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On silent feet the family stole from the room. Carl squatted with
his back to the wall and the sun on his face. Under a cache of rubble and
plaster lathes, rodents nibbled at the corpse. One of Carl’s ears noted it,
pointing at the cache. The rats stilled and slid away.
Henri pulled the limousine through the drive and into the garage.
Opening the rear door, he smiled and helped Harrison out with a hand clamped on
the back of the judge’s neck.
“Let’s see what my Alma got for breakfast, sir.”
Half carrying the weeping Harrison into the mansion, Henri threw
open the door and, the smile frozen on his face and in no way matching the size
of his eyes, Henri blinked. He did it again, but armed police still filled the
kitchen. One was grunting between the thighs of a terrified maid.
“I think you have company, sir,” he said, pulling Harrison off
his knees. Under his breath, he muttered, “Feet, be fast on the brain.”
The boy slid into the room to stand near Carl, staring at him. The
shon:gili muttered at the smell of
something burning. Carl snorted, and the boy jumped back, a knife in his hand as
he crouched along the floor.
With a deep yawn, Carl stretched and grunted. He frowned at the
boy.
“Yeah?”
The boy thrust something still hot and smoking from a fire. It
smelled of scorched hair and the oily stench of burned plastic.
“Mama say, give this to you.” The kid was gruff, a note of
hunger in his voice.
“I ate.”
The boy stiffened with outrage and pride. Recognizing he had
insulted the boy by refusing guest-rights, Carl took the carcass. Under the
boy’s eyes, he tore off a haunch and bit into it. The meat was tough, stringy
and tasted of rodent.
Not rat.
One eyebrow went up. “Rabbit? Real rabbit and not alley
rabbit?”
The boy gave a small nod. He squatted on his haunches, pretending
not to be studying Carl, pretending not to be hungry. A wistful look was on the
homely face.
“Got a cellar with them. Many,” he said holding up both hands.
“Feeds them, we do, and they feeds us.”
Spitting out the tailbone, Carl said, “Don’t you skin them?”
“Get caught with hide, get a trip to the camps.”
Carl devoured the meat. He handed the bones back to the kid. They
were fuel and fertilizer and used right, weapons.
“I’m Ivanovitch,” he said. “Carl.”
The boy twisted to stare up at the man. “Sarge?”
An eye cocked, Carl snorted a dry laugh. "I was a little
before your time, kid.”
“Mama! Mama! It be Sarge, Mama.”
The woman charged into the room with a machete in her hands.
Still shouting, the boy jumped in front of Carl.
“Sarge, Mama.
Daddy’s sarge from Sur America.”
The room grew a little more dim. The sun was setting. Chong pushed
off his knees to give the emperor’s icon a final bow. In a simple brass cup a
final curl of smoke drifted up. The incense was local, the sap of pine
smoldering with raw red cedar. He sighed, unable to draw any comfort from this
act of worship, but no one would be able to accuse him of being disloyal.
Truly, the man was a fine example of leadership. He was a gentle
person, given to learning and the arts, but determined to civilize the world.
China needed peace, the world was for war. China needed the fertilizer salts
from the Dead Sea and the oil of Siberia in order to modernize.
Herds of horses roamed the steppes. Mongolian loyalists trained
them. All awaited the orders to march.
A tiny radio came on, in classic Mandarin warning him of the hour.
He ignored it until cheering crowds heralded the emperor’s voice. Chong picked
up the radio between two fingers. The voice was rich. It was cultured and, as
Chong closed his eyes, it sounded of sweet creamy tea blossoms, of gentle rains
and mists rolling through the sharp ridges and steep hills of home.
With a start, he reminded himself this was not Shan Ti, but a mere
man.
“My people, the Czar of Saint Petersburg and the Russian
directorate has proclaimed victory in our border dispute. The corpses of our
people feed the birds, and jackals laugh. Women, children, the elderly. They have
taken the men to the mines as slaves. We do not accept this evil,” the emperor
cried, shouting over the wails of horror. If Russia had overrun the border, at
least fifty thousand were dead or missing. “We are sending troops to the area.
We are entitled to the land of Siberia. It is our land! Ours!”
Chong touched the radio’s control, and the sound died. He bowed
his head.
“So few left,” he said. "Out of billions, a few tens of
millions survive. And all the leaders can see is war.”
He took the Zapper from under the mattress and put the muzzle in
his mouth.
©2004 StoriesByEmail.com
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