Ashes of Andromeda (The Last Archide Book 3)

by Chad R. Odom

  The soft gurgle of a dying man trying to breathe pierced through the air. Oryan looked up to see his savior struggling to roll. Elated, he pulled him onto his side and let the blood drain from his mouth. The man coughed and sputtered, and then took a good gasp of oxygen. There was a silence for a while as Oryan waited for the man to give some sign that there was hope.

  “I guess this makes us even,” the marine whispered in a thin voice.

  Oryan’s shoulders fell, and he let out a deep sigh of relief. There was hope. He looked up at the stars again, only a few visible through the thick smoke, and uttered two words.

  “Not yet.”

  ***

  Two days later, Oryan left the beach. He made sure the soldier had found his way to a medic and was being tended to. His arm, now clean and stitched, was in a sling around his neck. The medics had patched him up without question, thinking he was another casualty. While the soldiers on the beach were still in disarray, he secured medical supplies, food, water, weapons, and ammunition before leaving.

  The invasion would push inland, and his chances of success would diminish. If Vollmar did make it farther inland, the Empire was sure to destroy all traces of Slave Quarters, like they had Shaye’s End. Time was against him, but striking out in his condition increased his chances of failure.

  He headed north to the suspected location of a Slave Quarter. He hitched a few rides to get on his way faster, but the increasing troop movement forced him to leave the paved roads and strike out on paths less traveled.

  Once he started his journey almost completely on foot, the only contact he had with another human being was at the edge of the massive forest. It had been an older man at a small store in a tiny town with barely enough people to stay afloat. The man wanted to chat about the news and about the invasion. Oryan dodged the questions and simply asked what was beyond the forest. “More forest,” was the answer he received.

  Only a few days in, a thin, hungry wolf began following him. At first, it was an annoyance and he tried many times to scare the animal away. However, despite his efforts, the beast continued to follow, and after forty-eight hours, Oryan welcomed the uninvited guest warmly and she became a friend when he had none others.

  They crossed through a range of small mountains and headed through more wooded area. There were no buildings or cities, no roads and no sign of civilized life, but it was not altogether wild. More forest seemed to be an accurate description.

  The animals avoided the pair, but every so often some creature would venture closer in for a better look or smell. The nightly fires were of great interest, but the wolf made sure nothing enjoyed the warmth and light besides the two of them. It was a humorous ballet for Oryan to watch, especially as he became fonder of his furry guardian.

  There was a nagging, deep sense of destiny that enveloped him as Oryan set out each morning. He tried to temper his anticipation. The odds of finding a Slave Quarter with the limited information he had were slim. The odds of finding the Quarter she was in, was even less.

  He kept fresh bandages on his wound and kept his arm in a sling for a majority of the day. When he stopped for a break, he would perform some basic calisthenics to try and regain strength and flexibility.

  On the morning of the fifteenth day since leaving the beach, he woke to the bright sun breaking the horizon. His breath curled from his lips, the grass covered in icy dew, and the sun brilliantly reflected off it. A slight breeze brought the smell of approaching rain.

  His wolf lay beside him, stirring. The animal opened her eyes and stared at him as if to ask, ‘Do we have to get up now?’ Oryan scratched her head and stood to start breakfast. As his head cleared, a change in the air prickled across his skin. It was not the breeze or the weather. The trees all seemed familiar as did the rest of his surroundings. It was the same forest he had been staring at for days.

  The wolf shot to her feet, pacing to and fro around the smoldering remains of the fire, keeping her head low to the ground, taking in each new scent. Her ears perked and the hair along her spine and tail stood on end.

  The chill morning was all too apparent as it bit through Oryan’s clothes and sent shivers down his back. Looking around he could see no need for alarm. Then he listened. There was no sound. At first, he did not put the pieces together. He listened closer. Still no sound could be heard except the soft pacing of his friend and his own heart. Then it hit him.

  There was no sound.

  There were no birds calling, no frogs croaking, no insects chirping… nothing. Even the trees seemed to silence their leaves as the wind rushed past.

  The wolf circled the fire, sniffing the air as she walked. With each pass, she lingered longer and longer on the northeast side of the fire. After five or six laps, she stopped at that spot, lowered her head, and growled.

  Oryan walked beside the faithful animal and spoke to the only friend he had in the world. “What is it?” he asked. “Something out there?”

  The wolf looked up at Oryan as if in acknowledgement. “Something bad?” he asked the beast. She continued to stare. “Should we go and have a look?” The wolf licked her jaws and then pointed her nose northeast. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t be a coward, I know,” Oryan said as he collected his supplies.

  Once he fastened his belt and gear, he walked toward the unknown. Quarters weren’t exactly resorts, but this felt more like Shaye’s End than it did his childhood home. For the first time in weeks, his rifle was assembled, loaded, and slung across his chest. The wolf followed in step. Oryan knew if there was to be a fight, whoever wanted to attack him could not choose a better opportunity. With his arm still not at one hundred percent, he was not nearly as deadly as he once was. Still, even if they did win, they would know they had been in a fight.

  “You know,” he said to the wolf, “if anything happens to me out here, it’s your fault.” The animal continued beside him, oblivious to the insult. “You made me do this! Let’s face it, had you not called me all those names, I never would’ve left the fire. We’d be sitting down to breakfast right now, enjoying the sunrise, but no! You had to—”

  The wolf stopped and let out a deep snarl. Oryan looked up; only a few feet ahead, the trees ended abruptly. Drawing his rifle to the ready, he listened for a moment but still heard nothing. It could be a trap, but he didn’t think so. No one could have tracked him that long unnoticed, and he had scanned his body for foreign objects that the Empire or Vollmar might have implanted.

  He took a deep breath, calmed his feverishly calculating brain, and let his anxiety subside. He looked over his rifle at his friend who seemed unwilling to go any farther. “Who’s the coward now?”

  Oryan stepped into the clearing. It was easily the size of a small city. Along the edges, stone blocks could be seen overgrown with a tangle of moss and vines. Oryan lowered his weapon and walked around the perimeter, soaking in every detail.

  It was a Quarter, for sure. He could feel it. There was something familiar about this place. It was inviting, but cold. A presence lingered here that made Oryan uneasy. A revolt, perhaps? The prisoners finally had enough and the Empire chose to ignore it afterward? He walked past the stones, letting his fingers run over what bare surfaces he could find.

  Mounds were raised in the center. He took a few steps toward the middle when a loud snap echoed from under his foot. He knelt and pulled at the object from beneath the fallen leaves. To his surprise, the ground in both directions began to rise. It was attached to something, and as the grass and decaying brush fell away, what it was became clear.

  From the broken piece of lumber, stretched lengths of razor wire some ten feet in either direction. His mind’s eye became clear. The stone remains had at one time been concrete walls. They stood some fifteen feet tall and were lined with this same razor wire. The walls were dotted with sniper towers so that guards had an easier time noticing the inhabitants. This is where the houses had been.

  A sickening realization struck him. This wasn’t just any Slave Quarter.
It was the one he used to call home. Oryan’s feet began to walk the familiar paths. There was a left, then a right and then straight for a while. He cleared away some of the dead leaves to reveal dirt paths he knew so well. At last he raised his eyes from the ground. He was standing in front of a raised mound where a small house had once stood. Not just any house. His house. This is where he had seen Armay for the last time. This is where fate had placed his feet on the path he was bound to.

  The past rushed back like a mighty wind. He was not free from it. He had not escaped it, despite his efforts. The world had not forgotten him as it had this place.

  Oryan raced toward the gate. His wolf saw him bolt, abandoned her fear, and ran to his side. They ran together several hundred yards until Oryan slowed. The main guard tower and barracks remained, though in shambles. One pole still stood, capped with a broken red light. Beyond the gate were the dismantled remains of railroad tracks and the platform where he had been shuffled off to his various tasks.

  The wolf walked a few paces ahead of her master and sniffed the ground, all the while growling under her breath. She scratched at a patch of ground, and Oryan inched closer to investigate.

  Clearing away more dried and dead leaves, he found a piece of dingy yellow plastic. Faded, barely discernible letters lined the small banner. ONTAMINATIO. It was the final nail to the coffin that had been his home. This was a small shred of the contamination tape that had surrounded these walls when Halgren had quarantined it. It was no wonder all living things stayed clear; this place was a tomb.

  He remembered Colonel Larson and the grim tale he had told of the happenings of that day and of the falsified JEJ outbreak. It was no wonder this place had felt so wrong.

  Oryan walked the opposite perimeter. His mind formed a picture of the place he once called home. He could see the drab clothes of the people who were nonetheless smiling, trying their best to keep hope alive. He saw his friends and neighbors swarming around him. Then, as his mind came back to reality, the barren waste of a place that once existed, focused into view.

  It was near what would have been the back of the camp that he found what he was looking for. A mound was raised, longer and larger than the others. Unlike the rest, it was not simply covered with dried leaves and brown grass. It was burned black and tinted gray from ash. Nothing lived on it. Even the hard earth on all sides was scorched. This was the place—the final memorial for hundreds who did not deserve their fate. It was the final resting place of many of his friends and, above all, Armay. For all that he had done, there was no plaque, no monument, no statue, not even a headstone to remember him. Oryan fell to his knees and reached for the memory of a father who reassured his son that he was at peace, despite his terrible last few days of life.

  The son let his fingers run over the charred earth. He could not suppress a vision of murdered women and children, their lifeless bodies dropped into this pit like discarded waste. Though his soul wanted to, he shed no tears.

  Destiny

  With careful hands, Oryan cleared the debris from around the black mound. Time was his enemy; Celeste needed him, but he couldn’t leave Armay like this. He constructed makeshift shovels and other tools to begin turning this place into the memorial Armay, and those with him, deserved. For hours he toiled, leveling out the charred earth. He dug deep, sifting through soil and bones.

  He was fueled by a memory from his time in the military. He and his Knights were stationed at a location where the Empire had implemented a scorched-earth approach. This place had been laid waste by a three-day barrage of fuel bombs that had left it a man-made desert. After a few weeks, he noticed man’s work being overturned. Green shoots of grass sprung up all around. Bright purple and yellow flowers greeted the day as insects flourished and carried the pollen from plant to plant. Before he was gone, a near paradise existed where there had once been only death. It seemed, to him, that the grounds were only made more beautiful by the adversity placed upon them.

  He leveled out the dirt and journeyed into the woods, finding plants and life to make his memorial. The stones that had once been walls, were cleaned and placed around the site to form a semi-circle wall behind the garden.

  When he felt satisfied, he cleared and restored the grounds around the memorial. He removed as much of the broken wood and razor wire as he could and used the remains for various tools. To the right and left of Armay’s garden, he placed stones in the earth and did his best to etch the names of those he could remember who lay beneath the ground.

  Even his wolf friend, who had stayed near the edge of the clearing, joined him. She would, as animals do, leave for a time to hunt or rest, but she always returned at the feet of her friend when night fell.

  Two days passed. Oryan was confident he was alone and could continue unhindered. His arm was almost healed, and he only gave it notice when the labor of the day was particularly physical. As the sun set, Oryan laid down to sleep.

  His dreams haunted him. He dreamed of Armay and Kathrine. Sometimes they were sweet memories, but they were often choked by memories of their demise. He saw Celeste, but her memory was bitter-sweet. He’d felt obligated to remove the foulness of this place, but the delay only put her farther away.

  He awoke to a beautiful day. The sun was low in the sky, but it was already very bright. A gentle wind blew, and the clouds rolled lazily past. The wolf sat next to him, enjoying the fine weather. Oryan scratched her ears and was suddenly aware of how grateful he was to have the company. Oryan leaned his head against the warm stones to gain a few more minutes of sleep.

  No sooner did he close his eyes than a vision of Celeste came to him, beautiful and dressed in an earthy colored gown. She was dancing though a field of grass, her bare feet barely bending each blade. Her long, red hair was richly decorated with a crown of bright flowers. She seemed happy. Very happy. And Oryan knew somehow that she was alive and found her joy in another human being. There was a sting at the realization, but a profound sense of joy drowned out the bitterness. He was so happy for her. If nothing else, one life he had touched in his journeys had not been devastated in his wake.

  His attention was drawn from her face and slowly down her body. He followed the seamless line of her body, down her hips and legs and then the soft flesh of her feet. He cocked his head and stared at the object he had nearly forgotten. On her ankle was the small tattoo of a butterfly. The orange and yellow wings stood out brilliantly above her tan skin. He had seen it on her but had almost lost that detail. Nevertheless, in this dream, there it was.

  A white light flooded his mind, and he awoke feeling that he had been sleeping soundly for days. Before his eyes were completely open, a smile crossed his lips. I love you, Celeste. I’m coming for you. His arms had been laid over his knees, which were bent only a few inches from his face. When he opened his eyes, there, on his wrist, sat a beautiful golden butterfly. It gently bent its wings open and closed to reveal rich colors that danced in the sun’s first light.

  Oryan tilted his head and admired this vision come to life. It was the first life he had seen in this place, aside from himself and his companion, since Kovac left. Warmth came to his heart and spread to his limbs. He must be doing something right. Nature was returning.

  The butterfly sat for a few moments and then weightlessly spread it wings to their full width and carried itself away on the breeze. Oryan watched it flutter away. Behind the insect was the silhouette of a man. Oryan’s heart stopped.

  As the butterfly wound its way through the air, his focus shifted to this new intruder. No one in his lifetime had come this close to him without being noticed, even when he was asleep. Even the wolf, with its sensitive hearing and smell remained in slumber at his side.

  The man wore loose-fitting clothing, comfortable but not formal. The garment was various shades of white and gray with earth-toned highlights. He wore greaves on his forearms, but they were a far cry from any Oryan had seen before. The man wore boots also that were of a strange make. The modifications on
his clothing seemed to be logical in the evolution of function and fashion. He looked as if he had just stepped out of the future.

  His skin was healthy and tan. Based on the slightly rugged features, Oryan guessed the man was in his late thirties. There was age and wisdom in his green eyes far beyond the perceived years. His hands were tough yet soft. Suddenly, Oryan felt as if he were in the presence of Armay. Nobility, honor, and chivalry emanated from him.

  The man raised a hand to stop Oryan from getting to his feet. “Please, don’t get up. I’m sorry if I startled you. It’s just that I can’t remember the last time I saw another person here.”

  “You mean, you live here?” Oryan asked.

  The man furrowed his brow. “Well, no,” he sounded almost disappointed. “But I do visit from time to time.”

  Oryan began to rise, despite being told he could remain seated. “Do you know what this place is?”

  “Well, you’ve changed things a bit,” he said as he walked around to the front of the garden.

  Oryan rose to follow.

  “It seems, whatever it was you will make something else out of it indeed. Do you always have this effect on a place?”

  Oryan was slow to answer. “No.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Well, for a first attempt, I’d say you might want to make it a habit. I never thought this place would be anything but desolate since…”

  “Since what?” Oryan prodded.

  “You know what this place is. You must, or you wouldn’t be here trying to make it live again.”

  Oryan nodded slightly. “It was my home. Or, it was.”

  “And now, it seems, you’ll make it your own again.” There was a moment’s pause, and then the stranger spoke again. “You left this place before it happened?”

  Oryan nodded again. This man knew more than a civilian would. He could be military. Maybe one of the guards who served here.