The 6th of Six (The Legend of Kimraig Llu) (30 page)

Princely climbed up to the top floor and found a couple of tubs with a little BJ in the bottom. Another had something that looked like an egg and smelled like alcohol. Some rustling scared him so he ran back downstairs.

Funny, he had not seen a couple other guys around lately.

Seven days, nice long days for him to read.
Thank you Old Crone, for teaching me how,
Princely thought. Now he had time to stack and file his scraps of paper into the crude containers Boss called plastic.

The memory of Old Crone remained the closest thing to royalty the rabble in this former city would allow. Women died quickly with this bunch of losers. No male or female body could withstand the constant lustful needs of the wild animals they had become. Old Crone remained above it all, selling her body carefully to the strongest men. Each choice carefully made, avoiding those who raged when their bodies would not take her—fatal.

She had taken dozens of little children under her wing, protecting them. All of those kids stolen from the more civilized survivors who occupied buildings in the center of their island. Those fools constantly left them unattended in the basements and the upper unguarded floors of one building in particular—Number 2 Building.

Old Crone was all business, not savior. As soon as the kids bodies grew enough she “turned them out,” each boy or girl became a piece of meat rented a single day each week. Returned intact the next morning or Boss sent enforcers who terminated the client. His help got him first pick, free mostly.

The first one she sent to Boss was Princely, her favorite who was always by her side. He had learned from her. First was the rudimentary repair of frail human bodies. Pitiful homemade tonics ground from the leaves of plants. Second task was reading and writing to help her keep track of her enterprises. And, most important, his value to the Boss their leader, as both Old Crone’s representative and a sponge for the old man’s infrequent sexual needs.

Small, wiry, young and given to sharp bursts of energy which never emptied from his body, he was a constant steady presence in the everyday rancid lives of Outsiders. Each sick or hurt derelict knew to hold up in the nearest way station until Princely wandered in with Boss. With luck, they might last one more day.

On the eighth day of “stay put,” for some reason, Boss did not issue the order to move.

His messengers, always two since force was easiest with two, arrived just after first light one day later. Princely was in his teen years and well past the age preferred by the old man. So he guessed, and lugged his battered knapsack full of remedies, just in case.

He would need everything he brought. The grizzled old man lay prone on a pallet of filthy rags. His normal, not quite black skin, held the pallor of trouble. Princely moved fast as he followed the procedures the long dead Old Crone had stressed as the first steps to determining what course of treatment would be the best for his patient.

“That first impression you get when you observe the sick is the best. Act, do not think it to death,” he heard her voice in his memory along with his reply.

“But what if I guess wrong,” he said backing away.

“No one lives anyway. Sometimes hope works or a simple guess. A good healer uses whatever to keep his own ass safe,” she cackled with that utter disdain she held for all humans everywhere.

Princley’s first impression was to get started. Boss had an awful looking left foot, all swollen from sole to knee, mottled crimson splotches blenching through the dark skin. His forehead was hot and sweat ran into the mangy curls on his chest. Bad fever, he had to do this fast.

“You two,” he motioned to the messengers, pointing as he spoke. “Pull those boxes over to that window, then make a raised flat surface with that old table top.”

They just looked at him like he was simple or something. He knew they had already planned to divvy out the containers of BJ. From the looks of their flushed faces, they had generously sampled at least one before heading out to find him.

“Well,” Princely said, sticking his chin out and raising his eyebrows to scowl with Old Crone’s look of utter disdain.

He stared them down. One heartbeat, two, and then his message penetrated their alcohol haze. They responded, reluctantly. His crude operating table took shape in the light.

“Elevate the leg,” Old Crone instructed him. “Then check for Fire River”

“Stop ordering me around, I know what to do,” he responded.

The two men edged away from the “crazy boy talking to ghosts,” giving him and his table considerable distance. Each squinted hungrily to the stacks of BJ containers stacked along the wall.

Princely turned and gave his orders. “Boss is going to be fine. I will make sure to tell him what a fine job you did protecting him.”

Pointing toward the door he ordered, “Leave now.”

As they jumped and scurried for the door, he was proud of himself. Never had he sounded more like his beloved old pimp.

He used the procedure Old Crone had instructed long ago; he raised the damaged leg on the small, unfamiliar container. As he did, the container farted with the reek of its recent horde of BJ. There were no broken bones that he could see, only the big toe swollen twice its size.

Okay, starting point: work up the leg from the big toe, looking in the proper place for the angry red line called Fire River. If he found it, forcing alcohol down the old man to keep him out was the only treatment. Princely would take a healthy swim in one of those containers himself, and call it a day.

No lines, maybe it was a broken toe.

“Not broken, no lump in the top there.” She continued to order him along.

Yuck, he saw the big angry toenail. You were right Old Crone, big black hole in the middle all the way to red and raw skin underneath.

“Fungus,” she said as if he did not know.

“Well, this is going to hurt you a lot,” he said to the unconscious man, fighting without much success to keep the bubbling humor from his voice.

“Kill him or cure him,” Old Crone cackled through the room.

For what he was going to do, he had to make sure nothing started the Fire River. This fresh made BJ would kill any little wigglies before that got started. He just had to keep the sediment off the wound. The containers he could see stacked against the wall were too big to control a pour.
I must find one of the small ones to match this footrest.
He absently touched the plastic container supporting the damaged foot.

“Go look, must be more someplace,” the old girl again, stating the obvious.

Princely found them. Dozens of hidden mismatched containers, a few even clear, displaying the contents. They were empty. Hidden, but empty did not make sense. He reached over to the nearest containers and grabbed one. Its weight almost took his balance.

“Not as empty as they appear, are they?”

There she goes again.

He returned to the table with the small container. Wary of the smell he turned his head and removed the cap. No dead body odor, maybe it was water. When he gave it a quick sniff, there was only a very pleasant smell of the ocean—damn, only seawater.

“No sediment, fool. Taste it and learn.” She had always been careful with the health of all her little prizes, so he did.

The taste was exquisite. As he swallowed, incendiaries torched his throat and a satisfying warm glow claimed his body. It had been the tiniest of sips—just a taste—even smaller than the half thimble he divvied out for his scraps of paper. He resisted the urge to take a good solid plunge into the bottle. If he did, he knew he would be puking for the next day at least.

He poured a small amount into his palm and began washing his hands, slowly letting the rivulets run onto exposed toes and foot. No need to watch for sediment—clean stuff made by the Ergots, not Boss. Small amounts poured quickly, washed his forearms, hands and all the toes plus the leg propped on the empty BJ container. He left his container open knowing he would need it again soon.

“Shame to waste that sweet nectar on the likes of him,” Old Crone sighed.

“When I fix him he will give me all I ask for.”

“True. If not...” She was enjoying this, too much.

He placed his pliers and the long thin blade he kept honed like a razor in the puddle on the table. Then picked them up one at a time and cleaned them with more excellent BJ, using every bit of skill he could master. Still slippery with the smell of ocean, he held the offending toe with the pliers and began a cut with the long thin blade. Blood spurted and he quickly diluted the flow with drops straight from the container. Under his knife, the toenail came away in pieces. Boss was still out cold, yet the toe jerked from Princley’s hold. He took the opportunity to rinse his hands from the container, and then he wet a few of the small squares of matting spun from the fibers of the green black weed that grew everywhere. He cleaned and cut until everything that the fungus had damaged lay in the puddle on the table. When he finished, he tucked several rolled pieces of wet matting down between the big toe and its neighbor—had to get it air so it would heal.

One last touch, he carefully lifted the old bottle that lay with his knife and forced out the glass stopper. A single tear dripped thickly from the opening and fell against the gashes he had made with the old fish knife. It landed with a splat, the flesh sizzled, and the burnt tang of green-black weed etched his nose. Now the worst part of the open wound sealed itself with help from the undiluted caustic sap.
No little wigglies to bring Fire River.

“Damn boy-o, I learned you good.”

Yes, she had. Despite his lingering doubt, he felt proud of himself.

Okay, convince Boss to stay off that foot, and we get more days in this spot. Princely would concentrate on the message his bits of paper were trying to force into his head. He would send runners back to the other way stations. Each had careful instruction, locate individual plastic boxes he had stashed and return them only to him.

Princely had already broken the code hidden in paper scraps that explained why they were Outsiders. Stranded in the rubble—unwelcome in the buildings—they were too much trouble. Boss, referred to as Bradley, had spent his life before the bombs as a petty crook and troublemaker.

That was just the beginning.

Boss had stored up all the alcohol from the liquor stores he raided after things came apart. That pea brain figured to take the lead with all the bums because he had a supply. He knew a bunch of women held a building and made the mistake of sending his half-drunk bums to get some. They were not good enough soldiers to fight girls so they had to retreat and Boss almost got killed.

But here they were doing the same thing all over. This time he had help. Bunch of dumb bubble things he found somewhere which gave Princely the shakes just looking.

No time to think about Boss and his revenge; time to learn why the Builders confined so many of their people in parts of their buildings called Lower Level and Middle level.

He knew he should tuck the partial container of super good big-juice back in its hiding place. Instead, after a little thought, he stuffed a full one into his knapsack and carried the partial with him.

He shook the bottle’s contents as he walked to the guards “Bradley is awake now. He sent you this BJ. He ordered you to stay out.” He handed them the container.

With double grins, Princely, with Old Crone shimmering at his side, walked back the way they came.

* * *

Far away from the “way house” where he had to fix that foot for Boss, Princely felt the fear begin to build. It had just got dark, he was oh so cold, and the old girl was fuming at him again. He could not help how long it took sneaking around and over the rubble mounds, just looking for a way to make contact with the old girl’s friends in that big building. Even the Holes, the entrances to old underground subway tunnels, had guards. He heard them talking about Kimraig who was everyone’s hero, and how he might have done too much this time what with loosing that building he was supposed to occupy.

They, he and Old Crone, had watched troops patrol. They even tried to slither through the cracks into the jumble of concrete scrum to get close to the right big building. No go, even with that lucky bright blue scarf the old girl got from that Builder woman Sala, who said things would be better soon. The reason they could not get through was them Builders had a great big noose of troops strangling their neighbors into their own little buildings. Not very neighborly was all Princely could think. Had to think it since there was no way he was going to say one word that might draw attention right to him—them.

“We got to get us out of here, boy-o,” she gnawed inside his head.

He did not answer her. At least he had stopped shaking from the attack by those ropes with the big old chunk things on the end. All of it raining down on him out of the almost night time sky.

Once he choked his heart back down from his throat, he tried again to dart through the unguarded doorway leading into the building. Damn, no sooner got his legs under him and the door burst outward spilling a hundred laughing females all dressed up in them scary uniforms.

“Stop it boy-o, only ten out there. What happened to those big balls?”