A Town Called Dust: The Territory 1 (14 page)

Melbourne lay in his sleeping roll, his body heat cocooning him against the rapidly cooling night air. He awoke some time later and lay for a few minutes listening to the eerie stillness of the desert. He realized he had woken into a heightened sense of awareness. He could hear something. His ears probed the darkness in an attempt to match the sound with something he recognized. It had been a guttural sound, he thought, like some large animal clearing its throat.

A sudden screech made him sit bolt upright. The sleeping sack fell down and he felt the cold air reaching in through the light shirt he had worn to bed. That sound was close. He looked out into the blackness around their camp, his eyes straining in the direction of the noise. The fire had died away to a pulsating orange that was being gently suffocated by the cold night. A figure was sitting slumped forward by the fire. Melbourne realized it was Major Tungsten. The wineskin that had been half-full when they’d gone to bed was sitting in the dirt in front of him, empty. At the Academy Melbourne had considered Major Tungsten an excellent swordsman, a master tactician and a good teacher. He had seemed an all-round shining example of soldierhood, but here he was now, fast asleep on watch.

Melbourne pushed his senses out into the darkness to try to identify the mysterious sounds he’d heard. But unfortunately it seemed those mysterious sounds were about to reach out to them.

Melbourne saw movement first. It was small, nothing but the shifting of darkness within darkness, but there was definitely something there.

“Major Tungsten,” he whispered urgently to the Digger who was supposedly guarding their safety. “Sir, I saw something.”

The sleeping Digger moved forward slowly. For an instant Melbourne thought he was rousing, but instead he tipped forward and landed with a gentle thud on the ground, his forehead resting in the soft dirt.

Melbourne climbed out of his sleeping roll and picked up one of the long mechanical rifles that lay on the ground near the sleeping Digger. It was one of the older Leopald models; he had won the Academy’s shooting competition with this type of rifle. That had been easy—everything had seemed easy at the Academy—but now his hands shook as he pulled back the compression spring of the firing mechanism. It locked in place inside the polished wood, ready to fire. He moved forward, the rifle held against his shoulder.

There was movement again. A figure was coming out of the darkness. It moved in a disjointed run toward them. The creature wore tattered clothes, matted pieces of cloth that seemed to hang from its body. If it weren’t for the unflattering way the strips of material fell it might be difficult to say which sex it was—but this was a male. Its skin was gray, mottled with colors somewhere between the shades of skin and blood. Its face was hollow and sunken as if its skin had been pulled tight over its bare skull. The eyes protruded so far that the full sphere of the eyeball was clear, a lumpy circle of blue cheese. Melbourne realized after longer than should have been necessary that he was looking at a ghoul.

The ghoul moved in discrete snaps so that to Melbourne’s eye it seemed to jump from one position to another without any in-between motion. It would spend a fraction of a second in this new position before moving again in its bizarre strobe-like way, like a statue instantly shifting from one position to another. It was fast, too, faster than Melbourne had expected. He had studied ghouls at the Academy, of course, heard them described in lectures and read about them in books. He had thought he knew everything there was to know about them. Melbourne knew that a ghoul’s body was not like a human’s; it was always dissolving into dust. That’s why the ghouls had the thirst. The creature would not bleed. It would not feel pain. It would not speak. It couldn’t be killed unless beheaded or burned. He knew that if it were to bite him he would turn. He knew all this, he had thought he was prepared, and yet seeing one for the first time was still like having his organs ripped from his body and replaced with churning milk. He was frozen in place, paralyzed by fear.

As the creature was almost on top of Major Tungsten it seemed to notice Melbourne for the first time. It opened its mouth wider than should have been possible, as though its jaw was dislocated, and it screamed. It was a sound halfway between the soft rustling of the trees and the screech of an eagle. It was unlike anything Melbourne had ever heard.

Major Tungsten rolled onto his back. The gut-wrenching scream of the ghoul had shaken him, finally piercing his drunken slumber. However this particular shade of drunk made his dramatic waking somewhat anticlimactic. He lifted himself onto his elbows and looked up groggily. When he saw what was standing over him he did his best to shuffle backward through the dirt like a tired crab. When he reached the embers of the fire he was forced to stop. The ghoul looked down at him, and what was left of its nose fell away from its face as dust. Then, in a movement somewhere between a falling tree and a pouncing animal the ghoul was on Major Tungsten’s chest. Major Tungsten didn’t have a chance to scream before a three-fingered hand closed over his mouth. The ghoul’s other hand held down his head. Major Tungsten’s boots scraped over the ground as he kicked his feet. It took Melbourne a moment to realize what the ghoul was doing; it was pushing its deformed hand into Major Tungsten’s mouth.

“Ghouls!” General Connor cried as he barreled past Melbourne in a thundering wave, tossing a sword at him as he ran. Melbourne dropped the rifle he had been clutching and picked up the sword from where it had landed at his feet. The general surged ahead, dressed only in light pants; his black beard ran down his neck and joined with the curly hairs of his chest. He held his heavy longsword in one hand, trailing behind him. When he reached the ghoul he added his free hand to the grip and heaved the sword up and over his head. He cried out with a bestial war cry as the blade sliced down into the ghoul’s neck, taking its head from its shoulders. The sword followed through and embedded itself into the ground a little over an inch from Major Tungsten’s head. A spray of fine pink dust floated into the air from the ghoul’s neck. Wentworth Connor kicked the headless corpse off Major Tungsten.

“Swords!” the general roared.

Major Tungsten’s chest heaved as he drew large gulping breaths. His tongue hung from his mouth, swollen and red, and his lips were cracked and pale as if the ghoul had sucked all the moisture from them. General Connor kicked the ghoul’s head and it rolled, ear over ear, into the embers of the fire, where it slowly started to smoke and crackle like dry wood. The other Diggers, having scrambled from their beds, were already fanning out, forcing their eyes into the darkness.

“Circle up,” the general called. “There will be more.”

Heath, Cross, Burnley, Finch, Percival and Lance were spreading out in a ring toward the darkness, Lieutenant Glad directing them. The general was helping Major Tungsten to his feet.

“All right, Major?” General Connor asked, but the major was still unable to speak. He grabbed the wineskin from the ground and held it above his mouth, savoring the trickle that was left. He croaked a reply.

“Fine.”

“Did it bite you?”

“No,” Major Tungsten replied.         

Melbourne stood staring at the body of the ghoul on the ground, its head now in the fire pit, crackling in flames. At the Academy Melbourne had defeated senior Diggers in combat, won every competition and conquered every task, but out here, seeing a ghoul in the flesh, he could do nothing but stand unmoving and afraid.

Another ghoulish screech filled the air, this time from the opposite direction. Melbourne swung on his heels and held the sword out in front of him. Despite the chill a cold sweat had formed on his forehead. He peered into the darkness, waiting for the inevitable ghoul to appear, his heart pounding in his ears. Another ghoul call went up, this time from a different direction again, and then another and another.

“Be ready!” Lieutenant Glad called. “They come!”

Melbourne heard the beating of fast footsteps on the ground and spun in the direction of the sound. A ghoul, smaller than the first and wearing the remnants of a little girl’s dress, jumped at Trooper Cross. He cried out as the tiny ghoul tore at his face with decaying fingertips. Burnley tried to pull her off, but she turned on him. Cross stumbled backward, hitting the ground with his hands over his dried-out eyes as Burnley punched and kicked at the insane creature.

“They’re freshly fed,” someone called. “They’re fast and strong.”

Nearby a ghoul was sprinting in from the darkness, hissing like a crazed cat. Melbourne saw the ghoul in the light of the fire. It was a Digger, or at least it had been a Digger. Melbourne recognized it as Captain Regis, the leader of the patrol they were supposed to rendezvous with. It had been Diggers on which these monsters had fed.

 Lance was running at the ghoul that had once been Captain Regis, screaming, almost matching it for aggression. When the two met Lance impaled it on his blade with an upward thrust that ripped through its torso. But the sickening creature pulled itself further onto the blade so it could grab Lance’s face, pushing its bony thumbs into his eyes. Sergeant Heath was there in an instant.

“First blow to the neck!” he cried as he swiftly took off the creature’s head. “Ignore their uniforms! It’s not them anymore!”

Before he knew it Melbourne could see five, six, no,
seven
more ghouls materializing from the darkness, moving in their bizarre high-speed shudder. Two of the ghouls, wearing Digger green, were headed for Lieutenant Glad. As the first one drew within range Lieutenant Glad swung his sword, taking its head off in a clean blow. He turned for the second, smoothly dispatching its head as well. His practiced movements were like a dance. But more and more of the creatures were coming from the darkness. Glad mistimed a blow slightly and caught one of them just below the shoulder, slicing off its arm in a shower of dust but lodging the sword in its chest. As he tried to pull the weapon free, another ghoul was upon him. He cracked it in the face with his elbow but when it fell away there were three more to take its place. The face of one ghoul landed between Lieutenant Glad’s neck and shoulder. It had long, dirty hair which covered Melbourne’s view of what was happening, but when it reared up again, its hair flew back and Melbourne saw that it had taken the side of Lieutenant Glad’s neck with it, a bloody pulp hanging from its yellowed teeth.

Melbourne knew he should be tearing toward the enemy to fight with his Digger brothers. It wasn’t as if this would be his first battle. Every Academy graduate was combat hardened. They lived and breathed warfare for four long years, usually longer. And he was the Academy’s prodigy, the most promising graduate in years, more skilled than any Digger here, except maybe the general. But as he watched the unfolding scene Melbourne realized the difference. In the Academy it was always a game. Here, as he watched Lieutenant Glad’s body leak its life onto the ground in a crimson pool and twitch as he turned into a ghoul himself, he realized the enemy they fought now would stop at nothing to see him dead. It wasn’t a game anymore.

Melbourne watched General Connor slice a ghoul neatly in half from one hip to the other. The ghoul’s torso slid from the top of its legs and landed in the dirt. Then it reached out with its withered arms and began dragging itself forward. The creature would almost have looked pathetic if it weren’t so horrifying. The general drove his sword down through the neck of the ghoul and kicked it in the temple to separate the head from the body.

Melbourne became acutely aware of the sounds around him. The Diggers still standing called to each other, sometimes warnings, sometimes directions. The ghouls’ screams filled the air from everywhere else. They were surrounded. The horses called out in high-pitched whines, their ropes snapping taut as they desperately tried to free themselves.
The horses
, Melbourne thought,
the horses!

As he ran, Melbourne saw five ghouls jump on Sergeant Percival. He still stood, roaring with rage and throwing fists and elbows into the enemy. One of the ghouls gripped his head from behind. As the ghoul let out a blood-curdling cry it twisted Sergeant Percival’s head around roughly. Even through the chaotic noise Melbourne thought he heard the crack as Sergeant Percival’s wide-eyed face looked at him from over his own spine. Melbourne tore his gaze away from Sergeant Percival’s falling body as he ran toward the horses. He had to get out of here; he was the Academy’s great hope, he couldn’t die.

Some of the ghouls had gone for the horses. Those the ghouls were climbing over kicked and bucked against their ropes as the ghouls fought to sink their teeth into them. Several of the horses remained untouched, and Melbourne ran for them.

He untied one. In his panicked confusion he didn’t even register which horse it was. He clambered up onto the animal’s back and grabbed its mane. He kicked the horse in the ribs and urged it forward. The horse, as happy as Melbourne to be escaping from this situation, thundered forward, its hooves churning at the ground. Melbourne held on as the horse careened away into the unknown darkness.

As the seventh ghoul that General Wentworth Connor had beheaded fell away in front of him, he looked up to see his horse galloping into the night. On its back was Trooper Melbourne Hermannsburg. The general’s face fell. The Academy’s greatest graduate was running away.

The Administrator rose from the Rock Throne as the Ministers of Government filed into the Council Room.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “take a seat and we shall commence.”

He was anxious to start. This council meeting had been delayed long enough. The Diggers were ready to begin work on the fall-back fence, though shortly, if all went as it should, he would be changing their orders.

The twelve council members sat, following the Administrator’s lead as he settled back on the throne. He adjusted his position and sipped from the glass of water on the table in front of him. He would not rush. He could not let them see the impatience he felt; this was a matter of state, not one that should appear personal.

He lifted the gavel and tapped it on its base. “I call to order this meeting of the Council of the Central Territory. Our first business is the continuing preparation for the defense against the ghouls.”

“Very good, Your Honor,” said Minister Bourke. “Surely the Diggers must have started on the fall-back fence?”

“Indeed, preparations are well under way and the Diggers are awaiting the go-ahead order,” the Administrator said.

“You must have given them the order already, Your Honor,” Ocean Bourke said. “The Council has voted in favor, the Church has given its blessing. We should not delay.”

“I have withheld the order until today because I wish to once again raise the motion of recalling the Diggers and launching a full-scale attack against the ghouls as one unified force.”

A tense silence followed.

“With all due respect, Your Honor,” said Sid Mintabie, Minister for Public Religion, timidly, “you raised the motion of committing the entire Digger force previously and it was not passed.”

The Administrator leaned on the table in front of him, drumming his fingers on the wood.

“That is correct, Minister Mintabie.” The slippery voice of Knox Soilwork joined the conversation. “But that was a different council. Colonel Hermannsburg, rest his soul, sat at the table then.”

“Yes, and now he doesn’t,” said Minister Bourke, “and he was the most vocal voice against committing the entire force—”

“Yes,” said the Administrator, “and now he is no longer with us. It’s a shame, isn’t it.”

Minister Bourke fell silent. The Administrator smiled at him.

“New information has come to light,” the Administrator said. “We have received word from the boundary riders that the number of ghouls is significantly less than initially suspected. We also received word that a patrol led by General Connor himself encountered ghouls roaming ahead of the main group. The general and a handful of his men survived. They made it back to an outpost and sent word yesterday. The general believes the main horde was not far behind and will begin moving toward the outermost towns with increasing speed, too soon to establish a fence far enough out to keep those towns safe.”

“Where is the horde presently, Your Honor?” asked Armstrong Lyndhurst, Minister for Propaganda.

“They are still in the desert, moving slowly with the lack of water, but I am told they will soon strike the first town in the Territory’s lands.”

“And what town is that, Your Honor?”

“A dirt-lifting town called Cameron, and then after that they will move further inward. All these outer towns are at risk if we do not strike now.”

There was a pause.

“Ministers,” the Administrator said, rising from his seat. He approached the portrait of his grandfather hanging on the wall nearby. He stared at the fine brush work, the small protruding lumps of paint left on the canvas by the artist’s brush. He spoke without turning around. “My grandfather’s rule was prosperous and peaceful but what will he be remembered for?” The Administrator looked down the rows of portraits stretching down the wall. “In the end he is just a picture on the wall. Is that what I am destined to become? Is that what you want to be?”

No one answered.

“Though what is worse than not being remembered at all?” the Administrator continued, turning to face the ministers sitting at the table again. “I’ll tell you what is worse. Being remembered as the council that lost towns to the ghouls. For that is what will happen if we do not strike in force against our enemy. They will overrun our towns and it will be because we did not take the necessary action.”

The Administrator looked at Colonel Woomera, Colonel Hermannsburg’s replacement on the council.

“Colonel,” the Administrator said, “your predecessor did not believe this could be done. You have seen the revised numbers the boundary riders have sent through and you know what is at stake. What is your military opinion?”

“Colonel Hermannsburg was a good man,” the Colonel said. “No, a great man. But he was conservative. Having seen the report from the boundary riders, and considering the strength of the Digger force if all units are recalled, I believe an all-out offensive would be successful.”

There were murmurs around the table.

The Administrator smiled. He had known Colonel Woomera would side with him. He was the perfect replacement for Colonel Hermannsburg.

“Colonel,” Minister Mintabie said, “even if the number of ghouls is less than we first thought, how can you take such an opposing view to that of Colonel Hermannsburg?”

“Colonel Hermannsburg, like General Connor himself, was a warrior, a true fighting Digger who earned his stripes ranging beyond the fence and fighting ghouls. I personally cannot say I share that heritage. I have, however, risen through the ranks of the army as an expert in strategy. I have studied every recorded battle with the ghouls and spent my career becoming a master tactician. That is why I was selected to sit on the council. I believe the Administrator’s plan will save the outer towns.”

The ministers around the table looked at each other without comment but the Administrator could tell they were convinced. In the end they always listened to the military advisor when it came to these matters, even, it would seem, if he had the opposite opinion to his predecessor. Things had changed, though. This new information about the size of the horde meant they
 could save the outer regions. He could sense, with a happy eagerness that he managed to keep inside, that he would get his way after all.

“Thank you, Colonel,” the Administrator said. “Shall we put it to a vote?”

“Do you believe men can overcome the vengeance of God?”

The faces of all the ministers turned toward the door to the hall. Standing there, framed in the doorway, was the High Priestess Patricia. Every minister in the room scrambled up from their chairs to stand, as if she were a headmistress and they her students.

“Your Holiness,” the Administrator spluttered, “what are you doing entering the Council Room?”

“I am the High Priestess,” she said silkily. “I go where I please.”

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness, but no one is permitted to enter while the council sits.”

“That is precisely why I am entering,” the High Priestess said. “No one else would disturb you to inform you that I have been waiting for you for almost two hours.”

“I am in a council meeting. You shall have to continue to wait.”

“Not,” the High Priestess said, “for too much longer, I should think.”

How he hated this woman, but her tone and her position—not to mention the fact that the council’s eyes were on him—were enough to force his hand. Ensuring that the populace showed proper respect for the Sisters had its uses, of course, but when he had to deal with the most powerful of them and the onus was on him to grovel and scrape, it grated.

“I will be there directly, Your Holiness,” the Administrator said through clenched teeth and a forced smile.

The High Priestess waited a moment, obviously wanting to see the Administrator crack, but he maintained his cheek-aching smile and she turned and left. As soon as the door closed behind her the Administrator’s smile dropped.

“What say you then!?” he demanded. “Do I go to meet the High Priestess with the backing of the council?”  

“In regards to what, Your Honor?” asked Minister Sweet.

In his frustration the Administrator made a sound somewhere between a roar and a bleat as he slammed his hand into the table. “In regards to sending the Diggers in full force!” he snapped. His anger, now freed, flowed out in unstoppable waves.

“Oh.” Minister Sweet cleared his throat. “Yes, quite, quite.”

There was general agreement from around the table. Send the Diggers in full force, yes, quite, quite.