Island Fever - Part One

             “There it is,” Jack called back from the pilot’s wheel, his words barely audible between the slaps of the little fishing boat bouncing from wave to wave.

“Where?’ Adrienne asked. Craig loped up from the back where he had been keeping an eye on their gear and helped her direct her binoculars. The lighthouse was only a knob on the flat horizon of the calm ocean. Over the next fifteen minutes, Adrienne watched it rise like a phallus out of the sea. Her home for the next week.

And then, there it was, floating up and down on the waves, totally adapted to the wild ocean environment: a puffin. Its black Harlequin tear, its vivid orange beak, and its stocky little body made her chuckle with delight. This fellow had been living a solitary life, never coming to land, making his living on the Atlantic for three years. He was returning to his birth home to join others like him for sex and procreation. Craig, Adrienne and their companions would be carefully monitoring the activities of the puffins and their fellow nesters, the terns, guillemots, and murres on the islands along the northern Maine coast.

It was the opportunity of a lifetime. In the course of the summer, volunteers from around the world came to Maine to tenderly watch and protect the puffins. The Rock, set up with the cooperation of the Coast Guard who maintained the lighthouse, was considered a plum position because of the keeper’s cottage. On other islands, volunteers lived in tents through summer heat and Atlantic storms. Adrienne would have a real bed though it would be cold, she had been told. This far out, the waters were frigid in late spring. This last week in May, she, Craig and the six others who would arrive the next day, were to clean the lighthouse keeper’s cottage and organize the place for the summer’s work.

Only an amateur birder, Adrienne jumped at the chance to live among the puffins for a week. She lived a humdrum life, working at an insurance company. Shy, she lived with her mother. Her only friends were birders, who were not really close but didn’t mind a short, squat little woman in their ranks. She shared her hobby with them, that was all they cared about. She knew she should break away from her mother, go out and get a life, but her mother was an invalid…or thought she was.

             Craig, an ornithologist, met Adrienne on a Midwest birding expedition. He admired her knowledge of warbler calls and she admired the book he had written on the subject. He autographed her battered copy and asked if she would be interested in going to the Rock. They could use a few more volunteers. She didn't have to be an expert on sea birds since their week would be mostly cleaning and setting up duty stations for the summer.

A real adventure at last! Her mother warned of the dangers of planes, boats and lighthouses. She suggested that Craig was untrustworthy, probably a white slaver. Adrienne ignored all her mother’s warnings. She took her two week vacation at the insurance company and set off.

On the twenty mile boat trip to the rock, she was adding dozens of birds to her life list. Gulls, storm-petrels, puffins, auks, murres, gannets and eiders swarmed around the boats. It was spring migration and the sea was alive with avian life. Her binoculars swung from side to side as she tried to catch every one of them.

             Craig laughed at her enthusiasm, then paused for a moment. “I forgot to ask,” he shouted over the sound of the motor. “You aren’t claustrophobic, are you?”

             “No, why?”

             “Some people get island fever. The Rock is only thirty acres, just a pinpoint on the map and when it’s storming, we’ll be locked in the cottage.”

             “Can be a problem,” their pilot called back. “Kris got a bad case last year, I heard, before the accident.”

             Adrienne called back, “What happened to Kris?” but the motor got louder as Jack reversed the motor, stopping the boats progression as they drew near to the landing. Jack dropped anchor some yards off shore. Lithe Craig hauled in the little dory they had been dragging behind them until it was next to the rocking boat. He lumped two heavy gummy bags into it and rowed to shore to get the bigger dinghy stored in the island boat house. Soon he was back, his muscles straining against the current, to get Adrienne and another load of gear. One quick trip, and her wobbling sea legs were on shore on the island, alone for a few moments on the island, suddenly feeling lonely. She shook her head and got to work. As Craig went back to get the last three loads, she lumped as many packages as she could as far as the boat house to get them away from the ocean spray.

The boxes, bags and human cargo unpacked, Jack took off in his boat, dory trailing behind. They would see him tomorrow, when he brought the rest of the crew. Craig and Adrienne were alone with the gear, which they dragged up to the keeper’s cottage. They had boxes of groceries, enough food for eight people for ten days, Craig said, as well as cleaning gear, and scientific equipment. There were propane tanks for the stove and bottled water for drinking. Most important, there were batteries for the short wave phone connecting them to the mainland.

             The keeper’s cottage clung to the side of the lighthouse, a two story structure made of the rock it stood on. Over 150 years old, it had seen its share of keepers, but now the lighthouse was automated. Its light shone night and day. Every fifteen seconds the foghorn sounded, like a teenager beeping his horn for his girl,whether there was fog or not.

             “You didn’t tell me about that,” said Adrienne. 

 

             “You get used to it,” Craig told her. “I brought ear plugs to help us sleep. Besides, it is quieter inside the stone walls.”

             The cottage was amazingly clean after eight months of being vacant, she thought. Craig pointed out that there was little to dirty it over the winter. There were no animals of any kind on the Rock. Any mice or rats that somehow managed to make it twenty miles out to the lighthouse would immediately be devoured by the birds. The birds left once their breeding season was over leaving the island to be washed clean by winter storms. Salt water scoured away most of the topsoil, leaving only a few grasses behind to fight it out with the lichen in the cracks between rocks.

             Their week long home did need airing out. Everything was damp, and would remain so until mid-summer, Craig said. The Rock slept in fog through three-quarters of the year.

             Craig led Adrienne upstairs to upstairs where they selected their bedrooms and spread out their sleeping bags. There were only three bedrooms, but there were a dozen beds, enough for a sizable crew. The bathroom hadn’t worked since the last keeper left some fifty years before. It wasn’t worth fixing the plumbing for the summer crew.

“Come on,” he said, taking her back outside to show her the amenities. Washing up was done in the rain barrels at the front door and bodily functions would be taken care of in the “biffy”, a toilet with walls on three sides on an overhang attached to the boat house. It had a great view of the ocean, he told her. “We all look away when someone is in there. If it makes you nervous you can tie something there as a warning.”

Most of the crew would be men and they would pee off the rocks, so this would not bother them all that much but Adrienne had always had privacy in her toilet at home.

He instructed her to throw in a cupful of wood dust from time to time. They could take a bucket upstairs for night time use and empty it out in the morning. There was a solar shower bag they could use to heat enough water to bathe al fresco but that would have to wait for sunny days.

             Terns, puffins, gulls, murres, and guillemots swarmed around their heads, screeching out their displeasure. The arctic terns were never quiet, day or night. They screamed and swooped. Adrienne clutched her hat by the brim. She wore one of the “shit shirts” he had told her to bring, extra large men’s shirts to cover their heavy jackets, in case those terns made direct hits. The damp cold was already creeping into the cotton.

             “Let's go,” Craig said. “I can't wait any longer.” He led her to the lighthouse tower. It was time to do their first bird survey. They went through a metal door, and climbed up the stairs, their footsteps echoing as they ascended in the semi-dark. Up, up, they went, pausing at the landings for breath. Adrienne had no sense of the height until they reached the top and went out the second metal door onto a platform. Flimsy rusting railing was all that kept them from falling onto the rocks below. Bits of the railing shattered as Adrienne touched it, peeled off and tumbled down. The concrete walk way showed signs of cracking That was bad enough, but Craig motioned her to a metal rung ladder attached to a wall. He climbed up to the next stage and pushed a trap door open to the light itself. She climbed up to the higher spot, balancing on the slippery, damp bits of iron. They trained their binoculars and worked around the narrow ledge, two strands of rusty metal rods keeping them in place.

             “I wouldn’t lean on them too hard,” Craig said. “And watch that trap door. It would be easy to fall down, and 9-1-1 doesn’t work out here.” They looked down at a big wooden platform below, a helicopter pad. In case of an emergency, they could call the Coast Guard station on the mainland and ask for help.

             “Unless the weather is bad,” Craig said. “Then we’re on our own.” He pointed out the solar panels that would give them light in the evenings, provided there was sun during the day.

             He told her to count the birds swarming around the island. They had to do a morning and evening count of the island species. She was confused. How do you count arctic terns that never sit still, not for an instant, to say nothing about puffins, common terns, guillemots, eider, cormorants, razorbills, all of them in flight. All of them variations of black and white? She did the best count she could, compared it to Craig’s and found her count lacking. He said she would get better with practice.

             “It’s warm today,” Craig informed her cheerfully as they climbed down. “The Rock has brought us here with a sunny welcome.” Adrienne was chilled to the bone. Her gloves and shoes were wet and in the dampness, nothing would ever be dry.

             That afternoon, they worked around the keeper’s cottage. Adrienne scrubbed down the kitchen with disinfectant while Craig set up the propane tanks.

             “What about heat?” she asked.

             “There isn’t any,” he said. “Except for cooking and lights and body heat. There’ll be plenty of that when the rest of the crew arrives tomorrow.”

             Adrienne excused herself and went up to put on the long underwear she had brought. She thought Midwestern winters were cold! This damp chill was terrible.

             Craig inserted the batteries and got the shore-to-shore radio working. He punched in the numbers to reach the survey center on the Maine shoreline. Rose answered almost immediately.

             “Bad news,” she said. “The rest of the crew have been delayed in Chicago. There’s a storm going through the Midwest, and they’re stuck at O’Hare overnight. It will be a couple of days before they get to Maine.”

             The Rock was theirs for the time being.

             “Cheer up,” Craig said, and brought out a bottle of wine. “I brought eight bottles, a different one for each day we’re here. Now there’s more for us.” They sat one of the deck’s benches and drank with gloved hands while they watched the the afternoon sun creating sparkles on the dancing waves, the “glimmer” Craig called it. It was enchanting, the water light show, the brilliant sun, the terns swirling in their millennial dance. Birds everywhere and they never collided. How did they do that? Tears stung Adrienne’s eyes as she thought of the many lives floating around on the sea breezes, as they prepared to raise another generation. God’s creatures.

Suddenly, Craig grabbed her arm and pointed down to the shore. She swung her glasses to the spot and there was a baby seal. Adrienne squealed in delight but as she watched, the pup turned over and she saw the gaping wound in its side.

             It would not be there long. The rapacious birds would soon have a feast.

             Craig cooked grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup and they sat in the kitchen eating while they set up a schedule for themselves. Craig would take the lighthouse schedule for the time being. Adrienne would be in charge of doing the scientific measurements below. She was to check the temperature of the water four times a day, note visibility, and listen to the weather reports on the weather radio. She would do the dishes. Craig was the better cook, so he would do most of the cooking.

        They sat in the sitting room for a while. He showed her the books past residents had left there, many of them bird books, some novels, even children’s books about puffins and terns. There was a shelf full of journals. Each band of volunteers left daily notes about their stays. Craig told her he wasn’t much of a writer and asked her to take over that task. She immediately scrawled a few enthusiastic paragraphs about their first day, peeking at previous entries to see what was expected of her. Most of the entries were written in tiny, scientific printing, but one entry from the year before caught her eye. It was a scrawl, almost indecipherable. Something about the miserable weather. It was signed “Kris.” Was she the volunteer with island fever? What happened to her? Craig was deep into an ornithological textbook, making notes. She didn’t disturb him.

             If the fireplace worked, it would have been a cozy evening, but she soon excused herself and went off to bed, taking the journal with her. Deep in her heavy duty sleeping bag, she was almost asleep when she caught sight of another Kris entry: “Island fever is getting to us. Craig is grouchy and so am I. He talks about our future together, but after we are married we will have to have time outs, maybe go on separate birding expeditions.”

             So Craig and Kris were a couple. They were going to be married until Kris fell on the rocks.

Badlands Journal -- Part Three

I had assumed that when Helgo reported sensing a second deader in the area, Julius would send the necrological engineer and I out to capture it, as we had with Betty. To be sure, this was done. However, he also sent Marco along with us 'as an added precaution.' My expedition leader's new-found concern for my safety in made me feel even less so. Marco had sat behind us in the ornithopter, the scraping sounds of his knife against the whetstone audible over the howl of the airsteam. My carefully-constructed gambit for freedom crumbled in my mind's eye, for the truth of the matter was that there was no second deader and no way to reformulate a new plan with my co-conspirator.

When we landed near a stand of hoodoos and began setting up our march, Marco announced that he would guard the rear of our little column, and unslung his rifle in a manner that left no argument. Helgo shrugged and set off as if he were tracking a deader. I sighed and picked up the crate containing the net trap and extra coils of rope.

Marco had the habit of talking about whatever popped into his mind. As we marched, he extolled the virtues of hornswill over moonshine. I had sampled both and found nothing redeeming about either. He also gave an unfortunately detailed inventory of the trulls that worked the air docks and aerodromes of Paradise City. He hinted that his endorsements carried substantial discounts and exclusive services with certain ladies.

He paused only briefly after a series of ancedotes involving tavern brawls to address me directly.

“So you think you have the knack, Professor?” Marco said.

“The knack for what?” I said.

“For getting lucky.”

“I'm sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Well, I mean that we go after a deader maybe once or twice a year, and it happens on your trip. Then someone as green as you plays bait and comes out of it alive.” He took a long swig from his canteen.

“Then, on this same trip, we find another deader. Ain't that damned lucky? I've never been on a job where we found two deaders. And here you are, carrying the bait box.” He nodded at the crate in my arms that held the trap.

“The bait box? Is that what it's called?” The last part I directed at Helgo's back with a hint of acid in my voice, though he didn't seem to react.

“Yeah, because we make the bait carry it. And when he opens it...” Marco laughed.

“Yes, I figured that part out,” I said. “And I'll do so again, when the time comes.” Or smash it over your head, I said to myself.

“I ain't never heard of anyone making it as bait twice, professor. Like I said, you must be lucky.”

“You bet Julius I'd survive last time,” I said.

“Yeah, that's because he was giving fifty to one, so I figured why not? This time though, the odds ain't that good.”

We hiked for an hour, Helgo changing our direction about every five minutes as he tracked the phantom deader. I dearly hoped he could find his way back to the ornithopter, because I was thoroughly lost. Finally, he called a halt next to a dry river bed.

“We set up here,” he said.

“It's about time,” Marco said, pulling out his canteen.

“You can help me set up,” I told him. Maybe he would come close enough so I could wrestle the rifle away from him, or wrap him up with the net.

“Nah, that's okay, professor. Julius told me to keep watch, and that's what I'm going to do.”

I set up the netting and frame, while Helgo stamped out arcane symbols in the dirt. Marco looked on. I racked my brain for a plan lure Marco under the net. If I could not, I wondered how long I would have to lie in the sun before waiting for a deader that would never come.

“When it comes, it'll follow the gully,” Helgo said. He pointed down the river bed. “I'll be just down here. Marco, you cover him from the bank.”

“You're not in charge here, corpse-spinner,” Marco said.

“Necrological engineer,” Helgo said absently. “then do whatever the hell you want then, but if you spook the deader, Julius will take the selling price out of your hide.”

“Don't worry, corpse-spinner, Julius said I get a cut of whatever we sell this deader for. I know my job.”

Marco scrambled up the embankment. Helgo had me lay down and he drew a small knife.

“What's your plan now?” he asked.

“I'm working on it.” I said.

“Think faster, or you'll be dead before sundown.”

“Understood.”

“I'll have to cut you.”

“For appearances' sake, I suppose.” I said.

He gave me a tight smile, blackened teeth surrounded by desert-cracked lips. “Just so.”

He drew the knife against my forearm, a shallow cut that burned every time I moved my fingers.

Helgo walked to his spot and took up a chant, rocking back and forth on his haunches. I still had no idea what to do. Marco laid on his stomach in the meager shade of a dead juniper tree, his rifle seemingly pointed not over my head, but at it.

There was a time at the university where I heard about a psychology experiment. Doctor Johansen postulated that when stressed in an otherwise boring situation, the mind overreacts to new stimuli. She placed a subject in a room empty but for a chair, and told them they would be called on shortly for the “actual” experiment. In one group, the subjects waited for fifteen minutes in a normal room. In the other group the room temperature was increased as the subjects waited. The two groups then tried matching pairs of cards flipped in quick succession. While there were certainly some subjects from the heated room that struggled, fitting her hypothesis, many more did not. Unfortunately, the next round of departmental budget cuts came at the same time as a second experiment was proposed, so Doctor Johansen was never able to fully explore her idea.

Perhaps, I thought, there was something there. The question was just a matter of whether Marco was the right kind of subject. After I felt a sufficiently long time had passed, I got out my field journal and began writing. Helgo certainly noticed my movements, but kept chanting. After a few minutes more, Marco called out.

“You're going to spook the deader! Quit moving.”

I pursed my lips and waved dismissively at him like he was a know-nothing undergrad, something my departmental head marked me down for on my last performance evaluation. I stood up and began walking around the trap, tapping my pencil against the framework and shaking my head.

“Helgo, make him get down!”

“You know, I can think of several improvements on this,” I called out, pushing on the rickety framework.

“Helgo!”

The necrological engineer seemed to take no notice. I turned my back on Marco and gave the frame another push, causing it to sway.

There was the sound of tumbling rock and swift footsteps. I was about to make another quip when the world went white and I fell to the ground. Pain blossomed in the back of my head. Above me, the shadowy outline of Marco stood.

“Stay down!” his rifle butt rose for another strike.

“Deader!” Helgo shouted.

Marco looked up. I rolled, knocking the frame over. Marco cursed and thrashed, unable to raise his rifle against netting designed for creatures of unnatural strength. It was only a single data point, but I was now inclined to believe Doctor Johansen's hypothesis.

We flew back with Marco bound up behind us on the cargo rack, deader-style. We landed short of camp and left him on the rack while we prepared our caper.

“We need to get in and out quickly,” Helgo said.

“I wasn't planning on lingering,” I said.

“Then you get the stone, I'll get Betty.”

My stomach lurched. “Why don't you get the stone, and I'll get her instead?”

“Because she's powering the whole camp now. You trying to unplug a deader would be like trying to handle hot coals with your bare hands. It'd raise all kinds of hell if you tried taking her out of the grid instead of me. I just need five minutes to get her out quiet-like”

I thought of suggesting to just leave her, but a twinge of guilt hit me at the thought. Maybe I couldn't prove it, but I was beginning to suspect she was once human. Maybe Helgo was just going after her to sell her on the open market, but I could fight that battle later.

“Point taken. I'll see to getting the stone.”

As we approached the camp, I planned my route to Julius' tent. He had his crew on watch of course, but vigilance had become lax over the past weeks; those on guard tended to walk the same paths. Despite this fact, visions of all the ways I could be discovered flooded my head. I put them aside as best I could and wiped the cold sweat from my forehead.

I crept though the shadows towards Julius' tent while Helgo slung Marco's old rifle and went around the other side of the darkened camp toward the humming generator. With his black coat and hat, he melted into the shadows within seconds. Across from me, I recognized the guard as Vince, a tall lanky man whom none of the others would play cards with because he cheated. He stared blankly at the shadow in which I was hiding. I froze, avoiding direct eye contact, even though the phenomenon of feeling being watched had been debunked in the psychology department for decades.

Vince stared for what seemed like hours, but he eventually turned and paced to a new position towards the south end of camp. I made my way forward, past the tents filled with sleeping gunmen to Julius' tent. I peeled back the flap and peered in the darkness. I could just make out Julius' form on the cot, chest rising and falling with even breaths. I entered at a crawl, feeling my way forward and to the sides with light touches to avoid obstacles.

I first checked the footlocker, on the off chance Julius would have laid the gun there, but all I felt was its bare surface. If he had placed the gun in the locker, all was lost. The creaking of the locker's hinges would surely give me away. However, I couldn't see Julius being out of arm's reach of his weapon. Step by step, I made my way to Julius' cot, feeling under it, around the edges. All bare.

My heart hammered in my ears, and I felt like I was about to pass out from taking silent, shallow breaths. I took a moment to steel myself, and reached out. My hand was seized instantly, and a blinding light appeared in my eyes.

“Hello, professor,” Marco said, “Miss me?”

* * *

It seemed to me the purpose of a firing squad was to diffuse the responsibility of murder among a group to save the delicate sensibilities of an individual executioner. At least that is how I would record such thoughts in an academic paper. My actual thoughts centered around Julius being too much a coward to pull the trigger himself. Such was my state of mind as Julius told his crew to take aim.

Helgo, sat to the side with his harmonica in hand. A rope ran from a steel collar at his neck to Marco's hand. 'I always got a knife you don't know about,' Marco said of his escape. Since he didn't have to worry about stealth, it was a simple matter for him to run ahead of us, warn the camp, and play body double in the cot while Julius and the others waited in ambush. Helgo was caught a few moments after he reached Betty.

Too valuable to kill, perhaps my execution was more for Helgo's education than my punishment. Helgo's face had that same impassive quality to it as our first meeting, but I thought there was something about him that seemed a bit diminished. I was seeing the breaking of a man, I realized.

Facing my own impending death, it seemed I was noticing many things for the first time. All of life's mysteries seemed simpler now, the purpose of life, under all our pompous pondering and searching for greater meanings, is to draw just one more breath. Finding purpose and meaning is just a way to keep ourselves distracted while our lungs inhale and our heart beats. If we didn't have these distractions, perhaps we'd just get in the way of life's purpose and end it prematurely.

“Last words, professor? Last chance to ask for forgiveness,” Julius said.

“No regrets, Julius. Just let me die with some dignity.”

Julius pursed his lips and nodded. “Indeed, professor, indeed. Just to show you I don't take it personally, I'll give you a small boon.”

“Helgo,” Julius said, “play the man a dirge.”

Helgo raised the harmonica, and let out his first chord. The breathy notes came out in a slow cadence, powerful, defiant. Like a great airship clawing its way up from the ground. It was a touch too much from the Badlands for my tastes, but under the circumstances I appreciated Helgo's interpretation given his limited repertoire.

“Ready,” Julius said.

The staccato of bolts sliding back penetrated into my bowels, and my legs went numb. Were it not for the rope securing me to a dead juniper tree, I would have collapsed.

“Aim,” Julius said.

His crew, the men I'd shared food and drink with for the past two weeks sighted over their rifles. Some muzzles were aimed at my heart, others at my head. I caught Vince's eye staring at me over his gun barrel. It wavered then dipped as he took a lower aim. The mouths of the barrels grew bigger and seemed darker. I took in another sweet breath of air and held it. I closed my eyes.

The shots sounded like a single cannon, and a giant's hammer crushed my chest. My breath whooshed out. Funny that I hadn't even heard Julius give the order to fire. So this was death. Then I took in another lungful of air. That wasn't supposed to happen was it? Then the cries of alarm reached my ears, and I opened my eyes.

The camp was on fire. A black column rose in the air at the far side, taking on a mushroom shape. Julius, gun in hand, was waving his men toward the explosion.

“Fan out, watch the perimeter!” He pushed one of his crew who stumbled around as if lost. “South side – go, go!” He turned to Marco.

“Secure the 'spinner under cover, then spin up a 'thoper and give us cover.”

“What about him?” Marco pointed at me.

“Leave him.” Julius said. He ran towards the chaos.

In that moment, Helgo pulled at his boot heel. A small knife appeared in his hand and sank itself into Marco's neck. The other man collapsed, gurgling.

“I always have one more knife too,” he said to Marco.

A shadow moved though the smoke near the site of the explosion. Shots rang out.

There was a tug at the ropes. Helgo held the knife in one hand and sawed at my bonds while still playing the harmonica. The tune was the same as the dirge but he played now at a blistering speed. Doubtless some notes were missed, but perhaps the music only reflected the chaos around us.

The ropes fell, and Helgo jerked his head in the opposite direction of the gunfire. There was a shout behind us, followed by the buzz of a bullet passing my head. I looked back to see Julius, legs wide, teeth bared, revolver in a two-handed grip taking aim.

We ran into the brush as another bullet whizzed by. Helgo ran ahead in a lopsided gait, picking a path through the broken terrain to our 'thopter, still keeping up his tune on the harmonica. The sounds of gunfire fell behind us, though the snaps and crashes of Julius' pursuit remained.

Helgo's twists and turns in our flight seemed to come at random; I could only but follow him, lost as I was in this blasted place. His harmonica sang in jerky notes as we ran, I could hear him gasping between phrases. He finally came to a halt before a large boulder, collapsing on all fours with his chest heaving.

“Get up,” I said, “He's right behind us.”

“No,” he said, “Stops now.”

There was a crash behind us, and Julius barreled though a dead bush into the clearing. His face was caked with sweat and red dust, and had the slack expression of someone on the point of physical collapse. If Helgo had made it just a bit further, I thought, we might have made it.

Julius' revolver swung up towards me. I leaped at him, reaching out to knock the gun away. There was a blinding flash, and a roar in my ear. I hit him, and we fell to the ground. I fancied for a moment that I had knocked him senseless and I had him pinned, only to be flung violently backward as he wedged his feet between us and pushed. I landed on my back near Helgo. My chest felt as if crushed in a vice; hot needles rang in my ear. I moved to rise, but Julius was quicker.

“Stay down.” Julius said, bringing the pistol up. At the distance between us, he could not miss.

“My deader's gone. Blew up in that explosion you rigged somehow, professor. Even for killing Marco, I would have made it quick,” Julius said. “not now, professor, not now.” The look in his eye convinced me that pointing out I was tied up during these events would do no good.

“And Helgo?” I said. Julius' eyes flicked to my companion.

“Oh, I got plans for him. I've been too lenient, that's all.” Julius smiled in a way that frightened me more than his gun. Helgo raised his hand and extended his middle finger.

“I'll cut that one off first, corpse-spinner,” Julius said. “But first,” Julius centered the revolver on my head and thumbed back the hammer. As the cylinder rotated, I caught a glimpse of the bullet that would kill me.

Helgo's harmonica let out a trill and Julius fell to the ground. He tried to rise, but the figure on his back grabbed him about the head and twisted back and forth as quickly as a dog might shake out a wet coat. There were several popping sounds, and Julius spasmed. The gun barked, and to this day, I believe my oddest experience in Badlands is that the bullet hit none of us.

Betty rose from Julius' body. She gripped the corpse by the hair and dragged it through the sand towards us. Julius' gun skittered across the ground with its owner, limp fingers tangled in the trigger guard. Helgo kept playing as he knelt down and retrieved the revolver, tucking it in one of his long coat's pockets.

“I thought she had blown up.”

“Nah, just backfed the power grid when she jumped out.”

“I thought you needed five minutes to get her out.”

“That was for getting her out quiet and clean. Loud and messy just takes a second. I keyed her for Back in Black when they jumped me. Come on, let's get to the 'thopter.”

“Right, what about her? Do we need to tie her up?” I said.

“They're pretty docile once they start eating. I wouldn't worry about it.” There was a popping sound, and I turned. Betty had one of Julius' severed fingers her mouth, her jaw working mechanically.

Maybe deaders had consciousness, maybe they even had souls. Maybe I could convince my peers of my suspicions, but Betty's dietary habits would make that job all the harder.

Badlands Journal -- Part Two

Step, step, wheeze. Step, step, wheeze. The deader's feet scraped against the ground behind me. My muscles tensed, ready to spring, twitching with each footstep. Parts of me railed against lying here in the dust, waiting to be eaten, but Helgo's warning kept me in place; running away would assure my death. The skin on my neck itched where I imagine the deader's teeth would bite down. Still I waited.

The worst part of the waiting was Helgo playing AC/DC on the harmonica. The corpse-spinner stamped his feet in lieu of drums while the harmonica took up the rest of the song. It seemed most incongruous that my protector would be playing traditional songs of the Badlands while death plodded towards my unprotected back. I would have rather he drop the harmonica and use the shotgun at his feet, but damaging the valuable deader was out of the question. Maybe the shotgun was for me, I realized.

Rather than examine that line of thought, I began reciting the words of the philosopher Largo the Ponderous, who postulated that reality does not physically exist. I wondered what Largo would have made of a deader at his back, perhaps ten feet away. Its wheezing synchronized to a corpse-spinner's harmonica and stamping foot.

All the world is an illusion, and when we die, our souls inhabit shells within another illusion.

Shuffle, shuffle, wheeze. Eight feet away. The deader's tread pulled at pebbles. A musty smell on the air.

Though illusion, we must act as if it were reality, for we are part of the illusion as it is part of us.

Largo's loophole, as I remembered it though my professor marked me down on my essays for calling it such. The deader's shuffle kicked a pebble into my leg. I tightened my grip on the rope in my hand. Pulling it would trigger the trap, and only then could I move to safety.

We cannot know if we share our illusion with other conscious beings or soulless automatons who imitate thought.

The deader was now very close. The wind carrying the deader's wheeze to my nose. Surprisingly, there was no stench of decay, more like the wet paper smell of mildew. The wheeze seemed loud in my ears. Soon the jaws would close on my flesh. I desperately wanted to pull the rope, but wait, I must wait!

The harmonica's song abruptly changed. I felt the deader jerk behind me, and I rolled away, pulling the rope with all my strength. The deader snarled, and I felt a lash of fire on my back. I fell to the ground, scrabbling on all fours back to Helgo.

“Get the rope, idiot, before it hurts itself!” he said.

“My back --”

“It'll be fine,” he said, “unless Julius doesn't get his prize. Move!”

I ran to the coiled rope stashed behind Helgo's and tossed one end at Helgo. The deader's arms thrashed though the holes in the net. It hissed and swayed under the netting's weight, looking like it would topple over at any second. The corpse-spinner and I ran at the deader with the rope between us. I managed to duck under its grasping arms make a few passes around its ankles while Helgo secured the upper body. He gave the deader a push in the chest and slowly played out the remaining rope to bring it gently to the ground.

Helgo removed a charcoal pencil from his jacket and knelt next to the body. “I'll be a bit,” he said, “clean that scratch on your back as best you can.” He tapped a rhythm on his breast bone, started humming another traditional Badlands song, and began writing symbols on the deader's exposed skin.

*

When he had finished, the deader was free of the net, though still bound at the ankles and wrists. Its skin was covered with the same symbols embroidered in Helgo's hat and jacket. Right-angled line segments and precise arcs crisscrossed across the skin connecting the glyphs in patterns so complex it began to look like a tattoo of tangled fishing lines in an arcane alphabet soup.

“She's ready to go,” Helgo said.

“She?” I said, though on further inspection it was apparent that the deader appeared female.

“They come in both kinds,” Helgo said, “I think I'll call this one Betty.”

“Isn't that just a little sentimental, naming a future engine part?”

“I think she likes it.”

“Oh come on, they're mindless. How can they like anything?”

“You remember the song I played to bring her in here?”

“Some traditional Badlands fare, I couldn't place it.”

“That, my man, was AC/DC's Shoot to Thrill, and she totally dug it.”

“I was too busy trying not to get killed.”

Helgo shook his head. “No, you don't get it. Betty here is partial to AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Mellancamp. A woman after my own heart, at least where music's concerned.” He scratched at that place on his breast bone where he had tapped the rhythm. “She has them rattling around in whatever it is she has for a brain. Necrological engineers like myself hear that in a deader and use it to control them.”

“But do they actually appreciate it, or do they just respond to it? Maybe it's like the snake charmer. The cobra is just following the end of the flute, not caring what the charmer is playing.”

“You're the philosopher, professor. But what's the difference matter?”

Largo couldn't have said it better.

We carried Betty between us back to the 'thoper on a pole. She quickly grew heavy. Helgo said little on the march. I was troubled by his assertion that the deaders had preferences in music. One of the ideas of consciousness was that it could appreciate esoteric concepts such as art and music. If a deader could prefer music, perhaps it actually liked it. Was it more than some kind of affinity, or was there something of a soul behind the limited intelligence? What are the ethical implications of using them as power sources? Did they mind? Did they resent it? Wasn't it the same thing as slavery? The thoughts swirled around in my head to the point that I stumbled over a protruding rock and got an angry curse from Helgo.

“Watch out there, professor.” he said. “One scratch on Betty here, and Julius may decide to see if he can't make a deader out of you in her place.”

“That can't be done, can it?”

Helgo doffed his hat and wiped at his forehead. “I figure they had to come from somewhere. And with all the weird crap out here in the Badlands,why not?”

“Maybe it's exactly right, and the deader has the same tastes in music as when they were alive.”

“Maybe. Come on, we're almost there.”

*

With the deader secured in the back, Helgo began checking over the ornithopter for our flight to camp. My newly found moral dilemma would have to wait until I solved the problem of Julius.The turncoat expedition leader hadn't expected me to survive with Helgo, but now that I had, I wondered how he would react. Could he risk bringing me back to Paradise City, risking apprehension by the gendarmes if I complained? No, I decided, he could not. Does anyone question an expedition leader if one of his charges is lost in the Badlands? Not at all. Happens all the time.Therefore, when Julius pulled his gun on me and forced me into a suicide mission, my death was a foregone conclusion.

“I'm a dead man, aren't I?” I said out loud. “Julius can't take me back to civilization now.”

Helgo looked up from the port fan housing. “Probably not.”

“Then help me. Let me go. Say I was killed.”

“You'd not last more than a few days before you ran out of water, assuming the thousand ways the Badlands kills doesn't get to you first.” Helgo crouched under the 'thoper's wing and frowned at a stabilizer. “Maybe Julius will take you back, or let you buy him off. At least he can be reasoned with. The Badlands can't. Worst case, at least he kills you quick.”

“You take me then. Fly me back in the ornithopter. I'll report Julius and his crew. You can keep the deader to start a new life. “

Helgo's head dropped, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat. “Can't. If I cross Julius, I won't see the next sunrise.”

“I can protect you.” I didn't know how, but there had to be someone at the university that could, I was sure.

He seemed to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. “It's complicated, but believe me, no matter where I hid, Julius' revenge would find me.”

“What does he have over you?”

Helgo brought out a pendant from under his shirt, a simple silver hoop about the size of a child's fist. I noticed it was attached to a cord such that it hung at the level of his breast bone.

“See this? It's why deaders don't see me as food.”

“Some kind of magic amulet?”

“No, it's an amulet that's missing something. The part of my essence that deaders see as alive.”

“Like a soul?”

“It's a little more complicated than that, but 'soul' will do. Bottom line is I can go maybe a week without being around it, but after that, I'll fade. Either end up dead, or something like Betty back there.”

“And Julius has it.”

Helgo nodded. “I got in a bit of trouble a while back, and Julius bought my way out of it. Until I repay him, he keeps my stone. As long as I stay close enough, like in camp, I'm fine. But if I run or cross him, he'll destroy it.”

“And how many deaders do you owe him?”

“Fifty, plus one every year as interest.” Helgo spat. “I wasn't in much of a position to bargain.”

“And you get how many deaders a year?”

“Two or three.”

“I'll make you a deal. I'll get your soul back from Julius, and you fly us back to Paradise City.”

Helgo slipped the pendant back under his shirt, and his pale eyes stared at me. It seemed like a long time before he spoke.

“If you can stay alive long enough, and get it, you have a deal. But I've been looking for Julius' hiding spot for five years with no luck.”

“Just leave it to me,” I said. I hoped that I sounded more confident than I felt.

*

As Helgo landed the 'thopter, we were met by Julius and and several of his armed crew. He rested his hands on his belt, near the wood-grained pistol butt sticking out from its holster.

“Well, Helgo,” Julius said, “I see you managed to bring one back alive this time. I guess I owe Marco a beer,” he said, turning to frown at a small dark-haired man who shrugged despite the ammunition-heavy bandoleers strapped across his chest.

“Had to happen sometime, boss” Marco said.

“Yeah, I guess it did.” Julius said. To Helgo: “Did we get the deader?”

“She's in the back, prime condition.”

Julius grunted and turned to me. “Well, Nelson, no worse for the wear?”

“Apart from the sliced hand and lacerated back?”

Julius waved a hand. “All easily fixed.” Marco's mouth curled up in a small smile that set my stomach churning. Time to put caution to the wind.

“Still,” I said, “on the whole, the experience was quite edifying. If the opportunity arose, I might like to tag along once more.”

Julius narrowed his eyes. “Why would you want to do that?”

“Helgo here says that deaders have individual tastes in music.”

“So?”

“Well, as you recall, I hold a doctorate in applied philosophy. The implications of deaders having individual preferences are staggering. It would turn the department upside down if they found out.”

“Really?” Julius' hand moved almost imperceptibly toward his pistol.

I put on my best abashed face. “Well, perhaps not. The senior faculty is a rather stuffy lot. But at the very least I could present a paper.”

“A paper.” Julius' tone didn't change. Marco's thumb hooked under his rifle's sling. I wondered if they would shoot me before I got out of the ornithopter or wait until I was somewhere that wouldn't make such a mess. I said the first thing that popped into my head.

“Well, you know what they say about academia: it's publish or perish.”

Julius stood still for a moment before bursting out laughing. Marco's hand eased from the rifle sling.

Julius said, “Publish or Perish! Indeed, professor, indeed! Go see those scratches are dressed.” He walked off to his tent, chuckles erupting like aftershocks.

I looked at Helgo, who was unloading Betty from the 'thopter. He wouldn't meet my eyes, but gave a slight nod.

Helgo told me to look for a stone the size of a child's fist, a lump of white marble shot through with blue and green. Julius seemed to be allowing me my status as a guest without any camp responsibilities. I took advantage of this status to play the obnoxious university professor, passing off my nosing around as gathering information for my paper, though I always felt either his eyes or Marco's on me at all times as I made my rounds.

Much like Helgo had feared, I couldn't find any place that made sense for Julius to hide the stone unless it were somewhere on his person or in his tent. The camp was too accessible to all for Helgo not to have found it in the common tents or the vehicles. Julius' mistrust of his crew made it unlikely he would have someone else stow the stone in their personal gear. That night, I approached Julius' tent, racking my brain as to how I would be able to search it without being too obvious.

I opened the flap to Julius' tent. Inside were a few low canvas chairs, a footlocker, and a cot. Julius was reclined on the cot, reading a book with a faded cover by lantern light. He set the book aside as I entered, and I noted that even here he kept his hand close to the revolver on his hip.

“What can I do for you, professor?” he said.

“It occurred to me that Helgo is the only necrological engineer I've ever been in close contact with, and perhaps his methods are different from others. It could, I would suppose, undermine my paper if this were the case.” My speech was starting to come out in a rush. “I was wondering if you could tell me if you've ever used other necrological engineers out here in the Badlands? Do they always use music? Has anyone tried anything else?”

I tried to keep my eyes on Julius, and away from the footlocker. He stared at me for several seconds while the fingers on his gun hand drummed on his stomach.

“I don't know, professor. Fact is, most corpse-spinners work in the Paradise City factories and power plants. It's not often you see one out here in the Badlands. Helgo's the only one I know of that's been available for hire.”

“Oh, how much are his services?”

“Trade secret, I'm afraid,” Julius said. “And before you ask, he is under exclusive contract for the forseeable future.”

I tried my best to look disappointed. I found myself wondering if Julius slept with Helgo's stone under his pillow.

“You know, professor, now that we're alone, I've been meaning to ask you about something.”

“Yes?”

“It's about me putting this revolver in your ear,” he said, patting his gun. There suddenly didn't seem to be enough air in the tent.

“Yes. I recall that most vividly,” I said.

“Well, it seems to me that you would have grounds to hold a grudge for that, plus all the other – ” he waved a hand in the air. “...inconveniences involved with helping Helgo capture the deader.”

He rose from the cot and stepped towards me.

“Now most men can't let that kind of thing lie. Most men out in that camp there would be waiting for me in the dark with their Sunday-best pig-sticker. But not you, professor.”

“I – well I – ”

My mind raced. Again the words of Largo came to me. When others in the world show you hardship, thank them, for it is only through hardship that one can break through the veil of illusion in the world.

“The fact of the matter is, Julius, you did me a favor.”

“Pardon?”

“I'm embarrassed to say that I have always been known as, uh, well, not brave.”

“Mm.”

“Yes, well, while your methods were certainly unorthodox, you didget me out into the wastes and I faced the terrors of the Badlands and lived to tell the tale. And in the process, I have something new to advance my career with this music-deader phenomenon. You sir, made that happen. Thank you.” I stuck out my hand.

Julius looked at my hand for a moment before he smiled. His rough palm grasped mine. “You're one weird duck, professor,” he said.

“That notwithstanding,” I said, “you won't mind if I leave out the part about the gun when we get back? It would cause me nothing but embarrassment.”

“Your secret is safe with me,” Julius said. He let out a gruff laugh. “In fact, I say we drink on it. Care for a snort?”

“Love one,” I said not even lying.

Julius went to his footlocker and opened it. He took out a pile of clothing and some ledgers before withdrawing a corked green bottle and two glasses. I peered over his shoulder into the footlocker, but saw nothing but a few more glasses, and some papers. Unless the footlocker had a false bottom, Helgo's stone wasn't in there either.

Julius handed me a glass with some brown liquid in it.

“To fine brandy, and fine lies,” he said.

I swallowed liquid fire, and doubled over as I coughed several times.. I hoped my lies were better than the brandy.

“Don't worry, professor, it'll grow on you.” Julius pounded on my back, right where Betty had scratched me. My body struggled with the dilemma of sorting out which hurt more, the liquid eating at my esophagus or the re-opened wound on my back.

“Ah-” I went down to one knee against the pain. My vision blurred as my eyes welled up. I reached out to steady myself, and my fingers brushed against something cold and smooth. AC/DC's Heatseekerflooded through my head. Then suddenly stopped as Julius slapped my wrist away.

“Watch what you're reaching for, professor,” His voice held an edge, “some men would kill you for touching their gun.”

I shook my head, unable to get my throat working at first. “Deader got my back,” I managed, “sorry. Thought I was going to fall.”

“Better you let yourself fall next time. Here,” he reached down to pull me up.

My eyes cleared and I had a look at the revolver, still in the holster. The pistol's butt appeared to be wood, but close up, I could see there was something odd about the grain in the middle. Julius turned away as I regained my feet, and put his long coat on, hiding the pistol from view.

“Best you go get that checked back out, professor. It's about time I made the rounds.”

“Right,” I said, “thanks for the drink, for everything.”

“Don't mention it.”

As I crossed camp, I replayed the vision in my head. But for the color, Julius' pistol butt was just about the size of a child's fist.

Helgo came up to my tent later as I was re-wrapping my bandages.

“Any luck?” he said.

“He painted it and made it into a pistol grip.”

“Are you sure?” he said.

I told him what happened in Julius' tent. “It sang Heatseekerwhen I brushed it.”

“All right. So now what?”

“Now, I need you to find us another deader.”

To be Continued...

Badlands Journal -- Part One

Exerpt from The Cursed Treasure:  Poetics of Reclamation in the Badlands, by Nelson Conrad 

"While gasoline, high-carbon steel, canned food and other refined artifacts lure many to brave the dangers of the Badlands, it is the possibility of capturing a Deader that brings a gleam to the profiteer's eye. Creatures of the wastes, deaders appear from a distance to be human, though it soon becomes apparent they are little more than mindless animated corpses. The flesh is putrefied, consistent with an expired body of five to ten days. However, the decomposition is somehow arrested from progressing any further. It is unknown how long a deader can remain in this state, but several specimens have been in service for over fifteen years. The deaders, like the pavement of the Endless Highway, seem to be immune to the ravages of time.

The interesting part of the deader condition is that the energy that sustains the quasi-dead state can be harnessed. Necrological engineers have the ability to subdue deaders and bind them to necrodynamic engines, which in turn power our airships, generators, and other assorted machinery. The efficiency, energy output, and reliability of the dynamos are outmatched only by the rarity of their power source."

The college's operations office had assured me that my berth with Julius McMurtry's Expeditionary Reclaim and Salvage was the safest option for a trip into the Badlands.  Would I need to bring a gun? Why not at all the owner said with a smile. I was assured that all security precautions were taken to ensure my safety, and my status as noncombatant observer underwritten by a hefty chunk of my department's grant. One week into the trip, the click of his revolver's hammer told me my money's guarantee had run out.  

Julius pressed the pistol to my ear, the sun-heated metal searing against my skin.

"Now you see, Nelson," he said, "we gotta send someone with Helgo to go get the deader, and I can't spare anyone else."

"And what about my retainer?" I said. "It was enough so you could have hired on someone else to go with your corpse-spinner."

"Yeah, I could have, but I didn't." Julius scratched at his beard, sending little puffs of dust flying in the air. We were all coated in dust, fine red particles that found its way into all conceivable crevices. Julius looked like he had been dipped in rust. His pistol was immaculate.

"Without that deader, I don't make my payroll. I don't make payroll, then I may as well throw myself onto a prop blade; it'd be less messy by the time the crew was done with me. Tell you what, if you survive, you can have your retainer back."

"Thank you." I could have told him that any more payments on my part were over, but I thought it best not to argue with a searing gun barrel in my ear.

"Excellent, Helgo is waiting for you." Julius withdrew his weapon, but kept it free of the holster as I walked across the camp to the corpse-spinner's ornithopter. The other men looked on with a mix of amusement, pity, and relief. Julius' crew hadn't struck me as superstitious or cowardly, but it was well known that Helgo's partners had the unfortunate tendency to die.

Helgo, a thin man with twisted dreadlocks and black braided beard, sat in the ornithopter's open cockpit, grinning at me with blackened teeth and a knowing smile.

"Drew the short straw?" he said.

"The only straw there was," I said, climbing into my seat.  

"Don't worry, they only die when they forget the rules. You're a good learner, aren't you? Know anything about deaders?"

"I hold doctorates in anthropology and applied philosophy from St. Yingwe's," I said. "I read several papers about the Badlands in the department archives that mentioned deaders, among other things.

Helgo shook his head and started up the ornithopter's fans. "That's two strikes against you. Can you play the harmonica?"

"No."

"Three strikes then." Helgo lowered tinted goggles over his eyes and pulled his bandanna over his nose. "But I'll hold out hope nevertheless."

The howl of the fans and their kicked up sandstorm swallowed my protests.

The noise of the airstream made conversation impossible, which suited me fine.  What should have been a simple, relatively low-risk trip into the badlands for my field research into the Endless Highway had taken a turn for the worse.  I was definitely going to file a grievance with the Administrative Board when I returned. Assuming I returned, I reminded myself.

From high up, the badlands looked almost beautiful with its red cliffs and striated hoodoos. The black ribbon of the Endless Highway wound its way as though the canyons as though it had cut through the rock itself. Occasionally, we found greying remains of buildings, flying around such ruins to avoid any chance of a bandit raider with a rifle taking us down with a lucky shot.

Helgo's black beard and sun-bleached dreadlocks whipped in the slipstream. Red dust coated his long black jacket, obscuring the silver runes stitched in columns down its length. He kept one hand on the control yoke, and tapped some kind of rhythm on the air with the other. Occasionally, his free hand would stop in mid-tap, and he would alter our course. After four such corrections, he put the 'thopter into a stomach-clenching dive. He pulled up just as I was certain we would make a rather spectacular crater, and landed the craft with a bounce.

"This is the place," he yelled as he shut down the fans, "get out."

I rubbed feeling back into my knuckles and alighted from the 'thoper.

"What now, corpse-spinner?" I asked. Maybe the man would see reason. "I'm hardly suited for this kind of thing. I'm not even armed."

Helgo held up a finger. "One, it's 'necrological engineer' not 'corpse-spinner.' " He extened a second finger. "Two, weapons won't help us collect the deader. Three, you're probably the most qualified man Julius ever sent. So go get that crate tied to the back, and stop it with the questions already."

As I untied the crate, Helgo put his tinted goggles into a pocket of his duster and withdrew a black felt hat covered in the same silver runes as his coat. He reached under the pilot's seat and withdrew a sawed-off shotgun that went somewhere under the folds of his jacket.

"I thought you said weapons wouldn't help with the deader."

He shrugged. "Won't hurt either. Nobody but a fool goes into the Badlands unarmed."

Another point to bring up with the Administrative Board. At least I had my field notebook. I began composing my opening statement for the inquiry.

We hiked in the afternoon heat, Helgo leading and humming some kind of melody.

"Where is the deader?" I said.

"Close, pretty close," Helgo said. "We need to find the proper ground."

It turned out that the proper spot was a dead-end slot canyon. Helgo directed me to open the box. As I flipped the catch, an edge sliced into my hand. I let out a yelp. Blood flowed from my palm and was greedily sucked up by the red dust at my feet.

"Here, take this" he said, holding out a rather dubious scrap of stained grayish cloth.

"I'll get tetanus from that -- or worse," I said.

"It's either that or keep on bleeding over the ground. Julius will have a thread and needle at camp to fix it up right," he said. After a pause, "He may not even charge you for it if I put in a good word."

I was creating a rather ghastly circle of dark spots around myself. I wrapped the least stained portion of the dirty rag around my hand as tightly as I could, trying to tell myself that it would be better to die of tetanus in a few months rather than bleeding to death in the next few minutes.

Helgo upended the crate. Wooden poles, cording, and hemp net clattered to the ground. Helgo quickly assembled what I assumed was to be the trap, though I doubted its efficacy.

"It's no more than a frame with a net on top. Won't the deader just step around it?"

"Deaders are basically stomachs with legs," Helgo said. "They don't notice much around them once they get the scent. Besides, you're going You'll also need to lie down on the ground, and stay still until the last second. Deaders sometimes spook if their targets seem too lively."

I was the bait. Of course I was bait. So obvious, really. Next time, I'm sending a graduate student out for the field work. More details assembled themselves in my head. 

"I take it deaders are attracted to blood."

"You guessed it."

"Why my blood and not yours?"

"Someone's got to play this." He held up a harmonica.

"You jest."

Helgo shrugged. "They respond to music."

"That wasn't mentioned in any of the papers I read."

"That's because I doubt anyone writing them ever bothered coming out here."

"So what are you going to play, a lullaby or something?"

"You need to play the right kind of music, or it won't work. You gotta know what they're going to respond to." Helgo waved the harmonica. "I'll be playing this to keep you safe."

 "I'd feel better if you were hanging on to the shotgun instead."

"Deaders full of slugs aren't worth anything. We need 'em intact."

"What happens if I don't get the net on it right away?"'

Helgo shrugged. "Just don't let that happen."

 "I won't do it," I said, "Take me back."

"I could, but Julius would shoot you and use your corpse as dead bait, even though it doesn't attract deaders all that well. Either way, you're going to have to lie under that trap. This way is better, isn't it?"

I stepped toward  him, ready to pummel him and take my chances flying home in the ornithoper. But he anticipated my move, jumping back as the shotgun magically appeared is his hands.

"Hold on there, professor," he said, "I'll hobble and stake you if I need to, but I swear you can do this and come out alive if you just do what I say."

"Your history around camp says otherwise."

"They panicked, and dropped the trap too early. Deaders can be deadly quick when spooked."

More details snapped into place in my head. "Deaders are too valuable to risk damaging," I said, "and Julius can't trust any of his hired guns not to have a weapon stashed if they're used for bait."

"Just so. We usually have convicts for bait. Bad idea, really. Have to tie them up so's they can't get away, and they're usually dead by the time I can open the trap. Death Row was empty this month, so Julius improvised."

Helgo held the shotgun on me. Through the opening of his coat I could see the manacles I had assumed were for the deader would fit my limbs just as well. 

"The only way out of this is with a captured deader?"

"Just so. Your best chance is to do this my way."

I stared at him, his pale eyes seeming to glow under the shade of his hat. They didn't waver, but neither did they seem cruel.

"Fine," I said, "What do you want me to do?"

Helgo lowered the shotgun. "The rules for luring the deader into a trap and surviving are simple."

So it was that I found myself lying face-down in the dust as Helgo played AC/DC on the harmonica.  My eyes glued to Helgo's rules in my field journal, I fought the urge to run as shuffling footsteps approached.


To Be Continued...