Aspen Vale: A Tale of the Gone
Aspen Vale: A Tale of the Gone
By Kenneth Lopeman
Copyright © 2018 Kenneth Lopeman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. Trademarked names appear throughout this book. Rather than use a trademark symbol with every occurrence of a trademarked name, names are used in an editorial fashion, with no intention of infringement of the respective owner’s trademark. The information in this book is distributed on an “as is” basis, without warranty. Although every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this work, neither the author nor the publisher shall have any liability to any person or entity with respect to any loss or damage caused or alleged to be caused directly or indirectly by the information contained in this book
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Prologue ?
Chapter 2 ?
Chapter 3 ?
Chapter 4 ?
Chapter 5 ?
Chapter 6 ?
Chapter 7 ?
Chapter 8 ?
Chapter 9 ?
Chapter 10 ?
Chapter 11 ?
Chapter 12 ?
Chapter 13 ?
Epilogue ?
To my wife, my friends, and my family, who believed in me and made this possible.
Prologue
The snow was blinding, blowing into the scout’s face like tiny razors in the high mountain wind. It was impossible for him to tell where the falling snow ended and the blowing snow began. To the fur-encased man and his four legged companion, these late winter blizzards were both a blessing and a curse. Sure, these storms could kill a man, get him turned around and lost no matter how experienced a woodsmen you were. And there were always predators in these hills; both the four and two legged kind. But as long as it stayed nasty like this, most of those predators were either in their dens or unable to move. That suited the bearded man down to the bone. If the dog harbored any positive feelings about the storm, he was hiding it very well. He shook himself vigorously, his white, gray and black coat becoming visible. It wouldn’t be long until it got coated with snow again, but for a while at least he’d be able to move a little bit better. With an irritated snort, the dog plowed through the storm after his two legged partner.
The scout paused for a moment and put his back to the wind, both to catch his breath and to try to get his bearings. The pines and aspens grew right down to the road here, but clearing crews had managed to keep growth in the road to a minimum. Since that was the only way he knew that he actually was on the road, he found himself with a fresh appreciation of those men. The snow under his skis had to be at least six feet deep, but the path the road cut through the trees let him know he was still going the right way. In general, the scout wished that they could clear the trees to at least to twenty or thirty feet back. They were beautiful, especially the aspens in the fall. But they were also cover for anything and anyone who might be watching. Even as he blessed the clear path ahead, he could not feel at ease; the feel of those imagined eyes weighed upon him.
There. He could see where the forest finally thinned out into scrub brush, and he thought he could even make out where the slope of Burnt Mountain came down to meet the road from Sardy to Aspen Vale. Three Ponds had always been the most secluded of the Four Townships; it was a good seven miles even if you went over the mountain. But that measure was misleading; that direct route involved a three mile climb up Burnt Mountain, with rocky terrain, and it simply wasn’t doable even in a mild winter such as this one. The main road added four miles to the hike, making him veer north before heading south towards the other townships, but it was far safer. Nodding to himself, he adjusted his pack and turned back into the wind, trudging northwest.
The dog whined piteously, shaking his coat off yet again. The man understood completely; he was still cursing himself for being fool enough to brave this storm. After what had happened, though, what he had been forced to do… no. He couldn’t have stayed there. In good weather, it was only a three and a half hour hike back to township. Surely it wouldn’t take more than five in this? If anything, his skis would help him in the downhill portions of the trip. He had told himself all of this, knowing he was full of kak. A storm like this would drain you; the winds would chill you to the bone no matter how many furs you were wearing. Yet he had gone anyway. He just couldn’t stay there another day. He looked up at the iron gray sky overhead. Though he couldn’t see the sun, he guessed it was probably a couple hours after noon. That gave him plenty of time to get home, especially if the snow eased up at all. He just had to keep going, keep his body moving and sooner or later…
And then he saw it. Just ahead, the trees gave way to old ruined buildings and large, open areas of snow. Underneath that snow would be Sardy Fields. Once, when the man was a teenager, a thriving community would have greeted him here. His old grandmother had told him that some of the airplanes had still been there in her day, but the Sardians had torn them apart to help build their homes. They spared only one, which they put in the town center, on top of a large piece of asphalt emblazoned with the number 33. They had built a building around it, and turned it into sort of a shrine to the way life had been. The hiker thought all of that was pretty ridiculous. If things had been so good then, why had Lord Jezias seen the need for the Awakening? But he tried not to think ill of the dead; despite still being considered one of the Four Townships, the settlement had fallen thirty six years before, not long before his thirteenth birthday. He remembered the scout coming back in a panic, and the men grimly setting out along the path, axes, spears, and clubs in hand. Even some of the Longshooters had gone, which had worried his mother. Normally the Longshooters only defended the township; ammunition was one of the most precious commodities in town. You needed to keep it dry, and you needed to keep it hidden. If they were going to Sardy Fields, she had told the neighbor’s wife, it must be “really bad.” He hadn’t known what that meant then. As the head of the Scouts, he did know now. Mother help him, did he know.
There had been talk of resettling Sardy Fields, making the Four Townships something more than a name once again. But nothing had come of it; people were scared of the ruined buildings, and scared of what had happened to the people who had once lived here. The talk had picked up again recently, but the scout didn’t believe it would happen. Most of the people he knew would gripe about Aspen Vale being too crowded, but in their hearts they knew it was home. It was a rare breed, the man or woman who wanted to venture far from home. It’s one of the reasons he had such long scouting trips. Too many miles to patrol, and not nearly enough men to do it with; that was the life of a scout in the Four Townships.
He paused again for a moment, looking towards the ruined buildings. The remains of a tall tower loomed over him. Broken glass ringed the top of the structure; the darkened spaces behind them put him in mind of the hollow eyes of a skull. The wind began to pick up again, swirling through the broken buildings, most of which had a good amount of snow inside of them. In places, powder shot out from broken windows or places where the wall collapsed. In others, only a strangely shaped drift hinted at the rubble that lay beneath. He thought briefly about trying to make camp here; if the storm was getting worse, there had to be some place within the ruins wh
ere he could create a serviceable shelter. He dismissed the idea just as quickly. Two summers ago, a Longshooter hunting elk up here had disturbed a mother bear and her cubs. The ruins of what the Sardians had called the Terminal were full of places for predators to nest. No, better to keep pressing on. He had just started to turn back to the path, southeast towards home, when the dog gave a low growl. He turned, and saw his partner’s hackles up, teeth bared, eyes locked on something to the south. When he followed the dog’s gaze, he saw the corpse.
It hadn’t been there long, it was clear. A day in this weather would have completely covered it. As it was, the body was barely visible, a thick blanket of white obscuring its form. Cautiously, the man skied towards it, unhitching his long hafted hatchet from its slot on his backpack. As he got closer, he could see that it was the body of a young woman. She was face down, and it looked like she had been trying to crawl through the snow at the end. He could see no tracks, but that meant nothing; the wind and snow would have erased them almost as soon as they were made. Carefully, he knelt down beside the dead woman and started to brush the snow off. She had been wearing a woolen dress, new and warm for the high mountain winter, but certainly not enough to venture out in a storm like this. The man tensed, and used the head of his axe to brush the snow from the back of the corpse’s head. When he saw the mass at the base of her skull, prominent even through the matted yellow hair, he silently cursed. Obviously he had missed this one the night before. And if he had missed her, there would be others. Come the thaw, they’d be a problem.
Carefully, he used the handle of his axe to turn the corpse over on it back. It was frozen solid, which would have given him further confirmation if he had needed any. The girl’s face was frozen in what looked like a blank stare, the eyes open. Once, they had been a brilliant shade of cornflower blue. Now, the lens itself was pure white, surrounding an iris that could only be described as magenta; somewhere between purple and red. In life, Ella Rosewood had been the prettiest girl in Three Ponds, with a figure straight from a teenage boy’s wet dream and a smile that had made his blood heat, despite being happily married and twice her age. Now, her face was distinctly gray where it wasn’t black from frostbite, her hair matted and frozen. There were some bruises on her arms, but no other wound was visible. Maybe there was a bite under her dress, or maybe she had just fled during the chaos. The scout shook his head. It didn’t really matter if she had died from the cold or if one of the Gone had attacked her. She was here now, and he had to do something about it.
He was just about to roll her over when he looked at her eyes again. Though her expression hadn’t changed, her gaze was not blank any more. They seemed….angry. Hungry. No one knew how much the Gone could perceive when they were frozen solid like this. Most thought they went into a sort of hibernation. He himself had always thought that. Looking into the eyes of what had been Ella Rosewood, he abruptly had to change his mind. He paused for a moment, backing up a bit in case she wasn’t as frozen as she looked, but never breaking eye contact. The stare looked blank again. Had he imagined it? The dog gave a little whine, exhorting the man to be careful. The man nodded to his partner, still keeping his eyes on the corpse.
“I don’t know how much you can understand, Ella,” he said, hoping she… it… could hear him above the wind, “but I want you to know how sorry I am this happened to you and your kin. I think I got most everyone else, so you don’t have to worry none on that score. Your momma was still able to thank me when I sent her on her way; she was worried about you, kept going on about how you had probably snuck off with Bill Reddin’s boy Dave and didn’t know how bad it was. Dave… well, my guess is he is probably the one who is responsible for you being the way you are now. But I think we got all of em. Your people are at peace, Ella. Least I can do is make sure you are, too.” The man gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “Half the young men in Aspen Vale will probably mourn you when they find out. Every eligible young man I know used to whisper about you, even them that had never seen you before in all their days. I don’t know if that makes you feel better, knowing you’ll be so missed by people you never met, but there it is.”
“I wish I’d known you better, girl; I’d like to think you were more than just a pretty face. Your momma was pretty, too, when she and I were your age. Course, I was already hooked on my Beth, and your Daddy was absolutely taken with her, and he was a friend of mine so….” He laughed again, this time at himself. “Well, hell, girl, if you can understand me, you don’t want to hear an old man like me talk about the old days in your last minutes. I just wanted to set your mind at ease, is all. Believe me, you and all your kin will be sorely missed. There’s still some of them left back at Three Ponds. Maybe they’ll make a go of it again. I sure do hope so. You and yours made us all stronger. I….” The man cleared his throat, words failing him. “Well, I guess there ain’t no more to say. I don’t know how much pain you feel when you’re already gone…but I’ll try to make this quick. Goodbye, Ella.” He searched the corpse’s eyes, hoping for some understanding. If there was any, he didn’t see it. With a sigh, he turned her over on her face again. Standing over her, he lined up his axe so the point on the top was pointing towards the large growth at the back of her neck, the growth that most folks called a Gone’s Sack. With a grunt, he stabbed downward, neatly skewering it. He had half expected the red-purple fluid that flowed in the Gone to start welling from the wound, but it was a different substance than blood; it was thicker, and froze more quickly. It didn’t matter, though. That growth was where the Gone kept… whatever it was that Lord Jezias sent back to keep their bodies going. If it was destroyed, the goner was dead. Dead for good. He thought about burning the body, but in this wind he would have to use an accelerant, which he might need if he ended up having to make camp somewhere.
With a sigh, he got back onto his feet, carefully balancing on his skis, and put his axe back through the loops of his pack. He then started skiing off again, towards home. The Town Fathers needed to hear about Snowmass. The dog bared his teeth at the corpse one last time, but he sensed that the threat it posed was gone. Turning, he bounded after the man. Behind them, the snow began to hide the corpse once more.
Chapter 1
“It sounds like a total failure.”
“It’s not. Several subjects survived in the elements for thirty six hours or more, with little clothing. Given the conditions during the test period, it’s not bad.”
“It’s not worth getting excited about, either. And most of them just holed up in that building. Weapons aren’t supposed to have a survival instinct.”
“You’re a tough man to please.”
“No. I work for a tough man to please. And so do you, Paulson. Try to keep that in mind.”
Most of the way from Sardy Field was only a slight uphill grade, so the scout actually got to the Loop about an hour before he expected to. Nevertheless, the sky was already pitch black overhead. Again, he appreciated the way the trees were allowed to grow right up to the sides of the road, though it was only to the one side this close to Aspen Vale. In the snow, there was no way to tell where the scrub brush ended and the fields began. He had long since abandoned being able to see or hear much of anything, but the trees to his left made an arrow straight to where he was going.
He wasn’t challenged by anyone when he finally neared the Loop. At first that struck him as odd; three Longshooters were always on duty there. Then he realized that they probably couldn’t see him through the darkness and snow, just as he couldn’t see them yet. The Loop was an oddity in the paths of the valley. While most roads ran fairly straight, here three roads met in a circular formation. The western path led back up to Sardy and Three Ponds, the south towards Aspen Vale, and the east towards the Ruins and the Ranch.
He had heard that it had actually been designed that way by Pre-Gone society, in order to make traffic flow better. Personally, he didn’t understand the logic, which didn’t mean he didn’t believe the story. He didn’t understand a
lot of what the Pre-Gone people had done. The old timers preached that he should respect the accomplishments of his ancestors, but the scout was convinced that they were only concerned with younger folk respecting their elders. His father’s generation had tended to call that civilization “Pre-Gone Society”, or “PGS” for short. That unfortunate acronym had given rise to the practice of calling anything that came before the Awakening “pig.” The blocks they had built their homes with became “pig bricks,” the oily black stones they paved their roads with were “pig gravel.” Even the people themselves became known as pigs or piggies. In the scout’s ungenerous opinion, having spent more time than most in the ruins of that civilization, it was an apt description.
He thought of trying to sneak up on the riflemen; he had done that in the past. Guard duty was tedious, and it was easy to let your mind stray. He would creep up on them and tap them on the shoulder, then grab the muzzle of the rifle when they whirled around to make sure he didn’t get shot. Jay Carpenter, the head of the Longshooters, had scolded him furiously, both for the prank and for taking such risks with one of the guns. He had understood Carpenter’s point, but he had wanted to make sure the Longshooters at the Loop remained vigilant. Sure, a goner hadn’t been seen in Aspen Vale for over twenty years, and most Nomad bands avoided the Four Townships since the Black Dog War. It only took one lapse of attention, though, to cause a catastrophe.
In the end, he decided that today was not the day for either pranks or lessons. With a tired groan, he lay down in the snow and cupped his snow crusted hands to his mouth. The dog, completely understanding what the man was doing, got down low and gave a couple of loud barks to help his partner be heard. “Longshooters! Scout coming in! Can you hear me?” the scout called as loudly as he could.
Aspen Vale: A Tale of the Gone Page 1
