Our Home is Nowhere (The Borrowed Land, Book 1)

by Luke Prochnow

  ‘—five months,’ Zeb said. ‘Most of the best mechanics died in the war.’

  ‘When this project is complete, Joe, oh lord, it is going to change everything. That gaping hole Buelly ripped into the world? We’re going to sew it up. Have you heard of Gregory Tesh the Third?’

  ‘No.’ Joe ran his thumb round the rim of his glass.

  ‘That’s fine. There aren’t many people left who would remember him. He was a brilliant entrepreneur before the war. Made millions by investing in start-ups. For the past year, Tesh has been hiring smugglers to sneak into the North and bring out all kinds of things—weapons, food, blueprints, sometimes people.’

  ‘I read about the stolen blueprints in the paper,’ Joe said.

  ‘That was Benjamin you read about. And those blueprints have already been delivered to us. They’re for a hovercraft the northerners dubbed 340-Flytop. We prefer to call it the Cloudhorse.’ Phillip took a sip of his whisky, then another, before continuing. ‘The fact is, Joe, we need two Cloudhorses built within two months. Zeb is the best mechanic around, and he’s told me that you’re up to the task. You work for Zeb, but you don’t yet work for me. Having spent the day with you, I like what I see. You’re capable, not like the Slummers who are fine with wallowing in a diseased city. I’m asking for your help with the project. Are you up for it?’

  Joe thought about his father who had gone to fight and die in the war. His father had believed he could help save the world for his son and wife; he’d believed it so strongly that he’d died for it. Maybe he could pick up where his father left off.

  ‘I’ll help,’ Joe said firmly.

  Phillip leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. ‘I knew Zeb was right about you, son. It’s good to have you aboard.’

  20

  A bunch of crazed-looking Slummers had collected in front of the Queen Bean, each with their own sandwich board covered in scratchy black-and-red text. A young girl stood beside her father, clutching his hairy leg with one hand and holding a sign that read THE END IS NIGH with the other. Joe pulled into his spot in front of the restaurant. When he shut off the engine, one of the Slummers moaned, ‘The Guttermen will be thou reckoning! Oh this world of lost morals and forked tongues. Woe, oh woe is all of us.’

  Joe walked over to them. They went quiet, obviously not used to people paying them any attention. He spoke to the Slummer in the center whose sandwich board cried out FEAR THE GUTTER: ‘Have you met a Gutterman?’

  The Slummer’s wild eyes flitted all over Joe, then he answered through his unruly beard in the most prophetic voice he could muster: ‘Oh, but I have my child. It happened but three nights ago. The vision, the sight, will be forever burned in my memory.’ He spread the skin around his bloodshot eyeball with his fingers. ‘It came from the water. Soaking wet, covered in the world’s filth and trash, and lo, the Gutterman held a horn that he put to his lips and blew into the night sky. I saw the sky split open. I saw the world’s end. Upon his arms were tattooed thusly: a city in the sky’—the Slummer slapped his right bicep—‘and upon this arm, a horse with black eyes and fire snorting from nostrils agape.’

  Around Slushland and Almost Sunny Springs, these Slummers were branded the Saneless Sect. An inbred family obsessed with their own fabricated psychobabble, they were notorious for starting small riots at the local shops that had managed to stay in business. Joe hadn’t seen them around the auto shop yet. He could only imagine the wrath Zeb would unleash on them if they started anything outside his shop. Business was bad enough without crazed Slummers thrusting pickets around at their imaginary Guttermen. Joe left them scuffling around in their bare feet on the sidewalk and went inside the Queen Bean.

  He knew something was wrong as soon as he walked through the door: it was silent and Amanda didn’t greet him with her usual quip. He walked to the front desk and looked towards the closed kitchen door. The sound of a dragged chair brought him to the eating area on the right. There he found Amanda sitting on the chair with her back to the front door, her face in her hands.

  Joe quickly crossed the room and dropped beside her, a hand on the back of the chair. ‘Amanda, are you okay?’

  ‘I thought I locked the door,’ she said. By her voice, Joe could tell she was holding back tears.

  ‘What happened?’ he asked.

  Amanda shook her head, her hands still covering her face. ‘You shouldn’t be here, Joe.’

  ‘Amanda—look at me!’ He reached forward, taking one of her hands in his. She allowed him to gently pull her hand away from her face. A purple bruise was forming around her left eye; a splotch of blood smeared the skin below both nostrils.

  ‘No! Oh, no, Amanda! Are you okay?’

  She put her forehead on his shoulder and started crying. Joe placed a hand delicately on the back of her sweat-soaked head. Had Phillip gone off on her in some drunken rampage?

  ‘I’m going to get you some ice.’ He rushed to the soda fountain, threw off the top and grabbed a handful of ice, which he wrapped in two napkins.

  Amanda cupped the ball of ice over her eye. Joe dabbed another damp napkin beneath her nose to get rid of the blood.

  ‘Who did this, Amanda? It wasn’t…?’

  Amanda glared at him with her good eye.

  ‘Who?’ Joe pleaded.

  ‘Tom. I told him he couldn’t do drugs in the kitchen and he just went crazy on me. I told you he was acting weird. It messes with his head.’

  ‘He’s still back there?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ But her face told Joe otherwise.

  ‘I’ll be right back,’ he said, momentarily placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  He found Tom stooped over the cutting board mashing up seedjoi bulbs with a spoon.

  Tom glanced up at Joe. ‘Hey, man, look, listen, she shouldn’t mess with me like she done,’ he spluttered. ‘I just pushed her away. Was an accident, I swear.’

  Joe’s vision tunneled down to Tom with his drugs and a red sheen of anger descended over everything in the room. The familiarity of the situation flooded his senses like a rush of grim nostalgia. He grabbed Tom by the throat and swung him against the edge of the sink, scattering pots and pans, ringing, onto the floor. Tom screeched as his hip dug into the sink’s sharp edge.

  ‘It sure as hell didn’t look like an accident,’ Joe growled. ‘You think you can beat on her and just walk away?’

  Joe dragged Tom by the throat to the dough flattener and smashed one of his hands flat on the feeding tray. Sensing the weight, the flattener turned on automatically. Tom’s face scrunched up in horror. He watched as his hand crept closer towards the rolling pin. Joe let go of Tom’s throat and wedged his forearm beneath his chin, pinning Tom to the wall, his hand still on the flattener.

  ‘Are you ever gonna touch her like that again?’

  Tom shook his head violently. His fingernails were skimming the rolling pin.

  ‘If you touch her, next time I won’t go easy on you. Got it?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me,’ Tom screamed, his fingertips crunching beneath the pin.

  Joe pulled Tom’s hand back off the tray, tearing off the tip of one of his fingers. He flung the whimpering addict to the ground, where he scurried under a table as fast as he could, his maimed hand cupped to his chest.

  Joe was shaking with adrenaline as he led Amanda to his bike. He helped her on, then slid in front of her. Somehow, the sensation of her head against his back and her arms wrapped tightly around his waist helped to calm his shaking limbs and his hammering heart.

  The Saneless Sect were still picketing outside the sandwich shop, the prophetic Slummer stalking around his ratty congregation, sizing up each Slummer’s faith with a glance.

  Joe whistled at them to get their attention. ‘Hey, there’s a guy blaspheming Guttermen in there.’ He nodded towards the front door of the Queen Bean, started the engine, and pulled onto the road.

  Behind him, the Slummers filed eagerly into the shop, their leader chanting somethi
ng about the wrath that befalls heretics.

  ………

  Amanda fell asleep almost as soon as she’d crawled into bed at Midland, the sheets pulled up so far all Joe could see was the top of her sandy blonde hair. Phillip was in Dustmouth for the night and Joe didn’t feel like Amanda should be alone. He sat at the side of the bed, still rattled by his fury at the restaurant. Even when he’d caught those two men raping that woman, he’d stayed calm. But when he found Amanda like that—nose bloodied, eye purpled—he just flat-out snapped. Tom didn’t know how lightly he’d got off. Joe had been ready to inflict some real damage—and he wished he had. A torn finger wasn’t just desserts for hitting Amanda. Yet something had held him back. Maybe he didn’t want Amanda to see him really hurt someone. Maybe he didn’t want to see any of Terrance in himself.

  Joe had always wanted to be like his dad, willing to give up his life for the good of family and country. His father had known when to fight and when to back down—at least, that’s what Joe’s mom had always told him. What scared Joe most, though, was his acute fear of dying. He worried that when the rubber hit the road his fear would be crippling. To his shame, there were times when he lay in bed or sat on the back porch of the shop and considered how lucky he was that he’d only been a child when the war began. But Amanda was a strong girl, brought up to weather the storms and brush off the debris. Joe knew he was seeing a vulnerable side of her that she usually kept hidden.

  He eased himself off the bed and on his way out of the room, stretched his arms up, gripping the top of the doorframe, swaying there for a moment, thinking. Then he went through the kitchen cabinets and poured himself a small tumbler of Phillip’s bourbon. He drank it sitting on the porch swing, rocking gently and watching shadows eke down the hillside like curtains being slowly drawn.

  21

  Night had fallen on Slushland. The empty, foreboding streets were flushed with moonlight and the glowering shadows from overhead lights. An airplane, single-manned by the sound of it, whizzed overhead.

  Silently Joe loaded his backpack with supplies: a flashlight, water bottle, chalk, and the pistol. He was tired of the mystery surrounding the Guttermen. Not for a second did he believe they came from the river covered in tattoos, or that they were inbred monsters feeding on Slummer children. The time had come to find out. Putting aside his fear, he stood in the center of the room, his backpack loaded with the essential gear.

  ………

  Joe flashed the light into the gutter, illuminating the rope ladder that led down to the sewer floor. He figured it was close to a seven-foot drop. Slipping off his backpack, he got on his belly and slipped his lower half into the gutter, feeling around blindly with his feet for the ladder’s rungs. He pulled his backpack in with him and, with the flashlight in his mouth, descended carefully into the sewer.

  The expected stench never came, and the trash he was positive would be strewn along the sewer floor was nowhere to be seen. It was as if the sewer had been scrubbed clean and sanitized a dozen times over. He removed the pistol from his backpack and put it under his belt. In one hand he carried the flashlight, in the other he carried chalk to mark his way.

  An overwhelming smell of bleach stung his nostrils, irritating his eyes, as he continued deeper into the sewer, the flashlight leading the way. Water dripped from the ceiling, echoing Joe’s hollow footfalls.

  He stopped when he came to a fork, wondering which way to go. He sniffed the air wafting from both tunnels and shone his light down each. One route carried the distinct smell of bleach and looked cleaner than the other, so Joe marked the tunnel he’d come from with an X and started down the new tunnel.

  He didn’t mind small, cramped areas, but after three more turns with nothing but his flashlight to guide him and the walls closing in on him with every step, he began feeling claustrophobic. His mind started going over horrifying scenarios where the sewage water washed away his chalk marks, leaving him trapped in this underground maze. Just as he was ready to call it quits, he heard voices echoing along the tunnel. Joe paused, listening as more people joined the conversation. He shut off the flashlight. Everything went black. The voices continued.

  He gave his eyes a little time to adjust to the darkness and crept along the tunnel before running headfirst into a wall. He switched the flashlight back on, touching his hand to his forehead to see if he was bleeding. Looking ahead, he could see there was only one way to go: the path to the right had been blocked off with rubble. The narrow passage on his left was where he could hear the voices. Now that he was closer, he could make out their tone—casual, like the kind you’d hear in a bar on a quiet evening.

  His hand went to his waist, hovering inches over the pistol. Cautiously, he walked down the tunnel towards a wall at the far end through which filtered cracks of light. He arrived at a wooden door surrounded by freshly laid brick that reached from ceiling to floor. Shoving the flashlight into his pocket, he placed both hands on the brick and put an eye gently to the ill-fitting door, where small gaps allowed him to peer through.

  In the next room, he could make out people moving around, and he heard the distinct chatter of women and children. And there was the low humming of something electronic. He couldn’t get a decent fix on the room’s layout, but it seemed large enough to hold at least thirty people.

  Suddenly Joe felt cold metal against the nape of his neck. He froze, his hands flattened against the brick.

  ‘One move and I’ll shoot you in the back of the head. Now come on, back up,’ said a man. The metal lifted from his neck. There was something in the man’s voice—a willingness to do whatever was needed to protect the people behind that door—that persuaded Joe to do what he said.

  ‘Slowly,’ the voice said.

  When they had moved at least two feet back from the door, the voice said, ‘Open it up.’

  Joe felt around for the knob. He finally found it and pulled open the door.

  Light stormed his eyes; noise drowned in his ears; a wall of warm air hit him. In the huge room, men, women, and children dropped whatever they were doing and stared at him. Some, mostly men, stood in alarm, ready to protect. Women grabbed their children and held them close.

  The man pushed Joe forward with what Joe presumed was the barrel of a gun and called out, ‘Found this guy sneaking around outside the door.’ The barrel jabbed his spine. ‘Put your hands on your head.’

  Joe obeyed, nervous sweat gathering beneath his armpits. His eyes wandered around the room. It was even larger than he had initially imagined. One side of the room had clearly been designated as the sleeping quarters, and was crowded with dozens of cots and sleeping bags. A kitchen area had been set up, where a lean man wearing an apron was grilling something that smelled like bacon. Joe noticed that most of the children carried books; one of them was holding his stolen comics. Three generators buzzed in the corner, supplying power to the floodlights that hung from the ceiling like oversized wasps nests.

  The man who had been cooking the food quickly came over, untying his apron as he went. He was lean, muscular, and about an inch taller than Joe. Without missing a beat, he snatched Joe’s pistol from his waistband, handed it to a nearby woman, and patted Joe down for other weapons. After he’d taken Joe’s backpack and decided he was no longer an immediate threat, he said, ‘Good work, Dan. Take him to the infirmary. I’ll meet you there.’

  Dan led Joe at gunpoint through the silent crowd. Everyone stared at him in disbelief, especially the children who looked as if they hadn’t seen anyone like him before. The evident fear in the women’s eyes troubled him. He wanted to shout at them that he wasn’t dangerous, to convince them that he’d only come out of curiosity, not to harm anyone. But he never got the chance. He feared that if he spoke Dan might just get nervous and put a bullet through his brain.

  The infirmary was what used to be a supply room for sewage maintenance workers. Three cots with white sheets replaced whatever gear used to be there; shelves stocked with medicine were drilled
into the wall.

  ‘Take a seat,’ Dan said and moved to the far end of the room.

  Joe sat down on the center cot. ‘I’m not here to hurt anybody,’ he said feebly.

  ‘Quiet.’ The barrel still hovered in the air, trained on Joe’s chest.

  After a few minutes, the cook and an older woman walked in. Dan lowered the weapon as the woman drew the curtain, cutting off any view Joe had of the main room. The man dropped Joe’s backpack at his feet.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asked.

  Joe looked up at him from the backpack. ‘I…I came out of curiosity. I was looking for the Guttermen.’

  ‘Well, you found us,’ the man said. ‘Why’d you bring a gun? What did you hope to accomplish by seeking out people that obviously don’t want to be found?’

  ‘I brought a gun in case the rumors were true.’

  ‘What rumors?’

  ‘That you’re monsters. Cannibals. I don’t know. In every rumor I’ve heard you’re dangerous.’

  The man scoffed at Joe’s words, but the woman reprimanded him. ‘There’s nothing funny about that, Ronald. You started the rumors. I told you they’d only lead to more people venturing down here. We should have kept quiet.’

  Ronald acted like he hadn’t heard her. He crossed his arms. ‘What do you think of us now, boy? Are we as dangerous as they say? Are the rumors true?’

  ‘I don’t know yet.’

  ‘We’re not nearly as dangerous as the people up there. The Slummers and gangs—all the politicians who think the bomb is the key to peace.’

  ‘I’m not a Slummer and I’m not part of a gang.’

  ‘You’re probably a scout from the Arm. Maybe you thought we didn’t know about them. Well, we keep tabs on the mayhem.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I’m not part of the Arm. My name’s Joe and I work at an auto shop.’

  ‘Which one?’ Ronald barked.