Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Lisa Shea

  His voice is raspy, as if from disuse. “Stew?”

  “Yeah.”

  The bowl is wooden, the stew is luke-warm, but I eat it without complaint. He goes back to leaning against the back wall, staring listlessly out the grimy window.

  A while later, I am in a dusty room at the inn, resolutely pushing the dresser in place in front of the door, locking the lone window, and pulling the curtains tight across it. I prop myself into a sitting position and have both guns crossed across my chest.

  If they think they can take me, they’ll be in for a surprise.

  A hawk circles high above, silently watching the landscape below.

  I am standing on a high cliff, looking out over a great expanse far below me. I want to run toward the edge, to leap into its maw, to fly away untethered, free of all earthly concerns.

  The man at my side holds my hand with tender sureness, grounding me.

  I blink my eyes awake, and for a moment my mind is a confusing mixture of sharp aches and pains along with a looming sense of foreboding.

  What have I done now?

  Then it all cascades back on me, and I curl into a fetal position, the sobs coming through me like a rushing river. It is a long while before I can breathe again, before I can wipe my face and draw to a standing position.

  I pull aside the curtain. The day is dismal, cloudy, and it suits me fine. I go downstairs, and the barkeep doesn’t even look up. He has no care where I am headed to, and I have no desire to tell him.

  The slog to Rolette is long, lonely, and grey. A hawk circles high above, but there is no other sign of movement along the endless miles. The world seems completely empty of life, beyond me and the hawk.

  It’s past sunset before I am within the well-worn streets of Rolette. The dented mug, the mystery-meat stew at the bar, the trappers who seem carved from stone. I look down at my own hands, and it’s hard to tell where the dirt ends and the skin begins. I wonder if I would recognize my own reflection in a mirror. I had only begun to know it a short time ago.

  There’s a motion at the door, and a Burgundy walks into the lamp-lit room. I drop my hand to my hip, and I find I am not alone in that motion. Every pair of eyes in the room is focused on the newcomer, and the stares are far from welcoming.

  The man strolls in, an amused smile on his lips, and he approaches the bar. The barkeep has his hand below the lip of the wood, and I wonder just what he has stashed back there. His eyes are sharp on the stranger.

  “What’d’ya want?”

  The Burgundy’s grin grows. “Why, my friend, I would like to talk about your future. About the great things you might accomplish. Have you heard the Word of God?”

  The barkeep’s mouth thins into a line. “I have heard more than I want to hear,” he states coldly. “You best move along.”

  Burgundy gives a short laugh. “Fate is coming for us all, my friend. You best become comfortable with it before it does.”

  The barkeep’s gaze narrows. “And you best leave before your fate finds you sooner than you expect.”

  Burgundy rolls his shoulders, gives a pleasant nod, then scans his eyes over the rest of us. At last he turns, strolling leisurely from the room, letting the doors swing shut behind him.

  The barkeep glances to the back wall, motioning his head to a long, lanky man in the shadows. The man nods, takes up his rifle, rolls to his feet, and slips through the door.

  A tense silence settles over the room. I sip at my ale, scooping up the final puddle of my stew.

  The dull report of a distant revolver shot sounds – and then the clean zing of a rifle.

  A few minutes pass, and the barkeep clears away my empty bowl. He refills my ale without a comment, his eyes straying to the door. At last the rifleman pushes his way through, and there is an easing of tension within the room as he takes his seat by the back wall.

  The barkeep brings him over an ale, putting it before him with a nod. “Who was he after?”

  The rifleman downs a long swallow. “The miller.”

  The barkeep nods, returning to his station.

  I head up to my room, block the door, shut out the windows, and wearily lay down on the bed.

  I close my eyes.

  Just one more day. One more day and I will be at the Gate.

  The feel of the mug of ale in my hand as the sharp sound of the rifle shot fills the air.

  Bending over the cool stream for a drink of water, and the rifle shot passing just overhead.

  Peering out through the shutters of the hotel in burgundy, and the two shots ringing out in the night.

  Crouching on the ridge east of the Indian village, a gang of bandits approaching, and the sure, precise sound of the rifle shot simultaneously on either side of me.

  Chapter 11

  I have to blink a few times, staring at the long, straight road I am approaching, before I can believe it is really there. It has been so long since I have seen a road such as this, well maintained, that it seems an anomaly in this wilderness. But there it is. And along its length I see a wagon drawn by a grey mule, a pair of walking pilgrims with tall sticks, and a lone rider on horseback, all heading placidly north.

  My heart eases, and breath returns to me. I am almost there.

  My feet reach the road and I turn north. I am returning to humanity again on a path many others have taken. I feel the security of like-minded souls ahead and behind me.

  There’s a wooden sign up ahead, and as I approach it I see that it says “Peace – 10 miles.” I smile. It really exists. I am finally reaching the end of this long, tumultuous journey.

  The sun reaches its zenith and slides down the other side as the town draws into view. There are no walls here, no threatening chute. Just a gently grassy hill with buildings spiraling up along its slopes. Red banners fly from many of the roofs of buildings, bringing a festive feel to the town. As I approach I can see most of the windows sport window-boxes full of autumn flowers. There’s a granite fountain near the town’s entrance, and weary travelers are stopping there to drink and smile. Some are weeping.

  There are booths set up along the street, some selling commemorative necklaces, other offering fresh tattoos of henna or more permanent varieties. Signs in the shops offer baths, shaves, and fresh clothes for those preparing to make that important final crossing. Arrows on posts direct newcomers to the “Outlook” where they can have a stunning view of the circumference wall and its Gate.

  A pudgy shopkeep with thinning hair comes out of the bath-house and smiles at me. “You look like you could use a long soak in rose water,” he offers. “Only one bullet, and you can take as long as you’d like.”

  A lanky man comes staggering toward us from the north, tears streaming from his eyes, moaning wordlessly. The shopkeep shakes his head sadly, watching him go, before turning back to me. “The Reds are always that way,” he sighs. “It’s hard on them, when the gate won’t let them through.”

  I resist the urge to glance down at my hip. The wound is long since healed, and I am glad for the umpteenth time that I carved that tracker out of me.

  I move past the shopkeep, following the arrows, and climb up the steep path to the top of the rise. I crest the hill and stop, breathing in a deep inhale.

  The wall is stunning. It glistens in the late afternoon sunlight, its length seeming a silvery ribbon, stretching as far as the eye can see to both the left and the right. There are a series of granite benches laid out along the slope facing the wall, and I settle into one, staring along the wall’s length. Finally, I locate the gate. It is just a dark black hole within the longer silver, but I know in my heart that that is the spot. A sense of release thrills through me. At long last the ordeal will be over. I will be able to put all of this behind me and reclaim my life in the real world.

  To my left, a tavern has taken advantage of the stunning view and has set up a large deck jutting out over the edge of the hill, raised on stilts. The shadowed area beneath it is rocky, rough, and scrawled with graffit
i.

  I chuckle to myself. Creative artists will always find a way to express themselves, no matter what the location.

  I look down at my own body and smile. The shopkeep was right. I absolutely need a bath before I head into that gate. I walk back down the slope and step into his shop. In short order I have a room to myself with towels, rose-scented soap, a washcloth, and a large tub of steaming water. Candles glitter from all sides. My guns sit beside me on a low, wooden table, while a maid takes my clothing off to be thoroughly cleaned and dried. The six bullets I paid were well worth it.

  I slip into the water, and tears come to my eyes with how soothing it feels on my aching muscles. Time slips away.

  The sun is nearing the horizon before I climb back into my freshly cleaned clothing, brushing out my hair until it shines. When I step back out into the main lobby, the shopkeep nods his head in admiration.

  “You do look a sight,” he praises. “I wish you all the luck in the world.”

  I step out onto the street, heading north for the last time. My heart thunders against my ribs, and I wonder if the gate’s guardians will be able to tell my status even without the object they implanted on me. Would they use some sort of facial recognition? DNA analysis? Retinal scans? Every person I’d met so far had indicated that it was only the implant that would trigger the alarms, but maybe they didn’t know the whole truth.

  And what would happen if I did pass through the gate without a problem? Would my memory return? Would I be welcomed by a loving family? Find a new position in the world that awaited me?

  I still cannot remember even the tiniest glimpse of what it was like; of where I had come from. This landscape here seems all I have ever known. I feel a pang of what could be homesickness as I think about stepping beyond.

  I walk closer and closer, and the silvery wall looms before me. The sun is setting, oranges and crimsons spreading across the sky. I keep going toward the dark spot –

  As I get close, I realize something is wrong. The darkness of the gate is flat, without dimension. There’s no sense of anything beyond it.

  It’s painted on.

  The realization stuns me. I take a few stuttering steps, shaking my head. But the vision doesn’t change. The black arched shape is painted on the wall itself. At its base people are prone, weeping. There are a few burgundy charms and books abandoned by its edge, many looking as if they have been flung into place.

  To the far right is a dusty pile of bones, apparently from a human skeleton.

  I stare at the blackness of the gate, utterly lost. I stand there until long after the sun settles below the horizon, until the blackness extends across the entire world.

  Thank you for reading Into the Wasteland! The sequel to this is He Who Was Living.

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  Dedication

  To Bri Smith, who offered amazing suggestions and advice on the storyline.

  To Ruth, whose enthusiasm keeps me going.

  To Mark, who offered suggestions on the firearms front. I’ve shot with a pistol team, but I tend to like automatics better, and he lent a hand on the revolver front.

  To the Boston Writer’s Group, who supports me in all my projects.

  About the Author

  Lisa grew up adoring stories like Dune and Lord of the Rings – stories where the old, safe world we once knew has dissolved into a whirlwind of danger and struggle.

  Over the years, she has found the power in these tales. Our world is always in motion. Anything a person clings to can be taken away and lost. Life strips us down to the bare essentials, to what really matters.

  Relationships.

  Trust.

  Love.

  The only constant is change. Nature continually renews. Life goes on. And by learning to accept that and embrace it, we can achieve all we dream of.

  All proceeds from Into the Wasteland benefit local battered women’s shelters.

  Lisa has written 37 fiction books, 78 non-fiction books, and 12 short stories.

  Lisa Shea’s library of medieval romance novels:

  Seeking the Truth

  Knowing Yourself

  A Sense of Duty

  Creating Memories

  Looking Back

  Badge of Honor

  Lady in Red

  Finding Peace

  Believing your Eyes

  Trusting in Faith

  Sworn Loyalty

  In A Glance

  Each novel is a stand-alone story set in medieval England. These novels can be read in any order and have entirely separate casts of characters.

  Lisa’s cozy modern-day murder mystery romance series:

  Aspen Allegations

  Birch Blackguards

  Cedar Conundrums

  Lisa’s sci-fi romance series:

  Aquarian Awakenings

  Betelgeuse Beguiling

  Centauri Chaos

  Draconis Discord

  Lisa’s dystopian series:

  Into the Wasteland

  He Who Was Living

  Broken Images

  Lisa’s regency time travel romance series:

  One Scottish Lass

  A Time Apart

  A Circle in Time

  Lisa’s Short Stories:

  Chartreuse

  The Angst of Change

  BAAC

  Melting

  Armsby

  Lisa’s 31-book mini mystery series set in Salem Massachusetts begins with:

  The Lucky Cat – Black Cat Vol. 1

  Here are a few of Lisa’s self-help books:

  Secrets to Falling Asleep

  Get Better Sleep to Improve Health and Reduce Stress

  Dream Symbol Encyclopedia

  Interpretation and Meaning of Dream Symbols

  Lucid Dreaming Guide

  Foster Creativity in a Lucid Dream State

  Learning to say NO – and YES! To your Dream

  Protect your goals while gently helping others succeed

  Reduce Stress Instantly

  Practical relaxation tips you can use right now for instant stress relief

  Time Management Course

  Learn to End Procrastination, Increase Productivity, and Reduce Stress

  Simple Ways to Make the World Better for Everyone

  Every day we wake up is a day to take a fresh path, to help a friend, and to improve our lives.

  Author’s proceeds from all these books benefit battered women’s shelters.

  “Be the change you wish to see in the world.”

  As a special treat, as a warm thank-you for buying this book and supporting the cause of battered women, here’s a sneak peak at the first chapter of Seeking the Truth – a Medieval Romance.

  Seeking the Truth - Chapter 1

  England, 1212

  Happiness depends upon ourselves.

  — Aristotle

  Morgan wriggled her way through the bar’s noisy throng, a feisty salmon struggling against the almost overpowering current, heading always upstream, driven by her instincts. She paused a moment to take a long draw from the tankard of
ale in her hand, balancing the other two mugs close against her waist, her hand strung through their handles. A boisterous farmer bumped into her as she weaved past a heavy oaken table, and she laughed as she hip-checked him back into place. The rowdy crowd was certainly enjoying the harvest celebration. The sun had barely slipped past the horizon and already half of the pub seemed well on its way toward drunken abandon.

  She plunked herself down on a worn stool, sliding the tankards out across the small round table with practiced ease to her two friends. The men called out their thanks, grabbing at their ales and each downing half the mug in a smooth motion.

  Christian grinned up to her. “You are a saint, Morgan,” announced the red-head, a twinkle in his eye.

  “Sure, and you get the next round,” she joked merrily, pushing her long, jet black hair back from her face with one hand. The men were still wearing their guard uniforms, having come right from watch duty to join in the festivities. Morgan knew Lady Donna’s keep was well enough protected – there were plenty of guards still left on the walls. Her friends deserved some time off. It was harvest, after all. A season to relax, to have some fun.

  She rolled her head, loosening the ache from her shoulders and neck, taking another long draw on her ale as the chaos of the place washed over her with comfortable familiarity. The pub was normally ample for its patrons, but tonight it was overflowing with the crowd, both with the farmers celebrating their crops and the soldiers in from London. It made for a tightly-packed night.

  “And just why are those outsiders here?” she asked Christian, looking over at the soldiers. She’d grown up in Shamley Green, knew every man, woman, and child here. The trio of well-built men stood out like hawks in a flock of sparrows.

  “Something about a funeral for a friend of theirs,” responded Christian, barely sparing a glance for the newcomers, his eyes warm on her face. “Felix said they should be in town for another few days, perhaps. They are staying down at the inn.”

  “Was there bandit action in the area?” Morgan pressed, her interest sparking. Maybe she could talk with Lady Donna, get some time off from her bodyguard duties.