Authors: Mark Souza
Robyn prepared a bottle, sure that Jacob would want one once he woke. She sat on the floor next to him and watched him sleep. She resisted the temptation to stroke his hair. It looked soft and fine as rabbit fur. She leaned close and drank in the sweet, florid scent of Jacob’s skin. She pulled away with a smile on her face.
Her daughter was so close now, mere days away from decanting. Robyn crept onto the net to find Moyer, to warn him she might be late. There was no sign of him. She assumed he was still at work, shielded by the Digi-Soft net filters. Moyer was a big boy and perfectly capable of fending for himself.
Chapter 24
T
he old train stopped in Mannington at mid-morning. The station was empty. The town dilapidated, abandoned and unfamiliar. Moyer scanned his surroundings to get his bearings, trying to recall the way to Harter Creek. Nothing felt familiar. It all seemed smaller and decayed, as if time in a fit of rage had pummeled the buildings with heavy fists. Towering trees overhung the streets having grown unchecked for over two decades. Some had fallen blocking the way and no one had bothered to remove them. It was the village entropy called home.
Moyer closed his eyes and listened for the sound of rushing water. For a moment he heard it, and then it faded. He opened his eyes and saw leaves settle into stillness and realized then that what he thought was water was the susurration of wind through the trees. In the stillness there was no sound other than birds singing.
He walked straight ahead. It was as good a choice as any. The asphalt under his feet was heaved and cracked. Morning sun pushed transparent snakes of heat writhing upward from the ground. It reminded Moyer of an old photograph of a dried lakebed his mother had taken as a teen. She said it made her happy knowing such open places existed, even if she would never see them again.
Automobile corpses slumbering on shredded tires lined the street. Rust stains radiated from beneath them, vestiges of mortal wounds. Few still had glass in the windows, and the ones that did were coated white with decades of bird guano. His father told him of days a century ago when there was still oil and cars covered the earth. He said people lived where they wanted and went where they pleased.
Broken power lines snaked along sidewalks. All but a few houses lay in ruins, nothing more than stacks of broken wood sunken into crumbling foundations. He couldn’t believe people still managed to live here. There were no signs of life. The few remaining intact houses stood lifeless, frail and ready to fall.
The road turned and rose up a hill. Moyer knew he’d made a mistake. He turned and started back at a trot, past the train station and into the heart of town. Brick storefronts bordered the street, their plate glass windows broken out, and displays stripped of wares. He continued on. Without the net, he had no way to track time, though he was sure he was already late. Within minutes he was panting and slowed to a walk, sweat dripping from his brow, clothes sticking to his skin again. It was going to be a hot day.
A kilometer further along, the road ended. Moyer stooped hands braced on knees to catch his breath and heard the sound of water. A dirt trail began where the sidewalk ended. The trail passed through shoulder high grass and saplings. Within a few meters the path descended into a thicket of cottonwoods. The dense canopy blocked all but a few dapples of sunlight. The air beneath was dank and cool.
The rush of water filled his ears. Moyer started down the hill. His shoes skidded across damp soil. His feet flew into the air. He slammed down on his back and slid to the bottom. Pain shot through his lower back. He came to rest sitting in a puddle of brown water. He swiped a hand under his shirt. It bumped the knife tucked under his belt. When he examined his palm, he was relieved to find it wasn’t bloody. What would have happened to him if he’d gigged himself on his blade like an idiot? What did people do if they were hurt out here?
He stood and examined his muddy clothes and shook the muck off his arms. Two long furrows in the dirt marked his descent. He’d have to find another route for his return. The hill was too slick to climb back up. Moyer had no choice for now but to continue down the path.
The trail emerged from the trees at the water’s edge and joined a trail paralleling the creek. Moyer headed upstream. It was a hunch, but Moyer trusted it.
Ahead, a gap in the trees promised a view beyond the verdant wall encapsulating the creek. It was a chance to catch his bearings.
The ground rose gradually. Near the crest he saw a church spire jutting above the canopy. He smiled, succumbing to an upwelling of accomplishment. Though his opportunity to meet with the giant might already be gone, he’d made it this far.
A well worn trail cut through high grass and vines to the church steps. A steeply pitched slate roof capped fieldstone walls and culminated in a decaying wooden spire tilting to one side. Ivy grew to the top of a row of stained glass windows running the length of the building.
Other than the leaning spire, the building still appeared sound. In a shady plot on the side of the building, headstones poked up at odd angles above the weeds. Moyer had heard the dead were once buried in the ground in days long past. He wondered if bodies were still under the dirt. The concept of rotting bodies trapped beneath the ground made him shudder. It was so unclean, and the thought of bacteria and insect larva eating his remains was disgusting.
The church doors were cocked open. Inside the dark narthex, scents of lemon and smoke mixed with old, ammoniated urine. Wooden benches stretched forward in neat rows, uniform and intact at the front, gapped and disheveled at the rear. Splinters and wood chards littered the floor where pews had been busted apart for firewood. Shafts of light tinted blue, green and red by colored glass filtered through gaps in the ivy, and danced on dusty air.
“You’re late,” the giant roared from behind him.
Moyer jolted and turned. “Sweet Jesus, can’t you make a little noise.”
“You picked an odd route.”
“I’ve never been here before. You were watching?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you help me?”
“I had to make sure you weren’t followed.” The giant sat and tipped back his hood revealing a head closely cropped whitish-blond hair. Moyer sat beside him on the same pew a meter further down.
“So why the sudden interest in the old ways? You didn’t want to hear it a few months ago.”
“Let’s just say circumstances have changed,” Moyer said.
“Ah, circumstances.” The giant’s hand flashed toward Moyer, who tried to dodge away. A heavy arm forced him down and pinned his chest to his knees. When the giant released him, he held Moyer’s knife in his hand. “What prompted this?”
“Your people jumped me once. I didn’t know what to expect so I brought a little protection. How did —”
“The shape of the handle is stenciled in dirt on the back of your shirt. Do you have any other surprises?”
Moyer looked sheepish. “No.”
“You realize, had you tried to use this against me, things would not have gone well for you? I can consciously overcome much of my training, but I can not control my reflexes.” The giant set the blade on the pew beside him.
“You’re soldier-class, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How does a soldier wind up the founder of Begat?”
“Just because I’m a soldier doesn’t mean I can’t think.”
“I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant was did you come up with this on your own? You are fairly young. I assume you deserted the military.”
“No, I failed a psych eval and was classified obsolete.”
“Why?”
“Because I started thinking on my own and questioning things, including orders. They don’t tolerate that in the army.”
Moyer’s brow furrowed. “If you don’t mind my asking, what changed you?”
The giant’s face softened. “I was in the Euro-theater tasked with guarding political prisoners at Bedzin. One was an old man who used to be a priest. Guard duty is long and dull. We would talk to pass the time. He started reading me stories from
The Bible
. Do you read?”
“I read,” Moyer said, “My father started me.”
“I didn’t read at the time. It wasn’t a skill they wanted soldiers to have,” the Giant said. “The old priest taught me using his
Bible
. When we got to the part of Genesis with the lineage and all the begats…” The giant noticed the confusion on Moyer’s face. “Have you read
The Bible
?”
“Of course, the
Approved Abridged
.”
The giant smiled. “That’s not
The Bible
.” Reaching forward, he pulled a book from a rack mounted on the next pew and handed it to Moyer. “A gift.” The book was much thicker than any Bible Moyer had ever seen.
“Anyway, when we got to all the begetting, I didn’t know what it meant. The old priest explained to me that in the time before Hogan-Perko, before the genetic plague, God gave man the ability to produce children without help. This was the way God intended. The priest said Hogan-Perko was trying to replace God and convince people they must come to them for children.”
“My father told me of the before times,” Moyer said, “and what you are saying just isn’t true. Yes, people could make their own children, but that was before the genetic plague. Cloning with screened DNA was the only way to filter out the plague. It saved mankind. But clones are sterile, and we are all clones.”
“Who says we’re sterile?”
“Scientists! Statistics!” Moyer sputtered. “There hasn’t been a recorded natural birth in well over a century.”
“And who owns the scientists and provides the statistics?”
Moyer shook his head. “I’ve heard better conspiracy theories. It’s the same old crap. And I don’t need statistics to know you are wrong. Sex is the number one recreational activity on the planet. I don’t know if the net would survive without it. And yet despite that, not a single natural birth since the plague.”
“Just because you haven’t seen or heard of one doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. Who controls what’s on the net?”
Moyer narrowed his eyes wondering what point the giant was trying to make.
The giant grinned. “If you can control the information someone receives, you can control what they think. Your information is very filtered and often times manufactured. You see only what they want you to see, interpreted the way they want you to interpret it. It’s how Perko gets away with all he does. He creates distractions and diversions to keep your attention elsewhere so you can’t see what’s happening right under your nose.
“It’s a magician’s trick, distraction and sleight of hand. A war here. The fight against Godlessness there. Gay rights. And while everyone is distracted, bickering over these inconsequential things that dominate the scene, Perko is consolidating power and taking control, and no one notices. The only information he doesn’t control is what you see with your own two eyes. What would you say if I told you I’ve seen natural births?”
Moyer said, “I’d say you are either delusional or lying to forward your cause.”
“What would you say if I told you Global Brands, who manufactures most of the food products on the planet, is a division of Hogan-Perko. And that Global Brands puts a hormone called Inhibin in many of its products. In males, Inhibin signals the body to stop producing sperm. And what if merely changing your diet could make you fertile again? What would happen to Hogan-Perko?”
“I’d say I need to smoke some of what you’re smoking. That’s a very elaborate story without a shred of proof behind it.” Moyer rubbed his eyes. He felt weary and upset. He had nearly died on the train, and for what, to hear conspiracy theories? “And this is the alternative my wife and I were hanging our hopes on, the reason I came all the way out here — to hear this?”
The giant smiled. “Margret, you can come out now.”
A young woman stepped from behind the apse. She wore a long flowing skirt low on her hips and a loose blouse. She glanced around the building, and then toddled forward with small awkward steps, her shoes clapping against the stone floors. She stopped next to the giant who raised her blouse to reveal her belly. Something was wrong with her. Moyer had never seen a stomach protrude in such an unnatural way. She wasn’t fat, she was swollen. The woman took Moyer’s hand and pressed it to the bare skin below her navel. The skin there was taught and hot to the touch. Something thumped against his palm. Moyer jerked his hand away. “What was that?”
Margret’s lips curled into a bemused smile. “That was my baby. He just kicked.” She grabbed Moyer’s hand and returned it to her stomach. It happened again. Moyer’s mouth hung slack, brows pinched in curiosity as he gazed into the woman’s eyes.
“I can’t believe it,” he said. Moyer withdrew his hand, and the giant lowered her blouse.
“You can go now, Margret,” the giant said. “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” she replied.
She slipped out of sight at the rear of the church. “So this is why Viktor Perko considers you a dangerous man?”
The giant nodded. “He that trusts in a lie shall perish in truth.” The giant fixed Moyer in his stare. “Have you devised a way to destroy the Worm?”
Moyer squeezed his nails into the flesh of his palm.
“Confession is good for the soul,” the giant said.
“What?”
“Something seems to be bothering you. It often helps to talk.”
Moyer nodded. “Viktor Perko sent me. I’m supposed to collect a DNA sample to implicate you in a bombing.” Moyer averted his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
The bench groaned as the giant leaned his weight back and sighed. “Do you do this of your own free will?”
“No. Perko says he will flush our daughter if I don’t.”
“I see. Come with me. I want to show you something.”
Moyer followed the giant from the church and had to squint against the sun outside. The giant walked quickly in long strides that made it difficult to keep up. It was what he was trained to do. The military called it humping. Moyer had to jog to keep up.