JUNIPER, WARRIOR-QUEEN OF HYPERBOREA !
IN :
CULT OF THE BLACK MEAT, PART ONE !
Juniper glided beneath the river surface, murk shaded with firelight, drifting leaves and branches from the jungle canopy.
The drumbeats, the whack of wood and bone clubs on stretched drumheads reverberated through the liquid medium in a tangible soundscape.
Her muscular curves and soft edges were streaked with dark oily pigments, bands and patches of green, brown and grey, clinging to her flesh in the warm water.
In a far away place, she was aware of the burning in her lungs as carbon dioxide built up in her bloodstream, and she ignored it. The euphoria and hallucinations would come next if she did not surface for air soon. Five minutes was the limit. Any longer and she would black out, and unable to keep her beautifully formed lips closed underwater, inhale enough river to kill her almost immediately The techniques of the native pearl diver required a clear mind and self discipline. She lacked neither.
Such things were useful when closing a stretch of guarded river. Surely the cult of he black meat would not permit her to canoe into the heart of their territory. It was simply impossible. They would spear her, immobilize her with centipede toxin, and probably rape her. After that, it was either a cannibal feast, or an even worse fate incubating the eggs of the aquatic centipede that was their god, and holy sacrament.
It was shockingly quick process for what was once a tribe of bohemian surfers to go over the edge completely. In the beginning they had satisfied themselves with locally grown dope, and a makeshift meth lab, but as their craving for thrills escalated, and supplies for meth synthesis ran short, it was a short trip into the mysteries of the black meat.
Carefully, juniper swam up against the riverbed as it sloped into the bank. Centuries of moving water had eroded the soil from underneath the root systems of the trees, creating a tangle of wrist thick anchors to conceal herself in. Hidden as well as possible, she pieced the surface of the water, disciplining herself to not gasp air too loudly. It was unlikely they'd hear her over their own revels, but the was no reason to take chances. They outnumbered her a dozen or more o one.
Insane with the psychedelic enzymes of the giant aquatic centipede, the tribe had launched a brazen raid on one of the smaller settlements bordering hurqualya. Most likely for medicine and tools, but also to kidnap slaves who would eventually become hosts to the parasitic larvae of the hideous insect
Juniper couldn't afford to carry much in the way of weapons. The scout knife tom had given her, thick bladed and weighted well enough to throw like a hatchet, and handful of fire hardened throwing sticks, softened slightly by immersion in the river unfortunately.
By contrast, the cultists carried a variety of spears, clubs, imported metal knives and axes, and couple of firearms even, despite the longstanding taboo on bringing them across the breach from earth prime. There really was no use for them here except to kill other humans. Archaic weapons were sufficient to hunt in reasonable quantities. The bulk of the population was strictly vegetarian anyway.
Juniper smoothly lifted herself out of the water, strong limbs carrying her body into the tangle of undergrowth. She was perhaps a hundred feet from the edge of their camp. The huge wasteful bonfire they had built would steal virtually all of their night vision. Stupid. Juniper deliberately averted her eyes from the light source to keep her pupils well dilated. She knew she could stalk up to them easily. They were fierce and brutal, but not nearly skilled enough to make use of the jungle to it's utmost. In all likelihood they were suffering from several tropical diseases and untreated wounds that turned rotten in the jungle humidity. Left alone they would all be dead in less than a year. Unfortunately they might kill twice their own numbers in that time. Better to be rid of them, and their deranged religion.
Stilling the breath, and the mind, in low stalking crouch. Poorly trained sentries inevitably scanned only at eye level. If you were careful you could crawl right up to them because they didn't look down. Juniper kept her direct gaze at the ground in front of her, scanning for motion with her peripheral vision, which was superior. The old adage about not seeing what was right in front of you had its truth.
Even the most drug addled or insane could sometimes feel eyes upon them, and in many cases those thing enhanced the effect, so juniper again did not look directly at he closest sentry. She clung to the foliage and hid in the silhouettes of trees, camouflage breaking up her outline, muting the shine of her lustrous black hair, and deep copper colored skin.
She would have to cover about ten feet of open ground to reach him. He was smart enough to stay away from the tree line at least, but more likely he feared snakes. He was fidgety, shifting his weigh erratically on his feet, the body language of amphetamine psychosis or worse. She could smell the acrid chemical tang of his sweat, the distinctive trace of malnourishment, as stimulants destroyed the appetite, leading to the breakdown of body tissue, and release of certain chemicals in the sweat. He was typically white, his filthy hair dreaded up and splayed out in all directions. He carried a barbed fishing spear, coated with a sticky black tar on the tip. No doubt some crude plant toxin. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Charles Manson on the front, with the quotation 'Charlie don't surf' on the back. Juniper didn't know what that meant. She had grown up in hyperborea and except for a few brief visits to the old earth with her parents, had no real knowledge of pop culture. The only reason she knew Manson was because of an old book in the library. Waterlogged and swollen, it was paperback devoted to the exploits of serial killers. Apparently this sort of thing was a fascination for earth primers. Manson was on the cover.
No matter. No reason to delay either. She spent a few moments, catching the pace of his breathing, the shift of his weight, the furtive glance darting around in the darkness, and when she could feel him turn his mind away from where she was, could feel his awareness more than he could himself, she drew her breath in, and in a controlled exhale lifted herself up into a clear line sight, took one step forward, and twisting her hips behind the step, pitched a sharpened wooden spike into the side of his neck.
He instantly turned, gagged, and lifted his free hand up to his neck. Funny thing. Even in situations of pain and injury, our grip reflex remains intact. It would be almost impossible to release his fingers from the spear shaft now. Monkey instinct. Not that it mattered at all. She closed the distance in two bounding steps and was on top of him with her blade.
He covered a couple of vital areas with his free arm, but juniper simply attacked the half dozen other fatal targets on his body. He didn't bleed to death. That could take thirty seconds or more. Multiple traumas and massive blood loss sent him into shock and stopped his heart in less than ten seconds. There was no screaming.
She dropped catlike onto her belly, vanishing from sight again, if anyone in the camp looked her way. It was virtually impossible to see her from where the bulk of them were, but all the same, no point taking chances.
There were perhaps a dozen of the tribe circulating around the bonfire. To one of that was bowl shaped depression about fifteen feet across, carefully lined with stone and mortar, and most likely filled with salt water. Lashed to stakes around the edge of the pool, were three captives. They had originally taken five. Three women, two men. The men and one of the women were now secured at the edge of the pool, to be tortured degraded of thrown to the centipedes that were doubtless at home in the saltwater pit.
She crawled over the spear, comforted to have a longer weapon at her disposal. Smelling the tip of the spear, it was in fact a kind of sap from a fruit tree, treated over an open flame to change into a deadly poison. Useless for food hunting, but perfect for killing people. So be it. She would need a distraction to approach the prisoners though. A head on attack was folly.
There were a handful of tents at the edges of the firelight, of various sizes. From where she was it was pretty clear which one was being used to as a meth lab. Jugs of chemicals, and pressurized cylinders of propane and god knows what else were visible through the entrance flap, and stacked outside. Indoor meth labs constructed by competent chemists were already firebombs waiting to happen, or so she was told. Meth labs constructed by starved hallucinating diseased cannibal psychotics were hardly any safer, she was willing to bet. Likely far less so.
Rising to a low stalking crouch, juniper carefully trod the darkened jungle to the outskirts of the camp, holding the spear low and parallel to the ground, to mask its movement. If she were seen, the first witness would die quickly and quietly on the tip of this weapon. After that... It was hard to say. She would think of something. If that could be avoided, it would.
It was a small relief to reach the lab tent. Juniper dropped into a low squat, legs coiled to launch the spear if need be, or spring on attacker and eviscerate him at close range. She sat next to the tent sufficiently long to be certain no one was inside. At this distance, the drumbeat reverberated through her body. The music had a ragged, frantic edge to it, rather than the smooth rhythm of rejoicing in hurqualya. Carefully, she split the fabric of the tent with her knife, slowly opening a cleft big enough to see through, and when quick inspection failed to yield any people amongst the tubes, tables, washtubs, and glass bottles, she began to widen it sufficiently to enter the tent proper.
Simple plan: light the tent on fire to generate a distraction, and, if very fortunate, an explosion that might kill a few of her opponents. They might even think it was an accident.
Since she carried no fire making materials on her person, it was incumbent on her to find some in the tent. Which certainly was no problem. There were Bunsen burners hooked up to propane cylinders in several locations. A couple piezo electric barbecue igniters lay on a workbench. Handy.
A better idea. Release a significant amount of propane into the confines of the tent. Move to a safe distance and hurl a torch at the tent. Well aimed, this would generate the desired explosion. Tom would be pleased. Textbook improvised demolitions. Juniper set to work opening up as many propane valves as possible.
The hiss of escaping gases, followed by the trademark stink of propane, was indication enough that the tanks weren't empty.
Juniper pocketed a piezo electric lighter, and snatched a bottle of ether off of a freestanding shelf. Perfect material for a Molotov cocktail. All the elements of a very unusual childhood had come into play on this trip.
She was so pleased with herself, it was a dismal shock to turn and find a trio of fidgeting strung out psychos glaring into the tent at her.
The first one, stripped to the waist, scar tattoos crawling over his arms and chest, heavy lidded eyes widening in their deep sockets. He let a mangy strip of dreads fall across his forehead. He breathed with his mouth, swollen tongue passing his lips ever so slightly. His bony, string muscled chest hitched and shuddered, like a laugh was caught in his ribcage. He drew an audible rush of air into his lungs as he prepared to speak.
Juniper hefted the bottle of ether in her hand, and thought to her self:
Fuck This
IN :
CULT OF THE BLACK MEAT, PART ONE !
Juniper glided beneath the river surface, murk shaded with firelight, drifting leaves and branches from the jungle canopy.
The drumbeats, the whack of wood and bone clubs on stretched drumheads reverberated through the liquid medium in a tangible soundscape.
Her muscular curves and soft edges were streaked with dark oily pigments, bands and patches of green, brown and grey, clinging to her flesh in the warm water.
In a far away place, she was aware of the burning in her lungs as carbon dioxide built up in her bloodstream, and she ignored it. The euphoria and hallucinations would come next if she did not surface for air soon. Five minutes was the limit. Any longer and she would black out, and unable to keep her beautifully formed lips closed underwater, inhale enough river to kill her almost immediately The techniques of the native pearl diver required a clear mind and self discipline. She lacked neither.
Such things were useful when closing a stretch of guarded river. Surely the cult of he black meat would not permit her to canoe into the heart of their territory. It was simply impossible. They would spear her, immobilize her with centipede toxin, and probably rape her. After that, it was either a cannibal feast, or an even worse fate incubating the eggs of the aquatic centipede that was their god, and holy sacrament.
It was shockingly quick process for what was once a tribe of bohemian surfers to go over the edge completely. In the beginning they had satisfied themselves with locally grown dope, and a makeshift meth lab, but as their craving for thrills escalated, and supplies for meth synthesis ran short, it was a short trip into the mysteries of the black meat.
Carefully, juniper swam up against the riverbed as it sloped into the bank. Centuries of moving water had eroded the soil from underneath the root systems of the trees, creating a tangle of wrist thick anchors to conceal herself in. Hidden as well as possible, she pieced the surface of the water, disciplining herself to not gasp air too loudly. It was unlikely they'd hear her over their own revels, but the was no reason to take chances. They outnumbered her a dozen or more o one.
Insane with the psychedelic enzymes of the giant aquatic centipede, the tribe had launched a brazen raid on one of the smaller settlements bordering hurqualya. Most likely for medicine and tools, but also to kidnap slaves who would eventually become hosts to the parasitic larvae of the hideous insect
Juniper couldn't afford to carry much in the way of weapons. The scout knife tom had given her, thick bladed and weighted well enough to throw like a hatchet, and handful of fire hardened throwing sticks, softened slightly by immersion in the river unfortunately.
By contrast, the cultists carried a variety of spears, clubs, imported metal knives and axes, and couple of firearms even, despite the longstanding taboo on bringing them across the breach from earth prime. There really was no use for them here except to kill other humans. Archaic weapons were sufficient to hunt in reasonable quantities. The bulk of the population was strictly vegetarian anyway.
Juniper smoothly lifted herself out of the water, strong limbs carrying her body into the tangle of undergrowth. She was perhaps a hundred feet from the edge of their camp. The huge wasteful bonfire they had built would steal virtually all of their night vision. Stupid. Juniper deliberately averted her eyes from the light source to keep her pupils well dilated. She knew she could stalk up to them easily. They were fierce and brutal, but not nearly skilled enough to make use of the jungle to it's utmost. In all likelihood they were suffering from several tropical diseases and untreated wounds that turned rotten in the jungle humidity. Left alone they would all be dead in less than a year. Unfortunately they might kill twice their own numbers in that time. Better to be rid of them, and their deranged religion.
Stilling the breath, and the mind, in low stalking crouch. Poorly trained sentries inevitably scanned only at eye level. If you were careful you could crawl right up to them because they didn't look down. Juniper kept her direct gaze at the ground in front of her, scanning for motion with her peripheral vision, which was superior. The old adage about not seeing what was right in front of you had its truth.
Even the most drug addled or insane could sometimes feel eyes upon them, and in many cases those thing enhanced the effect, so juniper again did not look directly at he closest sentry. She clung to the foliage and hid in the silhouettes of trees, camouflage breaking up her outline, muting the shine of her lustrous black hair, and deep copper colored skin.
She would have to cover about ten feet of open ground to reach him. He was smart enough to stay away from the tree line at least, but more likely he feared snakes. He was fidgety, shifting his weigh erratically on his feet, the body language of amphetamine psychosis or worse. She could smell the acrid chemical tang of his sweat, the distinctive trace of malnourishment, as stimulants destroyed the appetite, leading to the breakdown of body tissue, and release of certain chemicals in the sweat. He was typically white, his filthy hair dreaded up and splayed out in all directions. He carried a barbed fishing spear, coated with a sticky black tar on the tip. No doubt some crude plant toxin. He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Charles Manson on the front, with the quotation 'Charlie don't surf' on the back. Juniper didn't know what that meant. She had grown up in hyperborea and except for a few brief visits to the old earth with her parents, had no real knowledge of pop culture. The only reason she knew Manson was because of an old book in the library. Waterlogged and swollen, it was paperback devoted to the exploits of serial killers. Apparently this sort of thing was a fascination for earth primers. Manson was on the cover.
No matter. No reason to delay either. She spent a few moments, catching the pace of his breathing, the shift of his weight, the furtive glance darting around in the darkness, and when she could feel him turn his mind away from where she was, could feel his awareness more than he could himself, she drew her breath in, and in a controlled exhale lifted herself up into a clear line sight, took one step forward, and twisting her hips behind the step, pitched a sharpened wooden spike into the side of his neck.
He instantly turned, gagged, and lifted his free hand up to his neck. Funny thing. Even in situations of pain and injury, our grip reflex remains intact. It would be almost impossible to release his fingers from the spear shaft now. Monkey instinct. Not that it mattered at all. She closed the distance in two bounding steps and was on top of him with her blade.
He covered a couple of vital areas with his free arm, but juniper simply attacked the half dozen other fatal targets on his body. He didn't bleed to death. That could take thirty seconds or more. Multiple traumas and massive blood loss sent him into shock and stopped his heart in less than ten seconds. There was no screaming.
She dropped catlike onto her belly, vanishing from sight again, if anyone in the camp looked her way. It was virtually impossible to see her from where the bulk of them were, but all the same, no point taking chances.
There were perhaps a dozen of the tribe circulating around the bonfire. To one of that was bowl shaped depression about fifteen feet across, carefully lined with stone and mortar, and most likely filled with salt water. Lashed to stakes around the edge of the pool, were three captives. They had originally taken five. Three women, two men. The men and one of the women were now secured at the edge of the pool, to be tortured degraded of thrown to the centipedes that were doubtless at home in the saltwater pit.
She crawled over the spear, comforted to have a longer weapon at her disposal. Smelling the tip of the spear, it was in fact a kind of sap from a fruit tree, treated over an open flame to change into a deadly poison. Useless for food hunting, but perfect for killing people. So be it. She would need a distraction to approach the prisoners though. A head on attack was folly.
There were a handful of tents at the edges of the firelight, of various sizes. From where she was it was pretty clear which one was being used to as a meth lab. Jugs of chemicals, and pressurized cylinders of propane and god knows what else were visible through the entrance flap, and stacked outside. Indoor meth labs constructed by competent chemists were already firebombs waiting to happen, or so she was told. Meth labs constructed by starved hallucinating diseased cannibal psychotics were hardly any safer, she was willing to bet. Likely far less so.
Rising to a low stalking crouch, juniper carefully trod the darkened jungle to the outskirts of the camp, holding the spear low and parallel to the ground, to mask its movement. If she were seen, the first witness would die quickly and quietly on the tip of this weapon. After that... It was hard to say. She would think of something. If that could be avoided, it would.
It was a small relief to reach the lab tent. Juniper dropped into a low squat, legs coiled to launch the spear if need be, or spring on attacker and eviscerate him at close range. She sat next to the tent sufficiently long to be certain no one was inside. At this distance, the drumbeat reverberated through her body. The music had a ragged, frantic edge to it, rather than the smooth rhythm of rejoicing in hurqualya. Carefully, she split the fabric of the tent with her knife, slowly opening a cleft big enough to see through, and when quick inspection failed to yield any people amongst the tubes, tables, washtubs, and glass bottles, she began to widen it sufficiently to enter the tent proper.
Simple plan: light the tent on fire to generate a distraction, and, if very fortunate, an explosion that might kill a few of her opponents. They might even think it was an accident.
Since she carried no fire making materials on her person, it was incumbent on her to find some in the tent. Which certainly was no problem. There were Bunsen burners hooked up to propane cylinders in several locations. A couple piezo electric barbecue igniters lay on a workbench. Handy.
A better idea. Release a significant amount of propane into the confines of the tent. Move to a safe distance and hurl a torch at the tent. Well aimed, this would generate the desired explosion. Tom would be pleased. Textbook improvised demolitions. Juniper set to work opening up as many propane valves as possible.
The hiss of escaping gases, followed by the trademark stink of propane, was indication enough that the tanks weren't empty.
Juniper pocketed a piezo electric lighter, and snatched a bottle of ether off of a freestanding shelf. Perfect material for a Molotov cocktail. All the elements of a very unusual childhood had come into play on this trip.
She was so pleased with herself, it was a dismal shock to turn and find a trio of fidgeting strung out psychos glaring into the tent at her.
The first one, stripped to the waist, scar tattoos crawling over his arms and chest, heavy lidded eyes widening in their deep sockets. He let a mangy strip of dreads fall across his forehead. He breathed with his mouth, swollen tongue passing his lips ever so slightly. His bony, string muscled chest hitched and shuddered, like a laugh was caught in his ribcage. He drew an audible rush of air into his lungs as he prepared to speak.
Juniper hefted the bottle of ether in her hand, and thought to her self:
Fuck This
