Underworld Earth

by Nicholas Gagnier

  “This whole time, I’ve tried to remain under the illusion I’m a good person. And now, I have to live with the decisions I’ve made, fully aware that I am not.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” The waves behind words lap against my shores, ever-provoking fragile peace. “I just needed to admit that to someone.”

  Charlie blinks, trying to process what I’ve said.

  “Sis, you’re not making sense. What are you confessing?” he whispers, grabbing my shoulder. The locket co-operates, and his fingers wrap around my bicep. “Did you hurt somebody? Are you in trouble?”

  It has been so long since I felt real touch.

  “No. Nothing like that,” I say. “Hey, do you remember when Dad used to make us play chess with him?”

  Charlie snorts.

  “You, maybe. I had no time for that shit. Too busy getting judged on the other end of his third drink of the night.”

  “Yeah,” I exhale, wishing there was a way I could make him understand. “I remember him telling me, a checkmate happens when you put more thought into what you’re doing; as opposed to being concerned with what the other side is doing and reacting accordingly.”

  “When you’re playing to play, you’re playing to lose.” At my look of recognition, Charlie smiles. “Use to yell that during sports games. Embarrassed the shit out of me.”

  The thought of our father brings a smile to my face. I don’t dare ask what became of him. He is one more person I failed to protect, when I should have been with him all along.

  “So, what’s the confession?” he asks.

  “What?”

  “Look, you either came all this way to mistake me for a priest because the plague killed all of them or you know no one else worth a damn will listen. So, come inside because I’m fucking cold. You meet the kids, have some tea and warm up because you are crazy to be out here, dressed like you are.”

  I chuckle, knowing fully well I made my decision long before coming up here.

  I evaded the Atlas for almost a decade.

  I can do it again.

  “I’m good,” I tell him. “You go. Give your wife and kids my best.”

  “What?” he says, rubbing his shoulders with opposite arms, then blowing in his hands to keep warm. “You’re not coming in?”

  Backing away from him, we both know, consciously or not, as soon as he sees those tracks he will suspect a hallucination.

  I don’t want to watch his heart break that way.

  “Take care, Charlie,” I call back before turning on him, walking into the white expanse. He calls me back, but I ignore him. The cabin is rendered invisible the farther I walk, and I have no tears left.

  The Atlas may yet dispatch others to hurt Charlie. I don’t know where the line between the Council and Gabriel’s individual motives lives; I have to assume the hunt for the man who became Death is across the board, and Gabriel just went to extremes.

  Eventually, I am joined by a dark-haired woman where I come to a stop, staring at my feet in lieu of crying. They leave no tracks, but I still feel the packed snow on my shoes, and they would be frozen through under mortal circumstances.

  “You didn’t tell him,” Grace says. Her expression never changes from its solemn starting point. If I were to look at her, the resemblance to her brother would incite me to anger she doesn’t deserve.

  “Should I have?”

  The woman I’ve known since I was thirteen-years-old doesn’t answer. Her white gown blends into the snow at our feet, neither of us leaving indications of our existence behind us.

  “I have no judgement for you, Harper. Whatever Tim might have done, he should have to face the consequences alone. It shouldn’t be your burden.”

  “Then why are you here? If you’re not trying to convince me?”

  Grace smiles.

  “To see you off.”

  How does she know?

  “You would have killed Charlie if you weren’t planning on running,” Grace explains, “and he’s still alive.”

  I chuckle, realizing she knows.

  “And what makes you think I need to be seen off?”

  She smiles.

  “I know if I was about to become a fugitive, I would want someone to let me know they cared, I guess. Tim has regained control of the Arcway, much as I know you don’t want to hear about him. Still, deep down, I know he was troubled by your last conversation.”

  The man who became Death is no longer my concern. He has chosen his path, just as I have chosen mine. Maybe someday they will cross again, but I cannot be around him.

  “I hope he finds what he’s looking for,” I say. “Is Ramona awake?”

  “Not yet, but soon.”

  “I see.”

  There is nothing more to be said. I have condemned the living world, all to protect the last person on Earth I can show love toward. I have lost everything and risen from the ashes of its decay.

  Wishing Grace well, I leave her wondering what more she could have possibly said; maybe thinking about our first meeting all those years ago, and how much we have both changed since then.

  I am the unhinged; walking into the Yukon’s vast wasteland, I burn and dissolve and rise again from the flames of my greatest sorrows. I have been to the world’s end and had no choice but to live and tell the story.

  I am the Phoenix—a soldier of Atlas, my mother’s daughter, the wandering spirit. I am the wounded, the unhealed and the reason our world will never be the same again. I am not to blame for its past, although I may bear responsibility for humanity’s future.

  Finally, I took something back for myself.

  Blink.

  Twenty years later

  The sun overhead is unforgiving.

  Little rain across the region has been detrimental to my humble garden in the sand. Many places are unsuitable for farming nowadays. No infrastructure supports convenient operation.

  Common lore speaks of agriculture so powerful; its networked systems could feed half a billion people. Just like vague memories of society before I was banished to wander an endless wasteland, those examples of farms are gone now.

  There are towns near the valley of sand and dirt I inhabit, and men to enforce civility. Over the years, I have found their degrees of protection too varied, much too inconsistent to offset the lawlessness gripping those settlements.

  I brush locks of hair aside, which has grown oily with grease and will need washing down by the creek when I finish here. My hands could use a bath as well; they dig into granular soil, nails collecting specks building at the tips of sun-soaked fingers. Knuckles work the spade, making homes for the roots I lower into them. Water, sunlight, care and time are all they need. Without these cornerstones, growth is stunted, and the garden will not bear fruit, so to speak.

  Everything is about patience and diligence.

  Laboring under the hot Oregon sun, I hum, repetitively inching left to bury a different root. Real music has not been a privilege in many years; thus most are tunes from my childhood, oft repeated under my breath.

  It wasn't always like this.

  Once, the land was tended to, if not slightly overrun. The air was not as clean, but neither as lonely as the currents make it out to be. Other people came together, amalgamating skills into communities of hunters, gatherers, crafters and everyone else who chipped in with odd-job talents to fill the gaps. There were builders who became engineers, community caretakers who evolved into doctors. There were cooks and cleaners and a bevy of menial tasks to be performed regularly, and incentive to contribute. Some sought to undermine the work of others, making them outlaws, criminals and thieves. There were men to detain them and a caring community to rehabilitate them.

  Here, there is only me. In my corner of the abandoned world, I must hunt and clean and survive alone, none of the communal structure to sustain another kind of life.

  I was not very good at first.

  Wiping my forehead, I plant the fin
al root, shoveling dirt over the hole until only the stem is visible; a future food source is established as the distant clopping of horse hooves diverts attention from my task to the sound’s source.

  Honing in on the sets of animal feet drawing closer, I set the spade down. I brush dirt from the knees of my dress, standing to greet the visitors. Perched on their trio of equestrian pets, their leader is a fellow in a black vest and fedora, cream trousers covered in soil streaks. The horses are emaciated, ribs protruding from their sides, struggling under the harsh conditions.

  “Bit dangerous to be out here all alone, ain’t it, miss?”

  I nod with a polite smile, as I was taught to do in another life. The hemmed dress flaps against my knees as a comparably stronger breeze passes between its light material.

  “Won’t find many selfless in these parts,” I inform them. “Usually run across someone, they try to rob or rape you, so I steer clear.”

  The stranger on horseback shares a look with his two companions, dressed in similar garb to his.

  “Been out here long?”

  “Only my whole life,” I reply. “Can I help you gentlemen? Where you trying to go?”

  “Dangerous fellow seen roaming these parts. Bounty on him is pretty high. Wanted for murder of an elected official. Didn’t like the election result in town so he shot the poor bastard who won. Whole place has gone to Hell in the last few days.”

  Sounds like more than I ever want to be involved with.

  “I understand,” I tell them. “I will make sure to stay safe.”

  The leader nods.

  “Word of advice, miss. You may want to consider Hartfield as a possible destination when you are finished here. Law can protect you a whole lot better in town than we can out here.”

  “I will keep that in mind. Thank you, gentlemen. I hope you find him.”

  The men begin to leave, when the lead one maneuvers his horse back to face me.

  “Just so we can tell Sheriff, what was your name, young lady?”

  Nobody has cared to ask my name in years. To most, I am simply a young woman on the side of a rundown road. Others call me miss, while some prefer lady.

  I am none of those things anymore.

  “Fiona,” I tell him. “Fiona York.”

  Watching the men bound away on their starving steeds, I can do little but watch their glare-drenched hats bob up and down with the beasts’ hindquarters. Disappearing to the southeast, where Oregon becomes a desert and eventually enters the Nevada wasteland, they will not find their quarry. Out here, outlaws who don’t want to be found stay hidden, and Sheriff Hague of Hartfield will never avenge his mayor elect.

  I know all this, because the world we occupy rarely offers a hint of justice for the disserviced and alienated, nor the weak and downtrodden.

  My father gave his life to make sure I would be safe. I ran into the woods that night, no regard for my safety. I cried and screamed and panicked until I tripped down a ravine in the woods outside Haven, Washington.

  Two decades after being told he was dead, I have rarely been given reason to think life was fair.

  All I can do is remain where I am safest, hidden away from the world, until my true purpose is revealed. If that turns out to be planting my garden until the end of time, I will accept that outcome.

  But if the moment comes that changes the world, I will be ready for it—whenever that is.

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  Acknowledgements

  Every book is a relentless effort of self-discipline, time management and personal devotion. For as many long nights as I can sink into it, it would be foolish to pretend an endeavor like this is produced on its own.

  My wife Sara, for enduring this journey with me, helping keep the ship straight, and indulging all my wildest ambitions, thank you. I love you more every day.

  My daughter Skylar, whose unique outlook on the world makes me want to be a better person, author and dad. I am so proud of you.

  Zach Spencer, for relentlessly indulging my inane desire to bounce ideas off you. You were invaluable to my morale during this one.

  My editor Chloe Hodge, for taking this project on, assuaging my doubts and helping me refine this monster of a story. Thank you.

  Candice Daquin, for never letting me lose my sense of worth.

  About the Author

  Nicholas Gagnier is the author of eight novels, including the precursor series to The Book of Death, Olivia & Hale. His other works include Leonard the Liar, Mercy Road and Leviathan.

  He lives in Ottawa, Canada with his family.

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