Tainted
by
T. J. Christian
Copyright © 2015 by T.J. Christian
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without written permission from T.J. Christian, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for reviewing purposes.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person, living or dead, any place, events, or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and storylines are created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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WARNING: This story contains adult language and situations, violence, and sexually explicit content: it is intended for readers over the age of eighteen.
Chapter One
His name is Christopher. If he has a last name, it’s been much too long for him to remember what it might have been. Too much has happened since everyone died—actually, nothing has happened—nothing but time, the changing seasons, and the need to survive. Such is life.
Speaking of seasons, he stands before his squat little abode and determines that it’s time to add another layer of mud and twigs between the logs and wood on the outside walls. The rainy season will be here within two moons—and soon after, winter will come, billowing its frozen breath and gnashing icy teeth. There are plenty of pelts inside, enough to make a soft bed on the hard-packed dirt floor and to cover him during the cold nights. He also needs to start stockpiling dried meat—his reserves are drastically low, but that’s not for the lack of hunting. He hunts every day—it’s just this damnable heat—that, and the Tainted. They eat anything that moves. And if they don’t eat all the wildlife, the heat keeps the animals in their dens, hidden from view and thus safe from his arrows and snares.
Not one for procrastination, Chris retrieves his bow and quiver from their leaning position against the wall by the crooked doorway. His hand adjusts the knife in its scabbard on his waist, then rises to his shoulder where he reaches behind, double checking that the machete handle is within easy reach should he run into any of the Tainted. Before he hunts, however, he has to check the river.
Just like his family's name, if the river has one, it’s long forgotten. He has a name for it though—something he gave it not long after his father died.
He remembers the day well. The rain had fallen for several days, swelling the river to the point that it overflowed the opposite bank and spilled out across the flood plain. Upriver, the water switched to the left and right as far as the eye could see—which was quite a ways from this vantage point. This portion of land pushed the river way out in a sweeping curve. From his position on the peninsula, he could see miles and miles of flatlands, stretching both up- and down-river. His side, however, was just the opposite—a twisted maze of thick trees and webs of underbrush. As far as he knew, the trees on this side of the river never ended—and neither did the grassy plains on the other side. And the river between—a giant twisting, living thing separating the two. That was when he began calling it the Snake.
He approaches the Snake now, just as he’s done each day of his existence—as his father had also done. Chris never knew what his father had been searching for each day, but he’d stand at the lip of the cliff, above the meandering river, and his eyes would slowly search the land. Was the look in his eyes longing? Or worry? Chris didn’t know, and his father—a man of few words—never volunteered an answer. It never occurred to Chris to question him about it. He learned much from his father, but mostly things concerning survival—how to hunt, start a fire, dry and store meat, build a shelter, and most importantly: how to kill the Tainted before they could kill him. Things of a curious nature—things that dwelt on hope or wishes—those things were never important and would bring a quick rebuke from his father.
So Chris learned to stay quiet—to learn by example and listen intently to instruction. In doing so, he learned to survive—a skill that keeps him alive even though he is on his own.
Chris stands at the edge of the cliff and peers over the edge. The water has risen since yesterday. Somewhere upstream, heavy rains are increasing the volume of water here. Maybe this is a sign that the rainy season is beginning early? He’ll check the river again tomorrow and see if it’s risen any more. He’s not worried about flooding. The opposite river bank—a vertical cliff much like the one where he now stands—is much lower than this one. Any flooding will happen over there—on the flat plain.
Before turning away, he stares one last time at the dirty water below and remembers the last conversation he had with his father. As he lay dying, he pulled Chris close and said with a straining, tired voice, “Don’t go in the water, Chris.” He took a hitching breath. “And don’t eat the fish.” With that last, his father’s pupils opened wide and his stare focused on something far beyond Chris—he lay back, not dead, but no longer conscious either.
He feels he should miss his dad, but he doesn’t. His dad is with him every day—he left his mark on everything Chris owns. Not only that, but his father’s teachings resonate in his memory each and every day—and are as real as if he were still here, advising Chris’s every action.
Don’t stand too close, Chris. He takes a step away from the cliff's edge. His dad continues, You don’t know what the river is doing to the cliff face below—you never know when the ground might give way. Still, Chris leans forward and peeks over the edge. It’s at least forty feet to the water. Falling wouldn’t kill him, but…
His dad finishes Chris’s thought for him:
…you never know what’s below the surface.
There’s also the other warning to think about—one his dad spoke on his deathbed. Don’t go in the water.
“But, why?” Chris asks, directing the question to the river, the trees, or the grass under his feet.
No answer. There never is. His dad is always there to input advice when it’s not really needed, but when Chris poses a question—silence.
“Fine!” he shouts. “Don’t answer me!”
He turns from the river and walks back toward his hut, passes it, and continues west, away from the river. His dad—when Chris was too young to remember—picked the perfect spot. The river protects the peninsula on three sides. It snakes south, turns east, then pushes back northeast for several hundred yards before turning south again. A quarter of a mile later, the river takes another turn to the west. From above where the birds rule the sky, Chris imagines the ribbon of water creates a teardrop of land—almost an island. His dad called the tiny peninsula Homestead.
“One day,” his dad would always say, “The river will cut through and this…” he waves his arm with a flourish, encompassing the area around their small hut, “…will be an island.” His steel-blue eyes would then turn to his son. “When that happens, son, you had better not be here.”
“Why, Dad?”
“You don’t want to be stuck on an island, especially with such a powerful river cutting through—rearranging the landscape.”
Chris remembers looking down at the river—the waters seeming to creep so slowly. “It doesn’t look too powerful.”
His dad takes him by the arm and leads him to the northern edge of the peninsula. Here before them, the wide river presses against the cliff face then turns east. His dad gathers up a handful of leaves and chucks it over the side. They glide gently to the water and land on the surface. Immediately the current pushes them toward the cliff face, then straight down into the murk where they disappear from
sight. Chris looks to his dad, mouth poised to speak, but his dad cuts him off.
Pointing down he says, “Keep watching.”
Chris looks back down just in time to see, about ten or fifteen feet from the cliff, a mass of wet leaves rise to the surface and streak toward the wall of dirt and rock. Just as before, the leaves strike the wall and submerge. Less than a minute later, the leaves reappear again, but this time, they are a few yards further to the east. The pattern continues until they reach another current, which carries the leaves away to the east. “What did you just see?”
Dad always does this—instead of explaining, he’ll first ask a question to test Chris’s knowledge or understanding, to give him the opportunity to draw his own conclusions, whether they are right or wrong.
Chris ponders the question and weighs it against what he’s just witnessed. Dad stands beside him, patiently waiting as Chris gathers his thoughts. “The river…” he begins, but pauses, obviously not satisfied with what he was about to say. Finally, he says, “The river is eating the cliff.”
He remembers looking away from the cliff and the river below, his eyes drawn to his dad and seeing the stern look on his proud face—and witnessing the stony exterior crack into a smile. To see that smile, something so rare, like a comet or four-leaf clover—it was magical to his young eyes. In a world turned cruel, that smile gave Chris a brief glimmer of hope.
His dad reaches out and tousles his hair. “That’s right,” he says. “Not quite the way I would have described it but that just about sums it up. However…” Now it’s his turn to pause. The smile evaporates, leaving behind the chiseled mask Chris has come to know so well. But there’s something more in that look—a paleness to the skin—a sunken-eyed stare that frightens Chris to the core. It’s a look that, over the next few months, he’ll reflect on and associate with the sickness that, even then, must already have been eating away at his father’s internal organs.
Chapter Two
Chris had been right. Every year, the river ate away more of the peninsula’s northern face— on average, between five and ten feet per year—bringing him closer to the time when he’d have to leave Homestead—the place he’d called home since before he could remember. Every passing season brought that moment closer—the moment his dad had warned him about, but had no time to prepare him for.
A low groan up ahead draws his attention. It smells me, he thinks, and turns a slow circle. Sure enough, the wind blows from behind him, carrying his scent toward the Guardians on the boundary between the mainland and the peninsula. Back when it was just him and dad, there were fifteen Guardians—now, there are only six. As the river ate away at the northern cliff face, it also took away one Guardian after another.
He’s lingered here too long. Standing at the edge like this is unwise—you never know when another section of the peninsula will break away, swallowed by the river. As he starts to move away though, something catches his eye—a flash of color entangled with the exposed roots of a large oak tree. The tree’s bulk looms over the open precipice but has yet to fall over the edge. Curiosity overshadows his sense of self-preservation and he pushes through the underbrush.
Mind the edge, his dad reminds him. Chris looks to the ground and, sure enough, his right foot is mere inches from the edge. He quietly thanks the memory of his father for continuing to look after his welfare. He steps to the left and pushes through a prickly bush. Finally, he’s close enough to the old oak to get a better view.
Most of the trees roots are still firmly planted in the ground, but as the river’s voracious appetite devours the cliff, the dirt on the north side of the tree has fallen away—leaving the roots exposed and dangling in open air. Wedged between several roots is a red plastic box. On its lid is a thin layer of dirt—evidence that the box had once been buried.
“What is this, dad?” His father, always offering advice—always so vocal to put Chris back on the straight path, is quiet.
“Dad?” he asks again.
The only sounds are the gentle rolling of the river below, the rustle of leaves above, and the soft, intermittent groans from the Guardians.
He tries one last time: “Dad?”
Nothing.
Chris steps to the oak and places a hand on the rough bark. He maneuvers around and over the edge where the roots twist together like gnarled black bones. There’s the box, just a few feet away. If he can edge out just a little bit, he should just be able to reach it.
He sinks to his knees and edges around the bulky trunk. His hand settles onto a patch of dirt, but it falls away and his hand and arm plunge through into empty air. He almost falls forward. His heart hammers in his chest and, regaining his balance, he almost turns away from the box—leaving it to its eventual fate in the river waters below. What if this was his dad’s box? Did he bury it by the oak and forget to tell him about it? Then it occurs to him: what if his dad buried it on purpose—to keep it secret from him.
A new determination pushes him forward and, as he eases around the bulk of the tree, the baritone voice in his head whispers a one-word command: Don’t.
Chris pauses, but only briefly. “What are you hiding, Dad?”
More silence.
He continues creeping forward and, as his weight transfers from the south side of the tree to the north, he can feel a slight groaning through the wood. Did the tree just shift a little? A gust of wind rattles the limbs above and a deep growl echoes through the tree. He reaches out toward the box. It’s only a few inches away. He shuffles forward and again, the tree groans. This time, he’s certain that the tree shifted. He risks a glance behind. Where the ground to the south of the tree had once been smooth, it’s now split open in several places where the roots have pulled from their moorings as the tree continues to lean further toward the river.
If he stays where he is, the tree might fall and bring him with it. If he’s going to retrieve that box and discover the secrets within, he’s going to have to act now. At this point, he believes speed might be more advantageous than stealth. He takes a deep breath and lunges forward.
The oak shrieks in protest as his weight moves forward. Behind him, roots stretch and snap like whips, sending gouts of dark earth into the air. The southern phalanx of roots rise as the northern ones turn toward the river below. Chris’s hand grasps the box but as he does so, the shifting tree pushes his equilibrium away from his knees and toward his head, causing him to fall forward, off balance again. If the roots below him weren’t so thick, he’d already be in the river.
Don’t go in the water. His dad’s warning resonates within him and he tries to push himself backward, away from the precipice. He almost loses the box, but maintains his grip and takes his body’s weight on his forearm. The tree continues to lean toward the river. Chris pushes himself up and back. He twists and throws the box behind him onto solid ground, then pushes with his legs in an attempt to launch his body in the same direction as the box.
Something’s wrong though—his right foot won’t move. Above him, the tree pitches over even more. If he doesn’t get away now, he’ll be drawn over the edge with the tree. He jerks his foot. It’s still won’t budge—its stuck between two large roots. He tugs again and his boot comes free as his body falls onto the system of roots being wrenched from the ground. Something hard jabs into his side, nearly stealing the breath from his lungs. He doesn’t think it punctured his skin, but that fact doesn’t lessen the sudden blossom of pain in his ribs.
He lunges again, crawling frantically over the tangled roots. The oak shrieks and twists toward the river—and the clockwise movement the tree makes as it tumbles is what saves him. The tree’s spin launches Chris into the air and throws him in the very direction he’d been intending to go. He lands with a woof of air and clutches at his injured side as he rolls through the litter of ground-leaves.
Behind him, the tree makes its final pitch into the river—the last of its roots, those buried deepest within the ground, sound off a series of violent snaps
, reminding Chris of lightning in a storm. Once the tree is gone, the silence that follows is deafening. Even the wind has grown quiet—as if mourning the loss of such a magnificent specimen of life. The rhythmic sound of his own heavy panting breaks the silence.
He tries to push himself to his feet, but groans with the effort. The pain in his side flares. He wouldn’t doubt it if he broke a rib or two. He presses his fingers to the area, experimenting with varying degrees of pressure. Yes, it’s sore and hurts like hell—but he doesn’t feel any bones grinding.
He’s finally able to push himself to a sitting position and as he does, once again, the red box draws his attention—its contents scattered across the ground.
* * *
Chis only remembers his dad and the Guardians. There was never anyone else. The spilled contents of the box say otherwise.
The first picture shows a family of four. There’s a woman with dirty blond hair and sky-blue eyes holding a baby. Beside her is a young girl. Not too young, Chris thinks, she’s a lot older than the infant is. Her eyes are mirror images of the woman next to her, but where the woman truly looks happy, the girl’s smile seems forced. Around her neck is a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant that catches a glimmer of light—making it appear as if a tiny star is exploding at the hollow of her throat.
Then there’s the man. He stands behind the woman, his hand resting lightly on the woman’s shoulder, his crooked grin just a line of pursed lips—no teeth, no real outward expression of happiness. There’s no mistaking who the man is—yes, he’s much younger, but Chris recognizes his father’s chiseled chin and sharp cheekbones, the thin, dark eyebrows, and the deep-set, hollowed eyes.
Chris’s eyes keep returning to the females. The younger is unmistakably the daughter—there’s a heavy resemblance between both the woman and his father. Is that my mom, he thinks, and my sister? I have a sister?
Tainted Page 1
