Truce

 

“Truce”

     The ground underfoot is soft and slick, threatening to make them slip as they descend from the forested path to the bed of the creek.  The fallen leaves are drenched in dew.  Roots protrude from the muddy cliffside.  After staying the course carefully, the two at last make it to the creek bed.

     The waters pass by meekly around their boots. Downstream a way is the sound of water flowing freely down small drop offs.  Back in the day, they would come to the creek to throw stones and chip away at the daylight.  The context is different now and the urgency of their mission conflicts with the serenity of the landscape.

     One looks to the other inquiringly.

     The other points upstream fifty paces on the opposite side of the creek.  The finger indicates a hole in the slope that leads back to the forest.  It’s the kind of hole that sparks a primal sense of paranoia and caution to those who may pass it by. Within the black reaches of its darkness lurk infinite dreadful possibilities.

     They slosh through the water as quietly as their boots will let them until they reach a couple of rocks that jut out of the stream, algae flanking the stone where the current flows past.  The hole of dreaded portends is nauseatingly close, so they hunker down behind the rocks.

     “Get the mirror ready, Jess,” one says.

     With her back against the rock, she reaches a hand into the pocket of her backpack and takes out a plastic case.  She flips it open.  The foundation in the plastic has long since been used up and crusted over.  The round mirror is dotted with smudges and scratches.  Regardless, Jess gets a visual on the aperture of that dreaded hole as she angles it across the smooth glass of the water.

     Minutes turn to hours.  Discomfort turns to agony.  Jess rises from her squat and stretches, praying that no one and no thing from within that hole spots her.  The other one does the same, then they resume their stakeout.

     “Are you sure this is the place?” her skeptical friend whispers.

     “I wouldn’t have dragged you out here for fun, Art.  Just keep your voice down and keep your cattle prod ready in case one of the rogue nagas gets the jump on us.”

     Art nods fiddles with the button on his retractable cattle prod.  The prongs of the cattle prod have been replaced with blades to skewer and electrocute in one fell swoop. 

     As they continue to wait, Jess runs a mental fire drill of what happens if they’re found out.  The machete sheathed on her hip could fend off a bite from one of the serpentfolk but would do little to wound it.  She has the automatic pea-shooter, but to use it openly is to announce your presence to all who are nearby, who will undoubtedly congregate to kill, eat, imprison, or torture you.

     She’s keeping track of these contingency plans when she sees a gray-green shape emerge from the hole.

     Rays of orange from the sunset strike through the trees and shed an autumnal grace on the slithering beast as it emerges from its den.  Its scales are coated in mud and algae.  It’s almost as tall as a human even as it crawls about on its belly.  It turns its wriggling mass upstream and sets out on whatever errands it has in mind.

     As it turns, Jess gets a horrifying look at its face.  The naga’s aquiline facial features are remarkably human, even if they’re nestled between two fans that frame the head like the hood of a cobra.  Its eyes are black and seem weary.

     Jess studies the naga as it slithers upstream and crawls out of the creek bed.  It disappears into the forest on the other side.  She squints into the mirror with all the focus she can muster and sees no insignia etched onto the scales, no family crest adorning the back of the hood, no sign that the naga is affiliated with any of the clans in the city.

     “We may have really found it,” she says.

     “Then we should get moving,” Art says. 

     They’d heard the rumors about clans of the serpentfolk who live outside of the jaded coalition of overlords who live in the city.  The thought of a rogue naga was met with derision and fear back in the village, with tales of abduction and mutilation being passed around the campfire like a cigarette in a trailer park.  These rumors had little evidence to back them up.  And it's not like the rogues could be less humane than the ones in the city.

     They skip across the current as quietly as they can and reach the dark hole.  The cool dampness within fails to make the place seem more approachable.  It looks like the place where rats go to die.

     Without humoring the idea of hesitating, Art grabs an overhanging tree root to steady himself before stepping down into the darkness.  He grunts with exertion as he plants himself within.  Jess sees a hand stretch out of the hole, which she takes and holds firmly as she steps in.

     Their eyes look for one another in vain. 

     Jess grabs a flashlight from her bag and clicks it on.  A white beam illuminates murky cave walls that are carved with the pictographic language of low-born nagas.  Even the untrained eye could gaze upon those depictions of betray, ostracization, and exile and would have an idea of what the writer was trying to get across.

     Their eyes look for one another in the dim light shed outside of the flashlight’s beam.  Their trepidation is shared and palpable, as is their sense of duty.  Jess plants one foot forward and the two continue their descent into the pit.  The beam of the flashlight reveals broken beer bottles, rusted double AA batteries, discarded condoms, empty foil packages of cigarillos, and other relics.  Concave streaks in the mud below reveal where the naga or nagas have made their way through their hovel.

     The tunnel splits into three directions.  Art waits for Jess’s direction.  She turns left and rotates through the dank hole, always keeping a wall on her left side.  They explore the tunnels without finding another naga, which is great, but they also can’t find the eggs.  Not that they really know what they’re looking for, but the anxiety of the naga returning to its lair is creeping up their spines menacingly.

     They come to a round a chamber.  The ground is littered with the bones of small animals.  They wordlessly wonder if there are human bones in the mix but find little evidence in favor or against this suspicion.  Jess makes a proud stride forward before being tugged backward by her jacket.

     “Wait,” Art urges in a hoarse shout.  “Watch where you’re stepping.”

     She points the beam of the flashlight to where her foot was about to land and sees what Art means.  Lying in a pit in the mud are eight translucent eggs.  Jess bends to a crouch and shines the beam closer to the eggs.  The light permeates the eggs to reveal tiny serpentine shapes within the green murk that is enclosed by translucent shells.

     “Good call,” she whispers to Art.  But when she looks back it him, it looks like her companion is lost in thought.  She knows he’s thinking about his wife, his family, and all the others who are trapped the city to be the pets of the nagas.  She reckons he’s considering taking his boots to the eggs anyway.  Less nagas to worry about next spring.

     She hears the clicking of his cattle prod extending and locking into place.  Blue jolts of electricity pulsate around the blades at the tip of the spear. 

     “Get back, Jess,” he urges.

     “No.  We came here for a reason.  Let’s just leave the slate and get out of here.”

     “You don’t understand.  If we don’t take matters into our own hands, the pointless cycle of failed, bloody revolutions will continue.  Next, it’ll be one of us choosing between freedom in the wasteland and luxury in the city.”

     “You don’t know that.  We didn’t come here to start one of those futile revolutions, but to lay the foundations for something greater.  Now your trap and keep the spear pointed to the tunnel we came from in case… Just in case.”

     Art snorts and turns his back to Jess, who reaches into her bag and produces the colt slab of hardened clay.  The elder of the village made an attempt to mimic the syntax of the low-born nagas’ pictographic language.  The image on the slate shows the forms of the nagas and humans toiling in a field side by side.  A naive dream, probably spelled out with innumerable grammatical errors, but hopefully it gets the point across.

     She leaves it in the mud near the naga’s eggs and turns to Art.

     “Let’s go.”

     They return the way the came, Jess keeping the mud wall of the tunnels on the right hand side as they navigate back to the surface.  After many tense minutes of worrying what they’ll find around the next corner, they return to the first intersection that they branched off of.

     As the flashlight’s beam shoots into the intersection, they catch a glimpse of a naga’s tail slithering down one of the branching paths.

     Jess takes two stupidly decisive steps forward and flicks the beam of the flashlight down the other tunnel just long enough to see the brand on the naga’s hood.  The insignia depicts a crescent moon and a serpent aligned to form a perfect circle.  She can’t remember her naga lore at a moment like this, but she knows this one will show little mercy if they reveal themselves.

     "It’s going to eat the eggs,” she says in a whisper so faint it barely gets past her lips.

     “That’s what they do.  This isn’t our fight.  We did our part, now let’s get out here while we can.”

     But even as he articulates the words, he hears her rummaging through her backpack.  He hears a lid being unscrewed.  He hears a hissing in the tunnel and hears liquid splashing onto the mud below. 

     “What the hell are you doing?” he asks, gripping his electrified bident with sweaty palms. 

     “My best,” she says.  She strikes the flint of her zippo lighter. “Get ready.”

     The slithering, hulking mass in the tunnel is approaching fast.  Jess waits until it’s almost close enough to lunge and strike with those horrendous fangs before dropping the zippo into a pool of lighter fluid.

     Flames leap from the mud and enclose around the black-scaled naga.  It strikes out in fury and indignation, revealing the pink interior of its mouth.  Just before the fangs can reach Jess, the twin blades of Art’s bident strike into the mouth and pin the serpent to the mud.  The flames scorch Art’s wrists and forearms, but he doesn’t care, they’ll be extinguished in just a couple seconds.

     Bracing the polearm with all his might as the naga wriggles and tries to yank itself free, Art reaches into the wide holster that sits on his hip.  He unsheathes a sawed-off double barrel shotgun and lowers its muzzle.  Jess clasps her hands over her ears as thunder strikes in the tunnel.  The top of the naga’s head is ripped from its body.  The form continues to wriggle and writhe, but the movements become slower and slower as black blood is released into the mud.

     “Come on, we’ve gotta get out of here,” Jess says.  She grabs Art by the wrist and they stomp uphill, hoping to breach the tunnel’s exit before—

     A dark silhouette blocks the way out.  The two stand still and silent as they watch the form of the naga for what will come. 

     The naga of the gray-green scales slithers into the pit, eyeing them with curiosity.  Its gleaming eyes find the shotgun in Art’s hand but doesn’t seem to fear it.  The slitted nostrils sniff and flare, first at Art then at Jess.

     The naga then slithers further into the tunnel.

     Art is soon climbing out of the abyss.  He holds a hand down to help Jess out.

     As she’s being pulled up, she hears gnashing and slurping emanating from the tunnels.