What followed nobody could say. Literally. Anybody whose will was left unbroken was somehow muted, shaky, unable to function. They struggled to feed themselves, clothe themselves and were reminded every day that they could give themselves over to the Prophet and regain who they once were. Some had unshakable beliefs in other powers, some knew a tyrant when they saw one but most, it seemed, would eventually give up.
Until then the only break from the struggle to survive, ironically, was to let some sort of possessing spirit take control. Whatever they were they were what made it hard to eat, to speak and so on. When the host gave up this dark spirit would use the body to work on behalf of the Prophet. Because of this most people died either of over-exertion or starvation and thirst.
Years passed and Justice scarcely noticed. No friends, no loved ones, just a compulsion to work for the Prophet. To the surprise of no one this Prophet was, in fact, Brigham Young. Justice was forced to listen to the propaganda spat forth by the former holy man now empowered by the same kind of entity that infected Justice and everyone else around him. It seemed that the Union soldiers like himself were at the bottom rung of some sort of class system (ironically alongside of some confederates.) Loyal Mormons seemed almost normal, save their red eyes, but they didn’t struggle with themselves merely to perform basic tasks.
All around him Justice saw his people and other outsiders as they struggled to speak, had to fight against themselves to eat food placed right in front of them and had almost no thoughts of their own. Before long all the soldiers in his Company were dead, starved and worked to death, apparently of a weaker will than Justice himself.
“You there! The shaggy cave-man looking fellow. I know you.” Shouted a well-built Elder one day, accosting Justice. How are you still alive after these years?
“Stu… Still? Uh…” Justice struggled.
“It can’t be that you’ve given yourself over to the Prophet. You’re far too … unkempt.” He sneered as he addressed Justice, eyes aglow (though Justice’s glowed too, he came to realize when glancing his reflection in a window one day) and dressed in his Sunday best. Was it Sunday? Did they dress like this every day?
Pushing, Justice felt the fog clear somewhat. Shaking his head he finally replied clearly. “I … kept eating. Dr-drinking. I … I, my people, they stopped. Couldn’t try any more…”
“Really? Now ain’t that a shame…” declared the Elder.
Justice struggled out a nod, tried to stand up straight but found his motion limited. The thing inside him fought his every move, every instinct. No matter how Justice tried it was impossible to act like someone unhampered by the horrid creature.
“Look at you, gripped by the Servitor. You know you’ve been given the option to be autonomous all along. All you need do is give yourself over to the Prophet at any of his shrines, the Shriner will read the holy scroll and you will join us as a full member of the Church. Why haven’t you?” he leaned in expectantly, clearly seeing Justice as a curiosity.
“Th-the Mormon Church-ch?” Justice stuttered.
“No!” and, drawing the cudgel at his hip the Mormon swung hard, catching Justice at the temple and sending him sprawling. “Foolish worm! This is why the Servitor consumes those like you and works you to death!”
“S-sorry!” Justice groveled, reeling from the blow.
The Elder scoffed. “You don’t even know the real name. Brigham Young looked to the sky and saw the one true force of the universe. The God you knew was never real. Then …that force come upon him, he gave himself unto it, and became The Prophet! He shall shape this world to his will and the faithful will be reborn in its destruction…”
Struggling, finding his feet, Justice got himself vertical by pushing against a nearby wall. “How? H-how do …you know?”
Shaking his head the Elder kicked the inside of Justice’s knee, dropping him into a seated position effortlessly. “I take it back; you’re not worthy of a scroll. Filthy dog. Not until you glean the true name of entropy and destruction. Then you may join us in our holy crusade to cleanse this unworthy mudball in flame and blood.”
The, apparently, non-Mormon then stormed off leaving Justice prone yet again, slowly rising, wanting nothing more than to kill this enemy. It was as if he’d been sleeping for years only now to find that those he thought were his enemy, the Mormons, were instead the first victims of something far more insidious. If only his body were his own.
It was strange; when laboring for the Prophet he could lift more than any man, break stone with his bare hands and perform other, similar feats. While the others around him were stronger than they should be, Justice, already a rare sort of man, made them seem weak by comparison. Those others, he realized, were now dead and gone. Was he the last enslaved man in The Valley?
In spite of his power rising was difficult for he did not do it to please The Prophet. This realization, coming from whatever possessed Justice, wasn’t helpful but it was still more than he understood before. If only there were some way to lose the “Servitor” but keep the strength.
Unexpectedly a flash of blue light burst over the horizon just as Justice came to a standing position and he fell to his back again. Still he was able to see the source, like the shooting stars he saw all those years ago, but blue. Blue. He hadn’t seen a blue flash before. Every so often there would be the red ones coming from the moon, more people giving themselves over, sacrificing their will to be free of the Servitor.
Justice mumbled to himself, trying to keep the words he knew as they struggled to escape him; the Servitor trying to steal language from his mind. Awkwardly rising, using the wall again to hold himself upright, he moved towards where he thought the blue flash must have gone. If the red stars were threats and enemies maybe a blue one could help him in some way.
After about a half mile of clumsy stumbling he heard a loud, nasal voice with an annoyed tone; “This ain’t right, Doc.” came the voice of a young man. “I mean, all these stone blocks, no brownstones, not even wood buildings, how is this New York City right after the Civil War?”
The hoarse, husky voice of an older gentleman coughed out a reply. “Matty, I guarantee you that this is very near to our destination. Looks like … about four years after. So we overshot 1865 and it’s 1869. But why did we overshoot…?”
Justice came to the edge of the last wall blocking his view. There stood a white-haired old man in a patent leather duster and a teenager in a leather vest. They looked like they were dressing up to blend in but failing utterly.
“I dunno, Doc, four years doesn’t account for this. And the signs? That isn’t English.”
Looking up and around the Doc took in a little more scenery. “By gum you’re right! Matty, this language, it doesn’t even obey any structure that I’ve ever seen. The characters are utterly alien. The motion … it zig-zags, I think, like a soundwave. Not left to right or right to left but both!”
Justice staggered out, suddenly desperate, when he realized what they stood by; a four-wheeled metal monstrosity with darkened glass windows in the sides. It could have been a carriage but, certainly, there was nothing there to pull it. The railroad was nowhere near so it wasn’t a steam engine. Agape, he staggered to his hands and knees, barely catching himself.
“Whoa there! Uh, freeze! We’re armed!” and the young man drew a small pistol, tapping up the brim of his hat with the barrel.
“Matty, wait wait wait.” He took a step forward, looking carefully at Justice. “It’s okay. This man is clearly in distress. We should help him and, of course, get a little information about our situation. Unless, of course, that alters the timestream in which case we should probably not…” and the old man drifted off, apparently trying to reason something out.
“We’re just passing through, uh, pardner. So why don’t you just mosey?” said the teen.
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Speaking in a voice over-loud and abrasive the Doctor addressed Justice directly. “You there!” called the old man. “Where are we?”
Justice croaked as best he could. “Valley. C-city of … of Prophet.”
“Profit? Is this a giant mall? That would explain all the stonework; cinderblock for stores.”
“No. Prophet. Brigham Young…”
At that name both young and old man perked up, eyes wide. “I’m sorry but did you just say Brigham Young?” The old man was clearly unnerved.
“Yes. I … I cursed. I think.” It was getting easier again, like clearing your throat can open your airways before they swell again during a cold or flu. “Shrine. Scroll, can give me… Brain? Again…” Well that didn’t sound right.
“Doc. Pretty sure we should just shoot this guy. I think he wants to eat our brains!” He aimed the pistol, trying hard to look like he’d used it before.
“No, Matty, look at his eyes. He said he’s cursed. By gum … of course. It’s magic!”
“But Doc didn’t you say that magic isn’t real?”
“I said that magic is just science we don’t understand yet. In this case it could be like a computer program but for the brain and this scroll is the password to give this man his faculties back.”
“Nuh-huh! Nyah! Nyah!” burbled Justice, excitedly.
“What is that caveman lingo he’s babbling? Oh, and the wind shifted, do you smell that?”
“It looks like he’s been working nonstop for a long time. Look at the muscle, the sinew!”
“Smell the sulfur! Humans don’t make that smell, doc!”
“Allow us to introduce ourselves, sir. I’m Doctor Phineas Black and this is my young assistant Mathew Walker. We’re from the future!” The Doc talked with his hands, trying to put across the enormity of their powers over time.
And it kind of worked! “Uh … really?” asked Justice with sudden excitement. Maybe they could, indeed, free him from this curse.
“Yes, really.”
“I … I’m Justice.” said Justice in the clearest voice he’d used in five years.
“Excellent! Show us this shrine, Justice. Let’s see about this scroll of yours.” The old man extended his hand, shaking Justice’s and pulling him to his feet. More excited grunting and he started the relatively short walk to lead his new acquaintances to a nearby shrine.
Given his shambling state it was good that Justice didn’t have far to go, only about a city block. “There.” he coughed, pointing at a robed man by a golden altar on which rested a statue depicting a terrifying mass of tentacles and toothy maws. “He has. It say … say how fix. He won’t g-give me. Too dirty.”
“Alright, well, Matty … you’re up.” quipped the Doc.
“Me!? Why me?” asked Matty.
“Simple. You have the most trustworthy face. The flush of youth. Also, if things go south, we can help you.”
“I could be the backup!” cried Matty, plaintively.
“Oh, Matty, no…” said the Doc. ”You’re no good with that pistol or your fists. Best that we be your backup.”
Justice chuckled throatily, tongue stiffening up again.
“But he can barely move! How’s he gonna back me up!?”
At this Justice bent to grab a piece of cement from the ground. He fell with the effort but, as he rolled to his back, he shakily squeezed the concrete until it dissolved into powder. The Doc nodded “Mm-hm.”
“Aw geez. This is just … wrong!”
Approaching the shrine was the scariest thing young Matty had ever done. Behind it stood what looked vaguely like a Benedictine Monk in brown robes and hooded cloak. The shrine itself was a stone and gold altar that may have been attached to the road for all he knew. “Excuse me? Ah!” he shouted, for when the robed figure looked up at him, eyes glowing just like Justice’s.
“Yes? Are you of the cursed, now cleansed and ready to present yourself as servant to the prophet?” asked the robed figure.
Well that was easy, or so Matty hoped. “Yes. Yes I am! That. Let’s do it.”
“Excellent. So few of your ilk have come to your senses. So many just … letting yourselves starve, struggling against your compulsion to work that you can’t even clean yourselves. How could you ever present yourselves as servants of the prophet if you’re not even presentable?” He dug around in one of the chambers of the shrine, at the rear as he laughed.
Matty laughed himself though it was more of a nervous, terrified titter. “Right.” Said Matty. “Can’t meet the Prophet … dirty…
“You have that right, brother. Wow, first convert in three years and I have him. Let’s see … salt for the exorcism and … scroll! Man, haven’t needed that in so long!” Moving out from behind the shrine he approached Matty. “Okay, so, now we need to put a circle of salt around you, I read the ritual and you can step out, marked as loyal and your Servitor can be sent back to the One Beyond. No more need for hard labor.” He looked up, locking eyes with Matty.
Beat. Matty felt himself tensing up. “Okay. Sounds … sounds good.”
“Wait.” said the hooded man. “Why are your eyes like that? If they don’t glow then you’re … untouched by–”
Suddenly, loudly, a deep, gutteral voice cried out “Backup!” and Justice Haymaker charged in from the side, slamming the robed man into the stone wall before pulling him over to the shrine. It was a clumsy struggle, the monk didn’t have the same strength as Justice but Justice was half crawling, half dragging both of them in the effort.
“What? What is this!? How do you disobey your servitor!?” Brandishing a wicked knife the monk slashed at Justice’s side ineffectually, breaking the skin but not much else.
“Ah dunno!” grunted Justice, pulling himself up by the shrine and his opponent up by the hair. “Like this?” and, with a brutal motion, he slammed the monk facefirst into the corner of the shrine, rupturing his eye, his orbital bone and severely compromising his skull. All this amid the loud screams of the cultist who, after staggering away, whimpered once and fell unconscious, possibly dead, on the cobblestone road.
“That was brutal! Disgusting!” cried Matty, trying to brush away the blood spatter from his fine and false wild west ensemble.
“Yeah! Back. Up… Heh.” Still unsteady, Justice staggered like a drunk man, bumping into the wall before lunging and viciously stomping and exploding the monk’s head like an overripe tomato. He was definitely dead now.
“Gah! Doc!” shrieked Matty. “I’m covered … covered in blood! And brain! Doc! I’m freakin’ out!” and Matty scuttled away from Justice who was oblivious to the trauma he’d caused. Matty was definitely wearing brains.
Justice seemed more and more in control of his faculties though, rifling through the monk’s robes and finding the scroll under him, still clutched in one hand. Quickly he set about unfurling it.
“Now Matty, it’s fine. Your cover was clearly blown. And Justice, let me see that scroll.”
The Doc snatched that scroll up, trying to flatten it on the shrine. Luckily the blood was mostly on that one corner and covering the side. Also the stone wall nearby. “Justice acted quickly to save you. I’m guessing that my mastery of language is somewhat … better than … hm.” The Doc laid eyes on the scroll’s text; more alien characters flowing in a zigzag. Handwritten as they were it was more clear than on the signs that the words were on a single wavelength-like line.
From the side Justice looked at the flattened scroll and began to make a gutteral and somewhat musical noise. Characters on the scroll lit up in order, each giving off a tiny puff of smoke as he continued to sing in what must have been an alien language. Matty rounded the corner, backing away from the alarming sight and sound.
“By gum, Justice! You can read the scroll?”
“Yes! Nnno… Servitor. Thing in my body, fighting me, it reads…”
“Fascinating! But, no, wait. Stop reading for a moment.” Grabbing a bag of probably five pounds of salt he gestured away from the altar. “This way, son. We’ve got to make a circle around you to hold the creature the man you murdered was talking about.”
Justice nodded approvingly, his face twisting up in a simple-looking smile. Hobbling to where he was prompted he stood and waited as the salt was poured, chuckling. An end to this nightmare was within reach!
“Ah, not sure how much to use. Surely can’t overdo it but … too little would be a problem. There we go.” the Doc took a step back and extended the scroll to Justice. Doctor Black then held it up in front of him Justice started again from the beginning.
First it was just sparks shooting out of the salt, then a consistent red glow and meandering, vertical white beams flitting around him in a circle. As he ululated his guttural gibberish ever more smoke floated up from the parchment, then more smoke than that started to emit from the top of Justice’s head. Slowly it grew a sharp-toothed face that was spreading to form a ghostly body.
“Matty! Can you see this? This is what’s brought us here, Matty; whatever power has held this man enslaved acts as a magnet. The Chronal Compass in the Chrono Car just spins now that we’re in this bizarre place. Perhaps once this Servitor has been stripped from Justice we can get back to our original plan; to witness the first days of Reconstruction after the end of the American Civil War!” Doc said all that while never realizing that Matty was peering at him from around the corner to where he’d already retreated.
As the creature took form, a ruddy gray humanoid monster floating above him, Justice looked ever healthier, its departure healing him of his malady. Finally, a few lines short of the end of the incantation, he stepped forward and out, looking like a new man.