Lazarus

LAZARUS

BY SARAH CAWKWELL

Lazarus by Sarah Cawkwell

Cover by Neil Googe

This edition published in 2022

Zmok Books is an imprint of

Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC

1525 Hulse Rd, Unit 1

Point Pleasant, NJ 08742

Published under agreement with Wayland Games Limited

Warcradle Studios is a trading name of Wayland Games Limited. Wild West Exodus and the Wild West Exodus logo are trademarks of Wayland Games Limited. Illustrations and Designs are copyright © 2022 Wayland Games Limited.

This book is printed under the copyright laws of the US/United Kingdom and retains all of the protections thereof. All Rights Reserved. All trademarks herein including, but not limited to Wild West Exodus, Outlaws, Enlightened, Lawmen, Empire, The Crown, The Union, The Watchers, The Order, character names and all associated logos are property of Wayland Games Ltd. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events are purely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or stored in any retrieval system or transmitted in any form, except as permitted by the US/UK Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, without prior written permission from Warcradle Studios. Duplicating any portion of the materials herein, unless specifically addressed within the work or by written permission from Warcradle Studios, is strictly prohibited. In the event that permissions are granted, such duplications shall be intended solely for personal, noncommercial use and must maintain all copyrights, trademarks, or other notices contained therein or preserved all marks associated thereof. Product information is subject to change.

Copyright © Winged Hussar Publishing

ISBN PB 978-1-950423-94-1

ISBN EB 978-1-950423-95-8

LCN 2022940520

Bibliographical References and Index

1. Science Fiction.  2. Dystopian Age.  3. Wild West Exodus

Winged Hussar Publishing, LLC All rights reserved

For more information

visit us at www.wingedhussarpublishing.com

Twitter: WingHusPubLLC

Facebook: Winged Hussar Publishing LLC

WELCOME TO THE

From the Badlands of North America to the icy realm of Antarctica the world of the Dystopian Age is a wild and dangerous place. It is a generation since the end of the American Civil War and Queen Victoria has been on the throne for over forty years. While Louis-Napoleon builds an alliance in Europe, the nations of the Far East are roused to action against the growing threat from the West.

Combining the newly discovered Element 270 with a limitless power source known as RJ-1027, a global scientific and engineering technocracy called the Covenant of the Enlightened have ushered in an age of phenomenal advancement; bringing to reality projects and ideas that were the stuff of dreams only decades before. This unearned and disjointed scientific progression has, however, come with neither morals nor safeguards and the world has been plunged into a Dystopian Age.  

This is an era where individuals can make their mark with opportunities for personal gain as well as the national interest to defend. Whole regions have been devastated by conflict, and yet others are relatively untouched, transformed by the massive expansion of industry and technology into hives of activity that feed the fires of this terrible struggle. Worse yet, it appears that the world itself is changing as if the roiling conflict is enveloping the natural order as well as that of humankind. Bizarre weather events erupt with increasing regularity, mighty storms blow up and then suddenly vanish. At sea and in the air, ships and flying craft mysteriously reappear miles off course, their crews having no recollection of the missing time.

The Union of Federated States has emerged traumatised and hardened from a bloody and protracted internal conflict known as the Ore War. It now tries to brutally enforce its rule across the sprawling and lawless land claimed by the proud Warrior Nation, all manner of Outlaws, wild creatures, and elements of the Enlightened.  The cities of the East Coast of the Union are austere and distant places compared to the rapidly expanding and vibrant towns that have sprung up across the West. Towns like Red Oak, Tombstone, Deadwood and Retribution rival each other for attracting the most exotic and deadly of the inhabitants that call the frontier home. 

While the inhabitants of the Frontier are not ignorant of the larger world around them, it has little immediate impact as the Union serves as both protector and oppressor; isolating the Frontier from the wider world except for those few agents that slip through the ever-tightening net. There is much more to be found in the West than just a plot of hard-earth and the scrabble for gold. With so many vying for power and influence; the Frontier is truly a place where a man or woman might not just make their fortune but become a legend. A legend to be remembered, a legend to be feared.

For Bubba, Steve, Dudge and Jeff the Ref - who raced the rest of us to Valhalla and won.

PROLOGUE

The sky was aflame.

Above the mining town of Provenance, a magnificent sunset was beginning, at last, to fade into peach tones instead of the deep orange it had been for the past quarter hour. Normally people didn’t bother to look up at the sky, busy as they were with their lives down here on the ground. Tonight, though, had been different. Tonight’s sunset had been so spectacular that people had stopped to marvel at it.

One budding young artist had been trying desperately to capture the inherent beauty, mixing his colours with a desperation bordering on lunacy. To his immense satisfaction, he caught the amber sliver through the clouds just right and as his brush dragged the watercolours across the canvas, he felt satisfied in the knowledge that he was working, at last, on the masterpiece that would take him out of Provenance and on to far greater things.

A crackly, artificial-sounding trumpet blast echoed from the far northern edge of the town, where the lumber mill was announcing that business was done for the day. Situated, as it was, next to a ragged, sparsely populated copse, Provenance was one of the few places in the territory where a lumber mill was lucrative business. Ranchers and prospectors from miles around bought building materials here, adding to the ever-growing income that the town council had swelling their coffers. Talk on the street was that the whole town would soon be alive with RJ-powered lighting. The main thoroughfare was already benefiting from the money that the town was making.

Now, as the colour faded from the sky and dusk settled over the town, those lights were beginning to come on, flickering at first, but quickly sputtering into crimson-tinged illumination. There was, if you cared to listen for it, a faint hum of the RJ-1027 generator that served the town. Demand for power was growing swiftly; during the day, the sawmill drew heavily on its reserve with a dozen automated saws and twice as many conveyors that made the whole lumber process infinitely more productive. It was without question that the town would need to invest in a second generator soon. The thrum of power in the cables that ran beneath the street’s dusty surface and on poles overhead was something that had long become a part of the Provenance background. The residents considered the modernisation of their town as a point of pride.

An iron-coach rumbled over the road’s surface with a snarling motor chugged its way into town bringing yet more people with it. There would be a crowd in the saloon that night and the town was fast running out of houses to board the influx of miners, engineers and eager young things desperate to carve out a life for themselves.

The young artist, having been robbed of the spectacular colours of the evening sky packed up his things and carried them into the saloon where just like any number of the other young male inhabitants of the town, he intended to sit nursing a beer and enjoying the company of his peers, his elders and – if he was lucky – the pretty kitchen girl whose eye he had caught the previous night.

Provenance was a young town, as these things were measured, and it was growing swiftly. It was home to perhaps three hundred and fifty people, with more arriving weekly. It was a town that was alive. It was a town that was thriving. It was special. And people knew it.

In just a few short hours, everything would be gone.

* * *

Provenance Lumber Supplies.

Hywel Rhys, the owner and manager of the sawmill read the name out loud and sighed, shaking his head. The Provenance Wood and Lumber Company, he tried, writing down another attempt. Yes, that one was much better. Until three days ago, everyone had been happy enough to refer to it simply as ‘the Mill’, but he wanted something grander. He was the owner of a going concern and he wanted that reflected in the new signage he had planned for the mill’s exterior. Who’d have thought that naming his officially registered new company would be so difficult?

Rhys was a prosperous man, the top employer in Provenance and he was also a generous man. Thanks to his self-proclaimed wise investment in the Covenant of the Enlightened and the scientific and engineering advancements they offered, he was now the most valued contributor to the town’s prosperous growth and rapid progress. Because of his business acumen, he had secured the deal that brought the generators into the town and brought it bang up to date.  The fact that his mill production had doubled and made him a very rich man was, of course, merely a by-product. Whisper and rumour abounded and every single person in town was confident that Hywel Rhys was going to win the mayoral election that in three days’ time.

He turned his thoughts from the company name and tried something else to distract himself. Mayor Rhys. Yes. It sounded good and so he tried it aloud. He’d garnered quite the reputation for talking to himself.

Rhys raised an invisible top hat with exceptional grace and made a mental note to get his tailor to look into making a new suit come morning. He would need to look the part, after all. He put the non-existent hat back on his head and beamed.

Good day, ma’am, I’m Mayor Hywel Rhys. He nodded in satisfaction. It sounded excellent. He had such plans for Provenance. He was going to divert more of the mill’s income to the town hall, to pay for better education, for another lawman. He paused there. That might have to move further up the agenda, because the situation in the town was beginning to change. Wherever there was prosperity, criminals were never far behind.  Some of the young people were verging on the unruly, but a resident sheriff would soon put paid to that, he was sure. Yes, Hywel told himself, in five years, the town would be bigger and better even than Tombstone.

The mere thought of such a thing caused Rhys to puff his chest out in pride. He sighed contentedly and leaned back in his chair, patting the pocket of his waistcoat to locate his matches. He put the cigarette in his mouth and after several attempts, managed to light a match. He set the flame to the tobacco and closing his eyes, inhaled deeply. Yes, sir, it was good to be alive at a time like this. When a new town was on the rise, when his own star was in ascendance...

There was a knock on the door of his office, and he started, the chair coming dangerously close to tipping over and depositing him on the floor. He coughed to cover up the sound of his flustered squeak of alarm. Yes? I mean, come on in. Come right on in. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and got to his feet.

The woman pushed open the door and glided into the room, preceded by a waft of a heady, slightly sickly-sweet perfume. Rhys sniffed without meaning to and pulled his handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket. There was a heavy base of jasmine in the scent, and it set his nostrils tingling. He sneezed loudly. The woman smelled as though she bathed in the stuff.

Bless you, said his guest, her voice a low, throaty murmur that set other senses tingling. The refined southern accent made her voice so enchanting that it didn’t matter that the sincerity content was non-existent. Rhys blew his nose and waved at his guest to sit down.

Thank you. Please. Please. Take a seat, ma’am. Can I get you a drink?

Water will be just fine, Mister Rhys. She settled herself down in the chair, her long skirts sweeping the floor. Every time she came into his room, she brought a touch of colour with her. She favoured bright, bold colours and the dress she wore this evening was a shade of golden, sunshine yellow that set her apart from the endlessly drab greys and browns of common, functional clothing.

Rhys poured a glass of water for her, noting as he did so that the new pumps and purifiers that had been installed only days previously were working even better than the engineers had promised. The liquid in the glass was almost entirely free of sediment, something that had been far too common before their installation. He poured himself a shot of whisky and carried the drinks to the desk.

I’m hoping you’re here to talk about taking an extended lease, he said, getting straight down to business and not allowing himself to become bogged down in formalities. He’d learned that she was a shrewd negotiator and did not appreciate small talk. I’m assuming things have been going well for you?

Extremely well, Mister Rhys. She took a delicate sip of water and smoothed out her skirts. "The facilities are certainly adequate for my needs. But I am goin’ to need to hire some more of your young men an’ women to help me. I declare that I am just so busy."

Every time. Every single time they spoke, he yearned to ask what it was she was doing in the old mines. He knew that her people had set up a small, but secure camp at the minehead. He knew that they did not like strangers snooping around. He knew also that they came and went freely around the town and that not one of them engaged the locals in conversation. They visited once a week for materials and supplies, moving the goods on growling powered carriages and kept entirely to themselves. Yes, every time they talked, he wanted to ask her what it was that she was actually doing. She had not wished to divulge when they’d agreed to the contract, saying that it was important research and that if Rhys asked no further questions, he’d be heavily compensated for the fact.

Every time, he remembered that heavy compensation and kept his mouth firmly closed.

More of my young workers? But, dear lady…

I will compensate you most generously for the inconvenience, of course, sir. She lifted her eyes to meet his and there was no coquettishness or flirting in her expression, only desire to get what she wanted. Rhys had the feeling, very deep down, that she usually achieved exactly that. Ain’t I brought a flare of modernity to your quaint little town? Did I not bring the generator with me? Who lit up your streets when the light is gone from the day? People are comin’ here all the time. You won’t miss, say, a dozen or so workers.

I understand, I do. And I – and of course, the citizens of Provenance – are extremely grateful, but…

"Is my money not good enough for you, Mister Rhys? Because I can take my business an’ my research elsewhere."

No! No! Her money was not only good enough, but it was also very good enough. And if there was one truth in this entire matter, it was that Hywel Rhys was easily swayed by money. If He couldn’t fund the ongoing growth and continued construction – well, the simple fact was that not another soul would want to come to Provenance. The dreams he had for the town turning into something startling, would go up in smoke.

The thought process made him remember his half-smoked cigarette and he patted his waistcoat pockets to find his cigarette tin. He took it out and opened it, offering his guest one. She declined politely and tipped her head to one side. Is there a problem, Mister Rhys?

No problem! If more bodies are what you need, dear lady, then more bodies are what you shall…

As he spoke, he got to his feet, fumbling with a cigarette. He put it between his lips and dashed around the desk to look out of the window at his dream. It took him a full minute to connect the orange glow in the distance with the actuality of the situation.

A crisis situation brought the best out of Hywel Rhys. And right now, as he looked at the eastern quarter of Provenance burning, flames licking up into the night sky, he was in a crisis situation.

The cigarette fell, unlit, from his lips and he stared. Then he coughed politely and turned to his guest.

I suggest we continue this discussion later, he said, his voice the epitome of calmness. Inside, a part of his soul had just died.

* * *

Provenance, like so many towns of its ilk, was constructed largely from wood and the fire took hold quickly. The east quarter, a warren of scaffold and half-finished residences was already burning fiercely, the inferno fuelled by pitch and fresh lumber. By the time Rhys reached the saloon, bursting with his news, people had already become aware of it. He knew only the vaguest sense of irritation at having had his thunder stolen from him, but he immediately began organising a chain of water carriers from the protesting town pump to the growing inferno.

An engineer rushed to the sawmill and began frantically attempting to modify the powered coolant hoses to direct water from the mill's water-tower toward the blaze, but a full understanding of Enlightened engineering was a mystery to even those who claimed to know most about it and he was left frustrated and desperate.

For three hours, the people of Provenance attempted to contain the fire in the eastern quarter. Into the dark of the night it burned, the sky once more aflame – only this time not with the glory of a sunset. The town’s firefighters were joined by most of the men – and a fair few of the town’s womenfolk as well – who joined the efforts to contain it. It was a relief that the fire had started in this uninhabited part of town; it was allowing that vital space to keep it under control. The fires were slowly and gradually extinguished and from his vantage point toward the back of the water-carrying chain, Rhys lifted his eyes briefly to the sky and thanked his lucky stars.

I think we’re winning here, he observed to his neighbour. We’ll have to do a lot of work to get things back to where they were, but it’ll be worth it. Maybe this is some sort of divine intervention. I’m telling you; we need to be thankful. Think how much worse it could have been! He injected enthusiasm and encouragement into his tone. At least that’s what he was aiming for.

The other man grunted. He’d carried four buckets to every one of Rhys’s and was weary to the bone. He was not seeing any positives in the night’s actions whatsoever.

When the last of the fires was doused, the tension began to ebb from people’s shoulders and the atmosphere became immediately more relaxed. A handful of prospectors stood together actually laughing about the experience, clapping one another on the shoulder and congratulating themselves for their heroic deeds here that evening.

Rhys drew in a deep sigh of relief. If they had not been able to get the fire contained, he dreaded to think what might have happened. He swept his hair back and looked affectionately over at the sawmill, its huge, brooding presence something for him to be proud of.

Then the sawmill’s generator exploded.

With a resounding boom that shook the very earth on which they stood, the heart and soul of modern Provenance blew apart in a storm of fire that fountained debris hundreds of feet into the air. People were thrown to the ground, rocked by the sheer force of the explosion and panic began anew as fresh, crimson-tinged flames washed from the ruins of the mill in a ravenous wave.

Rhys stared in abject horror. The pinnacle of his career, his future... the town’s future... his mayoral achievement... all of it was going up in smoke. The empty bucket he held in his hands clattered to the ground and he was rooted to the spot. A handful of the townsfolk were rushing towards the sawmill with fresh buckets of water, but then a second explosion, even more powerful and louder than the first sent them flying. Blazing wreckage fell like rain, lighting up the sky like a vision of Hell and igniting buildings all across town. Several people close by were struck by the streaming embers, the ruddy flames hungrily leaping from the dry timber to the fresh kindling afforded by human clothing. They were spared immolation by quick-thinking companions who pushed them to the ground, smothering them in dust. Luck by this point, was extremely relative, but the folk who might otherwise have burned alive took it anyway – and the scars that would go with it.

That did it. That unstuck Rhys’s feet from the ground and, in a rare demonstration of capability, certainly far more than enough to have won him the mayoral election, had such a thing been remotely likely at this point, he turned towards the horrified people of Provenance.

We have to evacuate, he said, his voice loud enough to capture the attention of those closest. Get yourselves out as fast as you can. Don’t stop to collect anything other than your families and children. We can’t stop this from happening now. The doom of Provenance was an inevitability that broke his heart and even as he took control, even as the people obeyed without question, tears began to stream down Hywel Rhys’s face at the waste. The horrible, horrible waste.

The sounds of wailing and swearing filled the night air in equal measure as people who until that moment had been coping admirably lost control and panicked. Something of a crush began as the town in its entirety stampeded in all directions. Controlled and orderly was not foremost on their mind and who could honestly blame them?  Hywel Rhys oversaw everything as best he could, but chaos had taken hold of his beloved town and it would not allow itself to be controlled or contained. His thoughts, his attention and his misery were focused on the tragic and untimely demise of the newly christened Provenance Wood and Lumber Supplies Sawmill. Everything he had worked for... for his entire life...

A third explosion signalled the destruction of the kerosene and gasoline fuel tanks with their accompanying RJ fuel injectors. This time, the sky itself seemed to catch fire. The slick of liquid flame that rained from the blast was red-tinged, evil and exceptionally flammable and wherever it landed, things burned faster and hotter than before.

Arthur Fitzsimmons, the town’s engineer, wept at the disaster which was rapidly consuming the place he had come to call home. Over the past months, that generator had become the very focus of his life. Of course, he was more than used to explosions and usually he was the one behind them. He was a smart, clever man, in possession of a soot-smeared, cheerful face and engaging personality. But he also possessed something of a propensity for what he called ‘experimentation’. That was his term for it; others called it ‘dangerous game-playing with volatile chemicals and things he clearly does not understand’. He was more than tempted to rush to the sawmill and recover any part of that glorious generator and it took three men to hold him back.

Only a few, short minutes after the initial detonation, the entire town was aflame, fire licking up the side of buildings, fuelled by the aggressive addition of RJ accelerant. All thoughts of heroism fled from the thoughts of the remaining people, and they ran as well.

By dawn, all that remained of Provenance was a town of ash and cinders beneath a choking pall of smoke. Here and there scorched husks and skeletal buildings defiantly remained, blackened stumps like corpse teeth standing in the pale light. The water tower presided over the scene, its legs burned and slightly askew, an ironic thing when so much had been consumed by flame. The tower stood as silent, scarred witness to the death of Provenance. Whatever had caused this tragedy had done its job thoroughly.

It was a miracle, they would say in a day or two, that nobody died.

It was poor comfort.

And it would be a long, long time before Hywel Rhys would suddenly wonder at the fate of his lady guest on that terrible night and wondered what became of her supposed grand plans and important research.

By then, though, the world would have become a very different place.

PART ONE – OPENING GAMBIT

Arizona, April

The Spirit Priest had not yet been dead for a full day and already his replacement was wondering whether it was possible to petition the Great Spirit to exchange places with the deceased.

All eyes were on him and that made him desperately uncomfortable.

He was young to be pushed into such a powerful position, a truth that was impossible to deny. But among the People of the Warrior Nation, Stone Fur had been considered a man for many years. Since the day he had hunted alone in the wilderness and returned with the skin of a coyote, a wily creature he had managed to bring down with stones from his sling, the boy he once had been was subsumed into the man he had become. The mantle of manhood settled on his shoulders, and he wore it well. But it didn’t mean that he felt any more comfortable.

The recently deceased Priest’s name had been Sewati in the language of the People, which translated loosely as Curved Bear Claw. He had died in the early hours of that morning, an old, old man whose former majesty and aura of wonder had melted away to be replaced by a tiny and wizened creature swaddled in an outsized bearskin cloak. Stone Fur, still deeply upset by the intensity of a dream that had dragged him from slumber in the watches of the night, had tended to him in his final hours, bringing him water that would barely pass the cracked and dried lips and simply providing companionship and comfort. As an apprentice, Stone Fur had seen many deaths in his young life. Curved Bear Claw though, had been determined to cling to life. It had made those final moments painful for them both.

The old man had drawn a rattling breath into his failing lungs before letting go in one long, slow sigh. He had gone to join the Great Spirit, an event celebrated by the People and yet despite knowing this, Stone Fur had still shed tears.

The two had shared deeply private words in those precious final hours. Stone Fur had been orphaned and taken in by the Spirit Priest when he had been only four summers old. He had graduated from adopted son to apprentice at six. The man had been teacher, confidante and father for so long and Stone Fur had loved him.

You will bring the word of the Great Spirit to the People, boy. And you will fill the void of my passing. Let the Spirit guide you and all will be as it should be. The voice was a wheeze, squeezed out through his mouth by lungs that were failing. Ancient fingers closed round Stone Fur’s hand, nails digging into the tender flesh of his palm, and he had known grief like nothing else. All will be well, my son.

So had Curved Bear Claw spoken in his final minutes. Stone Fur would take up the mantle of Spirit Priest and he would guide the People as his predecessor had done for so long. The old Priest had passed through the veil secure in the knowledge his protégé would take reins with ease. He knew it, all the People knew it, everyone knew it. Apart from, it seemed, Stone Fur.

He had seen eighteen summers come and go. He had hunted and provided, he had fought many and varied enemies and he had assisted Curved Bear Claw with many ancient rites. He had been ready for this task for years. He had wisely made preparations for the funerary rites for days, knowing that the old Priest’s time was short.

Yet now the moment had arrived, he had forgotten every word, every gesture. He had forgotten everything.

And all eyes were on him.

The morning had passed in a blur. He had brought news of the Priest’s death straight to the leader of their community. Loud Thunder was imposing when he was not angry, and the passing of the Spirit Priest had woken a deep anger in his heart. Fury flashed in his usually impassive eyes and the great hands had balled into fists of rage.

Stone Fur hurried away to tend the preparation of Curved Bear Claw before the old man was committed to the Great Spirit. There were observances and traditions that must be upheld. He would be laid to rest with his medicine bag, still filled with the herbs of his trade – medicinal and recreational – and the carving of his spirit totem. Once anointed and prepared, Curved Bear Claw’s body carried with great respect and reverence taken to the Hollow of Sighs where the final elements of the ritual would be conducted. He would be raised up and committed to the Sky Mother and to the Great Spirit. In due course the life that was once granted to him by the Great Spirit would be returned, the circle closed once again.

The circle.

It brought Stone Fur back to the here and now and he focused his attentions on the people gathered in a ring around him. Loud Thunder stood in his rightful place, at the northern-most edge of the mourning circle, watching the boy in the middle closely. The anger and grief at the loss of a mentor and friend had passed. He was here – they were all here – to pay their respects to a loved member of their community. More, a leader of their community.

Let the Spirit guide you and all will be as it should be.

Curved Bear Claw’s final words floated over the anxious young Priest and he knew, suddenly, that he was going to be alright. A sense of deep calm washed through him and carried his fears away. He knelt beside the shrouded body and drew in a deep breath. His heartbeat slowed to a steady pulse, and he took control. He raised his head to the azure skies of the Arizona afternoon. When he spoke, he did so with confidence and clarity, no sign of the nerves or anxiety that had plagued him. He did not see Loud Thunder’s nod of approval.

Great Spirit, hear my words, he intoned. "I am Stone Fur, Spirit Priest to the earthly-bound and your voice among the People. Your servant, Curved Bear Claw has drawn his last breath. He flies to