1863: Huddled in the woods of Kentucky, two men shared a square of hard tack. They were the last men in their unit and utterly alone behind enemy lines. The figures of Union troops marched in and out from between trees in the distance, the blue contrasting with all but the sky.
Angus McCray hadn't lived there long, but it was his home and he meant to defend it. The rights of the States of the Union were of paramount import to him, else he would have remained in Scotland.
His companion, Luther van Buren, had lived there all his life. The issue was the same for him, and besides, he owned land and slaves. Luther wasn't like other men, though, in a manner which had nearly kept him out of the Confederate Army. Instead of a nose, he had a pair of slits which reminded most people of a lizard. In addition, his skin gave off the most peculiar odor of ivy. This did not create the most pleasant experience for him among his, as Angus saw them, mostly ignorant comrades-in-arms. They were loathe to talk to him and to sleep near him, let alone touch him. They didn't know what he was, though they bandied about the term “Mutation” and talked in hushed whispers about The Worm, a creature whom the Confederates had contracted here and there to assist with their rebellion—to do the jobs they were unwilling to assign honorable men to do instead. The Worm was a monster, some even said a demon, all too willing to throw himself headfirst into their bloody conflict.
Few men seemed certain about what the term “Mutation” meant, but apparently the world's leading experts, with a few exceptions, viewed it as a plague on humanity.
Angus liked Marshal. He wasn't an expert on anything besides people, and he believed Marshal was an honest lad. So he had no problem with the two of them going it alone, watching each other's backs and evading Union forces...aside from the fact that, of course, they might not survive.
Marshal sniffed the light wind overhead. Angus watched with keen interest. “It's safe to move now, I think,” Marshal said.
“Ooh, ye think, do ye?” He held up his hand. “Sarcasm, lad. I'm on point this time.” He pushed himself to his feet and climbed out of the steep ditch, twice their height, followed a few paces back by Marshal. When he got to the top, the coast looked clear. Then he heard the click of Union guns around him. One, two, three.
“Are you alone?” one of the soldiers demanded.
“Aye. Yes.” Angus handed off his rifle. “If you're gonna shoot me, make it quick. I havenae time to see it comin' that way.”
“There's been enough blood spilled today. Come with us.” They scanned the perimeter, and Angus' heart was in his throat. For a minute he thought they suspected something, but then they started to lead him away.
Don't abandon me to these bloody dictators, mate...
They got a long way before the first shot broke the stillness. Birds fled the treetops and Angus' captors looked all around them as one of their number fell. Even Angus looked back, but he saw nothing, and then there was a pistol to his head.
“You said you were alone!”
“Naturally, la—lad?” There was no more gun to his head. Only the third man remained, frantically pointing his rifle this way and that, to determine the direction of attack. Angus sighed, picked up the dropped pistol and shot him point-blank. Then his friend finally emerged.
“I have to ask you, Angus...why are you out here?”
“I'm out here to watch your bloody back!”
“No, no...I mean, why all this trouble for the Confederacy? You know life up North wouldn't be so different for a man like you, with no land, no slaves...”
“A working man though I may be, life in the Union could become anythin' if the North wins this war. For a Federal Government to have that kind o' power, well, it's unsettlin'.”
“For a government to determine—by force, if necessary—that all who live under its banner are free? You know, if the people can't or won't come to a humanitarian conclusion like that on their own, how is it supposed to happen?”
“You're startin' to sound like a traitor, lad. If I didnae know ya, the discussion'd be over. They didnae give us any time to make the decision on our own, did they?”
“As long as what we have works for the people who makes the decisions, don't hold your breath.”
“Alright. So why are you here, then?”
“Because a man like me would be run out of town if he didn't fight. They can't stand the thought of me owning land as it is. Imagine, now, if I sat back and allowed other, less fortunate men to die defending it? Anyway, superficial or not, I'd die for you, Angus. Few people in this world ever treated me like a human being, and two of them are dead. I won't lose the last one.”
Angus trusted his friend enough to follow him to the ends of the Earth. The two of them joined a new unit and fought to the end of the War, then retired to their civilian lives.
In the year 1880, Angus found himself working in the North. He couldn't stand the bitterness down South, especially after the revelation about Lincoln. There was plenty of work in the factories as long as he kept his head down.
His town didn't like the Mutations. It was illegal for a Mutation to even enter the town, but he didn't question it until he saw his old friend at the local pub.
Angus was in his usual seat at the bar, glass of scotch in front of him, and the resounding astonishment caused him to turn around. Just in from the rain was his old friend Marshal.
“Is he a Mutation?” one person asked.
“Got a funny nose,” another observed.
“Get a load of him!” spouted a third.
Angus was, at first, simply surprised to see his chum.
“Angus?” His friend, hat in hand, approached Angus at the bar. For his part, Angus was stunned. He wanted to see his friend of nigh on twenty years, but he couldn't break the law. Life was going well for him. Sure, he was a working man, would never aspire to anything greater, but there had to be a working class in any society—for their own good. And life, to Angus, had been good.
“Is it really you? Angus, I—I need work. I lost everything after the War, and...”
Tears streaked down Angus' reddened cheeks, but he kept his voice steady. “Ye cannae be in here, lad.”
“I'm sorry?” Shock. Fear. Anger. Betrayal.
“I said ye cannae be in here. It's the law. This is a no Mutation city.” He choked on the words even as he spit them out.
“After everything...this is how you treat me?”
“I'm no good to ye as a criminal, lad. Even cities are entitled to make laws on their own, lest they all fight a war for cities' rights. Ye have to leave. For your good and mine. Please.”
The whole place was staring at them. Angus could never return here. Never drink here again. He got up. “I'll walk with ye.”
His friend put his finger in Angus' face. “Forget it. You've made up your mind. You go your way and I go mine.”
“Punch the bastard!” called out an irate Irishman.
“Aye, punch him!” The whole bar took up the chant.
But brawling could get a man thrown in jail too. The police would be lenient to a man who attacked a Mutation, but Angus respected the law to its fullest literal meaning. Few men did, though it was the only way to keep men happy and free. He and Marshal were not happy now. Nor were they free. Angus put his gun to Marshal's head, and he pulled the trigger. Then he put the hot barrel into his own mouth. The pain only lasted another second, and all was darkness.
Angus McCray hadn't lived there long, but it was his home and he meant to defend it. The rights of the States of the Union were of paramount import to him, else he would have remained in Scotland.
His companion, Luther van Buren, had lived there all his life. The issue was the same for him, and besides, he owned land and slaves. Luther wasn't like other men, though, in a manner which had nearly kept him out of the Confederate Army. Instead of a nose, he had a pair of slits which reminded most people of a lizard. In addition, his skin gave off the most peculiar odor of ivy. This did not create the most pleasant experience for him among his, as Angus saw them, mostly ignorant comrades-in-arms. They were loathe to talk to him and to sleep near him, let alone touch him. They didn't know what he was, though they bandied about the term “Mutation” and talked in hushed whispers about The Worm, a creature whom the Confederates had contracted here and there to assist with their rebellion—to do the jobs they were unwilling to assign honorable men to do instead. The Worm was a monster, some even said a demon, all too willing to throw himself headfirst into their bloody conflict.
Few men seemed certain about what the term “Mutation” meant, but apparently the world's leading experts, with a few exceptions, viewed it as a plague on humanity.
Angus liked Marshal. He wasn't an expert on anything besides people, and he believed Marshal was an honest lad. So he had no problem with the two of them going it alone, watching each other's backs and evading Union forces...aside from the fact that, of course, they might not survive.
Marshal sniffed the light wind overhead. Angus watched with keen interest. “It's safe to move now, I think,” Marshal said.
“Ooh, ye think, do ye?” He held up his hand. “Sarcasm, lad. I'm on point this time.” He pushed himself to his feet and climbed out of the steep ditch, twice their height, followed a few paces back by Marshal. When he got to the top, the coast looked clear. Then he heard the click of Union guns around him. One, two, three.
“Are you alone?” one of the soldiers demanded.
“Aye. Yes.” Angus handed off his rifle. “If you're gonna shoot me, make it quick. I havenae time to see it comin' that way.”
“There's been enough blood spilled today. Come with us.” They scanned the perimeter, and Angus' heart was in his throat. For a minute he thought they suspected something, but then they started to lead him away.
Don't abandon me to these bloody dictators, mate...
They got a long way before the first shot broke the stillness. Birds fled the treetops and Angus' captors looked all around them as one of their number fell. Even Angus looked back, but he saw nothing, and then there was a pistol to his head.
“You said you were alone!”
“Naturally, la—lad?” There was no more gun to his head. Only the third man remained, frantically pointing his rifle this way and that, to determine the direction of attack. Angus sighed, picked up the dropped pistol and shot him point-blank. Then his friend finally emerged.
“I have to ask you, Angus...why are you out here?”
“I'm out here to watch your bloody back!”
“No, no...I mean, why all this trouble for the Confederacy? You know life up North wouldn't be so different for a man like you, with no land, no slaves...”
“A working man though I may be, life in the Union could become anythin' if the North wins this war. For a Federal Government to have that kind o' power, well, it's unsettlin'.”
“For a government to determine—by force, if necessary—that all who live under its banner are free? You know, if the people can't or won't come to a humanitarian conclusion like that on their own, how is it supposed to happen?”
“You're startin' to sound like a traitor, lad. If I didnae know ya, the discussion'd be over. They didnae give us any time to make the decision on our own, did they?”
“As long as what we have works for the people who makes the decisions, don't hold your breath.”
“Alright. So why are you here, then?”
“Because a man like me would be run out of town if he didn't fight. They can't stand the thought of me owning land as it is. Imagine, now, if I sat back and allowed other, less fortunate men to die defending it? Anyway, superficial or not, I'd die for you, Angus. Few people in this world ever treated me like a human being, and two of them are dead. I won't lose the last one.”
Angus trusted his friend enough to follow him to the ends of the Earth. The two of them joined a new unit and fought to the end of the War, then retired to their civilian lives.
In the year 1880, Angus found himself working in the North. He couldn't stand the bitterness down South, especially after the revelation about Lincoln. There was plenty of work in the factories as long as he kept his head down.
His town didn't like the Mutations. It was illegal for a Mutation to even enter the town, but he didn't question it until he saw his old friend at the local pub.
Angus was in his usual seat at the bar, glass of scotch in front of him, and the resounding astonishment caused him to turn around. Just in from the rain was his old friend Marshal.
“Is he a Mutation?” one person asked.
“Got a funny nose,” another observed.
“Get a load of him!” spouted a third.
Angus was, at first, simply surprised to see his chum.
“Angus?” His friend, hat in hand, approached Angus at the bar. For his part, Angus was stunned. He wanted to see his friend of nigh on twenty years, but he couldn't break the law. Life was going well for him. Sure, he was a working man, would never aspire to anything greater, but there had to be a working class in any society—for their own good. And life, to Angus, had been good.
“Is it really you? Angus, I—I need work. I lost everything after the War, and...”
Tears streaked down Angus' reddened cheeks, but he kept his voice steady. “Ye cannae be in here, lad.”
“I'm sorry?” Shock. Fear. Anger. Betrayal.
“I said ye cannae be in here. It's the law. This is a no Mutation city.” He choked on the words even as he spit them out.
“After everything...this is how you treat me?”
“I'm no good to ye as a criminal, lad. Even cities are entitled to make laws on their own, lest they all fight a war for cities' rights. Ye have to leave. For your good and mine. Please.”
The whole place was staring at them. Angus could never return here. Never drink here again. He got up. “I'll walk with ye.”
His friend put his finger in Angus' face. “Forget it. You've made up your mind. You go your way and I go mine.”
“Punch the bastard!” called out an irate Irishman.
“Aye, punch him!” The whole bar took up the chant.
But brawling could get a man thrown in jail too. The police would be lenient to a man who attacked a Mutation, but Angus respected the law to its fullest literal meaning. Few men did, though it was the only way to keep men happy and free. He and Marshal were not happy now. Nor were they free. Angus put his gun to Marshal's head, and he pulled the trigger. Then he put the hot barrel into his own mouth. The pain only lasted another second, and all was darkness.
