After the Pandemic – Smith: Yearend (1115 hits)
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Submitted by Jack McCallum (View user info) at 2005-12-23 15:27:49 EST
After the Pandemic - Smith: Yearend
[I thought I was all Smithed out, but I'm bored at work, so here you go, Smith fans!]
The last time we saw Smith, and the islands... http://www.ubersite.com/m/74386
*
December. The rainy season had come to these Pacific islands.
Temperatures were in the seventies by Smith's reckoning. The kids judged hot and cold and tall and short in dixiemes, but saying that temperatures were in the twenties rankled him. It was always warm. Sometimes it was dry and pleasant, but now the rains had come, and the humidity made Smith's old bones ache something fierce.
Smith was old, and he hated being old.
He was on a high ridge of rock many miles long, called the North Face. His home was in a green valley on the other side of the ridge. Down there were friends, children, grandchildren... yesterday one of the little ones had called him great-great-grandpa. Smith had felt like breaking something. He must have killed a thousand immortals in his time, and this was his reward? Christ.
Smith was wrapped in a warm pelt of thick black fur. Every so often sea bears swan to these islands. Older meaner ones were shot, skinned, made into stew. Younger ones were captured and domesticated to a degree. The last of the settlers mules had died long ago, and sea bears could pull a loaded wagon just as well. Bears never caught the bug, and sea bears grew big and fierce. They had to be, to survive the hungry seas.
When life got a little too close, Smith walked up to the ridge and looked out over the open ocean. He worried about what was happening up north. He wondered if the fight against man and leech still went on.
Some of the boys knew Smith liked it up here, and they had built him a chair of stone. It was like a throne, and ridiculously ornate, but Smith was comfortable there. The high sides of the chair blocked the winds the shifted from east to west.
The humid winds chilled Smith to the bone. Not a good sign.
Smith hawked and spat and watched a speck on the horizon.
He wore thick glasses now, crafted by Pelton, one of his grandchildren. Pelton wore leg braces like the one on Smith's left leg. Sometimes Smith regretted all of the tech they had left behind, things that could have helped a boy born with shriveled, misshapen legs. Being a Smith, Pelton overcame his disability. He got around on crutches, had arms like tree trunks, and he worked white-hot steel like some wove reeds into mats. Smith the smith, they called him. He could make iron gates, and fine wire frames for glasses.
The speck on the sea was closer now. Whatever it was, it was running a motor, not moving with the wind.
The seas were full of cargo ships when the pandemic swept the globe. Sometimes, big container ships ran aground on these islands— on the four small islands to the west called the Shards, on Goathead Island, or on Sanctuary, the big island. In the early days of their growing empire the leeches had tried running ships with skeleton crews of survivor slaves, most of them having caught one of many variations of the bug. Ten years ago a big ship had struck South Shard, the smallest of the islands. The crew, all munchers now, had stumbled off the ship. The crew had been sizable. They provided many months of target practice for the little ones honing their skills at hunting with bows and arrows, boo-rangs and spears. And swords. Bullets were unreliable now, the powder very old. The muncher boat had been full of hospital supplies. Many were useless. Machines no one could run, pills covered in mold, medicines gone rank in the bottle. Other things were useful. Gauze bandages and eyeglass lenses and fine cutting tools.
It was a boat Smith was watching, and it was headed for the base of the North Ridge, where that steep, deep wall of rock dropped from mountain-height down to the sea. The deep cleft of New London harbor could be seen from far off, yet this ship was making for the base of the ridge far below Smith's feet.
Smith leaned forward, braced his cane, preparing to push himself to his feet, feeling his bones grind together. He was old. Old! He had seen so much, outlived so many. Why his last years had to be filled with struggling out of bed in the morning and hurting when he took a piss and losing his teeth one by one made him wonder if he shouldn't have gone out on a blaze of glory in his youth, like so many who had fallen in his wake. Even Trina was gone. Outlived. If she was here she would tell him—
For the first time in a day he spoke aloud. "Don't think about her, old man."
Thinking about Trina hurt too much. After all he had said and done, that hurt the most. He had given her his scarred, cold heart, and she had healed it and warmed it, and taken it with her when she died.
The boat slipped from Smith's view and he lurched to his feet. He walked to the cliff edge and looked down. The boat was tied off down there among a row of jagged rocks. Something darted from the boat and jumped from rock to rock. It paused, looked up, and leaped onto the rock face. It began to climb, fast.
Leech.
Smith looked around. It had taken him hours to hike up here from Rivertown, and it would take him hours to hike back.
He returned to his stone chair and sat down.
He didn't wait long.
He could hear the leech climbing, pulling itself up that sheer wall of stone.
He saw one hand on the cliff edge, and then it hopped up into view.
It was a man, once. Tall, rugged. Now it was all sinew and muscle and oddly mottled skin. There was a network of scars on the leech's throat.
"I found you," the leech said.
Smith said nothing.
"I've searched for decades. I had heard you were here, and from far out to sea I watched and saw you coming to this place."
The leech smiled, showing white, long strong fingers twitching.
"It ends here," the leech said, as it stepped close.
Smith stood quickly, drawing a short sword and raising his cane.
The leech ripped open its shirt, dropped to its knees in front of him and threw its arms back, exposing neck and chest.
"Yes," it said. "Finish me."
There were many puncture wounds in the center of this thing's chest. Some old, some new.
Smith paused. This was not what he expected.
The leech turned its head, ran a finger along the mess of scar tissue on its neck.
"Do you not remember me?"
Smith cogitated, frowning. Damn it, he'd known so many faces over so many years...
"Park Rangers," Smith said. "The great arch..."
The leech nodded, offering a grim smile.
Smith thought he had it now. "John Virtue?"
The leech nodded again. "Yes, Mr. Smith."
Smith stepped back and leaned against his throne.
"I should have died that far gone day," Virtue said. "I did not. I became this. A walking sickness. I was hurt, but I healed. And I grew hungry."
"Better you than Billy Corrigan," Smith said.
The leech lowered its head in shame. "Agreed. I spent many years fighting what I was. I never fed on a survivor. I lived on the blood of animals. And when the day came that I could no longer bear this existence, I offered my heart to a survivor's stake."
The leech touched an old scar on its chest.
"It didn't work," the leech said. "Again and again I tried to die, and found that I could not. I have been burned, staked, exposed to the sun—"
Smith raised his sword. "Might I suggest a beheading?"
The leech looked him in the eye. "I feared that I would live on still, in pieces, so I avoided testing that option. I think my end lies in a more... spiritual strike."
The leech let a finger trail from puncture to puncture on its chest.
"I need to be struck down by an honorable man," the leech said. "I believe only that will leave me dead."
Smith chewed on that a moment, and then burst out laughing.
"An honorable man? Virtue, you came here for nothing."
The leech moved fast. There was a time when Smith could have reacted faster than he did. The thing wrapped one cold hand around his throat and grabbed the blade of his sword with the other.
"I've seen much of the world, as you have," the leech said. "But I've seen the dark side. I've seen pregnant leech mothers celebrate unholy days by feasting on their own newborn children. I've seen an entire city slaughtered and drained of blood. I've seen mutations that are part man, leech, muncher, and animal, grotesques that live only to eat and fuck. I believe I have seen hell. Through all of that I have tried to die, and have not, because the men and unmen who struck me were not pure of heart."
The leech guided Smith's sword, placing the gleaming steel tip against its bare chest.
"Strike me down. You fought for good. Let this be your last fight."
Smith looked into the eyes of the leech. He saw something there he never expected. He let go of the sword, and sat down on the stone chair.
"You'll have to do it yourself," he said. "You are the only honorable man here, Virtue."
Virture's expression changed, his face drawing in desperation.
"Your children then, some child untouched by the world. They could—"
"Captain," Smith said, "Did you ever think that you could not die a monster's death because you are not a monster?"
Virtue looked confused.
"I'm done in," Smith said. "Time is catching up with me. If there is fighting to be done, it will not be done by me. It will be done by my children, and their children. And I don't want them fighting at all."
Smith reached out and put a hand on Virtue's shoulder.
"If you want to die an honorable death, then why not die fighting the things that would kill my children?"
Virtue set down the sword and stood. "Do you think that would work?"
"I can't say for certain," Smith replied. "But it would be one kick-ass noble cause. And an honorable death."
Virture turned away, lost in thought. He walked to the edge of the cliff and then looked over his shoulder.
"Did you know this is Christmas?"
"Christmas..." Smith shook his head. "I thought I was the only man alive who even remembered that day."
"This day," Virtue said.
"Here we just call the season Yearend," Smith said.
"Well..." Virtue looked down to the sea. "You've given me a gift. Thank you."
The tall man stepped off the edge of the cliff.
By the time Smith got to his feet and walked to the ledge, the little boat was pulling away from the island.
Smith turned to go back to Rivertown when he saw two young men coming close, walking up the trail to the ridge.
"Hello, Uncle!" they called together. To every boy and girl not related to him by blood, Smith was known as 'Uncle.'
It was.... Smith thought a moment, searching for the names. Aury and Drover.
"Hi boys," Smith said, "Come to walk an old man home?"
Aury laughed nervously and Drover looked at his feet, embarrassed. Despite his aches and pains, Smith was a legend to these boys.
He was a legend that wouldn't last forever.
Maybe it was time to pass on a few things... before they were lost with his passing.
As Smith headed down the trail, safe between the two young men should he stumble, he said, "Let me tell you a story about a thing called Christmas..."
Merry Christmas, everyone!
User Reviews
Submitted by zakalwe (user info) at 2006-02-14 17:24:46 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
I missed this.
Submitted by JonnyX (user info) at 2005-12-29 16:10:57 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Phinch (user info) at 2005-12-28 13:22:32 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by MyNameIsTim (user info) at 2005-12-28 09:02:54 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
motherfucking jack...don't you know when to call a good thing quits!
(i'm just kidding)
i liked it...i like the idea thats been planted of an army of smith children led by general smith taking on the world.
let them fuck amoungst themselves, and then go on and conquer the world
Submitted by Jack_McCallum (user info) at 2005-12-27 18:10:49 EST (#)
Ranking: 0
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2005-12-27 12:34:45 (#)
Ranking: 2
this has potential for a virtue spin-off. i remember thinking he could carry a series. now he continues the fight, always seeking death, never finding...until the appropriate blaze of glory.
--
I'm actually debating with myself, trying to decide if I should do a Very Bad Thing to Smith...
Submitted by jack11058 (user info) at 2005-12-27 12:34:45 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
this has potential for a virtue spin-off. i remember thinking he could carry a series. now he continues the fight, always seeking death, never finding...until the appropriate blaze of glory.
Submitted by hcp28 (user info) at 2005-12-25 15:22:53 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
YAHHH!!!!
I am fulfilled!
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-24 09:48:24 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2005-12-24 04:51:25 (#)
Ranking: 2
Very cool. A Christmas Pandemic tale.
Merry Christmas mate. I for one will be having plenty of prawns, oysters and beers.
____________________________________________________________
Mmmmmm... Prawns, oysters, and beer. Merry Christmas.
Crab muffins and Irish coffee are the order of the day here.
Submitted by Benny (user info) at 2005-12-24 04:51:25 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Very cool. A Christmas Pandemic tale.
Merry Christmas mate. I for one will be having plenty of prawns, oysters and beers.
Submitted by Bubba2341 (user info) at 2005-12-23 19:14:30 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Typical McCallum.
HEY! If you like this, go rate Jack's Ubermas post about 34th street.
(You can pay me later for the plug. Cash).
Submitted by the_thorne (user info) at 2005-12-23 18:31:13 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
hell yes
Submitted by horse87 (user info) at 2005-12-23 18:14:23 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by knucklesnelson (user info) at 2005-12-23 17:53:07 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
kewl
Submitted by a_reader (user info) at 2005-12-23 16:24:35 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by pen_name (user info) at 2005-12-23 16:17:20 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by stevie_says (user info) at 2005-12-23 16:10:12 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by LadyPlural (user info) at 2005-12-23 15:49:44 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
No Comment
Submitted by Bayley (user info) at 2005-12-23 15:38:42 EST (#)
Ranking: 2
Yay!!! I love Smith! Thanks Jack.