OCC- Ok, folks, and especially Sander, its time we started thinking about wrapping up the bit about the University. Remember, the University is not the enemy of the caravan per se, more they are very cautious about the caravan’s motives and intentions. They have received word from Tabis that the caravan is actually operating in opposition to the League and probably in opposition to the Others as well. Either way, the ghouls of Tabis have given our company a good reference and the University will try to assist as well as they can. What concerns them is a matter of secrecy. But that should be taken cared of before we leave. Perhaps in this post.
Lost Cause- I will try to slip you in here. You are the man that the others find. Whether you bumped into the Trogs or not is up to you.
Smar and Sander, finish up soon.
Reaper, Rogue and Syphon- we are hoping you will join us again.
ICC-
For three days Grim consumed the meat, and each day he became stronger. Breakfast in the morning, then he would settle down to read or clean the assorted weapons he had found, take care of the camp, feed the burro and Cerberus. Perhaps he would play with the three headed dog, which had also seemed to taketo the food. Sometimes he would calmly observe those who continued to watch him. He was unconcerned. If they wished to intervene, or to kill him, they could try their luck.
The weapons were of a variety he had not seen before, except for an AK-47 he had come across during his trek in Old Hispaniole. It was a fine weapon, and there was plenty of ammunition. In addition he had found an array of strange pistols and an interesting sniper’s rifle he had not seen before. These he cleaned, inspected, took apart and tested. Then he cleaned he would clean his own weapons.
But there were other surprises he had found among the scavenged gear. Most of the vegetables he had mixed in with the stew, but he also found an array of strange and delicious spices which he experimented. The language of some of the books he identified as that of Hispaniole, but there was another language of mixed symbols he initially had a hard time to discern. Happily he had found a beaten dictionary and with it had begun to translate. It came remarkably easy, although Grim knew he had no flair for languages.
He credited his new diet for the changes.
After his noon time meal, he would spend hours reading. He would put the other books away and glance through his new favorite, the Joy of Cooking. There were just so many recipes, so little meat. This would make him hungry and contemplative of dinner, and he would debate about which organs he would taste.
It would make his mouth water in anticipation.
Dinner was a great feast.
Then he would rest, his belly full and satisfied, and he would watch the night fall around him.
Why had it taken me so long to eat? To give into fate. Surely had I known what I would taste I might have resisted less. How foolish to resist. It almost killed me.
But it wasn’t foolishness.
There were stories that one kept, even after childhood was little more than a vague memory. Before all of this, before becoming a bounty hunter and his revenge against Kroeger, before the trip to Hispaniole with Sanchez, before he had known Yacob or even been a badge, Grim had learned the legends of the tribals. He had spent his life on the frontiers, his father running a small trading post near tribal lands, eventually taking a tribal wife. When the tribals came to sell their pelts they had told the boy stories, of the dark wood and the cold winter and the creatures that lived there.
One such story told of a creature that lived on the fringes, where the forest died on the cold mountain side, and where nothing grew under feet of snow. A creature that lived on others, that stole in the night, that often disquised itself as a man, to feast on others. A creature part real, part phantom that hid behind a false face. The true face of the creature was so horrible that the tribals said that a mere glimpse of it would cause death.
Most horrible of all, the creature had once been a man.
Such a man was an outcast, the bringer of disease and of sadness. It fed on everything, including its fellow man out of its own desperation and need. They said that in consuming its fellow man it stole not only the strength and knowledge of the man consumed, but the consumed man’s spirit as well. In consuming that spirit the eater became something else, not quite one with the spirit kind, neither real nor phantom, but some hideous synthesis of both. But by consuming the spirit it became stronger and more powerful, adding the strength of the dead to its own.
Such a creature had to be killed, destroyed, for its touch was like a plague. It’s bite led the victim to become another of the creatures. And once the creature had fed on a man newly slain, it’s hunger was unquenchable. And its preferred victims were always the vulnerable, the weak and the young, it’s footsteps light, its trail hidden.
That night, as the house was rocked by winds coming from the mountain side, Lucas dreamed of the creature rocking their home, of climbing up the walls with its long sharpened claws, and peering through his window. He had screamed himself awake, alerting his parents. When his father had asked him what was the bother, Lucas had told the story the tribals had told him.
Mother had looked out the window with fright, then had closed it tight and checked all the locks before marshalling them all to sleep in the main bed chamber. But Father had laughed, calling it just legend. He had said how the tribals had adopted the story from a legend of an ancient tribe, now gone, called the Algonquins, who had spoken of such a beast to their children. Father had explained that such a story was necessary to keep people from consuming each other during the long winter nights. He had explained how these Algonquins had been a northern tribe, and that how many times they had not enough food to last the long winters. During these times it was only the stories of the creature that kept them from consuming each other. During the long years of winger following the great war, the story had reemerged among the tribals who had stayed above, while his people had gone to the vaults.
The tribals had called the creature Wendingo or Wen-dig-o. For many nights there after, Lucas had found it difficult to sleep. Eventually he had decided to combat his fears the only way he knew how. Drawing his father’s rifle and the six shooter he had gone out into the snows to face the creature of his dreams. He had been gone a week before his parents found him half frozen in a shelter carved from the mountain side. They had nursed him back to health, and afterwards, his father had given him the pistol, which he had kept till this day.
Sometimes the things one goes hunting for come back to hunt for you, thought Grim, who had decided to make peace with what he had become.
The next day was the third since he had split from Rogue and the others. He began to dry what meat he could under the hot sun, and packed up the camp, loading the burro and his own back pack, and destroying what remained. The books, weapons, and some other gear he kept, the rest he burned.
On the hill, the leader of the Oprezki patrol watched, patiently as he had watched for three days. With time the leader’s horror had given way to curiosity. Given the choice he might have tried to seize the man and question him, but those were not his orders. He was bound to follow the law, to submit. His men had spread about and taken advantage of the time to relax. They had laughed how Those that Are had become Those that Are Eaten, and these new people could be called Those that Eat Those that Are. There were many jokes, but they had gotten old fast. The leader paid no heed, he watched and learned.
He doubted that the practice he had watched was widespread. In their encounters North they had not seen anything like it. Yet this was perhaps something new. He had also watched as the man had grown stronger as if over night, and had been surprised to watch him read. That the man knew he was being observed and regarded his observers with something shy of contempt was perhaps most troubling of all.
The leader watched as Lucas left the hole and campsite, now afire, with the big three headed mutant dog leading, and the burro following without hesitation. Before the man turned away, he looked up, directly, to the hidden place where the leader lay prone. And the man nodded, once more removing any doubt that they both were aware of each other. Then the man turned and walked, East, as if following the trail of his colleagues.
When the man had gotten out of sight, the leader called his men together, the quickly packed tempts, and rode to the South.
-----------------
Meanwhile-
On the second day after leaving Grim, the four came across a man lost in the desert.
They had spoken little to each other. Gabriel, feeling the most distrusted, had gone ahead, confident that he would not be shot in the back, but eager to be alone. At first he had felt a sense of insult by this alienation. This had given to a strange sense of despair. He had been outcast among the Slayers, now he was denied the comradeship of his friends.
But good sense had prevailed in the end. For he felt he had come to know Rogue well, and perhaps Syphon and Talon as well. This distrust would pass, especially when taken in context with past actions. They would continue to trust him, at least until they came upon Caleb.
And then?
It was musing over this that Gabriel saw something in the distance. To the South was what looked like the ruins of a small pre-war village, a set of building made of some clay and brick construction, the colors fading into the desert almost like a mirage. Such sites were common, and often ignored. So he might have missed the man had he not caught the movement.
At first he thought it might be a shambler, twisted creatures that were like mindless if aggressive ghouls,
But then he figured it to be a man.
‘Syphon, look to the South, southeast. What do you see?”
Syphon had peered through his telescopic sight. In the distance, the figure collapsed to the ground. “It’s a man, and by the look of it, he ain’t in the best shape.”
“Maybe he’s lost, run out of water.” Suggested Rogue, also peering through her rifle. The man had not moved.
“Delirious or wounded,” Said Talon. “He crossed the caravan trail and just kept going in the same direction, maybe he’s blind to miss it or half out of his head.”
Syphon was gazing now to the North, where the man had come. “Well, forgive me if I am wrong, but North of here is damn close to where that Trog was goin’ when we put the breaks on him, ain’t it?”
Gabriel was already moving towards the man, but he heard what Syphon had said, and what it suggested. It was possible the man had wandered into the hunting area of Trogs. The Trogs, still hungry for revenge, might be trailing him even now.
They would have to hurry to save him, and perhaps themselves.
_________
That same evening Ibis left the camp again. He had been continuing his discussions with Jim, and with Nat’s help had continued to run tests. He still could not understand how Nat had come through the illness virtually untouched. Buffy was recovering, as were the others with the exception of Hook. For reasons that Ibis could not fathom, Hook had not taken to the medication, which only encouraged further study of an alternative vaccine.
The drugs brought by Gruug had been especially curious. Testing it, he had found something odd, a genetic modification to the antibiotics that was beyond his science.
Tired, and feeling older, Ibis had left the camp sight as Nat and Jim had taken a break to be alone. At least someone was finding comfort out here. Ibis walked to the rise to the West and looked out down the trail, as he often did.
His eyes grew heavy with sleepiness and he did not hear the other approach, or was aware of his presence until he spoke.
“You are Ibis, and your friend Wally sends his regards.” Said the ghoul, whose face was hidden behind a cloak the way Ibis had seen lepers sometimes wear.
“If you get the chance, tell my friend that I wish him well, and that he were here.” Said Ibis, tired. “And you are?”
“The President of this University.”
“That we owe you our thanks.” Said Ibis, “Do you have a name, Mr. President?”
“Once, but I forgot it. Now I have little but a function.” Said the President, who shrugged. “It is just as well. The name did little good when I had it.”
“It is not much of an identity.” Said Ibis.
“It is a enough of a reason.” Said the President, “Regardless, I have been told of who you are and your purpose. We have profited from out trades and I believe that your people are recovering but require the last of the treatment.”
“One of us is still ill, and he has been our leader since the last died.” Said Ibis.
“Yes, I know. He is reacting to the medication which his body cannot accept. I regret to say we have no other treatments.” Said the President as it the matter had little consequence.
“Then you think he will die?”
“Unless you can figure an alternative, yes.” Said the President. “With regard to the last of the treatment, further barter is not required. And furthermore, we will provide you what stores your caravan needs for the rest of the trip to Grey Cliffs.”
“That is very generous.”
“Yes, so it is. We are not given to generosity here, even if we seek merely knowledge. Generosity is not a virtue of the wastes.” Said the President.
“Neither is trust.” Said Ibis. While he had enjoyed friendly relations with Ghouls in the past, there had been little reason to trust these particular ghouls.
“No.” Said the President, aware what Ibis was getting at. “We did not trust you, and in fact feared that you might attack or even provide the location of our institution. There is much to risk. This institution is the only of its kind we know to exist, and should it fall prey to the wolves, well, we would lose more than our lives. ”
“Your knowledge, your resources?”
“Would be lost like the civilization before the war. Yes, so you should be grateful for our generosity, and perhaps not look a gift horse in the mouth.”
“So you are letting us go then.” Said Ibis.
“Yes. It serves our interests.” Said the President.
“Because we carry supplies for the Blades in Grey Cliffs.” Said Ibis.
The President merely nodded.
Ibis thought about this. “The ghouls are like the rest of us then. Caught between two mighty waves that are about to crash. Unable to escape, they must prepare or be washed away. But you left something behind. There is a fly in the ointment.”
“Precautions are necessary. In a few days you and your friends will be far from this place, and the agent will do its work. A temporary mental ailment will strike you all, a momentary lapse of memory. Not long, merely before you arrived. Your memories will be erased. It was that or the more drastic alternative.”
“You would have killed us all.” Said Ibis.
“The rule of life, the first rule for all of us, is to survive.” Said the President. “You are fortunate to have friends, Mr. Ibis. Especially among ghouls.”
And the President turned and walked away.
Ibis turned back to the West, looking for his lost friends as the night quietly fell around him. When it had become dark he turned back to camp to continue his work. His visitor had long disappeared.
