“The fuck you talking about, Brant?”
“I’m suggesting that we both get out of here. Soon.” I met his gaze and held it.
“Get out of Perish?”
“Yeah.”
He wiped a hand across his mouth, agitated. “And go where?”
I shrugged. “Somewhere. I don’t know. We have to stay ahead of the Marauders. We bought some time getting rid of that guy, but they’ll find us eventually. We have to keep moving. I suggest in a couple of days, if not sooner.”
He pushed away from the barrow and scraped closer to me. “Are you going home?”
I cast an appraising eye to the sky. “Soon, yeah. One of these days I have to make a stand. I can’t stay out here forever. But not yet.”
“So what’s brought this on, huh?” he said, indignant. “Do you think I need your pity?”
“No.”
“Because I certainly don’t want it.”
“I know that.”
“If you want to leave, then go.” He waved a hand. “You don’t have to worry about how poor old Max is going to cope without you.”
“Look, it’s just an idea.”
He set his mouth firmly. “So let me get this straight,” he seethed. “You’re suggesting we just saunter off into the wild blue yonder. That I saunter off into the wild blue yonder. With you.”
“Well, that’s a little simplistic-”
“Have you lost your goddamn mind? What, are you just going to stuff me in your satchel and carry me around? You do realise I weigh twice as much as you?”
“No, I-”
“No, no, I’ve got it,” he went on derisively. “You’re going to stick me in this fuckin’ thing,” his hand lashed out and clanged into the wheelbarrow, knocking it on its side, “and push me through knee deep sand for a few thousand clicks until we end up nowhere, and then head off in some other random direction and hope we actually end up getting someplace. Is that kinda what you had in mind, Brant?”
“Calm down, all right? Just calm down. I’m only throwing ideas around.”
“Well throw ‘em where they belong next time - in the trash, not in my direction.”
I moved over and gripped the wheelbarrow, set it upright again. Max just sat there with his hands folded across his chest, refusing to get in.
“Listen, if there was a way we could get you more mobile-”
“There isn’t.”
“Can I finish? Please?” He glared at me. “If we could get you more mobile, there’d be nothing to stop you at least trying.”
“What even makes you think I want to leave?”
“Okay, screw the leaving part,” I said, resentful. “Let’s just forget that for now. How about we just concentrate on the part where we get you on your feet again? Try to find a way to allow you to get from one place to the next without having to crawl through garbage. That would at least allow you to get up there, right?” I swung my arm and pointed back at Ol’ Trembler. “That’s what you really want, isn’t it? To go up there and pray that it collapses on you, so you have an easy out. Right?”
He looked away, sullen.
“Well listen,” I went on angrily, “it’s your choice. I’m not going to force you one way or the other. If you want to go up there, why don’t you crawl up there right now?” I was on the verge of shouting. “Get it over with, huh? Come on, we’re right here! Go and do it if that’s what you want.”
“Are you finished?” he snapped.
Overwrought, I glared back at him. “Yeah. I think I am finished.” I began to stalk off.
I’d taken a few steps down the street when I heard his voice. “The base.”
I stopped, looked over my shoulder. “What?”
“You need the right kind of metal.” He scraped his way around to face me. “If you’re gonna do it, you need the right materials. You go strapping a block of wood, or an iron bar to the bottom of my legs, it’s gonna fall off when we hit the first sand dune.”
“Yeah, makes sense,” I said in a more reasonable tone.
“You need the right kind of alloy, and a way to weld it together. There’s no way you’re gonna find that in coffee shops or hardware stores around here.” He gestured to the north. “But at the military base, there might be a chance you’ll find something. We had a clank workshop there.”
“I thought you said there was nothing left out there.”
He shrugged. “Well, don’t get your hopes up. There might be something there. Underground, at least.” He struggled into the wheelbarrow and sat there expectantly.
“Okay, so tell me about it.” I moved back over toward him and got the barrow moving again.
“Last time I saw it, there wasn’t much there but a pile of rubble. It was clouted pretty damn hard. But there’s a chance you’ll find something underground - if you can find your way down.”
“What’s down there?”
“Well, the workshop for one thing. It was mainly geared toward modifying the clanks in some way that wasn’t provided by the manufacturer. They’d take clanks, remove one hand, and stick a grenade launcher on there. Or they’d weld in extra plating around the torso. Y’know, that kind of thing.”
“Right, so hopefully they’ll have some alloy. Let’s hope they have some welding gear sitting around there as well,” I said wryly.
“Don’t push your luck,” Max said.
We came out of Fitzgibbon Avenue and the river lay before us. I turned the barrow north.
“So how do I find it?”
“Okay, if you head north on the freeway it’ll take you out of town. There’s a long narrow bridge that I hope is still there. After that the highway winds its way east and up into the foothills of the mountains. You’ll need to take a right hand turn, it should be the third after the bridge. Follow that and it will take you to the base, it’s a couple of clicks out.”
“What about the layout of the base. What am I looking for?”
“The workshop was over in D Block. It was close to the eastern-most building there. So I guess you’re looking for the eastern-most pile of rubble.”
“Well,” I said thoughtfully, “it sounds like it’s worth a shot. I hope everything is where you remember it.” It was also a chance, I realised, of finding out if there were people out there in cryotanks, but I didn’t mention that to Max.
“Hey, maybe you’ll get lucky and there’ll still be some signs out there that can point you where to go,” he said.
“Yeah. Or maybe I’ll stumble into a tour bus that will drop me at the front door. Anyway, I'll see if I can get out there tomorrow.”
But tomorrow was the day that changed everything.
10
We walk to the park. It’s a beautiful day. A beautiful afternoon. The sun is high in the sky, warm on my back. I feel it seeping through me like a drug.
“Daddy, where are you?”
I look down. He stands there with his hands clamped over his eyes. A bucket hat covers his ears and sunscreen streaks his cheeks.
“I’m high. I’m flying away, up in the sky.”
He opens his hands and peeks through. “No you’re not! You’re right there!” He points a tiny finger at me.
“Sure, I just landed. If you’d looked a second ago, you would have seen me up there, soaring like a bird.”
His hands snap over his eyes. “Do it again, do it again!”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. I don’t want to leave you down here all by yourself.”
“Pleeease. C’mon, Daddy!”
I shuffle my feet on the grass. It’s thick and soft through my toes.
“I’m getting ready for take-off!”
He giggles. My favourite sound in the world.
“Here I go!”
I flap my arms in his face. It buffets him and ruffles his hair. He squeals in delight and twists away. Tries to sneak a little peek.
“Uh-uh! No looking. I can’t take off with you looking.”
His hands close again. He can’t sto
p giggling.
“Almost, almost... there! I did it! I’m flying! Whoa, it’s such a long way down!”
His hands snap open again. “You’re right there!”
I jump and stomp both feet on the ground, a pretence at landing from a great height.
“I’m quick, huh?”
“Make me fly! Make me fly!”
I scoop him up by the hips. He weighs nothing. He’s light, so light. So fragile. He squeals again with delight. He stretches out his arms like a plane. He’s soaring.
“Over there! Daddy, over there!” He points to a copse of tall gum trees. I run between them. He clutches at low hanging branches, strips the leaves. Tosses them over his head. “Wooo, I’m so high, Daddy! Look at me! Daddy!”
“I see. I see you, Zade.”
He wriggles to escape my grasp and I let him down. He alights on the grass, buoyant, like a tumbling feather blown by the wind. He runs. He never walks. He just runs everywhere.
There’s other children here. They play a game of chase nearby. They’re bigger than him, but he pays no mind. He thunders at them at full tilt.
“Zade, be careful.”
He’s caught up in the whirlwind of children and squeals and stomping sneakers. He’s laughing. Laughing so hard he can barely stand up. He catches the hip of a larger boy streaking past. It sends him spiralling unsteadily, knocks his brown bucket hat clean off. He stays on his feet. He laughs even harder. His face is red from it.
“Zade! Be careful, huh?”
He pays me no mind. He’s lost, caught up in the moment.
The throng of children blur. They become an indistinct mass of colour. Their voices echo as if emanating from the other end of a long tunnel. The edges of my vision go dark. A vignette on the world. It’s all fading.
11
I headed out, down the street toward the river on my way to the military base. Going by Max's directions, this would be the quickest route to take. At the bridge I turned north as planned, in the opposite direction to Ol’ Trembler. I hadn’t been this way before, usually preferring to wind my way north on a more direct route through the city, but Max was adamant that this would ultimately be the faster way.
Out here, the river slipped along, ever unchanging, the gleam of morning skipping brightly off its surface.
Not far along I saw a park bench overlooking the water, a scrap of brightly coloured garbage clinging underneath to one leg. Nearby something smooth and rounded was bulging from the dirt. Curious, I made my way over. I stood over it and tried to assess it visually to be sure that I wasn’t about to disturb some unexploded piece of munitions, or a booby trap left during the most desperate days of the city. It looked innocuous enough. I dug around it carefully, wiggling it with my fingers, but it was stuck fast. I continued to push and pull gently at it, with each manipulation working it a little looser. Eventually I got my fingers underneath. It came free abruptly and sent me sprawling in the dirt, face first. Spitting grit out of my mouth, I raised my prize: a large, rounded grey stone. Not quite as exciting as I’d hoped.
“Terrific,” I muttered.
Too large to even use for skipping over the water, I let it roll away down the incline toward the river. I raised myself up on my elbows, about to clamber to my feet, when I stopped dead.
Under the park bench, right before my eyes, that piece of garbage undulated gently in the breeze.
But it wasn’t a piece of garbage. Vividly green, no bigger than my fist, it took my mind a few seconds to comprehend what it was seeing.
It was a plant.
I clamped a hand over my eyes, trembling.
That’s not a plant. You’re imagining it.
I took my hand away. It was still there.
I reached out, my hand unsteady, and snatched it back again. I didn’t want to squash this thing with my fumbling fingers. I closed my eyes again and calmed myself.
Relax.
Opening my eyes, I reached out again. My hand still trembled but I had to touch it. Had to make sure it was really there. My finger brushed against it.
Yes, it’s real.
A plant. I was looking at an actual living plant. It was a weed, to be exact. Five broad green leaves sprouted from the stem, serrated on the edge and covered in small white spines. It was the kind of specimen you’d dig out of your lawn and burn given half a chance, back in the old days. Something to eradicate, to hunt down and destroy. Altogether, an ugly little plant.
But it was the most amazing sight I’d ever seen.
I sprang to my feet and started running. I didn’t even know where. I was just running. I stopped. Tried to think. Started running again in another random direction.
“Stop!” I shouted suddenly. “Think!”
I placed a hand to my brow, tried to concentrate. A container. Get a container.
I went searching through nearby houses for something in which I could carry the plant. A pot. A can. Anything. Cupboard doors were flung open, torn off in some cases. Dusty old plates and vases smashed in my haste. Doors kicked open, wood splintering everywhere. A large, chipped coffee mug found, deemed unsuitable, discarded. On to the next place.
A couple of times I ducked back out onto the street and ran back to the bench. Just to make sure the plant hadn’t run away of its own accord. Just to make sure it hadn’t shrivelled up and died in the last three minutes. It was still there. It was still okay.
I eventually came up with a sizeable, rusted tin can and took it back to the bench. I forced myself to slow down, to stop. Don’t screw this up. Don’t rip this thing apart by accident. I waited, made sure my thoughts were clear.
Carefully, I scooped up some dirt nearby and carefully laid it in the can. I filled it to the brim and then picked it up to take it over to the plant. Putting it back down again, I scooped some soil out to make room for the prize. Poking my fingers in the centre, I made a little divot for the plant to sit in.
I was a mess.
Is that how you do it? Do I need to wet it? What if this soil kills it? Should I take soil from closer to where it’s growing?
I had a good understanding of plants and how to grow them, but in this state couldn’t decide. I just pushed on anyway. I had to get it out from under this bench. I had to possess it. I’d been waiting for this thing for decades, and now my need to have it in my keeping was utterly intoxicating.
With the hands of a surgeon - or so I hoped - I carefully began to extract the dirt from around the sides of the plant, leaving plenty of margin for error. There was a reasonably high moisture content in the soil here. It clung to my fingers and coated them in a coarse, clumpy grit. So close to the river, this property undoubtedly had a great bearing on its ability to grow in this location.
How far down do the roots grow? I wasn’t a botanist and didn’t know everything about every plant I saw, but I knew the basics. Even so, I felt so inadequately prepared. Surely someone tasked with re-vegetating the planet should have known more, but there just wasn’t the time to find someone who could do everything, or who knew everything. There wasn’t an exhaustive audition process for the role of the saviour of the world. We didn’t examine the resumes of thousands of applicants, choose the most likely and then conduct interviews and psych evaluations. We just chose two people who were at hand. There was just Arsha and me. She knew some of this stuff better than me, but I would have to figure it out, sooner rather than later.
My hands were under it, cupping the weed and the mound of dirt on which it sat like some kind of magical artifact. In some ways, that’s exactly what it was.
I literally held the future in my hands.
How are you alive? I wanted to know. Where did you come from? But I knew the answer already. The hardiest seeds could survive in the soil for years, decades if necessary, lying dormant and awaiting more salubrious conditions. They’d been doing it in deserts around the world for millions of years. They’d likely seen worse in their day than man’s Winter. Much worse, and still survived. And here was proof
.
I wondered what else might be growing in the nooks and crannies of the city, and out there, beyond. Could anything of nutritional value be out there? Who knew?
In the end, it didn’t matter. We had the plant embryos safely in storage. That the planet was sustaining organic life again was the only thing that did matter. The climate was recovering. Plants could now grow. Animals would be able to eat. People would be able to eat.
I could think of only one thing: It’s over! I can go home and return to my body.
This was a sign, I was sure of it. It was the impetus I’d needed to flip the compass and head back west. There would be no more travelling in circles leading the Marauders on a merry chase across the wasteland. I would be making a beeline for home, and if I couldn’t go around them, I’d go through them. They wouldn’t stop me.
I had to do this if I wanted that which was most important to me: returning to my human body. My destiny.
With infinite care and gentleness I extracted the weed from its place under the park bench. I held it in the sunlight for just a moment, a small weed in a handful of dirt, and I basked in the perfection of it. The corners of my lips turned upward. It was such a foreign movement that I felt like I was pushing boulders up my cheeks, as if the skin there had set over the years from lack of movement. But I did it. I smiled, a small and weak thing, but it was real.
I lowered the weed into the tin. Gently, I raised it and held it aloft in front of me like some sort of divine chalice. A holy gift, to be revered and praised and admired.
With that little smile still on my face, I started back toward Max’s.
12
Max greeted the news evenly and without excitement. Really, I’d expected nothing less. He’d withdrawn more and more since our visit to Ol' Trembler, and this incredible news only seemed to intensify his odd mood.
I fussed about, trying to find a place for the weed. The kitchen bench. The bookcase. No, it has to have sun. I placed it on the windowsill, keeping a nervous watch over it in that somewhat perilous position. After a few moments my nerve gave out and I took it back, in the end preferring to clutch it to my chest like a baby in swaddling. I sat there and watched it intently as the afternoon wore on, as if something amazing might happen at any second. My eyes lingered on every ugly little spine, every curve and jagged edge. I was obsessed with drinking in every tiny detail of it. It was not unreasonable, really. I hadn’t seen anything quite like it in decades.
After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) Page 7
