THE SILENT EARTH
BOOK ONE
Mark R. Healy
Copyright © Mark R. Healy 2014
markrhealy.com
Cover Art Copyright © Mark R. Healy 2014
Editing by Clio Editing Services
clioediting.com
Terms and Conditions:
The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part One
Perish
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
Part Two
Wasteland
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
Part Three
West
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
Part Four
Pathways
39
40
41
Epilogue
Author’s Note
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Part One
Perish
1
At the crest of a rise I stopped to survey the desert, trying to gather my bearings. The city below me sat baking in the afternoon sun, its spires parched and brittle like stalks of dead grass. The sky pressed in, a smouldering dark orangey-red that served as a reminder that the Winter had not long passed.
Once it might have been a gleaming hub of humanity cradled in a picturesque valley, but now the city was just a dustbowl collecting detritus that blew in from the plains.
I couldn't be sure if I’d been here before. Out in the wasteland, these ruined metropolises all began to look the same. Empty and abandoned to the whim of the elements, their once noisy, bustling streets now found voice only through the scraping of wind across the ruin of steel and concrete and glass.
Behind me, a set of footprints trailed into the distance as far as I could see. They were transient, soon to be scuffed away by the shifting sands with not a trace to be found.
That was a good thing, for it helped to camouflage my passage from those who hunted me. But it was not enough to hide me forever. They were resourceful, and tenacious, and full of hate. They would keep coming.
I looked wistfully toward home, somewhere out there in the west. I thought of everything I’d left behind, everything I’d given up, and of how I’d protected it the only way I could: by forsaking it, by leading the menace away.
The same menace that, now, I couldn’t escape.
On the horizon a dark smudge was looming, a sight that was all too familiar and yet still filled me with a sense of dread.
And it was moving fast.
I slung the tattered cloth satchel from my back and bent to rummage urgently through its contents. The satchel was wearing thin and falling apart at the seams. Inside, a few sparse items jangled about. A compass, a blunted knife in its sheath, a small metal file, a hard-bristled brush, a lighter and a pair of cracked binoculars. My hand fell on the item I sought, a grimy, grease-stained linen cloth, and I pulled it out, wrapping it around my face and then shouldering the satchel. I got moving.
Time was running out, and I had to find a path down to that city.
The rocky outcropping below me was not an avenue I would normally negotiate. It was a long way down to the bottom where rough-edged boulders protruded from the earth, waiting to pulverise anything unfortunate enough to fall upon them. Given more time, I’d have found a way around it, but right now I had no choice. I had to tackle it head on.
I scraped and slithered down the section that seemed most likely to offer handholds. The wind was beginning to pick up, and it toyed with my attempts to remain surefooted on the rock wall. Striving to increase my pace, my foot knocked away some loose rock. I overbalanced, my hands clutching in vain at thin air, and I was sent spiralling to the ground below. My landing was noisy, ungraceful, and jarringly painful. The ground was hard and unyielding, but as luck would have it, I landed narrowly between two boulders. It could have been so much worse. As it was, I lay stunned as the world spun around me, tiny pebbles cascading down the rock wall in my wake.
The contents of the satchel lay scattered about the place. Clambering shakily to my feet, I shuffled the disparate items back inside. The compass was smashed beyond repair. I dropped it inside the satchel anyway.
I cantered down the slope toward the city. As I neared, its towers reached toward the heavens at dizzying heights like great teetering gravestones. Ghosts of this long dead metropolis.
As uninviting as they looked, right now they were the only place in which I could hide.
The wind was agitated, whipping back and forth, one minute thrusting at my back and pushing me forward, and the next pummelling into my face and stinging my eyes with sand. I clamped the blackened cloth I had tied as a mask more tightly around my nose and mouth, but no matter what I did, the sand still got in.
Turning, I saw the sandstorm looming, black and monstrous. It was bearing down on me now, gaining with every second. I quickened my pace. The boot on my right foot was disintegrating, the sole flapping madly and tripping me every second or third step. I spent a precious few seconds ripping it off and then flung it limply at the encroaching storm, a futile act of defiance. I half ran, half hobbled, my desperation growing, dipping a finger into my back pocket as I strode forward. The photograph was still there. I couldn’t lose that. Not that. I’d rather be taken by the sandstorm than go on without it.
On the outskirts of the city, long abandoned houses, broken and leached of colour, wilted at the touch of the remorseless wasteland. They made meek promises of shelter, but I couldn’t bring myself to trust their rickety, gaping exteriors. They were like tottering old men on walking sticks offering protection from a blood-curdling giant. I pushed on.
Almost upon me, this swirling vortex of sand and wind was unlike anything I’d seen in all my time in the desert. It was now difficult to stay on my feet, and I could see only a short distance in front of me. If I didn’t find shelter soon, I’d have to take my chances with whatever I could get.
Like a godsend, the bulk of something black and rectangular loomed out of the murk. It was most likely an old apartment block from what I could tell, and at the very least it appeared to be more robust than anything else I had seen so far. I struggled onward as the sandstorm struck in earnest. I had to awkwardly scale a wrought iron fence, but once past it I was quickly inside through the broken wooden doorway.
I made my way up the staircase and secured myself inside the first apartment I came to. There was no furniture within, and the place was filthy, but it was enough to protect me from the maelstrom outside.
Slumping against the wall, I slid to the bare concrete floor, pulling off my remaining boot and dumping out a few handfuls of sand. With that done, I tossed it across the room in consternation, swatting at my hair and at my clothes. Th
e sand spilled away in rivulets and scattered across the floor.
I pulled the photograph gently from my back pocket and looked upon it. Faded and torn at the edges, it was my only gateway out of this place, my ticket to another world. Rejuvenation for my spirit. Until the day came that I’d be heading home again, I was reliant on this, my one keepsake, to keep me going.
Outside, the sand and wind slammed at the windows and slowly darkness fell.
2
The next morning the storm had cleared out. Looking through the filthy, dirt-smeared apartment window, it was like a different city out there. I stood as sunlight streamed in around me, the sky a radiant deep blue and the buildings softly gilt-edged in the glow of the morning sun.
I’d made it deeper into the city than I’d realised, and the skyscrapers were close enough for me to make out a few details. In places, chunks of their exteriors had been ripped out, their steel skeletons jutting out at all angles, bits of reinforced concrete dangling precariously from great heights. I could see the glint of glass windows here and there, but for the most part they had been shattered long ago. One of the taller structures had keeled over to one side and lay half toppled on another beside it.
I wiped my fingers across the window pane to see more clearly, but it didn’t help. I’d need to head outside for a better view.
Hefting my satchel on the way to the door, I immediately recognised that it was lighter than normal. On closer inspection, I found that the brush was missing. It must have been dislodged in the fall or in the mad dash toward the city. I leaned down to examine the familiar gash on my left calf. It was clogged with grit.
“Dammit.”
I moved across the concrete floor toward the bathroom, my bare feet making soft crunching noises in the sand that was spread like a carpet across the room. Rummaging through cabinets I happened upon a frayed white toothbrush with half its bristles missing - a poor tool, but it would have to do. Propping myself up on the basin, I hoisted my left leg into my lap and gently began to flick at the mixture of sand and dirt and mud that had accumulated there. It was caked in pretty tight, but after a few minutes I began to work it loose. The hardest part was extricating the muck from between the fibrous synthetic muscles. I had to be cautious since they’d already begun to fray at the edges, and if I scrubbed too hard I’d only cause damage that I couldn’t repair. The tendons in my ankle were showing the same signs of wear.
In time the dull sheen of my alloy fibula was restored, and soon after that I was satisfied that I’d cleaned the wound adequately, so I hitched my trousers down over it again. I yearned for something that might seal it up more effectively, such as resin or even medical tape, but I hadn’t come across suitable materials in my travels. Maybe my brief stopover in this city might be a good time to search some out. Sand and grit had worked its way upward and was steadily accumulating in my knee joint, and I couldn’t reach it there with my makeshift tools. Walking became more difficult every month, and if it got much worse there was a chance the joint would seize up entirely, a very real concern. I didn’t relish the thought of traipsing across the endless expanse of desert with knees and hips that couldn’t rotate.
The mirror in this bathroom was partially intact, effectively smashed in half diagonally with the upper left corner still fixated in place. I placed my fingertips on the basin and leaned inward, peering at my weather-beaten skin. Hair that was once dark was now considerably lighter, partially bleached by the sun, and it was a mess. I lifted a hand and smoothed it roughly to one side. Staring into my own blue eyes, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something lesser about them. Something diminished. There was a time when that blue had been as vibrant as the sky on a clear autumn day, but now, it was as much grey as it was blue, as if the time in the desert had left the fire inside me unstoked, allowed it to dwindle down to but a few faint embers.
The eyes are but a reflection of the soul.
Blinking, I averted my gaze. I brushed more sand from my face, then traced a finger down past my ear and gently touched the wound on the side of my neck. It too appeared larger than the last time I had looked upon it. There was less sand trapped there, but still enough to be a nuisance. A couple of vertebrae glinted inside, along with more ropey synthetic muscle, and I scraped at them gently with the toothbrush. The sand made a soft tinkling sound as it fell across the basin.
In the mirror, my skin looked thin and brittle. I couldn’t help but think of the last time I’d seen skin like that - it had belonged to a woman, the last human I’d ever seen alive. As she lay shivering in my arms, unwarmed by the meagre fire I’d lit, she’d lifted a trembling hand to me, and I’d taken it, grasping it tight. It was like holding a fistful of twigs.
“I’m cold,” she’d rasped. Her dark hair had spilled across her emaciated face, and I’d brushed it aside. “Can you...?” Blinking and smacking her parched lips together, she’d gone quiet, closing her eyes. She hadn’t lasted much longer after that.
Her skin had felt like paper, her body as light as a bird.
I didn’t even know her name.
Tossing the toothbrush into the satchel, I hunched over the basin, squeezed my eyes shut, let out a long breath.
“Don’t think about that shit now,” I breathed.
I’d never once thought of synthetics as being superior to humans. Humans were pure creations, sculpted to adapt to this world over millions of years of evolution. And yet, they had died out, and it was the machines who lived on. How was that fair?
Forget about it. Don’t let the doubt creep in.
I headed out to the stairwell.
Once outside I scaled the wrought iron fence again and started up the street toward the downtown district at a brisk pace. I stepped through loose gravel, the scrape of my footsteps ringing out across the empty city and sounding back at me from the gutted storefronts and alleyways. Accustomed to the quiet of the wasteland, it was deafening to me.
I couldn’t linger here long. I knew that. The Marauders would be on my heels, as they had been for months. A quick hunt for supplies was all I had time for.
It wasn’t easy choosing a target, since names on buildings that had once marked their purpose were faded and torn apart. They’d been through the rampant destruction of the White Summer, and then the freezing cold of Winter, and their scars were plainly evident.
Sometimes I felt as though I was trapped in a giant mouse maze, one that was circular and had been made especially for me. I kept seeing the same landscapes over and over again, the same buildings in every city I came to. That wasn’t the reality, I knew, but that was how it seemed, as if all of the individuality in the world has been scoured away entirely.
I was very particular about the buildings I entered. Downright fussy, in fact. I hadn’t lived this long by rushing into every single place I saw. The place I chose was several stories high, and the facade suggested an earlier industrial period construction, with narrow black windows and a dozen red brick columns running up the street-facing wall. The edges of the roof showed signs of disrepair, but not enough to concern me.
Inside it was dim and expansive, illuminated partially by a shaft of sunlight that made its way in through a caved-in section of roof at the rear of the building. This might have once been the open floor space of a factory, but judging by the mangled clothing racks and shelving that littered the floor it had been converted to a department store at some point in its history.
I made my way across cracked and chipped marbled tiles, carefully avoiding the bits of garbage that lay in my path. Rummaging around, I located a ribbed, brown leather belt and a replacement shoe that was mismatched with my old one. Not that it mattered. I took it anyway.
On the way out I found a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in the bottom of a trash can, its label faded and almost unreadable, which I decanted into a dented aluminium canister that lay nearby. I also scooped up a couple of filthy shirts and placed them in the satchel.
The sun was already climbi
ng over the skyscrapers when I got back out onto the street, and the day had warmed considerably.
I listened, sure I’d heard something in the distance. It carried on the wind like the buzzing of a fly, barely more than a whisper. A vehicle?
They wouldn’t have caught up. Not this fast.
I waited but didn’t hear it again. Most likely my imagination.
Some day soon I will break this cycle of fear and ruin.
My boots rang out solidly on the pavement as I secured the satchel over my shoulder. I stamped each foot several times to ensure they were snug, and then my hand ventured to my back pocket, a habitual movement that I repeated a number of times every day. The photograph was still there.
I started up the street at a brisk pace, casting an eye warily over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed, and tripped on something in the rubble, sprawling roughly on my stomach. Cursing, I rolled over and was about to get to my feet when I stopped dead.
A body was lying in the street next to me.
3
It wasn’t a human body. Apart from withered remains, I hadn’t seen one of those in many years. He was a synthetic like me, lying amidst the shattered concrete and dirt, filthy, blending in like a just another piece of trash. No wonder I’d been tripped up by him.
He’d seen tough times, that much was obvious. His right leg below the knee was gone, and the left was missing from mid-thigh. From both wounds dangled wires, part of the synthetic's nervous system. Ragged tears of muscle and sinew were also present, as well as the jagged ends of broken alloy bones.
This guy had been blown - or ripped - apart. But this wasn’t the work of the Marauders. They’d have butchered him, taking the valuable parts from the chest and head and even the arms. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much the Marauders didn’t strip from a clank body once they got hold of it.
After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) Page 1
