Remember Tomorrow (15 page)

Before they reached the entrance, Ryan asked, “The others have told me that this is called Nagasaki. It’s a strange and unusual name for a ville around here.” Unconscious on the approach to the settlement, Ryan had been told by Mildred and Krysty, who had also relayed to him what they knew of the original, predark Nagasaki. Ryan had seen something in old vids and books, and he, too, was curious.

Buckley looked at Ryan suspiciously. “Didn’t know you knew ’bout ’round here, but you’re right—is an unusual name. Given to us by those who came before. They knew, see.”

“Knew what?” Ryan prodded.

“’Bout what was going down,” Buckley replied obscurely. “Look, see if this don’t tell you.” Beckoning them, he changed direction and led them back into the ranch house. They followed him down a side passage until they reached a closed and locked door. He took a key from a leather pouch around his neck.

“This is real important,” he breathed, with an air of awe in his voice. “I get to keep the key ’cause I’m the leader and it’s handed down. See, the ones who came before started this place ’cause they knew what was coming. Not many get to see in here very often and it’s a real treat, I tell you.”

This much was obvious to the companions, as the two men with Buckley were breathing heavily, drooling with excitement. One of them was making small yelping noises in the back of his throat, as though he had to choke down his excitement.

What the hell could be behind the door?

With great reverence, Buckley unlocked and opened the door. Inside the room, which smelled musty and close, as though all the doors and windows were always shut, there was an oil lamp that he lit, the growing light throwing shadows across the room and revealing the secrets that were held within.

“Sweet mother,” Mildred breathed. Doc choked back the bile that rose in his throat. The others stood frozen in bemusement.

The walls were plastered with photographs—some prints, some taken from newspapers and magazines, yellowing and fraying—that showed victims of the first atomic bombs at Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The burns, the flayed flesh, the devastation: all was writ large, repeated over and over across the walls. A banner hung over a desk in the far corner of the room, proclaiming this to be the head office of Nagasaki, the first church of the bomb. Mildred walked over to the desk and read a scroll that was pinned to the wall beneath the banner. It told of the commune’s belief in the power of the bomb, evinced by the photographs, and how it would clean the world like the fires of the Lord when it hit once more.

“Sick mother,” Mildred whispered to Krysty. “I heard about people like this. They figured a bomb was coming, tried to build sanctuaries, worshiped it like it was going to be a cleansing fire. Usually it meant it’d get rid of anyone not like them. Guess they found out the hard way that it fucked anyone.”

Buckley turned away from the shrine. “C’mon, people. Let’s get you introduced to the others.”

Buckley led the companions back out of the squalid ranch house and into the more squalid patch of earth that passed for the ville’s square. In truth, it was little more than an area of mud that hadn’t been covered with a shack. He was still flanked by the two ville dwellers, both of whom were in state of excitement following their exposure to the display in the locked room. Ryan noted that Buckley had been careful to lock the door once more as they left, and it was obvious that the contents of the room—as exciting as they were to these people—were only to be gazed upon at certain times.

As they followed Buckley and his two men, aware that none were bothering to guard them, each wondered what may lay in store. In Nagasaki, with far superior numbers, and the fact that two of the five companions were still weak from their injuries, Buckley was obviously at ease with letting them walk unguarded. He saw them as no threat on his own turf, even though they still had their weapons.

The problem was, he was right in this assumption. Jak looked back at Ryan, who was moving slowly although clearly stronger than a few hours earlier, and then at Doc, who was being assisted by Mildred. Both men were in no fit state to fight and as the other three wouldn’t leave them—and even a stupe inbred like Buckley could see this—then they were effectively trapped here until recovery. To fight would serve no purpose other than to buy the farm.

Still, as Jak shot a glance at Krysty, he could see that his own instincts were correct. The woman was trying not to show it, but she felt great danger. She carried herself with what seemed to be her usual confidence, but her hair was clinging close to her head and shoulders, the ends flicking nervously, like defensive serpents. It confirmed the dull ache Jak had in his gut, the rush that usually told him when the hunter had become the hunted and it was time to be ready for combat. Years of staying alive had honed this to an almost preternatural level and as they left the house and squelched out into the mud, he knew that he wasn’t wrong.

In the fading light, with oil lamps and sputtering torches, flames flicking and hissing from the pitch that fueled them, the group of people who constituted the ville of Nagasaki seemed even more sinister and deformed than in the light. The lengthening shadows picked out every deformity on their faces as though they were features on a sculpture, using them to throw shadows and leave pools of light that did little to improve their resemblance to anything human. Their eyes glittered and glowed in the light, the drool on their chins sparkled like diamonds in the reflective glow.

Mildred suppressed a shudder as they left the entrance to the ranch house and stepped out in front of the ville dwellers.

Ryan, assuming a more practical attitude, noted that all of the people were still armed. There seemed to be no sec force as such in this pesthole ville. Everyone seemed to act as sec when necessary. Was this because they were united, or because they didn’t trust one another? Even more bizarre, could it be both? Whatever, the important thing was that they knew for sure that every man was an enemy. Every man because they were all armed. Enemies because they wanted the companions for some reason of their own, and there was no way that Ryan wanted his people to stay. Casting his eye quickly over them, he could see that he would get no argument on this score. It was just a matter of when they could escape, not if.

A ripple of excitement spread through the crowd as the companions appeared. Buckley held up his arms to silence the gathering. From a quick head count, it seemed that everyone in the ville was out to hear what their leader had to say.

“So I guess you all know why I’s called you here right now,” he began. “These—for those’s who wasn’t ’round earlier—are the new friends we found today.”

There was something sinister about the way he said
friends
that sent a shiver down Krysty’s spine. Looking at the others, she saw that she wasn’t alone.

“And they’s gonna help us in getting some good new shit from the convoy as it’s coming through in the next day or two. We know which way and we know kinda when. But what we need is someone who won’t stand out like we does—which is where you come into things,” Buckley added, turning to the companions.

Facing back to his people, he went on. “What we’s gonna do is give y’all a chance to help look after these folks. Equal shares for all in all things is what I says. But if’n you do’m any damage and they can’t help us on the morrows, then ya’ll gonna pay big time. Am I right?”

This didn’t sound good. The companions would be split up and at the mercy of whoever they were billeted with, unable to fight if needs be, because they had to worry about what would happen to the others if they did. And the use of the word
damage
suggested that things could get a little dangerous.

“Chief, we can stick together, be less of a problem to you that way,” Ryan began, trying to reason with Buckley in what was a awkward situation.

Buckley turned to face him, an evil leer splitting his face. “Aw no, One-eye, it ain’t that easy. We ain’t had anyone from outside with us for a long time now. Guess’n we gotta have our fun, too. We ain’t gonna hurt you,” he added in a tone that suggested that hurt was exactly what was on offer.

The ville chief turned back to his people and dismissed them before leading the companions back inside. All they could do was exchange glances. Even with their weapons, attack would have been futile at this point. They were in the center of enemy territory, outnumbered—although not in the ranch house—and were in a weakened state.

They just had to roll with it.

“Get eatin’. You’ll need to build your strength for what we’ll be doing,” Buckley said abruptly, gesturing to the table where the rancid stew lay cooling.

None of them felt that hungry when faced with this slop, but they hadn’t eaten for some time and if only to keep their bellies filled and their reserves of stamina topped up for the struggle ahead, they slopped some of it onto the small boards that passed for plates. At one time, whoever started the community had some decent silverware that was probably used only on special occasions. Now it was debased, had no value, and was treated with offhand disdain. Which was exactly the way these people now seemed to treat life.

Which meant that Buckley would have no problem in chilling them if they didn’t go along with him for now.

The food was nearly inedible—greasy, fatty lumps of indeterminate meat floating in a thin gruel thickened with something that may have been maize, with a few tough, fibrous, unidentifiable vegetables thrown in. Chunks of the crust that had gathered around the lip of the pot broke off and fell in, hard, cold and fatty.

As they ate, trying hard not to taste the rancid meat, washing it down the filthy water, Mildred wondered idly what the chances were of some intestinal or gastric bug laying them low before Buckley and his people had the chance to do likewise.

They ate in silence, which was broken only by the slurping and snorting of Buckley and his personal guard. When they had finished, Buckley sat back and belched heavily, making the guards laugh and splutter food across the table and into the stewpot. Mildred had to try very hard to keep her meal down, feeling it press at the back of her throat with burning bile.

“Well, what d’y’all think of it?” Buckley asked.

Doc sat back and, despite his still-weakened state, intoned in a booming voice, “That was inedible muck and there wasn’t enough of it.”

Buckley looked at him strangely. “Shit, you really are strange fuckers, ain’t y’all?” He pushed himself back from the table and stood up, his vast girth wobbling. He broke wind noisily, imitated by the two guards, who giggled moronically. “Guess it’s time that we got y’all farmed out for the night. Remember, y’all can hit back if you have ta—I’s won’t hold it against y’all if you do. It can get a bit hot at night.”

The fat chief stomped off, followed by his guards, leaving the companions to follow.

Outside, in the cool night air, they shivered, but not just because of the sudden chill stepping from the ranch house. It was a shiver of apprehension for what was to come and what the fat man had implied by his words.

Already, there were screams and wild laughter coming from some of the huts. They passed one that had no covers on the open window. Looking in, they had a vision of hell that was no more or less frightening than the photographs in the locked room. Inside the hut, lit by the flickering of an oil lamp, were three people. One was a woman, two were men. All of them looked alike: short, fat, faces covered in warts. As all three were now naked, it was clear that it wasn’t just their faces that were covered in warts and carbuncles. Their bodies, with their vast folds of flesh, were peppered with these growths, too.

As the companions passed the window with Buckley and his boys, the chief chuckled. “I do like folk as know how to enjoy themselves,” he said.

It was an ominous sign.

As they walked through the small center of the ville, the companions were aware of rutting sounds coming from other huts and houses. There was also a gathering of about a dozen people near the dry-moated barn. They had formed a circle and were carrying torches of flaming pitch.

“Shit, you never told me there was a fight,” Buckley said, cuffing one of his guards. It seemed a strange comment, as none of the companions could actually recall either of the guards uttering a coherent word. Indeed, even now the man just held his head and gibbered.

“C’mon, this should be good,” Buckley urged, hurrying to join the small circle. His guards hurried after him, leaving the companions behind.

“What the hell is going on here?” Krysty whispered. “Are they all stupe or just mad?”

“Too much inbreeding,” Mildred murmured. “Face it, they’re all related several times over and insanity is an everyday norm to them. We’re in big trouble, people, as there’s no way we can tell how they’re going to act.”

“Keep ready and blaster to hand,” Jak whispered. His body language confirmed this, as he stood in a manner that suggested he was wired for attack. It was a defensive posture, ready to respond to any noise. It wasn’t even conscious. His honed senses were keeping him on the razor’s edge.

Ryan shook his head. “We can’t take them all on—we’re one missing, two wounded. I dunno about Doc, but I’m still not on top of the game.”

“My dear Ryan, I feel like I’m on the bottom being trampled,” Doc murmured.

“Okay. We don’t have any choice but to go along with Buckley. You heard what he said—if they get a little feisty, we can defend ourselves.”

“Yeah, he says that now. But what if it actually comes to the test?” Mildred queried.

Ryan didn’t get a chance to form an answer, as Buckley yelled back over his shoulder. “Get your asses over here—y’all missin’ the fun!”

Buckley’s idea of fun might prove to be a little different to theirs, but they were all acutely aware of the fact that they had to play along with him. Besides, it’d take them nearer to the dry-moated barn and Jak and Mildred had both been wondering for some time why it was partitioned off in such a way.

As the companions got nearer, the circle parted slightly to allow them a view of what was going on.

“They’s playin’ crow,” Buckley breathed, his words slurring and becoming more indistinct in his excitement. He beckoned the companions to join him in the circle. “Watch this,” he said, spittle running down his chin.

In the middle of circle, warily padding around each other, were a man and a woman. The woman was short and fat, with warts and carbuncles. If not the fact that her hair was black as opposed to the gray of the woman they had seen earlier, the companions could have assumed it was the same person, swapping sex for combat. This woman had her hair tied back and was carrying a leather cat-o’-nine-tails.

Her opponent was tall and thin and carried a length of wood with nails banged through it. He was breathing hard, his flattened nose making it difficult for him breathe easily. He had one eye, his right socket being a mess of scarred flesh, but with no hole where an eyeball could possibly have sat. The scar also puckered the corner of his mouth into what looked like a sardonic smile. Mildred wasn’t sure, but she thought she also caught sight of a vestigial third nipple in the middle of his chest.

It was difficult to tell as, like the woman, he was slicked with a film of sweat and blood. They had obviously been fighting for some while and the cat had scored his flesh, raising ugly red weals that spurted beads of blood, weeping sores opened on his back where old wounds had been restruck. The beads had spilled and mixed with his sweat—the heat of combat and also of the pitch torches being intense in the circle—forming a sheen that made him shine in the flickering light.

The woman was also covered. She had landed more blows than her opponent, but he had still managed to land some of his own. Her stomach and back were raked with deep cuts from the dragging nails, the blood flowing freely. Already, it was starting to clot, suggesting a few lucky blows at the beginning of the fight. From his defensive stance and her aggressive passes with the cat as they circled, it was clear who was now taking the initiative.

She flicked her wrist and sidestepped a swinging blow from the man, surprisingly agile considering her size, and as he stumbled past her the knotted leather thongs of the cat scored into the skin on his back. He screamed in pain, a high, keening wail that rendered the air, overscored by the crack of leather on flesh. He stumbled and fell in the mud, rolling to come up on his feet and parry another blow from the cat with his stick. The leather thongs wrapped around the stick, and with a tug she pulled it out of his hand. It flew out of the circle, over the heads of those gathered. But the few moments it took the thongs to unravel from the nailed wood gave him the time he needed to attack. He launched himself at the woman while her stance was open, her torso exposed as the momentum of the cat flung her arm back. He had to get in his attack before she could pull back her arm and become defensive.