“There’s a few dark paths, “Bask nodded, “I can tell you the numbers.”
“Not yet.” I shook my head. “So, the stories about sweet, fattened pork are true.”
“Too true.”
“One thing I don’t get — how do they pass human flesh off as plux meat? Something doesn’t add up. Pluxes have green blood.”
“Only the young ones,” Yorka and Bask answered in unison.
“What do you mean?”
“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’?” Yorka threw up her hands. “Their blood is green when they’re small. It gets redder the older they get. The big ones, like knee-high or bigger, have red blood. I should know — I saw a bunch of guys dragging two gray pluxes away. They were red inside where they cut’ em, and the blood running out was red, too.”
“They say that only pluxes who have never tasted our blood have green blood,” Bask added. “Just one taste, and their blood turns red. They also say that pluxes never become adults if they don’t feed on us. They can still eat other things besides us, though — stuff outside the walls.”
“Like slime and trash?” Yorka suggested.
“So, the blood of a plux who has tasted the blood of a goblin turns red,” I chuckled, shaking my head in disbelief. “Sounds like a stretch. But now I understand about the color, at least.”
“Can we get out of here already?” Yorka asked a little grumpily, making sure I saw the goosebumps on her arms.
“Yeah, tour’s over,” I nodded. “Let’s head back — it’s almost time for our patrol.”
Here, at the foot of the Cursed Bridge, the wind gusted furiously. It was strong, then calmed down, then suddenly swooped in, beating at our shoulders or backs, ricocheting off the walls. Hallway 30 was filled with this howling wind that accompanied us as we walked, nudging us from behind.
We made it to main hallway 29 without a hitch. It was just three hundred steps, and ours were particularly small. We ran into two other groups at intersections — one was the group we were replacing, and the other was heading for the Cursed Bridge. This second group looked deadly serious. There were five of them, all strong and with all their limbs, equipped with bags, clubs, long awls, shin guards and knee pads, and odd shielded sneakers. They were about to spend two hours at the windy site we had just recently come from, also on patrol. They looked at us with undisguised superiority. At first I thought they were impressive — sharp, cool, and collected — but soon lowered my opinion of them. They didn’t notice that Bask was blind. He moved in a characteristic way and his baseball cap didn’t cover his scarred face entirely, and these orcs should have noticed that, if they considered themselves any kind of fighters. And they certainly considered themselves as such. But they just showed off to Yorka, baring their teeth in predatory grins and flexing their biceps.
I didn’t say anything like that out loud, though. We said goodbye and went our separate ways. The patrol getting off work was heading towards cluster 17, and I was almost certain they’d stop into the Jolly Plux for a drink or two. Maybe even gnaw on a few bones — they had earned them, after all. We walked slowly along the wall of main hallway 29. The five orcs marched towards the Cursed Bridge, strutting proudly, elbows splayed and chests puffed out, telling the world they were big shots. I was finally convinced that they were just big, dumb guys who hadn’t been tested by true hardship yet.
“They have the same clubs as me,” Yorka said, “But the hooks aren’t broken off.”
I silently spread my arms, and indicated the hallway in front of me. What could I say? Everyone had to decide for themselves what was more important: a club that you were guaranteed not to lose, firmly hooked onto your belt, or a club that you could whip out quickly and confidently every time.
“Oh, thanks for reminding me,” I said. “You have to keep practicing with your club. Every twentieth step.”
“Damn, why’d I bring it up?” Yorka complained. “Elb, come on... My arm feels like it’s gonna fall off.”
“Fine, every fiftieth, then,” I ceded. “But you better make ‘em count.”
“You bet!”
“You mentioned something about a long, exciting story,” I looked at Bask.
He smiled at that, then cleared his throat, trying to hide his emotions. But it was obvious he was delighted that I had remembered about the stories, and that the leader hadn’t forgotten about the blind zombie.
“Which one do you want to hear? The one about the zombies and the end of the world? Or the princess?”
“The end of the world.”
“Okay. I’ll tell you right now, it starts out pretty strange.”
“Now I’m even more interested.”
He cleared his throat again. “So. An armless zombie walks into a bar, dragging three singing worms and a dead, naked halfling all tied to a rope behind him...”
