Blood Harvest (13 page)

Mildred was gone.

Ryan flung himself back in the wag and stepped on it. He lost a rear window as longblasters cracked from the manse. A dozen armed men ran for the broken gates. Ryan roared past and the wag took a broadside, but it mostly resisted the rock salt and lead buckshot. In an instant Ryan was beyond the range of the lights of the manse and in the inky darkness beneath the trees. He made the curve in the road mostly by memory and hit the lights. Light bulbs were in short supply in the Deathlands and most wags' headlights had been modified to a type. The push of a lever allowed some hot gas from the engine into the fuel of the lamp reservoirs. The lever next to it closed the damper and extinguished them. Ryan pushed the lever. The engine made a hiss and clicking noise. The oil lanterns burned into life and the reflectors behind them intensified and threw their yellow beams.

Horror stood in the headlights.

It was female with the gigantic breasts and belly of a fertility goddess. Its ghost-white features were Neanderthalic, and it had the grotesquely muscled shoulders and arms of a gorilla. It charged the wag screaming and wielding a club the size of a sapling. The wag's engine roared as Ryan downshifted and stomped on the accelerator. Ryan rammed the she-thing dead-on. The hood
crumpled and the besieged windshield buckled as the huge mutie made its tumbling run over the wag. Ryan didn't look back. He was too busy fighting the wheel and trying to see out of the collapsing and spiderwebbed windshield. One headlight had been smashed and burning oil sputtered and smeared along the right fender with the wind of the wag's passage.

Ryan did some dead reckoning. Islands were all the same. They usually had one or two roads that crisscrossed out of the main ville, and most had a predark belt of road that circled the coastline. Ryan weighed his options. Mildred was missing and the hag-thing told him the night was uncertain at best. What was certain was that nothing but hundreds of islanders with blasters and swords waited for him back at the ville. Ryan chose the uncertainty of the night. He took the next turnoff on the road, which led into the hills.

He could only hope it would lead him to the coast.

Doc opened his eyes to gunshots and screaming. It was a far too frequent occurrence in this third, and he suspected, final life that fate had dealt him. Despite the Blood of the Lotus addling his mind, he knew the violence was relevant to him. In fact the narcotic in his bloodstream calmed him and allowed him to focus, even if that focus was tinged with a warm and somewhat welcome fuzziness around the edges. People were shooting and screaming on the floor above. Men were moving and shouting on his floor and the one below. Blasterfire cracked out on the grounds outside and Doc heard a crashing noise by the gate. Resignation passed through Doc's soul as the key turned in the door. He managed a small smile. He had fenced the match of his life. He had done his best. He wished his companions could have seen it. Doc closed his eyes as the door opened.

He prayed his friends were alive and inflicting confusion upon the enemy. For himself he prayed for strength to withstand what was to come. He knew Baron Barat would not be gentle. He was surprised when he felt someone sit on the bed. He smelled the scent of crocus flowers for the first time in centuries. A hand as soft as silk touched his cheek.

Doc opened his eyes and beheld an angel.

A single candle lit the room, and in its light the woman's skin was even whiter than the cotton nightslip she wore. The thin garment did more to accentuate than hide the lush, pale curves beneath. In startling contrast her eyes were of deepest black and her hair was so black it seemed almost blue in the soft glow. She might well have been the ghost of some beauty in a Gothic romance, except that her lips were as red as blood. She smiled at Doc, and when she did her scarlet lips and long canine teeth conspired to turn her from ethereal beauty to succubus.

Her voice was dulcet as she spoke his name. “Dr. Tanner?”

Despite the narcotic Doc was well aware of the family resemblance.

“I am the daughter of Baron Barat. My name is Zorime.”

“A pleasure, I am sure. I had feared you were the baron come to coerce my cooperation. I see instead he has sent a more gentle form of persuasion.”

“The men my father would use to break you are occupied elsewhere at the moment.”

“I see.” Doc sighed.

“As you may surmise the attempt to rescue you met with failure.”

“May I ask of my companions?”

“No, you may not.”

Doc took that to mean they were still alive and at large. If any of them had been captured or killed he suspected Zorime would have told him. Doc tried to laugh carelessly. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage. I am drugged, bound and bespelled by you.”

The huge dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not treat
me like a foolish girl, Doctor. I am aware you made every attempt to kill my father and brother.”

“I protest, my lady. I engaged both your kinsmen in honorable single combat, and offered quarter and succor in exchange for parley and the safety of my companions.”

Zorime's black eyes stared luminously into his own. “This is known to me. It took Herculean efforts to staunch my brother's wounds, yet still he speaks highly of you.”

Doc went to the point. “What is it you wish of me, Lady Zorime?”

“Nothing less than your utter cooperation, Dr. Tanner.”

Doc swiftly retreated from the point. “You speak in a most courtly fashion.”

Zorime blushed once again. “My father the baron insisted that I learn English that I might read Shakespeare in its original language.”

“Then I pray you, my lady, tell me the tale of your islands, in both tragedy and triumph I am sure they rival the Bard.”

Zorime regarded Doc for long moments. “As you have seen, Doctor, we often rely upon steel on this island. My brother speaks for you in this regard. Peradventure my father has a number of books in Latin that require translation, and we always seek to improve our education on the isle in every area we can. There is a comfortable life here for you as a master should you wish it.”

“So your noble father has intimated. Yet I beg my lady's favor for the tale again.”

Zorime's pale cheek quirked delightfully. “I am not sure my father would completely approve, but I will tell you a story, Dr. Tanner.”

“I am your rapt and undivided audience.”

Zorime gave him a dark-eyed look of wariness, but Doc knew he had hit a vein of gold. Baron Barat's daughter wanted to talk. “Our isle survived skydark. No fire fell upon us, and while the earthshaker weapons dropped some islands and raised new ones in the Atlantic, our island chain remained relatively untouched.” Zorime examined her ghostly hand. “However, we did not remain untouched by the black rains nor the chemical storms.”

Doc knew the story all too well. “Many of your people became sterile.”

Zorime dropped her gaze. “Yes, and inbreeding became both endemic and unavoidable unless we were to become a zero point population.”

“And porphyria, a recessive gene in your already somewhat isolated population, became dominant.”

“Yes.”

“Many in my time claimed the legend of vampirism came from the victims of porphyria.” Doc scowled. “However, even in my time it was medically accepted that the ingestion of blood gave no relief to its symptoms.”

“The recessive porphyria gene became dominant on our small island, as you suggested Dr. Tanner.” Zorime's huge dark eyes stared at him steadily. “And it mutated.”

“I see.”

“Frequent transfusions of untainted blood, along with infusions made from the local narcotic do ease the symptoms, which other than the need to protect our flesh from direct sunlight allow us to lead relatively normal lives.”

Doc tried to rein in his scorn. “Except that it has also
left you not only with blood upon your hands but upon your lips, as well.”

“There is a taste for it. A…craving.” Doc was horrified as Zorime unconsciously licked her lips. “I admit I am not immune to it.”

“And what of the people on the other island? How have they remained immune?”

“This island is dependent upon the lakes up in the hills for water. Come skydark fallout settled in it. We catch rainwater in cisterns, but in dry years we must draw upon the lake. We filter the water through charcoal, but though diminished the taint is still there.”

“And the other island gets its water from natural springs, where the bedrock of the isle forms its own natural filter,” Doc guessed.

“Yes, we import their water in some years of great need. However its levels are variable, and its ability to sustain Sister Isle is always near the brink.”

“Thus you seeded the isle with millet, which requires little or no irrigation, and goats, which can subsist on forage rather than fodder.”

“Yes.”

“And how did you seed Sister Isle with such willing blood donors?” Doc gave Zorime a shrewd look. “Surely they are outlanders.”

“According to our history, a refugee fleet came out of the west.”

“From Brazil? Or Amazonia, as it is now known?”

“No, they came from your United States, the Deathlands. They had been badly mauled fleeing whatever it was they sought to escape, and had been forced to battle pirates on their voyage, as well. Many of the adult men and women had been killed or wounded in the fleet's
defense. Nonetheless they still had close to a thousand souls under sail.”

“They made landfall on your island.”

“Yes.”

“And so?”

“At first they were grateful. Relieved to find a sanctuary.”

“I assume friction soon developed?”

“Our ways, our language and our…condition were alien to them. They knew little about fishing and less about farming. Their men expressed interest in our women, but their women considered our men repulsive. They considered us a damaged and diseased population. More of us spoke more English than they knew. We knew that some of them spoke of taking whatever they wanted and sailing on. We outnumbered them, but they were much more heavily armed and others among them spoke of simply taking over. My forefathers decided they had to act.”

Doc shifted uncomfortably in his bonds. “Act?”

“A feast was held. The Blood of the Lotus was introduced into the food.”

“There was…” Doc felt sick as the word passed his lips. “A culling?”

Zorime could not meet Doc's gaze. “Every male over the age of nine was killed.”

Doc closed his eyes.

“Every woman of child-bearing age was…distributed. The women who were too old were hobbled, put to work as slaves, and bled.”

“And you set the orphaned children upon Sister Isle. Whereupon you gave them a new language, a new occupation and a new religion.”

“It takes but one generation to cut the cord of culture,
Dr. Tanner, and children are easily molded, particularly when they are utterly dependent. English was forbidden. Though we took it on as a second language here. A simple mythos of the island across the strait was devised that our priests promulgated with weekly sermons. The gifts of wine and the narcotic gave the religious rites power.”

“The narcotic, you call it the Blood of the Lotus?”

“There is a plant on this island that has been used for medicinal purposes since time out of mind. It is believed to be related to the mainland nettle. Its leaves, fruit and ‘milk' were long used by our local midwives and herbalists. Scientists from the mainland were actually studying its properties just before skydark. Afterward the efficacy and potency of it grew and we learned methods to distill it to even greater power. Every man, woman and child of my people is addicted to it.”

“I see. Might I ask whom these nightwalkers your father spoke of may be?”

What little color Zorime's face had, drained away. “You may have noticed that after skydark many women give birth to horrors.”

Doc had seen mutations that spanned the gamut from the pathetic to the horrific. “Yes. The Deathlands have their share, I assure you.”

“You have seen some of the mutations our population faces. Sometimes among us, even if the child seems utterly normal and healthy by our standards, at the onset of puberty, a…change comes upon them. Among some it is subtle, among some it stabilizes and stops, and for some…”

“Horror,” Doc whispered.

“Yes, Doctor.” Some of her father's coldness entered
Zorime's black eyes. “Gigantism, sociopathy and a greater intensity in the craving for blood…and flesh.”

“Your people let this happen?”

“Given the times we live in, it is easy for most to kill an infant who is clearly deformed, but when the change starts during the flowering of adulthood, in a child you have raised and loved all its life, it is far more difficult.”

“I understand.”

“You understand nothing!” Tears spilled down Zorime's flawless cheekbones.

Doc's heart broke at the sight, and at what he intuited. “You fear for yourself.”

Zorime gazed upon her reflection in the mirror over the dresser for long moments. “You find me beautiful?”

“It is no exaggeration to say that you are without doubt one of the most beautiful women I have ever been privileged to look upon.”

“You sink to flattery, Dr. Tanner.”

Tears stung Doc's eyes as memories rose unbidden. “Only my wife was more beautiful.” Doc's throat tightened. “And my daughter, who had the good sense to take after her mother.”

Doc's emotions were plain to see. Zorime gazed upon him intently. “I will tell you, Dr. Tanner. But a few years ago I was a fat, happy little girl. The runt of the Barat litter. Now I grow taller. The chubby little hands my father so loved?” Zorime held up a hand as graceful as any concert pianist's. “Grow longer.”

“Mayhap my lady is simply flowering into womanhood.”

“So my father and Dr. Goncalves say, and so I pray.” Zorime closed her hand. “For if not, my fate is to be driven from the ville, to live in the caves with the other
nightwalkers, brooding more abominations like myself.” The beauty shuddered. “I am sure as the night baron, my uncle Raul will take me first.”

“Your uncle Raul, he…changed?”

“Yes. It had never happened before among the baronial line, but the change came upon my uncle Raul, and my father became first in line for the barony, and first for my mother's hand. My uncle did not take it well. He found a way through the caverns into the catacombs, and then into the manse. He took my mother and killed her.”

“And after such an action why did your father not rid the isle of the nightwalkers once and for all?”

“My father was about to purge the caverns with fire and sword, but then the island was invaded by raiders from the continent. It went ill for my father and his forces, but come nightfall my uncle Raul and his brethren rose from their lairs and fell upon the pirates. Between my father and my uncle the pirates were annihilated, and despite the terrible blood between them, an accommodation was reached. The nightwalkers are a form of insurance. Three times since, the island has been attacked and twice it was the terror that my uncle and his people wreaked in the night that told the tale.”

“Yet your uncle and his brethren, the nightwalkers, they seek blood and flesh in the night?”

“Sooner or later they must. We put food, wine and the Blood of the Lotus by the cave mouths, but the craving for blood and flesh is too strong to resist indefinitely.”

Doc felt the sting of his wounds. “Thus at any given time most of your weapons are loaded with rock salt.”

“Sufferers of porphyria fear wounds, Doctor. We bleed. Yet the rock salt does not wound deeply. It is
usually enough to drive them away if they are driven to attack the ville or the outlying farmhouses.”

“So—” Doc shuddered “—they slake their lust among the slaves.”

“They are allowed a certain amount of…depredation,” Zorime admitted.

Doc could no longer look upon the beauty in front of him.