Butcher Block Green Page 8

  Sam paused, unable to turn around.

  “I love you, Sam. I won’t forget this. You. Ever.”

  He couldn’t look at her.

  “Goodbye.”

  Fighting his desire to call it all off, Sam started walking again, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. There was no more fear, no more questions, no more uncertainty. Left foot, right foot, at a steady pace, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. Despite the temptation, he refused to look at the writhing bulk waiting for him.

  About a hundred yards out, the stench became almost unbearable. Sam stripped off the exoskeleton and removed his shirt, wrapping it around his nose and mouth. It did little to help, but it was enough to keep him moving.

  Fifty yards. Forgetting for a moment, Sam looked up and saw the fused cancer of tens of thousands of humans, all melted into one horrific nightmare. Fear blossomed, and he looked down at his feet, refocusing on walking.

  Twenty-five yards. Something brushed past him, leaving a thick smear of skin. Sam’s chest was about to burst from holding back the scream and, with effort, he refocused on the path in front of him.

  Five yards. He couldn’t see. The stench was causing the air to waver like a mirage. He vomited into the shirt. Disgusted, he ripped it off, throwing it into the ground.

  One yard. Finally, there was no avoiding it. Nowhere to look where the post-human wasn’t. He moved closer, until his feet were almost touching the edge. Rivulets of pus leaked down the wall of moaning flesh, trickling to the ground and around his feet.

  Sam didn’t stop to think about it. Without looking up, he reached out, touching the mass in front of him.

  He felt slick, feverish skin underneath his fingers and pressed harder, pushing with both hands.

  The wall responded, shooting enormous barbs through the palms of his hands. The barbs punched through Sam’s arms, erupting out his back. Sam tried to scream, but the indescribable pain took his breath away.

  A flash of panic flooded his body as the barbs contracted, pulling him into the post-human’s bulk. Flesh filled his mouth, nose, throat, down into his lungs, everything. Sam panicked, trying to fight, but it was too late. The post-human mass opened up to consume him, assimilating him.

  Wrong, the ants were wrong … there’s nothing I can—

  The thing on his neck shifted, tunneled deeper, inserting a pseudopod into his brain even as his body began to melt.

  What—

  Something in his mind switched on, and New York froze.

  Sam saw himself, floating on the edge of the post-human. Saw his brain, now wired into the massive creature through the thing the ant had placed on his neck. His point of view shifted, blurring, spinning out of control until, without warning, it stopped. And he was himself again.

  Except his body was now New York, with thousands of pieces of himself spreading all over the world, everywhere except to the same South-American-shaped blind spot. Just like the ants, the post-human was a giant hive mind, comprised of all the human dead it had harvested. He could feel the malignant consciousness of the post-human struggling against him, trying to regain control.

  Regain control…

  Realization flooded through him.

  I am in control.

  New York, the hive consciousness, tore at Sam’s invading mind, wrestling for peripheral control. In the few seconds that had passed, Sam realized he’d already lost about a third of the post-human.

  Not much time.

  He looked outside himself, outside of New York, detaching pieces and sending them running … looking.

  He found the ants where he’d left them. Tes was with them. They’d formed a protective barrier around her, facing the post-human he was controlling. Sam stopped the post-human a few feet away. He tapped into the vast neural network of the post-human, concentrating.

  Half a mile away, in front of the ants, a young redheaded girl lodged in the thigh of the post-human opened her mouth and hissed.

  The ants hissed back, in unison.

  Message received. We will honor our promise to you. We will see Tes to the edge of the dark zone.

  An old sadness washed over Sam as he remembered his air rifle. Remembered how he’d bought it because he was afraid he’d use a real gun on himself.

  I guess, somehow, I always knew I would.

  He frowned internally, remembering a part of the Word he’d memorized years before.

  No, this is different. Giving your life isn’t the same as taking it. Greater love has no man than he who lays down his life for another.

  He took a deep mental breath, steeling nerves that were no longer his own. The post-human consciousness’ frantic struggles increased as it sensed what Sam was about to do.

  It began as a single cell, turning on its neighbor. A small, almost undiscernible beginning, located where Sam’s body floated in the mass. Sam watched as it grew, until, in seconds, it was raging, out of control, unstoppable, speeding through the post-human. Swathes of black appeared in his awareness. He felt his grip slipping, but he could also feel the post-human slipping too, growing dimmer with each passing moment. His consciousness narrowed, darkening alongside the creature, but he didn’t care anymore.

  Just one more thing he had to do. Had to say.

  Half a mile away, the artificial intelligence called Tes watched as a mottled black necrosis crept across the enormous mass of New York’s human flesh. Hours passed, and neither she nor the ants moved, watching as the creature decayed in front of them. The post-human Sam had sent stayed frozen in place, a million spasms wracking its body as its brain died.

  Tes focused on New York and ignored a thump as the thing finally collapsed, unable to hold itself upright anymore.

  “Tes…”

  Startled, Tes swiveled to look at the post-human, a crumpled heap on the ground. The young redhead on the post-human’s thigh was looking at her with weak eyes.

  “Sam!”

  “Tes … I did it. It’s dying. I can’t see anymore. Can’t hear, so I don’t know if you’re getting this … but … I should have told you when I left. I love you too.”

  “Sam…”

  The redhead’s face went slack. In the distance, a billion windpipes cried out at once, and then: silence.

  Act 3

  RESSURECTION

  D istant shouts, echoing down the mine shaft told Oosam his time was up—they had discovered him. No more delaying. He had to pull the brain out now, or lose the prize and face punishment for digging an illegal tunnel. If he laid hands on it and melded, he could force the miner’s guild to use him if they wanted access to the brain of the god.

  Oosam took in a deep breath, steeling his nerves as he studied the hard rock in front of him. The giant bones and organs of the dead god jutted out from the wall, harder than iron, yet flaking and peeling after thousands of years buried in the graveyard. It had taken Oosam a week to find the head, buried inside the alien-looking ribs of the god. It took another week of diligent, ginger excavation to expose the brain. A gray powder of crushed stone covered it, but it glistened at him in the flickering torchlight.

  He ungloved his right hand and reached out, hesitating an inch away from the mottled sphere, unsure.

  The shouts grew closer, and Oosam panicked, jerking his hand back, knocking into a rib. The brain, already loose in its skull, rolled forward, touching his exposed arm. Oosam took in a sharp breath, fear overwhelming him.

  Nothing happened. Oosam smiled, greed-laced hope growing in him. He was alive! The god-brain had—

  The thought choked off as his arm swelled, turning green, the skin splitting open where it was touching the brain.

  Oosam started screaming, thrashing, trying to pull himself away, but his muscles had frozen, refusing to obey, preventing him from pulling back. His screams turned to shrieks, high pitched and frantic as the swelling crawled up his arm and down his torso, consuming his body.

  On the other side of the tunnel, the crew searching for Oosam stopped at the
sound of the inhuman cries.

  “What is that? A daemon come breakin’ tru our wards?” The voice of the searcher was shaky.

  “Nae. He touched a god. Nothin’ ta do but wait. We’ll seal this off inna case somethin’ leaks out,” said the foreman. He was a short man with a chronic hunch from a lifetime under the low rock ceilings of the mine. No one in the group protested—they all knew what that scream could mean for anyone who went down the tunnel.

  “Gaath, blow tha entrance. Just enough ta bury it. We’ll have ta open it up again, and we don’t need extra work.”

  The miners worked fast, setting up a small blast charge at the mouth of Oosam’s tunnel as his screams continued to reverberate off the stone walls. Without ceremony, the foreman blew the opening, bringing down part of the ceiling. As the thick dust settled, he raised his hand for silence, and the men listened for any sound.

  After a moment, they could hear Oosam again, but the wailing was so quiet it sounded almost imaginary.

  “Good enough. We’ll come back in three days, if the council gives its blessing.”

  The crew returned to the mining base in Auburn to wait for the time of cleansing to elapse. Rumors swirled in the villages and mining camps about Oosam, and what he might have found. Whispered gossip grew that the miner had been careless—greedy, trying to hoard a dead god’s brain for himself. The scandal of it—trying to handle a god without a witcher—fueled a palpable excitement that permeated every conversation among the townsfolk. Auburn was an isolated wasteland town, with strong wards that protected villagers from predators, so little ever happened. After three days, the excitement was at a fever pitch when the miners hauled Oosam’s swollen, lacerated body out of the mineshaft. The townsfolk treated the retrieval team like heroes as they marched back to the mine, encumbered by thick protective gear covered in protective brands and wards. It didn’t last long. Upon entering the shaft, twin brothers Daanso and Liisan fell ill, their bodies swelling and splitting open just like Oosan’s. The rest of the retrieval team abandoned them, still alive, and resealed the mine.

  There was a raging debate whether to just collapse the tunnel and leave everything there. Three years prior, another miner had died in much the same way. When they’d tried to remove his body, the ones who’d touched him had been stricken with a terrible disease. The fear of another plague was the focal point of countless shouting matches in the weekly city council meetings. The dead god’s brain was too valuable to leave, but no one was willing to risk it. After two days of voting, the council sent an orphan boy to Auburn’s witcher, who inscribed him with the necessary wards and sent him down the tunnel as a test. The town waited, everyday routines tinged with excited anticipation for the god-brain and the potential wealth it would bring. Three days after putting the boy underground, the horns sounded. The orphan had emerged unscathed, the god-brain held in his thin arms.

  The news spread like a locust infestation: the body was coming up from the mine! The dusty streets turned into a festival ground as people from surrounding villages poured in. Some wanted a glimpse of the new god, and some were just hoping for free food and beer. Laughter, shouts, and the occasional fight broke out as people crushed together along the road, waiting for the mining team.

  The warbled droning of the skdriitt pipes heralded the arrival of the party from the mine. The noise in the streets quieted as people jostled for a good view of the dead god’s brain. No one dared get too close, just in case the god awoke and decided to punish them. Fluttering wards, colors long dulled by the sun, wafted above the procession as it moved down the street, protecting the mining party as it brought the brain to the revival witcher. The orphan boy came first, holding the mottled sphere aloft. Behind him came a dog cart hauling Oosam’s naked body, a not-so-subtle reminder to the village about the consequences of mining for dead gods without the blessing of the village and the protection of the witchers. The mining chief and town officials came next, each wearing the blue and purple robes of their office. Finally, the unfortunate twins, Daanso and Liisan, bounced along in a wagon, wrapped in clean burial cloth. Green fluid dripped down the cart onto the brown dust of the road, trailing back to the mine.

  The procession moved through town, to the outskirts. Villagers fell in line behind them, singing, laughing, and drinking. This was the first god-brain discovered in years. In recent months, there had been quiet, urgent whispers that perhaps the Auburn mine would be closed. It was an omen, people said. Good fortune was around the corner, as long as the god would awaken.

  The noisy cavalcade reached the edge of the town, and the group halted. Encircling the town were its wards: totems and sigils that protected its inhabitants from any negative consequences of reanimating a god. The crowd waited at the edge, along with the town officials, watching as the mining chief, orphan, and two ward-bearers made their way to a stone building half a kilometer distant.

  The orphan’s arms trembled with the weight of the god, but the chief was nervous now that they’d passed beyond the safety of the sigils, and picked up his pace.

  “Hurry, boy. Don’t drop it. I don’t want to spend any more time out here than I have to.”

  The boy jogged to keep up with the big man’s steps, and soon the two halted in front of the witcher’s dome, where the revival witcher stood waiting. He was a young man, tattooed and cauterized with the cryptographic runes and formulae of the ancients. He’d just inherited the position from his father, who was dying from the effects of too much time in the presence of the dead gods, and therefore unable to hold the office.

  The mine chief cleared his throat nervously. He was also new; his predecessor had died in a tunnel collapse accident a few weeks prior.

  “Witcher Thaame, the town presents this god to you. As laid out in our charter articles, we, the leadership of Auburn, authorize you to revive the deity, within the guidelines of your order, for the benefit and prosperity of our town. As per the articles, we will offer no intervention if you are injured, no aid if you fail. As per the articles, you get the witcher’s fifth if you succeed. Do you accept the charge?”

  The young man bowed his runed head and ran both hands across his face, tracing the scars of sigils there, loosening their power.

  “I accept the charge. Give me the boy and the god. Set the watch at the limits of the town.”

  The mining chief shoved the orphan towards the witcher and backed away a little too fast.

  “Advise the town of the acceptance.”

  The two ward-bearers turned, raising their flags. The breeze picked up the faded fabric, snapping it straight, and they began waving in an intricate pattern. The mining chief watched, impatient.

  At the edge of town, villagers wheeled defensive explosives into place, arming them. After completing the delicate task, signal flags went up, etching a reply in the hot sky. If something went awry, the watchers would blow the witcher dome sky high.

  The thought made the mining chief more nervous. He turned, half-jogging back to the wards protecting the town, the two ward-bearers struggling to keep up behind him.

  The witcher watched them go, a strange expression on his face. After a moment he turned to the boy, inspecting him.

  “What’s your name?” Thaame asked.

  “Saat, sir.”

  “Well. How old are you?”

  “Twelve, sir. I think. Someone once told me I was older, but I think I’m twelve.”

  “Call me Thaame, Saat. Let’s go inside, it’s hot out. Here, give me that.”

  The witcher grabbed the brain, startling Saat, and went inside the dome. Saat hesitated before following him into the cool shade, where he found the witcher placing the god’s brain on a large altar that stood in the middle of the darkened room. He watched as the witcher applied different patches, cables—unidentifiable totems of the ancients.

  “How long were you in the mines with the brain?”

  “They told me it was for a little over two days, sir … Thaame.”

  “And?” />
  “And what?”

  “Did it try to talk to you? Try to move? Anything?”

  “No, sir. It’s dead. How could it talk?”

  “These aren’t dead. They’re just … well, they’re older than anything you can think of, and time makes them go insane. That is, until they go to sleep. Usually, only a witcher can wake them up, but it sounds like that idiot Oosam actually managed to do it, even if it was just for a moment. Even then, it appears to have been just a reflex. Which is good, because it’s better than trying to revive a dead…”

  The witcher drifted off mid-sentence, focusing on his work. His hands flickered around the brain, making deft, birdlike movements over a convoluted nest of wires and cables. Every once in a while, a hand would flit up to rub one of the sigils on his head, as if drawing power from it. An hour passed, and the tattooed man continued to work, ignoring Saat, who was happy to just stand there and watch.

  A soft beep from a glowing parchment disrupted the silence, catching the witcher’s eye. He inspected it, grunting in approval. Saat shifted, trying to get a view of what was on the parchment, and accidentally sent an iron rod crashing to the floor. The witcher started, as if he’d forgotten anyone was with him. He stared at Saat as though he’d never seen the boy. Saat shifted under the strange man’s gaze, unable to look into the sunken eyes. The silence stretched out.

  “Saat, how long did you touch it for, while you were in the mines?”

  Saat flinched, and then realized he wasn’t going to get hit.

  “The entire two days, as I was commanded.”

  “Are you sure? You didn’t stop touching it once? Even for a few seconds to go to the bathroom?”

  “No, sir … Thaame.”

  “And you’re sure you touched it. I mean, you aren’t lying to me. It’s understandable if you are. You were in the dark for two days with the corpse of someone who touched it. I wouldn’t blame you if…”

  “I held my left hand on it until the moment you took it, sir.”

  Thaame looked at Saat with that same piercing look. Saat glared back, now unafraid.