Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  I draw up a chair opposite him; he's shaking so much he can hardly speak, huddling into his jacket. Poor lad.

  He's older than me, the same age as my brother, but I think of him as a lad.

  "I dunno how to tell you, 'cause you're so pleased to have found him and all that, but―well, he's not what he says he is. I mean, he is, but he's done some stuff―"

  "What stuff?" Ace remains standing.

  "Why we left Hope 9―it wasn't like he said. Some of it was true―like, Lennox and his gang do exist, and they do run the place, but the reason we had to leave was 'cause Rocky was selling blitz for them, only he was ripping them off and Lennox got wise to it. If we hadn't gone when we did―"

  He breaks off.

  In the soft candlelight I see tears stream down his cheeks.

  I reach forward and put my hand on his knee. "Dylan? What is it?"

  He huddles further into his jacket. "I'm sorry," he says, and to my horror his face crumples up and he starts sobbing like a kid. I pull my chair nearer and put my arms around him, and he leans his face into my shoulder.

  Ace doesn't move. "What else did he do?"

  Dylan composes himself, pulls away from me. "It wasn't just him and me who left Hope to come here. There were three of us. There was Emma, too."

  And so I sit back and listen to his story, and with every word the room grows darker, as I discover that my brother is a cold-blooded murderer.

  My father killed a man. My mother almost did. And now I know that my brother is a killer, too. His earliest memory was seeing our mother attack a man with a piece of broken glass. Are murderers born, or made? I learned all that nature-or-nurture stuff when I did my degree, but back then it was just theory.

  My father killed because he was psychologically disturbed and my mother acted out of desperation―they weren't born that way.

  Was Rocky, though?

  He killed with premeditation and without remorse, to remove an inconvenience. That makes him a psychopath, doesn't it?

  "You gotta tell Kendall," says Ace. "He's living under their roof."

  "Yes, he's right, you must," I say.

  "Even if he's never done it before," Ace says, "he's done it once, to get something he wants; next time'll be easier."

  I look at the man who kissed me so passionately just a couple of hours before, and it occurs to me how little I know about him, except that he's thirty-two and has lived in the wasteland for twelve years. I don't know where he was before that. I've enquired, in a mild, trying-not-to-sound-nosy way, but he gives a noncommittal answer like, "It's irrelevant" or "Long time ago, now." At first I assumed he came from a Hope, but he's so vehemently against the megacities that I wonder if he knows more about them than he lets on.

  Or maybe he's escaped from some form of correctional institution.

  He doesn't seem like a criminal, though. He seems―decent. Like his morals are sound, despite the harshness of life out here.

  My eyes dart from him to Dylan, and I feel suddenly very cold. Poor Dylan just stares at the floor. He looks wiped out, spent; telling someone what happened to the woman he loved has clearly taken great courage.

  Eventually he says, "I'd better get back. If he wakes up and sees I'm not there―if he sees me walking back from here―I don't know what he might do to me if he thinks I've told anyone. Well, I do―he's still got the gun―"

  "He won't risk doing anything here," says Ace. "You go back now, and in the morning act normal. Then go and see Kendall, first thing." He looks at me. "You should go with him."

  "Yes. I will. Dylan, what time d'you get up?"

  "Dunno; seven, eight. Rocky's up early tomorrow, 'cause Gwen's teaching him how to milk the cows. I'm working in the fields."

  "Well, you come and get me as soon as he's gone out, then."

  "Okay." He doesn't sound too certain.

  "You gotta do it, man," says Ace.

  "Yeah."

  He stands up, without looking at either of us.

  I reach my hand out to him. "Dylan―I'm sorry about Emma."

  "Yeah." He shuffles over to the door, then looks up at me. "I'm sorry about Rocky, too."

  And then he's gone. And Ace goes back to sleep without another word to me.

  We've just finished eating our protein bars for breakfast when he says, "I'm going to get off. Go see Vince."

  What? Is it something to do with what happened last night, before Dylan turned up? Or is this stuff with my brother more than he bargained for? Is he going to leave me here? In a place where I know no one except a rather disturbed young man and my psychopathic brother?

  "Are you coming back for me?"

  "Course."

  I choose my words carefully. "You could always wait until I've been to see Kendall with Dylan―then we could both go."

  "I just want to get out of here. That house down the road, the one he told us about, where they stayed; I'll meet you there. Late this afternoon."

  "Oh―okay, then. Sure."

  He stands up. "I'll be back before dark." I must be looking as glum as I feel, because he says, "Don't look like that. I'm not going to leave you here."

  "No, I'm okay, but―"

  "What?"

  "Nothing―just ... last night. When you kissed me."

  "What about it?" There is absolutely nothing about his face that gives me any indication what he's thinking.

  "I just wondered―I don't know―what it was."

  His lips turn up just slightly, at one corner. "Haven't you ever just kissed someone, without it being anything?"

  "Yeah, course I have."

  "Well, then."

  I wasn't expecting a declaration of devotion. I don't know what I was expecting, really.

  "Are you not going to say goodbye to Kendall?"

  "You can tell her thanks from both of us, can't you?"

  "Yes―fine."

  "Good. See y'later, then."

  A couple of minutes later I hear his bike roaring down the road. I listen until I can no longer hear it.

  I find Dylan sitting on the tiny sofa in their cabin, on his sleeping bag. He's still huddled into his jacket, as if he's been wearing it since he left us last night; he scarcely looks up as I walk in.

  "Hey," I say, with a smile that I hope is reassuring and encouraging. "Are you ready to go?"

  He doesn't answer.

  "Dylan?"

  He looks up at me. "It's not easy."

  I sit down next to him and take his hand. "I know. But we really, really need to do this. For the sake of everyone here, and for you, too, so that you can get him out of your life. That's what you want, isn't it?"

  His eyes look so sad. "Won't bring Emma back."

  I put my arm around him. "No, it won't. But Kendall and Steve can contact the police, and he'll be put somewhere where he can't hurt anyone else."

  "Yeah." I feel so sorry for him; I suspect he's had very little that was any good in his life apart from this Emma. His whole demeanour reeks of utter hopelessness. I guess people like Rocky see people like him coming.

  "Come on, then. You don't have to go through this alone."

  As we're walking up to the house, I feel suddenly exhausted. This is what I was trained for, to help people when they're going through psychological trauma, but this is a world away from the self-obsessed snowflakes of MC12. In comparison, trotting out stock replies to people whose 'problems' were often just moments of self-indulgence was playing at it. What Dylan needs is to find his own family; now he's out of Hope, perhaps he can, via King's system back at Fennington. I can help him, if he can get himself down there.

  "Dylan―is that your real name?"

  "No. In the wasteland, you don't tell the authorities your real name. No one does. I was born out here, it was all I knew before I got picked up. I used to be Aidan Reed. I know that, but it doesn't feel like me now. I've got sisters―I think, maybe a brother, too―but I'm not sure."

  I'm just telling him that King might able to track them down when th
e door of the big house opens, and Steve appears.

  "Ah―Dylan. I was just on my way to find you." He walks towards us, hands in trouser pockets; he doesn't look happy.

  I step forward. "Morning, Steve; we were just coming to see you, too."

  "I need to speak to Dylan in private." His mouth forms into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "It was nice to meet you, Rae; do feel free to go round to the cow shed and say goodbye to your brother―you'll be on your way shortly, won't you?"

  Don't know why he doesn't just tell me to piss off, since that's clearly what he means.

  "We will be, and thank you so much for your hospitality―I'd like to say goodbye to Kendall, if that's okay―"

  "I'm afraid Kendall's not available right now." This is so weird. His attitude has completely changed from yesterday.

  "Okay, but could I come in to talk to you with Dylan, though? It's actually about my brother―Dylan would like me to be there, too."

  "I'm sorry, no. As I said, I have to talk to Dylan about a private matter." That forced smile again. "Kendall, Nick and I wish you both a safe journey to wherever you are going."

  "But what we want to talk to you about―it's really important, for you and the people here―"

  He steps forward. "I don't mean to be rude, but you're not a member of this community. What happens here does not concern you."

  He's not going to budge. I turn to Dylan. "Just tell him what you told us. You'll be okay. And if you need me, I'll be in that house down the road―the one where you stayed. I'll be there all afternoon and this evening."

  "You will?" He tries a smile. "Thanks, you know, for listening."

  I suspect he hasn't been listened to in a long, long time. I don't know whether to give him a hug or not; I want to, but I know some people find such gestures intrusive or awkward. I'm not a super-hugger, like Lori, who hugs everyone even if she hates them, but I feel like I should, right now.

  I'm about to utter more words of reassurance when Steve holds out his hand to me.

  "Goodbye, Rae; I wish you well, whatever life has in store for you, hereon in."

  In other words, don't come back.

  I want to say a final goodbye to Dylan, but Steve is already ushering him into the house.

  I should have hugged him. I should.

  I can't wait to get away from Lake Lodge. My head aches with all that has happened over the past twenty-four hours; I want to help Dylan, if he'll let me. I am a hundred per cent convinced that he was telling the whole truth and nothing but the truth about my brother (I don't even want to say his stupid, made-up name), but Steve looked so pissed off; I just hope he's not going to chuck the pair of them out.

  Dylan knows where I am, if things get too heavy for him. I don't imagine we'll be going anywhere until tomorrow morning, not if Ace is going to be gone for most of the day; I can't see that he'd want to set off in the dark.

  And when we get back down south, what then? I've found my family―there's nothing left to look for. If I join the Link set up in Fennington, will it be awkward with Ace there?

  Oh grow up, Rae; it was only a kiss.

  I could go and live with Lilyn. Learn how to be hardy.

  I'll be okay.

  I walk down the country roads towards the house where poor Emma lies buried. When I get there I find her grave in the back garden, and say a few useless words; I don't know if I believe in the afterlife or not, but just in case she's there, somewhere, I tell her how much Dylan felt for her.

  If only Dylan had been my brother, instead of John. I feel sad for myself, and for Lilyn, but most of all I’m sad for the person my brother might have been if he’d been born in a different time, a kinder world.

  The afternoon is bright, beautiful sunshine, but cold; I sit out there for a while, on an old swing, and wonder what happened to the people who lived here. Which sterile stack they moved to. I think about Nash and wonder what he's doing, if he's worried about me, if they're still looking for us, but that life seems so far away, and a lot longer than the eight days since we left.

  I think of Ginevra, and wonder if she is pleased I never went back, or if she is expecting me to turn up, any day. If I had gone for Plan A, I'd be heading back there, right now. Impossible. I so want to see her again, though, and tell her everything that's happened. I wonder if I'll ever see her again.

  My thoughts keep straying to Ace. It wasn't a 'just for the hell of it' kiss, like at parties when you're drunk, whatever he says. There was real passion. I've been pushing it to the back of my mind all day, because I felt guilty for dwelling on a triviality when Dylan was going through such torment, but now I allow myself to think about it, and accept that, yeah, I'm developing feelings for Ace, damn it. Trouble is, once they start, it's like a snowball rolling down a hill. Getting bigger as they roll.

  I've only been with him for five days, but during that time we've been together constantly. Is this the equivalent of a holiday crush?

  Nash and Ace are like the proverbial white stuff and yellow stuff.

  Before Nash there were other versions of him. Megacity to the core. When I was eighteen I had a boyfriend who had a bit more about him than your average MC12 guy―he used to talk about the total control that the megacity has over us, but I didn't think about things like that at the time. He dumped me for a poet/artist after a couple of months. I expect I bored him.

  I like that Ace knows who he is, and doesn't apologise for what he thinks, even if it doesn't fit in with anyone else. I love that. Admire it. I read once that, aside from the physical aspect, we're attracted to people who possess a quality we would like to find in ourselves. Makes sense. I wonder if Ace has always been this way. Or, if he wasn't, what made him so.

  I know one thing, though. I'm going to stick to what I promised Yara, make my life mean something, so that when I die I can think, yeah, I did that. I helped some people―truly helped them, not just spouted Balance-approved responses to their problems.

  I'm a wastelander now. A rat. I'm a bit hungry and my clothes need washing, I don't have a home or a possession to call my own, but I'll work something out. I'm only twenty-four―I have my whole life ahead, and anything could happen.

  I look up at the sky and feel a rush of something that I can only describe as happiness; I'm free. No one knows where I am, or what I'm doing. I daresay Missing Persons could find me with ease if they wanted to, but they clearly don't, or they would have done. I'm not important. I'm just an NPU kid who worked in a fairly pointless job that could be filled by any idiot able to complete the Psych and Social degree modules, and, believe me, they're not difficult. I'm dispensable, which suits me just fine.

  I start to feel cold, so I say goodbye to Emma and go back into the house, where I have a root around to see if I can find anything useful. On a cork noticeboard in the kitchen is a faded old calendar dated 2045. One of the later areas to be cleared, then. Maybe old people lived here, for decades, then gave in and moved to a Senior Village once their doctors and shops had all gone. The rest of the house is picked clean―wastelanders must have got here first, long ago. But there are a few books; good.

  I go outside and walk up and down the road, just for something to do and to keep warm, but I don't want to stray too far in case Dylan turns up; judging by Steve's attitude, I have a feeling things might turn difficult. As the sky develops streaks of pink on the horizon, I return to the house, eat two protein bars, snuggle underneath my sleeping bag, and choose a book.

  I hear the roar of Ace's bike just as I'm starting to worry, to the extent that I was wondering what the hell I would do if he just didn't come back. Go back to Lake Lodge and beg a lift to Sunrise, probably―at least they were friendly and welcoming.

  I leap out of my sleeping bag and rush to the door to see him pulling up outside the house. I can't keep the smile off my face; I am overjoyed to see him.

  He pulls his scarf down, and for a moment his face softens, like he's pleased to see me, too.

  "Glad you're back!"
I call out; he’s not smiling.

  He's not smiling, which doesn't worry me unduly; I stand back to let him through to the living room, but he doesn't move.

  "You okay?" I ask. "Vince―you saw him? Is everything okay?"

  "Yeah, I saw him." He takes a deep breath, and blows out, shoves his hands in his pockets, and just stares.

  "Ace? What's up?"

  "Plenty." He bites his lip. "Rae, you need to get your stuff together. We've gotta go. Now."

  Chapter 28

  Dylan

  Several Hours Earlier

  He has told them the real reason for the escape from Hope 9, how Rocky bribed the guards, even how he treated Emma on their journey, all of which gained their rapt attention; this would have been a rare and enjoyable experience for him if it wasn't such a depressing and dreadful tale, up to and including the terrible climax.

  Emma's lifeless body on the pavement.

  As soon as he finishes, Steve announces that they will take his 'evidence' to the council; nine members who vote on important matters within the community, with Kendall honoured with casting vote.

  "In the meantime, we're keeping the pair of you in separate rooms, under guard. You'll be looked after, don't worry."

  He is escorted to a small laundry room at the back of the house, where there is a long chair that the man guarding him calls a 'lounger', and some books. Water, too, and a box containing sandwiches and biscuits.

  Looks like they expect him to be there a while, then. What will they find so difficult to decide on, these council members? Hasn't he told them enough?

  He stares at the clock. Wonders what Rocky is doing.

  An hour passes. Two. He eats a sandwich, opens a book, and actually manages to lose himself in it. Books; always his escape. He starts to feel uncomfortable because he needs to urinate, and wonders what to do about it; will he get into trouble for knocking on the door?

  Get a grip, Dylan. You're an adult. This isn't Hope Village. You need to take a piss, just say so.