Chapter 23 – Friendly Faces

  The break from the rain didn’t last long. Less than an hour later Cole donned his rain poncho once again. With the climbing becoming steeper as they continued, the sun peeked out low beneath the clouds on their left side. Twice, they had to cross fast-moving water where the mountain runoff was funneled into swift channels. This was the kind of terrain where Cole imagined flash-flooding would be an issue, as they started to move through wide canyons cut into the rock. They continued following one river up toward the source, using it as a terrain guide. Ponds and lakes dotted the slope just as they had the lowlands, and several times Cole spotted movement and ripples at the surface. Not something he was keen on fishing out of, though. He ate another ration bar as they walked.

  Attacks were light as they moved, only a handful of fungal zombies and the occasional wood-man no longer seemed to have much of an effect on his experience. But each of them dropped a few more rounds for his rifle that he was glad to use to replenish his magazines.

  Once the sun dropped below the horizon, everyone stopped and switched to night vision, though for him it didn’t feel much dimmer than early evening. The moon, when it deigned to show between the clouds, was more than enough illumination. Cole connected his, but even on the lowest brightness setting it was almost painfully luminous. After a minute of fiddling, he pulled the NODs back off and stowed them again. Some of the others gave him odd looks.

  “Cole,” said Roxy, “Your eyes are shining. Like a cat’s.”

  “Acuity is my highest enhancement,” he said by way of explanation.

  “Makes sense for a scout platoon squad leader,” said Howie. “Bet you’ve spent a lot of time on your belly.”

  “Hell, Howie, you got no idea. I could tell you what a snake looks like from below,” said Cole. The others chuckled at that but went on alert soon after when Nutmeg started barking in the distance.

  Besson recalled his dog with a low whistle, but Cole caught a whiff of something in the air as the breeze changed and realized what must have alerted Nutmeg.

  “People,” said Cole as Besson jogged back to report. He tapped his nose. “I smell woodsmoke.”

  Roxy and Howie both sniffed the air. “I don’t smell any—ah, acuity, right,” said Howie.

  “At least they’re not zombies,” said Roxy.

  “No, just people. People with guns, maybe,” said Besson, more than a little obviously preferring the undead to the living. “Fall back, circumnavigate?”

  Cole settled down to his haunches to consider. He rubbed his face, annoyed at the stubble that had started to grow. They’d been in Curahee almost two days, now. Best case scenario, they’d get out tomorrow. But nothing so far had given him any clue as to what they’d face further up the mountain. And they couldn’t count on Morganstern waking up to make things easier on them. She’d barely been lucid enough to say more than a half-dozen words the entire day.

  “We need intel,” he said. “Hell, if we’d had some before, we might not have almost walked into that ambush in the Silk Forest. I know it’s risky, but if there’s people, we have to see if we can learn anything about what’s to come.”

  Besson turned his nose up at the idea, and Roxy looked skeptical as well. “How do you know we’ll even be able to communicate?” she asked. “You speak Curahee?”

  “There’s always interpretive dance,” said Howie, helpfully. “For what it's worth, I think it’s worth a shot. The Lewis Field let us understand Han, so it must have some sort of translation keying. If we can’t communicate, we move on. If they seem hostile, we withdraw. And if they come after us with pitchforks, we defend ourselves.”

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  “Agreed,” said Cole. He looked at Besson. “I’d like you on overwatch, if you’re good with that.”

  Besson shrugged. He’d spoken about as much as Morganstern ever since linking back up with Roxy and Howie. Cole figured it was the closest he was going to get to an affirmative from the 31K that would rather be off on his own—if not for the circumstance with Ram-head.

  Cole took point, working his way through the forest until they started to see signs of civilization. Timber had been deliberately cut in places, well-trod paths bordered on proper trails, and there were even old fire pits here and there, though how the people here got anything in this sodden world to burn was anyone’s guess. Two almost fully developed woodmen cocoons were marked with warning paint on the tree-trunks and bound with heavy rope to keep the eventual creature confined to its birthplace.

  They came up on a man-made bridge across the river. Once on the other side, Cole spotted flickering light further up-country and Besson took his leave, shadowing them with Nutmeg from a few hundred meters away. As they got closer to the settlement, Cole started to smell other things—livestock, hops, unwashed bodies, lubricant grease, cooking meat, and unprocessed sewage. Not too dissimilar from his high school, when you got right down to it.

  They came up to a wood line and stopped short. Across a clearing of at least five hundred meters sat a small, walled city nestled up to a cliff face. Lantern lights moved across the battlements of a timber wall and the orange glow from within the town lit up a series of platforms built into the cliff face above where other terraces housed structures or hanging gardens.

  A small waterfall ran down the cliff, powering water wheels of wood and brass built right into the rock face. In the open ground, neat rows of crops had been planted and fenced in with outward-facing stakes. Several had dead or not-so-dead fungal zombies impaled on them. Apparently, that was a morning problem, as it seemed all the workers and villagers pulled back behind the walls after dark.

  Knowing Besson was watching their backs, Cole moved out into the cleared area between two and raised his hand in greeting as he walked forward. The guards on the walls must have been alert as hell, because a whistle blew before he’d made it fifteen meters, and a frenzy of activity on the wall halted him. From what he could see, there was a lot of pointing and lanterns being raised, but no bows or guns being drawn, or other weapons being produced, yet. After a moment to let them see the three of them, Cole continued.

  As they got closer, Cole could make out several men with firearms set up on tripods, though they looked more like muskets than modern rifles. The defenders on the wall regarded them more with curiosity than aggression. A tall man with a feathered, conical helmet and a bushy mustache appeared over the wall.

  Howie leaned in and jabbed Cole with his elbow. “Tell them we’re looking for the Holy Grail,” he said. Roxy snickered behind him.

  They got within about 40 meters of the wall before the man shouted down at them.

  “Ho there! More of Lord Bricker’s would-be knights on pilgrimage?”

  Cole glanced at the others before answering. Looks like they weren’t going to need interpretive dance after all. Roxy shrugged. Howie shrugged and then nodded, which was enough for Cole. “Yes!” he shouted up. “We’re headed to the mountaintop. Did you say more?”

  “Oh, aye. Two others passed these gates this very morn. Would you then be Sir Colton?”

  “Tell him you’re King Arthur,” Howie insisted.

  “This isn’t the time for movie jokes,” Cole hissed back. He resisted the urge to shake his head. There was a Howie in every unit. He cleared his throat. “Yes, that’s me. And I’ve got others. We wish you no trouble, just intel on what’s waiting for us at the top.”

  “Come within, Sir Colton. There is safety in the Hold. I will tell you all you wish to know, myself.”

  Cole turned to confer with the others. “Either he’s telling the truth, or they tortured our names out of Han and Ken.”

  “No one in a hat that fancy is ever good news,” said Roxy. “But if they were torturing Kicker recruits, there’s no way the proctors wouldn’t have smashed this place to pieces. A group comes through Curahee every three months.”

  “She’s right,” said Howie. “The tryouts must be a pilgrimage from their point of view. Strangers from the south, always seeking the top of the mountain. Plus, he called the director Lord Bricker.”

  Cole pursed his lips. “Worst comes to, we’ve got Besson to raise unholy hell to spring us. Ya’ll can wait out here if you prefer. We don’t all need to go in.”

  Howie shook his head. “I’m with you, Cole.”

  “So are we,” said Roxy, speaking for the unconscious woman riding her back.

  “All right, then,” said Cole. Let’s go find out what they know.”