her aside and she fell to the ground with great sobs. The king willed his throne to step daintily around her gagging body. He showed no sense of remorse or regret, but only felt the same repugnance one would have towards a wad of soiled tissue lying on the ground.
Standing the requisite three steps from the King's side, the Black Queen inadvertently drew his attention as a rivulet of steam hissed off her coal-encrusted cheek. She was the true monarch of both Realms. She had enraged the then Crimson Knight by her steadfast refusal to accept his proposal, thus denying the mantle of legitimate rule.
Full of rage, he had directed a column of Magic to consume her in Fire and intended next to force marriage upon the Queen's sister, the Duchess of Fire and only surviving High Royal Wizard. The Duchess intervened with her own projection of Magic, a duel that ultimately banished her from existence.
The Black Queen's outer skin continuously smoldered as coal and ash from a never-ending internal flame, but new skin constantly grew beneath the burnt layers. The best her sister could do before the king won the battle, was insulate her from the pain at the expense of total loss of physical feeling.
The Black Queen flinched but refused to cringe as the king addressed her with scorn in his voice.
"Why do you always mourn for these meaningless creatures? You know you can reverse all their suffering, as well as your own, simply by acceding to my generous proposal."
"They are still my subjects by law, and my answer, as always, is that Wizards neither marry nor are given in marriage. It is an inviolate rule which would destroy the Realms if broken."
"They were your subjects, but now they are mine by right of conquest! I recognize no fate other than my own will, let alone nursery rhymes disguised as prophecy. I will destroy the Realms more surely due to your obstinateness than from violating old superstitions."
He sidled his throne to within inches of her and punctuated his statement with a sharp poke to her breast. She winced slightly and grimaced as the smell of her own ruptured serum intermingled with drops of his borrowed blood, a mixture that burned in a foul vapor.
The Crimson King sighed.
"You always manage somehow to ruin my temper. Jesse! Rouse the puppets; I'm in the mood for a lively jig!"
Jesse based her own access to Magic on empathy, love of life, and goodness of heart. The King sneered at such things, slightly irritated by her presence, but she had her uses. One was the ability to coax the dispirited puppets of his former enemies into animation. Their corpse-like bodies responded to her bidding, but her main function was as the carrot of restoration dangled before Peter. The king would never give her over, of course, but the game was sweet as long as it lasted. A willing servant was so much more fun than a forced one.
Jesse squeezed her eyes to steel her nerves for the unpleasant task ahead. She brushed a stray blonde hair from her face and Called the vanquished, who responded jerkily as if on strings. She required the majority of her concentration to coax thin loops of their individual blood streams away from the Crimson King, to each body and back again. This was the only way for them to both have enough life energy to perform, and keep them firmly under the King's dominion. As the life-giving threads unwound from the King's body, the defeated troop began to un-slump and eventually stood to sway on the floor.
Peter had trained an orchestra in the use of Magic enhanced instruments. The musicians played eerie, atonal undercurrents, which unpleasantly resonated within one's soul. The King waved his consent; the orchestra began to play, and the puppets began to dance. At first, they simply hopped and skipped across the floor as Jesse struggled for the control and concentration she needed. Next she had them form two lines facing each other, partner with two-hand cross-holds, and promenade in a circle around the throne. She soon had them performing a Chasse. Each stepped with the right foot, slid the left to touch it, twisted clockwise on raised toes, and ended with the right foot behind the left in a reversed anti-clockwise twist.
The King, caught up in the spectacle and movement, decided to join in. As he plopped to the floor with a squish, Jesse arranged the puppets into a star. Their left hands extended to within an inch of the King as they step-hopped counter-clockwise, then as one reversed hands and direction to repeat clockwise. They held their outer palms out as if lifting joyful hosannas to their King. They, of course, felt no such joy, other than that of these small moments they were reunited with their blood and life force.
With each change of direction between the King and his puppets, the tendrils of blood that connected them to him were constantly crossing each other. They filled the air with sparkling crimson droplets that gave the dance a grotesque air of gaiety and celebration. Jesse became weary and felt her head spin nearly as fast as those of the dancers. Just before she was about to pass out, the King took a misstep and slipped on the accumulated blood.
"Enough! And quiet now, I need to rest."
The King stumbled onto his throne as it
skittered up to catch him and pulled him to its seat. Jesse started to collapse from exhaustion, but Peter had caught her before she hit the floor. She closed her eyes and prepared to sever the blood connections. She stiffened in outrage as she felt her brother’s hand slide across her bosom and pinch.. She jumped to her feet and glared into Peter's eyes.
"Don't EVER touch me, you perverted scum!"
Peter just chuckled, but his straining neck muscles revealed the strength of will it took to appear to walk casually away. In all the world, his sister was the only person he could touch. His accident had made his body insubstantial as well as glow, but something in their connection defied the laws of Magic.
Jesse glanced at the puppets, which stood in place and quivered in their weakness. She tried to remember the last time they had been fed, and couldn't. The idea that she was getting used to their feeding habits bothered her more than the fact that the poor creatures were starving. She turned her gaze opposite that of the peanut gallery and gave the monsters their head. They had long ago reverted to an animal state and needed occasional fresh meat to sustain what energy they had. The King was always amused by anything that encouraged suffering and degradation. He decreed that the camp followers were to be their only sustenance. The wild scavengers always appreciated the resulting gore left behind when the King and his court moved on.
In just twenty years, the self-proclaimed King had defeated every country and clan in the world. It took him another five to defeat the Wizards, after which he placed them in chains on the surface of the moon where he could look up and gloat. To remind the world of his dominance, he transferred most of the moon's gravity to the earth. He kept a convenient radius around himself and his Dream Temple but increased the weight of everything and everyone three hundred percent. The lessened mass of the moon would have sent it to drift off into space, so he pulled it down close enough to maintain a somewhat stable orbit. It came so near that the lower portion just skimmed the upper atmosphere, creating a friction fire along the interface. The full moon also blocked out the entire horizon with its bulk, which created a primal fear in man and beast that resulted in a feeling of imminent disaster as it slowly rolled above.