57

"I think... I think I got it!"Ash exclaims, grinning like a little girl. She closes the radio case, throws away the bullet casing she removed, and presses the power button. The crystal on the bar indicating the frequencies to choose from lights up, and the faint flickering light is followed by the rumble of static.

Nadjela and Tashala, who were watching the repair process as if contemplating an act of necromancy, are disappointed when what promised to be a demonstration of novel magic instead comes to nothing. But a flick of the thumbwheels by Ash is enough to regain the attention of the tribals.

From the mesh that covers the horn, unheard sounds and voices begin to rise and change at the whim of Ash's fingers, which at first seem erratic and indecipherable. Soon Erika and Chester appear from the darkness beyond the campfire. The soldiers report that there is no change: the slavers continue to follow them, though as always, keeping a cautious distance. They will most likely reach The La Cuna with several days' lead over Ashura.

"You fixed the radio!" Chester smiles at the mechanics.

"For someone with my expertise, this is child's play" Ash replies, but she can't keep the good cheer out of his voice. It may be small, but it fills him just as well as any other job. "The device is powerful enough to tune in to satellite stations. There will be independent stations brave enough to broadcast in this orbit. Maybe we'll even get news of the war..."

"I'm sick to death of the war! Play some music, doll" Erika says.

Ash nods, then rummages through the static. The device conjures up tunes, some slow, some fast, and before Nadjela can get used to the rhythm of one, it switches to another with a completely new beat. The princess marveled at the diversity of sounds projected by the device, imagining that not a million birds could generate such a variety of songs. Tashala on the other hand kept his eyebrow arched, undecided whether she found it phenomenal or tormentor.

"The King!" Ash says as she recognizes the beginning of a song. She opts to leave it, and sits up and moves her shoulders and legs to the sound of Burning Love.

"Presley?" Chester asks with his arms crossed.

"Do you know any other king worth his salt?" Ash questions with her eyes closed, waving her gray arms behind her fluffy hair, acting as if the song was just for her.

Chester gives a half-smile and shakes his head.

Even if the nobleman was the only one who understood the lyrics because of his English classes, Erika doesn't delay in pulling him up, uncrossing his arms, and getting him to dance with her. The little pig joins them, twirling and prancing around the steps of the soldiers, who are spinning near the fire.

Nadjela, watching from the jeep seats with her face framed between her palms, also wants to join in and have fun, but....

(I don't know how to dance...)

Nadjela thinks. The closest thing to that she knows are the ritual dances of the venerable elders. The princess lets out an exhalation in which she expels a pang of jealousy towards Erika. But instead of being bitter she chooses to smile, and enjoy being part of that peaceful moment that seems so far away from the beasts, the bandits, and the bloody chains.

The song concludes and Elvis' voice ceases. Without warning, a flash of light covers the western region of the sky, capturing the attention of those anchored on earth. Could it be the stars weeping, a skirmish between legions of space destroyers, or perhaps the mother bird molting its feathers? In those moments, the answer doesn't matter. The only truth is that the lights reflecting in Nadjela's big eyes, and leaving trails marked in the firmament, are testimonies of the beauty that stubbornly clings to the galaxy.

The beat changes again, now the voice is that of a woman, singing of walking in the rain and of feelings impossible to explain. When Nadjela turns she discovers an inviting hand. Chester remains with his hand outstretched, waiting for her. Nadjela blushes and shakes her head.

"I... I don't know how..." The young woman mumbles.

"It's easy. Come on, I'll show you"

Chester's perfect smile evaporates any doubt. Nadjela's soft grip accepts that strong hand that with extreme delicacy, as if she were worth more than gold, takes her close to the fire, the place where they join their other palms. The Lancaster turns out to be a restrained teacher, he teaches Nadjela how to move. Back and forth. Counting her steps. A turn. And every time she steps on him he lets out an audible Ouch! Although in reality he wouldn't have felt it in the slightest.

Halfway through the ballad the lessons took a back seat. Nadjela lays her head against Chester's chest, rocking her body with his, to the beat of that melodious voice that speaks in a strange but beautiful language, in harmony of the drizzling fleeting lights.

Erika, sit in the jeep, comments to Ash that these two look like a married couple, madly in love, dancing at 2 a.m. in the middle of the kitchen.

Perhaps, in another life, that was the sweet story their souls wove, more divine than any war.

...

"Chester" says Nadjela.

The swordsman's eyelids tremble. He opens his eyes. Above is the pyramidal roof of the tent.

"Chester, get up" the voice repeats, now sharper, defining itself as Erika's. Chester grunts, makes an effort and sits down on the fur bed. The midday sun streams in through the opening in the tarp, which Erika holds open with one hand. The light highlights the German's silhouette almost turning her into a shadow, with a particular width in the belly. The scouts are back. The railroad is an hour away.

Chester runs his hand over his face, holds back a yawn, blinks, and jumps to his feet. He bends down beside the bed to pick up a flask made from a kind of hard-shelled paprika that only grows in these lands, perhaps hence the hardness of its skin. He takes a sip of cool water, gargles, and spits on an area of the dirt floor.

"Are the boys ready?" asks the Lancaster.

"They've been piling sand since early morning. Impatient I'd say they are"

"Impatience is a good seasoning.... As long as they stick to the plan"

"They'd jump out of a plane without a parachute if that were part of any plan coming from you"

Chester gives a humorless smile. He knows it's true what Erika says, it's already happened. Not jumping without a parachute exactly, but he has seen men and women gladly give their lives screaming his name. Not for the freedom he proclaims, but for his legend. Sometimes Chester wonders if carrying the name The Lancastrian is a blessing or a curse.

"Everyone stay in position" he says and pours a volley of water on his head. The drops run down his scalp and neck, wiping away the heat and dust that clings to his skin. Chester lets out a gasp of pleasure. He glances sideways at Erika, more specifically her bulging belly from a six-month-old baby. "Are you sure you want to join in? None of our soldiers will feel any less respect or fear for you for taking a break from the routine"

The German woman snorts. She puts a hand on her belly.

"I told you, this little bastard girl-"

-Or little boy" interrupts Chester without hiding his preference.

Erika rolls her eyes.

"Whatever. I told you this little bastard won't stop me from doing my job and pulverizing our enemies. Besides you need me, I bet you couldn't even wipe your ass without me. We've been fighting together for half a year or so, you should know it takes more than a quick fuck between a princess and a muskite dog to stop a Reich valkyrie"

"Hey! It wasn't quick"

"If I say it was quick, it's because didn't even give the poor girl time to blink. You and Nadjela owe me favors in spades, so just shut up and swallow"

Chester smiles. Erika shows him her middle finger and then retires to check that her warriors are in good spirits for the battle, and to review the tactics. The German does not want any mistakes.

Alone again, the Lancaster allows himself to let out a nostalgic sigh and remember how everything was before, when he arrived in the wilderness, a simpler adventure, his only objectives being to protect a girl and find his giant. Goals he failed at, but that did little to prevent his actions from taking on the tinge of myth.

He looks at his arms, covered in blue ink tattoos that mimic a feathered pattern, turning the lion face on his left limb into a winged beast. The pattern ascends to the contours of his broad, hard chest, exposed by the loose, white and blue fabrics he wears, so light that they tend to flutter in the wind, ideal for walking in the merciless heat of Australia. Looking at him distorted expression in the puddle he spat out, anyone would say that him countenance has changed little, although perhaps Chester eyes are different, more serious. Facade adorned by a set of earrings, necklace, and bracelets interwoven with hard roots of The-nest-of-all-plants, a gift from Gaita, who showed a particular talent for embroidery.

Even if Erika keeps calling Chester muskite, it may be that the red of his eyes and the sapphire of his hair are the only superficial traits left of Chester noble life.

Maybe the Lancasterian devoured the Lancaster?

Chester shakes his head, and turns his face to the lower part of the bed, there, forming part of the arsenal of cutting weapons made from Zell's bones, the metal-crowned katana remains sheathed.

As long as his warrior soul remains by his side, there will always be Chester, the reckless and foolish wandering swordsman. That is a part of himself that he is interested in cherishing and preserving. It was that side of him that Nadjela fell in love with.

...

The Abraham Lincoln is the fifth of the ten railroads that cross the continent from side to side, transporting merchandise of all kinds, under the zealous authorization of Lord Enslaver. Each car has three floors, 51-car mass: 10 passenger, 10 cage, 10 battle stations, 10 warehouses, and 10 service cars, plus a powerful nuclear fission locomotive at the front, protected by a frame shaped like a demon's head with fiery eyes. Watching it traverse the wasteland at night makes the heart shrink, even in the midday sun it commands respect, and from a certain perspective its length seems to stretch on endlessly.

The first service car is a restaurant, and on its highest floor, beneath a chandelier whose crystal shards clink and clink, the two most influential slaveholders on the railroad share a table. Frida settles into her throne formed by a trio of silent, black, solid shoulders, which support with their bodies the voluptuous flesh of the woman, in which her breasts bulging with breast implants the size of watermelons stand out. With the elegance of English style, she lifts the cup of freshly poured red coffee, taking a moment to inhale the steam exhaled by the dark liquid. Frida smiles with pleasure at the impression.

"The Venezuelan coffee is one of a kind, Mr. Orlok, thank you very much. You must offer me the name of your distributor"

Standing on the other side of the seat is a fat, ten-foot giant, with arms and legs like trunks, and a belly so firm it looks like it's built of bronze. But it is not he to whom Frida speaks, the fat man is incapable of speech, the pot-shaped steel helmet covering his skull only allowing him to stare silently from narrow slits. Frida pays respect is to the armless, legless fellow, his face surrounded by bandages wrapped in barbed wire, whose stumps hang on gold chains that dangle from the giant's body, as if it were an eccentric necklace.

"As soon as we reach our destination you shall have him, my dear" Orlok said, his voice and breath choked by the bandages and wire. "I would personally take you to the Caribbean, but for health reasons and personal preference, I avoid straying too far from my beloved Lincoln. Here I have everything I want and need, just a command away"

Orlok clears his throat, that signal is enough to mobilize the mass that carries him. The giant grabs the second cup and brings it closer, accompanied by a rubber tube that he then inserts into an opening concealed in the wire. Orlok sips until he is satisfied and resumes the conversation.

"Now, my dear, tell me about that new technology that is being discussed so much in the capital. I hear those know-it-alls are aiming to make my precious fission engine obsolete. I doubt the rest of the machinists will be happy"

"I don't understand the theory in its entirety, but the basic concept is digestible to anyone with half gram of brain" Frida takes a sip of coffee before continuing. "Mass equals energy, something like that, say the scientific popularizers, right?"

Orlok nods. Outside, the railroad makes a curve and heads straight ahead. The sheer size of it mitigates potential turbulence. Frida continues with the explanation.

"We are made of mass. That means we are made of energy. It's even argued that we radiate different types, only our.... Hm..." She looks out the window out of the corner of her eye. She mutters something to himself, turns her face to Orlok and resumes the conversation. "As I was saying, we radiate different types of energy, only our human limitations prevent us from burning them or projecting them in the same way a star could do during the process of nuclear fusion"

"I don't understand that so much anymore, Miss Frida" Orlok confesses.

"I know of a disclosure channel that might be of use to you. It lightens the burned man thesis wonderfully. The channel is called..."

The desert landscape again gets the woman's attention and strangeness.

"Is something wrong?" Orlok questions.

"That pair of high dunes" Frida says, and Orlok follows her gaze. Two large dunes come up on either side of the straight road they take, almost like small mountains, the first horizontal to the rails, and the second vertical. "Do you know if sand storms recently occurred?"

"I always make sure to check for weather updates. No, they haven't occurred. Perhaps they are due to storms of days gone by?"

Frida feels stupid for worrying about a handful of gathered sand, but then she remembers all the times her instincts saved her from danger. Willing to risk looking like a stupid woman in front of Orlok, she decided to open her mouth and beg him to put the locomotive at full speed to escape from there as fast as possible. But her words were drowned out by the explosion a hundred meters ahead, on the rails.

...

Chester, lying on his chest in the sand and peering over the crest of the mound, pushes down on the grip of the detonator. The signal is transmitted through a wire hidden in the sand to the string of explosives on the rails. Four eardrum-shattering booms. Four balls of fire and smoke. Followed by a layer of sand that rains down for a couple of seconds.

The locomotive's computer recognizes in time the interruption of the track several meters ahead, and activates the emergency brakes. The railroad groans, its hundreds of wheels gleaming with sparks that scrape the steel where they run. Inside, every person or object that was not clinging to something nailed to the wall, ceiling, floor, collapses. A cook is boiled alive when the water he was heating for a soup falls on him.

Chester stands and surveys the battlefield. He unsheathes one of his weapons, the katana, and while making a movement of his arm, he orders:

"Attack!"

From both sides of the ridge rise three rows of men, their faces traced by the mark of a blue dye. Tribal hosts brought to the cause along with slaves brought to freedom, all eager to fight in Chester's name. It seems that freedom became synonymous with the Lancasterian.

Each row of is 10 warriors, 60 in all if we count both those on the right and left. They charge alongside Chester toward the frozen railroad. Those in the first rows carry long shields carved from whale bones, and those behind them run up with rifles and sub-machine guns, gifts from raids on slave caravans, all in preparation for what has never been accomplished before: Conquering one of Lord Enslaver's railroads, heretofore considered impregnable mobile fortresses.

The first slaveholders to get up and look out of the windows, balconies, or small windows, lose their breath at the sight of the liberating horde. The slaves, on the contrary, extend their arms through the bars, scream, cry, jump with emotion.

None of those who run with Chester shoot, they only raise their weapons and force their legs to reach the train as soon as possible. Those who are in charge of the sustained fire, are the ones who stayed on top of the dune, barely moving. Positioned at the top of the dune crest are 5 men and 5 women (chosen by pressure from Erika) positioned with machine guns on support bipods. They overwhelm the battle wagons positioned at a near-intermediate distance with lead bursts, both to keep the guards inside and cowed, and to prevent them from using the mortars and twin 130mm guns occupying the roofs. The constant sound of lead hitting metal is reminiscent of gravel spinning in a washing machine.

Chester and the boarding troop reach the right flank of the train, and seeing that, the liberators in the machine guns cease fire, pick up their guns and what ammunition they have left to fall back. Four of them manage to retreat, the rest delay too long. The guns of the farthest wagons rumble like thunder, shaking the surrounding sand. The top of the dune explodes, and everyone nearby jumps into the air, sometimes with their heads going in the opposite direction to the rest of their limbs. One of the projectiles turns one of the girls into a bloody paste, not even giving her a chance to feel pain.

The blue troops were out of range of the mortars, also too close to the wagons to be feasible targets for the cannons. The slavers positioned in the front third of the train, aware of their risky location, dug into the battle wagons, using the 60-centimeter long and wide windows to stick out the barrels of their assault rifles and unload bursts against the tall bone shields. The slavers, positioned in the middle third of the Abraham Lincoln, retreat to the rear of the railroad, where the rest of Orlok's warrior force prepares to respond to the attack.

Thanks to prisoner interrogation and intelligence work obtained in previous skirmishes, Chester's forces were instructed in the basic procedure of defending Lord Slaver's railroads. Those on shields advanced far enough to stick to the train, and placed the shields against the wheels in such a way that they served as ramps. A handful are perched on the lower floor windows of the first battle wagon, from which the slavers fire. Immediately, they are thrown off with lethal force, leaving only the luckiest one hanging on, who takes from his belt a dynamite cylinder that he ignites by tearing off the lid with his teeth, and then inserts it through the opening. The same tactic is repeated in the nearest battle wagons.

Meanwhile hundreds of arms and voices wave from the cages. The slavers running along the gangways surrounding the wallets, shout at the prisoners to calm down, hit them with the butts of their guns, threaten to shoot, but none of that daunts the poor guns that with blood-soaked eyes scream until they are voiceless.

"Let's take a handful of hostages and continue backwards!" shouts one of the guards.

Another of the guards responds:

"Are you an idiot! The Lancasterian neither negotiates nor accepts hostages!"

Freedom or death. Following that absolute maxim, the blue forces open fire on the three levels of metal walkways surrounding each caged section, where the straggling slavers retreat. Bullets knock down the guards, but also pierce the foreheads and hearts of the slaves further over the edge, whose corpses are soon used as yet another platform for desperate new men, women, and children.

The drumbeat of a god is heard. The first battle wagon rumbles with a chain explosion, fueled by ammunition from the cannons themselves. The guards inside turn to ashes as that armored shell opens from within with a ball of smoke and flame, dislodging the top floor of the base, a smoking husk that then falls and hits the nearby sand. The same fate befalls the occupants of the second and third war wagons. The slavers positioned at the fighting stations near the explosions break out in a cold sweat and seal the windows to avoid the same fate.

Chester and his hosts scaled the train. Of the 61 that went, 49 were left after the first exchange of force, and of that total they managed to board 42. Seven of the 49 were killed in action by the whistling shells fired by the slavers positioned in the rear of the railroad. There were still at least a hundred of the enemy on the Abraham.

"Open the cages!" Chester exclaims after reaching the doors of the first wallets. He's bathed in glistening sweat from the embracing heat added to the intensity of the nearby fires, looking as if he's been poured a barrel of oil. He also feels like his lungs are threatening to pop out of his mouth, yet the swordsman forces his body to keep up with the situation. Temperance, that's what his look reflects.

A slaver hanging from the balcony of the catwalk comes back inside in one swing of his strong arms and points a pistol at him, but Chester's reflexes beat the guy's trigger. The katana enters through the man's furious grimace, blade up. The tip screeches as it skewers the guy against the nearest cage support. Wasting no time, the Lancastrian raises his arm and steepens his elbow, brings it down striking the crown of the head, and the sentry's skull slides down the blade like butter. Chester releases the sword from the holder and with his next move slashes the lock, opening the wallet wide.

Dozens of bodies overflow from the cages, enveloping him like an ocean, touching him, embracing him, kissing his arms and legs. Chester roughly pushes them away, in some cases delivering fierce blows in order to move forward and continue fighting. Similar scenes are repeated on the upper floors. Whether from an accurate slash from a bone or steel weapon, or from a gunshot, locks and chains fall and jingle as they clatter against the floor slits, where warm blood also drips.

A chorus of cheers erupts from the prisoners in the remaining cages, but it ceases with the clatter of high-powered weapons deployed in the farthest cars. With their walls open and held up by chains as if they were drawbridges, the heavy machine guns built into the inner sides of the battle wagons, two on each upper floor, set to be used when the enemy is too close, come into view. The first floor wagons also open, but it is to deploy a series of ramps down which armed men descend, some on foot, others on motorcycles, intent on closing in while the machine guns above spew a wave of suppressive fire.

The slaves who panic and flee in disarray down the free flank of the train are the first to see their backs broken and split open by bullets. Others with better heads hide in the nearest service cars, along with the free workers of the Abraham. And a few, but increasing the more cages are opened, are those who grab the weapons of the sentries or fallen soldiers and join the advance guard, imitating as best they can the gestures and maneuvers of the blue-marked troops. Many of them, born in slavery, had never picked up a weapon in their lives, but they certainly used to be the most fearless warriors of the legion, intoxicated by the yearning to strike back even a single blow at those who have been oppressing them forever. Stooped and bladed, they advance with the rest, wagon by wagon, firing from every bit of cover they manage to move to. At the head of the advance, coming from a man disguised among his hosts, a lion's voice urges over the rumbling of the ammunition:

"What are waiting?! Live forever?! Not a step backwards!"

The slaves hurry up, some of them in their haste are killed or their brains are spilled. Anxious and inexperienced, they tremble for the fight, just as they tremble at the prospect of being close to the Lancastrian they have so much rumored and dreamed of seeing.

The slavers on the motorcycles are the first to kill... But also to fall, some capsize from a wounded wheel, others become human torches when their fuel tanks are hit. Those on foot change their minds along the way, flee into the desert or fall back to the rear. Those manning the machine guns swallow saliva as their ammunition belts grow shorter and shorter, while the Lancastrian forces seem to multiply.

The liberators now numbered in the hundreds.

The railroad, unable to contain that rising tide of men and women howling like wild dogs, sees its roofs and flanks also covered by humans in rags with chests swelling with passion and courage, scores of them throwing themselves down with only their bare hands. The machine gun operators already stop firing at the fleeing slaves and concentrate on those who come screaming after them. With only ten wagons left, most abandon their posts to flee.

Only the bravest slaveholders hold their position, and it is they who end up torn to pieces by the hands of those who until a few minutes ago they considered only masses to oppress.

...

"What are you worried about, Miss Frida? I heard that the muskita doesn't kill women"

"That's what many say, especially the romantic ones who fantasize about him. But no one can say the same about his followers"

Those were Frida's last words with the owner of the Abraham Lincoln, before proceeding to leave. The walls and ramps on the side opposite the attack were also deployed, but not to respond to the horde, but to allow an escape route. Frida offered Orlok to take him along, but the quadriplegic refused.

"I would hate to lose the chance to meet the man who killed Deathmask" Orlok explains.

Frida rides in her chariot. Her massive slaves pull on the chains with all the strength their overdeveloped arms can muster. The chariot joins the dozens of escaping slavers, either in vehicles or on foot.

Fifty meters from the railroad, one of those who mends his own legs is the first to notice the coat of arms rising on the crest of the second artificial dune. The ragged cloth is fluttering in the arid wind, and although the print is rustic, it is easy to recognize the two horizontal bands, one white and the other a light blue, in the center of which is the silhouette of a bird. The flag is attached to a bone stick tied to the right horn of an Australian pig. Mounted on the beast's back, with one hand holding the animal's coarse shaggy hair and the other waving a spear, a pregnant woman commands the attack in violent language.

Next to the red-haired woman, ostriches, camels, lizards, horses, and even thick-haired four-legged demons appear. A whole bunch of mounts that give supply to a score of riders coming from the different tribes unified under the Lancastrian coat of arms. Shoulder to shoulder they make a charge and go down the arena, turned into a mobile wall of death. In the middle of the ride the warriors aim their submachine guns and bows, taking by surprise the slavers who thought they had escaped the conflict.

Frida, with her puffy-lipped mouth turned into a shuttle of high-pitched, desperate shrieks, takes the riding crop resting on the wall of the chariot and bends down to repeatedly whip the broad backs of her stallions, until the dark skin is almost onyx-like from the layer of blood that covers them.

"Faster! Faster! They're coming!" Frida looks back with each shout, her eyes trembling, following Erika's movements on the giant pig. A sentry is skewered on the animal's left horn, the wretch is still alive, and with each nod of the pig's head, the body slides a little more towards the tip, until it is thrown off, dropping a red mist that stains the German's face but without erasing her terrified smile.

One move away from skewering the huge-breasted woman with her spear, a sharp twitch twitch twitches Erika's expression. She falls off the pig and rolls in the sand, burning the skin on her arms and knees.

Frida escapes. A few riders stop the hunt to rush to Erika to check on her and help lift her off the ground. The German, unharmed and with her face turned to the sky, snorts.

"Damn it... You win... I'll give myself a break" she says to her brother-in-arms, even though he is fighting on the railroad.