The Garbage Chronicles (30 page)

More slave teams joined Brother Carrot as he marched through the Corker shopping district. The slaves brought stones, clubs, and anything else on which they could lay their hands.

The burgeoning army entered the expressway now, marching by abandoned Fruit carriages and the bodies of Fruits who had been killed by their slaves. Brother Carrot pushed down the brim of his cap, shielding his eyes from the suns.

They rounded a turn, bringing the rocky fortress of Corker Castle into view. Brother Carrot saw Fruits streaming across a drawbridge, entering the castle through the main gate. Purple Corkers lined the walkways and ramparts, their weapons glinting in the sunlight.

“There it is, lads!” Brother Carrot yelled, waving his cap once more.

His men cheered again, and a thunderous cheer it was. For now the ranks were swelled with thousands of freed slaves.

They passed a green expressway sign that read CORKER CASTLE—NEXT EXIT.”

Now Brother Carrot increased the marching tempo, and his men quick-stepped up the exit ramp. Ahead, the castle drawbridge was being closed. Those Fruits who were not able to get sanctuary fled in all directions.

“Onward, lads!” Brother Carrot urged. Rifle shots rang out from the castle and echoed down the valley. Then a Corker cannon roared. The cannonball arched and landed short of Brother Carrot, off to his right in a banana grove.

A gunnery officer caught up with Brother Carrot, saying, “We should set up here, sir. We’re just out of range of their guns.”

“Halt!” Brother Carrot boomed to his colonels.

The command echoed down the columns, and finally the army ground to a halt.

“Over here!” the gunnery officer barked, motioning to the carrot men in charge of the catapult.

The catapult squadron positioned the big wooden siege machine on a flat parking strip. Outriggers were cranked down. Then the Fruit Doom bomb was wheeled over and loaded onto the catapult’s sling.

“Carefully, men,” Brother Carrot said. “Load it carefully!”

Rifle and cannon shots continued to ring out from the castle. One cannon ball rolled close to the empty bomb trailer and bounced off a fir tree.

“Hurry men,” Brother Carrot yelled. “That was too close.”

“Ready, sir,” the gunnery officer reported.

“Aim carefully,”Brother Carrot said to the gunnery officer. “We’ll only get one shot.”

“Better move it a quarter of a degree left,” the gunnery officer said, standing next to the siege machine and eyeballing the target. “And raise it just a hair.”

Carrot men spun positioning dials as the gunnery officer spoke. A platform holding the catapult arm shifted.

“There!” the gunnery officer shouted.

“That’s it?” Brother Carrot asked. He heard the bomb buzzing.

“Yes, sir.”

“Then let ‘er go!” Brother Carrot shouted.

The gunnery officer moved a toggle on the side of the catapult, causing the long mechanical arm to snap forward. The Fruit Doom bomb arched toward Corker Castle, spinning slowly in the air. To Brother Carrot, the projectile seemed to travel in slow motion. He knew it was a terrible weapon to use. But it would prevent Fruit and Vegetable deaths in the field.

“Oh, no!” someone said. “It’s going in too low!”

“No,” the gunnery officer said, stretching and using body motions to urge the bomb a little higher. “I think it’ll just barely . . . ”

Brother Carrot covered his face with his hands.

The Fruit Doom bomb arched just over the castle wall, landing in the courtyard. A mushroom-shaped black cloud rose over the doomed castle.

This brought a tremendous cheer from the Vegetable troops.

Brother Carrot peeked between his fingers.

“On target, sir,” the gunnery officer reported.

When the bomb hit, King Corker was standing on a balcony overlooking the courtyard of his castle. He was in the middle of shouting a command to the captain of the Corker guards when a warning trumpet sounded.

Before anyone could react, the courtyard was swarming with voracious, razor-toothed fruit flies. King Corker had only half turned toward his room when the flies caught him. He died a terrible death, his flesh consumed in a horde of frenzied attackers.

The screams of dying Fruits filled the air.

From the other side of the moat, Brother Carrot heard the screams. Five minutes later, a pervasive, deathly silence settled over Corker Castle. Brother Carrot knew it was over. He felt bad about it, but knew it was something that had to be done.

After another five minutes, Brother Carrot gave the Command to turn on the Mother Hummer. When his men were slow to react, he snapped angrily, “Faster, men. We don’t want flies killing all the Fruits in the valley. Who would do our work for us?”

Two soldiers jumped now, flipping switches on the sides of the bomb trailer. A large, clear plastic funnel rose out of the trailer bed. A loud drone-whir filled the air, throbbing and pulsating with that one sound no tiger fruit fly could ignore.

A steady stream of flies left Corker Castle now, making a straight course for the trailer. They disappeared into the funnel.

“Beastly little creatures,” Brother Carrot said to his gunnery officer.

“Yes, but cross-bred with herpes stock to perfection!”

“War is hell,” Brother Carrot said, watching the last flies enter the funnel. Looking up with moist eyes, he saw slaves all along the castle walkways. Some lowered the purple Corker banner. Most of the slaves were carrot men, but Brother Carrot spotted occasional cucumber, lettuce, and cabbage people.

Five plump tomato girls from King Corker’s harem appeared on one wall now, waving white lace and squealing so loudly that Brother Carrot could hear their words from across the moat. “Long live Brother Carrot!” they said. “Long live Brother Carrot!”

While Brother Carrot watched, the drawbridge was lowered. Then he brushed dust off his uniform and called all the officers forward. “This is our moment in history, lads!” he told them.

Soon after that, Brother Carrot led a company of men along the short, curving section of road that led to Corker Castle. The men had grown quiet, and Brother Carrot knew why. Each of them had imagined this moment for so long, in so many waking and sleeping dreams, that now they could only savor it with their eyes.

Layers of puffy white clouds moved rapidly across the sky. To Brother Carrot they looked like the fleeing ghosts of fat little Corkers. He smiled.

The smile hardened when three dead banana men came into view. They were laying face up in a grassy planting area at the center of the road. Most of their flesh had been torn away by the savage fruit flies.

“See that?” Brother Carrot said to the company colonel as they passed. “Good slaves. We could have called the flies back a little earlier.”

The colonel nodded and murmured in solemn agreement.

They reached an uphill straightaway now, with high English hedges on each side, the last stretch before reaching the castle. Brother Carrot felt his pace quicken. The men chatted excitedly in low tones. Freed Vegetable slaves cheered wildly and waved brightly colored cloths from the castle walls above.

The drawbridge was only a few steps away when a wrinkled old prune woman in a frumpy brown dress stepped through an opening in the hedge. Stopping at the side of the road, she leaned her chin on a carved wood cane and stared up at Brother Carrot. She had a most curious expression on her face. Brother Carrot judged it to be a combination of sadness and bemused tolerance. He wondered how she had survived the Fruit Doom bomb.

“Greetings, Brother Carrot,” the old woman said in a throaty voice. “And greetings to your lean, hungry warriors.” She used one hand to smooth her dress.

Brother Carrot raised his right arm, causing the procession to stop. The old woman was terribly wrinkled, and her skin was a pale plum shade. The eyes were unmistakably sad, Brother Carrot decided. And the mouth was mildly amused. “How long have you been here?” he asked.

“All the time,” she rasped.

“Why didn’t the flies get you. Are you a magician? Or a witch?”

The old woman laughed. It was a wheezing, choppy laugh, like the strainings of an engine that didn’t have long to run. “What would flies want with an old prune lady?” she asked. “My skin has lost its sweet bloom. It is old and leathery.”

Brother Carrot stared at her.

“I am Priscilla the Prunesayer,” she said. “Once I was a lovely young plum, easily the fairest in the land.”

“And now you tell fortunes?”

She straightened for a moment, then leaned on the cane again. “That is correct.”

“And what is mine, old woman?”

“Why, the same as King Corker’s, naturally.”

“You mean I will die?” he asked.

“We all die sometime,” Priscilla the Prunesayer said.

“That wasn’t what I meant,” Brother Carrot said. He stepped close to her, intending to grill her militarily with questions.

The old prune woman closed her eyes, and a serene expression crossed her face., Then she tottered for a moment.

Brother Carrot reached out to steady her, but she slumped to the ground.

“I think she’s dead, sir,” the company colonel said.

As Brother Carrot looked down on the prunesayer’s body, thousands of Fruits fled the area. Many ran up the trail toward the lake that covered Dusty Desert. Others crossed the western grasslands. Still more reached the eastern seashore and took to boats.

Two who escaped by boat were Matteo and Nacho Pear. They used their own sailboat, not at all a large craft—less than eight meters in length and sloop rigged. Matteo and Nacho had sailed it often to the small unnamed island they saw now across the strait, on picnics and other happy occasions. This island was the first in a necklace of isles that stretched across the sea. Legend told them this. The brothers planned to hop from one landfall to the next, seeking refuge as far away as possible.

But never before had they sailed beyond the first island.

Feeling a strong wind against his face, Matteo pulled the mainsail halyard. He thought of the good times he and Nacho had enjoyed on this boat. A dark cloud structure bore down on them from the sea, bringing with it a chill wind and a misty rain. He secured the mainsail, then raised the jib.

The little boat began to pick up speed.

“I’ll get even with those rotten Vegetables!” Nacho yelled. He stood at the tiller, finding the best angle on the wind.

Matteo heard these words as he knelt in the bow, securing the bowline on a cleat. He saw the dark outline of the unnamed island on the horizon. “Death to the Vegetables!” he bellowed.

In less than a day Lord Abercrombie would soil-immerse himself permanently. There would be enough time to look over his recycling facility and meckies one last time.

For now he was soil-immersed in the usual half-committed way, knowing he would be back in Flesh in a matter of hours. With the visual and auditory sensors in each droplet of seawater, Lord Abercrombie heard the angry words of the pear brothers. He saw the lumpy form of Matteo as Matteo fine-tuned the rigging to get the most speed out of the boat. And he saw Nacho at the tiller, trying to steer a straight course in changing winds.

With countless sensors all over the planet, Lord Abercrombie eavesdropped on other Fruits as they vowed eternal revenge. All this triggered a moment of introspection in Lord Abercrombie. The past and future of his planet appeared before him like a magnificent, fluxing historical tapestry.

Vagabond Fruit armies made thrust after thrust against a fat and sedentary Vegetable kingdom. The Fruits were lean and oppressed, with all the power and fury of righteousness on their side. In fast forward across the tapestry, he saw the Fruits in power again, with wronged Vegetables hiding in the hinterlands plotting revolution. These Vegetables were led by Brother Carrot. The cycle repeated itself over and over in much the same pattern. Different faces appeared and disappeared. But the words and deeds were much the same.

Lord Abercrombie laughed at the timeless folly of the situation. Every pore of the planet echoed his laughter. Then the laughter became a storm of embarrassed rage, for Abercrombie came to understand the foolishness of his own paranoic fears. His laughing rage blew across the surface of Cork in a powerful, howling wind.

It was late morning, and Prince Pineapple walked briskly along the dirt meadow trail, well ahead of the others. Over one shoulder he carried a dark green gortex stuff sack Javik had let him use. The sack rattled, being full of treasures from the AmFed garbage cannister. The jagged white cliffs ahead seemed just as far away now as when they broke camp. He quickened his step.

He became aware of distant, murmurous laughter. It seemed to bounce off the white cliffs, traveling on an angry wind across the scarlet flower petals of the meadow. He felt the wind pick up now, pressing the flowers around him against the ground. The laughter became loud. Menacingly loud.

Frightened, he turned and bolted back down the trail.

Javik saw Prince Pineapple running back at full speed, with his bag bouncing on his back and his pineapple face contorted in terror. “Run!” Prince Pineapple yelled. His black button eyes were wild.

Javik heard the laughter now. It grew louder as Prince Pineapple approached, becoming a thunderous, booming cacophany as the prince ran screaming by. Javik covered his ears. He and the Moravians fell to the ground.

Looking back, Javik saw Prince Pineapple trip and fall.

The laughter grew fainter now. Soon it was gone.

“What the hell was that?” Javik asked. He became aware of a pain in his right hand. Namaba had been squeezing it too tightly. She was wearing the lemon yellow vari-temp coat and pants he had given her.

Namaba released her grip. “I don’t know,” she said.

Prince Pineapple crawled back with his bag, joining the others. “Is it gone?” he asked.

They increased their pace after that, walking so hard toward the cliffs that Javik felt a muscle pain in the front of one thigh. Late morning became midday, then mid-afternoon. Three Corkian suns baked the travelers and withered the flowers along the trail. Perspiration covered Javik’s body. He wiped his brow often with moist-pak towelettes.