((Collab with Wyrm)) What is it you call the dead when they come alive? They were ghosts, or ghosts of corpses, bloodied, bloated, and grey, dressed in tattered leathers, boots rotting off their feet, pus oozing through the holes in their broken bodies. Blood poured like water from a crater in the stomach of the big bearded one, and his eyes were white and clouded. A smaller man with a torso peppered in bloody spots walked beside him. But their leader, that... that thing, he was the worse of all. The top of his head had been blown off entirely, shot away as if by a howitzer shell, stringy gore and broken skull like eggshells in the pulp where his brain had once been. There were no eyes anymore, and blood poured from his goblet-like top as he walked. These ghouls, night-visions of a horrific unknown dream, the fevered imaginations a wrinkled [i]debtera[/i] might tell children to warn them away from cemeteries, they walked together alone in a desolate desert landscape. They were Highway Rangers. She knew it. Whats worse, she felt like she recognized them. The world around them, rock and dust and the bricks and planks of forgotten homesteads, seemed to fracture and break like pieces of glass as they walked, rearranging all around them, a landscape uncertain what it wanted to be. The creature with half a head still had lips, and they seemed to babble something, random cracking sounds interspersed with the sick gurgling of a drowning man. The sounds came together into words which she wasn't sure about. The words became ideas, and formed into something familiar in her mind until it became a song. It was as if the creature had grabbed hold of something in her subconscious and yanked it out of her. [indent][i]Yes, I'm gonna walk on that milky white way Oh Lord, some of these days[/i][/indent] It started as a cracked sentence, but soon it picked up a melody, and a band, and the ghouls walked in harmony with the song. [indent][i]Well, I'm gonna walk that milky white way Some of these days, well, well, well, well[/i][/indent] The landscape broke below them, and their walk turned seamlessly into a descent. Fire lapped from below them. They were walking down a staircase like a basalt formation, and it led straight into the pit. [indent][i]I'm gonna walk up and take my stand Gonna join that Christian band I'm gonna walk on that milky white way Oh Lord, some of these days[/i][/indent] The fires burst forth and blackened the dead things. Blood boiled over the half-head of the singer, pouring over the top like Victoria Falls. The creature smiled, seemingly at her, though she didn't think she was there for it to see. It licked its lips, face basking in rising hell-light, and a grin curled across its peeling face. She woke up. ---------------------------------- [u][b]Mid July: Madrid, Spain[/b][/u] ---------------------------------- Taytu was recovering in America before politics happened to her. Her brother chose to overreact, and she'd been sent out of the country to Rome where one of the best doctors in Europe was prepared to help her, but fever overtook her over the Atlantic. Instead they landed in Spain, a country she knew little about, as infection ravaged her and made it difficult to think, or to remember. How silly would it be to die over this? A bullet wound from some commoner in the American desert? Her ribs felt like gelatin. She stayed still, afraid to move, afraid to cause the pain, though the entire back of her body felt as if ten thousand little pins and needles were trying to push her up and force her to move. She fell in and out of consciousness, aware only of the odor in the room, a mix of her own sweat, of soap, and a sickly dank scent like rotting paper in an old library. The walls were the yellow of old parchment, the mattress thin on a harsh metal frame. Her nurses were nuns, women dressed in thick white cotton, their habits hiding their hair, their pale faces having the pudgy softness of sexless creatures who'd given up on themselves long ago. Her dreams were horrible. They were shifting deserts and plagues of the dead. She dreamed of the death of family members, of the disease that ate her father, of forlorn battlefields littered with brutalized remains left behind the angels of war to rot in the open air. She was aware of Noh Mareko, appearing occasionally, talking to her, saying nothing she could remember. What she mostly remembered was that rotten paper stench. It seemed to grow, become mixed with a putrid smell like rotting flesh. How much time had went on like this? It seemed like months, though she'd lost track somewhere in Nevada. She was relieved when a nun helped her into a squeaky wheelchair and pushed her out onto the balcony. The pain was fading by then, but the medicine dripping into her veins from a glass bottle hung on a pole kept her numb and only half conscious. How long had that medicine been there? It was in this state she saw the sun for the first time in what seemed like a year. Her face felt flush in the intense heat, and the light hurt her eyes and made her squint. There it was all in front of her. Madrid, that antithesis of American ambition and futurism. Europe had deflected the alteration of their culture coming from across the Atlantic, swallowing the modern world and regurgitating it into something more fitting to old dignities. The high rises and flashing commercial wonder of New York City was narrowly reflected in a different light, replaced with somber neo-gothic architecture, a city of high rises like cathedrals and basilicas to material need, the streets neat and orderly. It was, essentially, a good catholic city, the church spires hardly distinguishable from towers of industry and finance. This gave it a dignity, but also an Imperial harshness. She came back slowly over the course of the week. She learned she was at [i]Hospital de San Sebastián el Mártir[/i], not far from the city center. Sleep was the only thing she had to do most of the time, but twice a day the kindly nuns helped her outside, and she spent a moment watching the city. Airships came and went slowly, the native transport of a culture that saw leisurely slowness as a natural part of dignity. She noticed the soldiers in the street, and noticed how nobody else seemed to notice them. Madrid was crawling with uniformed military men, guarding crossroads, checking papers in front of government buildings, stationed on busy roads just... watching. She knew something was happening, a slight impression, something she'd heard in her sickness, or perhaps just intuition. But what was it? Spain didn't seem to mind. It went by casually, the people perhaps slightly slower and more venerable in their way then Americans, but casual all the same. Noh came back to her in her room. When she saw him, the airiness of her situation went away. She felt grounded to the world again. Vulnerable. "What am I doing here?" she demanded of him. Her voice was weak. She could feel it, and it bothered her. "You had an infection." he said. She'd already knew that, but she looked thoughtful as if this was new information. "I didn't make it to Rome." she stated. "No." "Where were you?" "It's hard for me to get through." "Through?" "The blockades. Soldier blockades. I'm a foreigner, so they deny me entry most of the time. They are real tough around here since... well, you don't know about it." "What?" "There was..." Noh bent down, his expression pensive, maybe a tinge afraid. "The King has replaced his government. The military has helped him." "There was a coup." Taytu said blandly. "Shh! We are guests." "We are dignitaries." she said, "And I've just been shot. Do you suppose everybody wants to put a bullet in me? It's a coup. They won't want to cause an international incident." "I do not know. I wouldn't want to know. There is a rumor a German nobleman was murdered." This piece of information made her pause. A smart revolutionary, one who had the competence to be a true statesman, will leave a foreign dignitary alone. No reason in raising international ire. But the problem with revolution is that they don't guarantee deserving leaders. What sort of creature might be lifted out of the gutter, their idea of government based on fairy tales and things they read about in books, to be made King until Darwinian nature intervened and plucked them from the throne? She might be caught in a burp of history, unlucky enough to be put to death by a someone forgettable. "Have you informed the embassy?" "They know you are here and are doing what they can, but I get it they are confused." Confused. Naturally. It was a revolution. Who could you trust? "Tell them I'm awake." she said, "I want to speak with the Ambassador. Whats his name?" "[i]Dejazmach[/i] Wendem Cherkos." The name was familiar. She could put a face to him. A nobleman, not a man she knew well, but still a man she knew. "Get him. I don't want to be stuck in this country much longer." Noh left her in the company of the taciturn nuns. Silence has a sound. Its like hushed air, and the long echoes of every little thing nobody pays attention to in a normal setting. She was awake now, anxious, uncomfortable with this strange atmosphere. With no radios in the building, she could hear whispering old nuns from the other side of the hall. She heard moans from fellow patients. Sometimes, when the silence grew so loud the air could be heard like static, she swore she could hear screaming. Tortured souls? No wonder these people were Catholic. Or was she dreaming this too? Still, she was feeling better. Healing was no longer a problem. She was left in a strange despair that seemed ridiculous to her. Bored, not five minutes after Noh had left her, she struggled to hike her gown up her side so she could see the wound that had cost her so much pain and time. It was there, just above the jut of her hip bone, looking like some strange formation on the moon. Her entire side was discolored and bruised black around the webbing formation of scar tissue, at the center a brutal scab. Seeing it made it sting. "No no!" a nun rushed in. "No no no!" The camel-faced woman grabbed her hard by the bottom of her gown and tugged down with some force, and Taytu realized she'd exposed more than just her hip. But what did it matter? She glared at the nun until the unhappy woman retreated, leaving her alone again, in the quiet with her wheeling thoughts. An image appeared real quick and unformed in her mind of cracked lips and blood. Her heart twinged with fear. Was she going insane? She couldn't just stay here. Noticing the wheelchair in the corner, she made a hasty decision. She pulled herself out of bed, her limbs feeling suddenly weak as if she were old and invalid, he side bursting in artillery shells of pain. When her bare feet felt the cold linoleum floor, her legs seemed to beg her to put them back in bed, but she persisted, and rose like Lazarus from the dead. The pain followed her march to the chair, feeling as if she were being folded sideways. She imagined herself to look like a leper, haggard, skeletal, an entirely broken woman, but none of that mattered so long as she could reach the shining excellence that was that ancient wheelchair. She sat in it, propping her good side against the bar, letting her spiking pain subside. When she was comfortable, she started to roll. It was work, especially dragging the awkward pole and bottle with her so it didn't tug at her arm. The wheels whined with every turn, and her arms were shaking, but she kept it moving until she was in the hall. It was a well kept hospital for all its depressing faults. The walls and floor were clean and maintained, decorated with the occasional crucifix or muted painting of a praying saint. She wheeled herself past nuns and white-coat doctors. They didn't seem to mind. She passed a young soldier standing guard, brown uniform and cap, in front of a closed door. What was that about? The coup? It didn't matter. She was looking for outside, for a world beyond the smell of old paper and ether. Her blood seemed to know where it was. She followed it and the memory of sunlight on her skin. When she found the door to the balcony, it gave her energy, and she turned the wheels with more vigor. A kindly old nun opened the door and she was out. The Spanish sun struck her immediately, and it made her feel well again. She was outside! On the street below she could see soldiers. Someone somewhere was strumming a guitar. It reached her like a sound she wasn't supposed to hear, overcoming the car noises in the busy street, hitting her ear as if it were just around the corner. A yellow and black checkered airship hovered lazily over the hills to the north. She closed her eyes, let the sun shine its cozy orange light through her eyelids, and smothered the anxiety inside herself. Somewhere, at some time, a church bell started, and a dozen more answered all at once. She was vaguely aware that she was cold. The world faded away. She was in a small sort of airship at night, standing on an outdoor platform made of steel surrounding the balloon, a number of soldiers with her, floating just above the treeline. She knew she was an American, but how that had happened she didn't know. They were all holding heavy rifles. A grizzled veteran standing next to her was singing to himself. [indent][i]I feel so bad I got a worried mind I'm so lonesome all the time Since I left my baby behind On Blue Bayou[/i][/indent] The moon was gone, and the darkness was nearly total. The landscape was dark blotches and shadows against a deep dark blue. "Wake up." a gruff voice whispered, "When we start, we'll be sitting ducks. Toast or be toasted." [indent][i]Saving nickles, saving dimes Working til the sun don't shine Looking forward to happier times On Blue Bayou[/i][/indent] "Is that? That's them! Toast them!" They all started shooting at shadows below. She could vaguely make out the reflection of their fusillade against the sides of trucks. "Cajun chickens!" one man screamed manically, "Bok bok bok bok!" The singers voice became something of a shout. [indent][i]I'm going back someday! Come what may! To Blue Bayou! Where the folks are fun! And the world is mine! On Blue Bayou![/i][/indent] She became aware that some of the dark figures scrambling beneath them were Highway Rangers. Her finger pulled hard against the trigger. So hard that it hurt. Enemy gunfire pinged against the armored gut of their airship. But something heavier belched further ahead, flashing like a red star in the black swamp, and moments later the air behind them burst into flame. She woke up, breathing heavy, the night completely silent around her, sweat on her brow. It took her several seconds to realize it was another nightmare. She was in Spain, in bed, safe, but she knew there would be no sleeping again tonight. She stared at the shadowed ceiling and listened to the drip of liquid from the bottle hooked up next to her. The drip had a rhythm, like a metronome keeping time for a silent orchestra. It seemed to go on forever until she disappeared from it. The next morning, she was wakened by a worried looking nun. "There is someone here to see you." she said, "Are you well?" Noh. She didn't see him, but he must have got the ambassador through. "Yes." she croaked, pulling herself up. The nun grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to Taytu's neck, then scurried off. There wasn't a wait, the person was just outside the door, and it wasn't somebody she recognized. The woman who stepped through the door and in that sterile white room was as out of place in Spanish Madrid as Taytu herself. There was an air of confidence to the woman that Taytu almost envied as a hovering nurse was shooed out of the room with a stern word or two in broken Spanish. Her visitor was, almost unbelievably, a black woman. Even beneath the politely ankle length dress and high collar Taytu could still see that this woman was incredibly fit and found herself returning the broad smile. As she swept into the room the faint smell of roses came with her, cutting through the sterile smell of disinfectant. She was pretty, well dressed, but in a way that Taytu recognized as being entirely forgettable. It was no accident, of that Taytu was sure, and in her experience only one group of people dressed like that, intelligence agents and spies. "Your Majesty, I am Sara Reicker. I bring you the warmest regards of Viceroy Delgado and be apologizes for not being able to attend to you personally." The woman spoke flawless Amharic, though her dialect was slightly off, she was clearly from somewhere south of Ethiopia, Rhodesia maybe. She bowed her head slightly, enough to be polite. "How are you?" "Miserable." Taytu complained. "This isn't the quality lodgings I'm used to." “It is a shame then that your companion didn’t disclose your true identity to us sooner.” Sara smiled broadly, a smile that failed to reach her eyes. “The Viceroy has placed a small palace at your disposal if you wish.” "Am I free to leave this country if I choose?" Taytu said wearily. Sara looked confused for a moment. "Of course. Why would you not be?" "I'd like to meet with the Ambassador from my country. Can that be arranged?" "Your majesty is not a prisoner. You have but to ask the nurses to use a phone. Since you seem intent on ignoring my generous offer, think about it, and call me when you have made up your mind." Sara stood and then placed a stamped card on the table. It bore only a phone number and the words Foreign Office. "Until then, your majesty." "Wait." Taytu said, throat dry. "I didn't deny anything. I want to meet with my ambassador. Here is fine. So is this palace." "Then I will send word for him to meet us there." Sara had paused in the doorway but now turned back again and barked something in angry Spanish. The nuns appeared quickly and Taytu could not miss the hint of fear on their faces. They conferred for a moment Sara, their strangely pale faces in stark contrast to her black one, then they nodded and hurried into the room to help Taytu dress.