Manitoba once stood
It had been almost two full
centuries since Lothair started counting the seconds of his new life— all 6,275,664,007 of them. He was still
keeping track of time, along with a few other things. Lothair had written 1,612
novels. He’d taken them from rough draft through to fully-edited versions—in
his mind—fit for publication. Lothair doubted there were any publishers left
above to print his stories, and even if there were, he knew none of them would
take him on. Lothair’s words and sentences were perfect, his grammar flawless.
He had written tales of suspense, epic fantasy, romance, and science-fiction,
but none of it had feeling .
People were murdered; they fell in
love and got married. Some of these people cheated on their spouses, and they
were murdered again. They sailed the high seas and travelled beyond the stars.
They rode horses into the sunset. But not anywhere in those 702,836 estimated
pages was there a hint of author’s voice. Lothair knew this. He wasn’t needy or vain—those were emotions he no longer
remembered. His stories would never sell because they lacked human feeling.
Lothair wrote novels, composed
music, created a dozen new languages, and researched all the fields of science.
Another part of his brain trained on the time. Lothair did all of these things
and more.
He had no other choice.
When he let things slide, the
hunger would press at his gut like a stone. When he wasn’t solving mathematical
equations and philosophizing about ancient life in Egypt and Rome, Lothair
wanted to eat his hands.
He needed to keep busy.
Lothair’s books had no voice. His
songs, though melodic, lacked spirit. The emotional part of him was two-hundred
years dead. If he was capable of feeling sadness, he might have cried.
Lothair Eichberg had no soul.
Chapter 11
They walked along the crater’s edge
until they come across a rusted bar of metal sticking six feet out of the
ground. It was bent halfway up, leaning out and away from Big Hole. Cobe watched
as his brother poked a finger through one of the holes that ran along its
length every few inches. The metal was an inch thick, and Cobe couldn’t imagine
any force strong enough to put the unnatural bend into it. There was an old
bucket hanging near the top, banged in with a dozen dents, but still able to
hold water. Lawson filled it halfway with one of the three remaining leather
canteens. Dust began to drink from it noisily.
“Dust here can’t make the trip
below, so I had to find a way of keepin’ him up top—nice and safe while I was
away. There’s tons of scrap metal down the sides if you dig around some. Found
the pail about a quarter-mile down my first time. Been pickin’ for crap ever
since. But the good stuff is down under the water…the real good stuff.”
Willem was sitting cross-legged on
the ground. He picked nervously at the hard earth. “How long we going to be…away?”
“A few hours, providing the bunch
of you listen to everything I say and don’t go wanderin’ off.” Lawson looked
directly at Trot. His fat face was sweaty, his eyes fear-filled. The lawman
thought again, and filled Dust’s water bucket all the way to the top”
They started down slowly, mindful
of the steepness in the gathering dark. Cobe grabbed Trot as his foot caught on
a rock, stopping the man from plunging over head first. Trot thanked him and
started to slide down on his rear-end.
“How we gonna see down there?”
Willem asked. “We ain’t got no lanterns…not even a gawdamn torch.”
“There’ll be light.”
Cobe reached for his brother’s hand
and helped him along. “It’s alright. I’ll be with you the whole way.”
They descended another half-mile.
It was almost fully dark now, and the stench from the sitting water below had
become overpowering. Cobe plugged his nostrils with his free hand and pitied
Willem for not being able to do the same.
There was a conglomeration of
twisted metal below that the lawman was
It had been almost two full
centuries since Lothair started counting the seconds of his new life— all 6,275,664,007 of them. He was still
keeping track of time, along with a few other things. Lothair had written 1,612
novels. He’d taken them from rough draft through to fully-edited versions—in
his mind—fit for publication. Lothair doubted there were any publishers left
above to print his stories, and even if there were, he knew none of them would
take him on. Lothair’s words and sentences were perfect, his grammar flawless.
He had written tales of suspense, epic fantasy, romance, and science-fiction,
but none of it had feeling .
People were murdered; they fell in
love and got married. Some of these people cheated on their spouses, and they
were murdered again. They sailed the high seas and travelled beyond the stars.
They rode horses into the sunset. But not anywhere in those 702,836 estimated
pages was there a hint of author’s voice. Lothair knew this. He wasn’t needy or vain—those were emotions he no longer
remembered. His stories would never sell because they lacked human feeling.
Lothair wrote novels, composed
music, created a dozen new languages, and researched all the fields of science.
Another part of his brain trained on the time. Lothair did all of these things
and more.
He had no other choice.
When he let things slide, the
hunger would press at his gut like a stone. When he wasn’t solving mathematical
equations and philosophizing about ancient life in Egypt and Rome, Lothair
wanted to eat his hands.
He needed to keep busy.
Lothair’s books had no voice. His
songs, though melodic, lacked spirit. The emotional part of him was two-hundred
years dead. If he was capable of feeling sadness, he might have cried.
Lothair Eichberg had no soul.
Chapter 11
They walked along the crater’s edge
until they come across a rusted bar of metal sticking six feet out of the
ground. It was bent halfway up, leaning out and away from Big Hole. Cobe watched
as his brother poked a finger through one of the holes that ran along its
length every few inches. The metal was an inch thick, and Cobe couldn’t imagine
any force strong enough to put the unnatural bend into it. There was an old
bucket hanging near the top, banged in with a dozen dents, but still able to
hold water. Lawson filled it halfway with one of the three remaining leather
canteens. Dust began to drink from it noisily.
“Dust here can’t make the trip
below, so I had to find a way of keepin’ him up top—nice and safe while I was
away. There’s tons of scrap metal down the sides if you dig around some. Found
the pail about a quarter-mile down my first time. Been pickin’ for crap ever
since. But the good stuff is down under the water…the real good stuff.”
Willem was sitting cross-legged on
the ground. He picked nervously at the hard earth. “How long we going to be…away?”
“A few hours, providing the bunch
of you listen to everything I say and don’t go wanderin’ off.” Lawson looked
directly at Trot. His fat face was sweaty, his eyes fear-filled. The lawman
thought again, and filled Dust’s water bucket all the way to the top”
They started down slowly, mindful
of the steepness in the gathering dark. Cobe grabbed Trot as his foot caught on
a rock, stopping the man from plunging over head first. Trot thanked him and
started to slide down on his rear-end.
“How we gonna see down there?”
Willem asked. “We ain’t got no lanterns…not even a gawdamn torch.”
“There’ll be light.”
Cobe reached for his brother’s hand
and helped him along. “It’s alright. I’ll be with you the whole way.”
They descended another half-mile.
It was almost fully dark now, and the stench from the sitting water below had
become overpowering. Cobe plugged his nostrils with his free hand and pitied
Willem for not being able to do the same.
There was a conglomeration of
twisted metal below that the lawman was
Similar Books
