Suggestions for clothing and leisure activities would also appear, the result of algorithms that crunched data from every conceivable avenue: time of year, vital statistics, societal trends, as well as previous choices and, it was rumoured, more nefarious methods: analysis of eye tracking data whilst in department stores and online to determine which items caused the eye to linger the longest. Whether or not these stories were real was debatable, but there was certainly an almost mystic quality to the Grid. It knew what you wanted even before you did.
All it took was a curt gesture to dismiss one set of data and move to a new set of information, detailing the same kind of data but which pertained to partners and children, friends and acquaintances. The data was correlated and streamlined so that only the most pertinent information was displayed first. One could sit there for hours and go through every last detail about everyone they knew, and there were those who did just that. They made a science of knowing everything about everyone, both close acquaintances, celebrities, and everything in between. It was all there at their fingertips. Nothing was really private anymore, an accepted part of the way society functioned.
I’d even had colleagues ask why I wasn’t sleeping well, or how much I’d enjoyed eating at a restaurant when I hadn’t previously volunteered the information. That was how it was.
But the fury of the White Summer had broken the Grid, irrevocably collapsing all those technologies that had been built upon it. Just as buildings, bridges, bricks and mortar were torn apart in the conflict, so was the information network that held society together like a mesh. The very fabric of it was shredded. Our ability to respond, to coordinate ourselves in those most grim days of the conflict was subverted. We’d become so reliant on the Grid that, without it, we were all but powerless. We were blind.
I raised myself up onto my elbows and stared into the east. There was no sign of the light of morning yet. I’d be here a while. A gentle breeze tugged at my shirt, stirred the sand around my legs. The cold was setting in again. Out in the desert, without the blanket of cloud cover overhead, the heat of the day evaporated quickly, and temperatures plunged at night. The low temperatures were unpleasant, but I’d learned to deal with them.
My hand reached about in the darkness, snagging handfuls of sand. After a moment it fell on the satchel. Reaching around inside like a blind man, I produced the compass and held it in my hand, felt the comforting weight of it. I opened and closed the metal case over and over again. Fick. Fick. Fick. Fick. It was a metronome to set my mind to, allowing me to fade into autopilot. To tune out. Fick. Fick. Fick.
I slipped my mind into a state of rest and waited patiently for morning.
17
Some days later the terrain became a little more manageable. I saw tyre tracks here and there, which I assumed to be Marauders, since they’d taken control of most of the vehicles out there that were still working. Warily, I began heading steadily north, and the sand of the desert turned into firmer ground and rolling hills.
I found a road, or what was left of it, and began to travel along as it wound its way lazily toward the west.
There were bent and broken telephone poles at intervals along the edges of the crumbled asphalt, the cables that had once stretched taut across their upper extremities long since buried in the dust. This was old tech. Poles such as these hadn’t been used in communications for a long, long time. They had been superseded by underground cabling, meshes of wireless transmitters and satellites, and those in turn had been made obsolete by the reaching tendrils of Grid spires. The older tech simply hadn’t been torn down when it became redundant.
These old poles that had, in their fingertips, once felt the surge of information that brought the world into a new technological age were long forgotten, empty and stripped bare of functionality. It was ironic that those technologies that came after - the cables, the satellites, and then eventually the Grid spires, were now equally useless.
This had evidently been an agricultural region, and it seemed relatively untouched by the Summer. I passed many farmhouses on my way along the road, their corrugated iron roofs rusted, porches sagging, timber walls grey and shabby. A web of twisted wire fences undulated across the hills, their wooden fence posts slumping this way and that as if frozen in time, straining in a silent game of tug of war.
Some of the houses had been built close to the road, and I had the strangest notion that they had just now come forward, shuffling in closer to peer at this lonely individual trudging past. Their windows were grim and wide as they stared at this curious apparition, this thing that resembled a man, a living thing, but which could not possibly be. Others hid behind the crests of hills, timid, wary, only daring to poke their noses above the rise for fear of what this stranger may bring. They disappeared one by one as each step took me further along the road, settling down and resuming their perches as they began their vigil again, waiting for the next stranger to stir the dust in their midst.
The sky grew dim to the north, and I caught the faint smell of rain in the breeze and the slight chill that came with it. Nightfall would be here soon. I stopped to listen. There was nothing to be heard out there, but at some intuitive level I suddenly felt the need to get off the road. To hide.
I’d learned to obey these feelings when they came.
I ran down the nearest driveway, which wound north a short way and ended at the steps of a low-set house with a broad verandah. My boots were gnarled upon loose, jagged stones as fat raindrops pelted down around me in increasing numbers. I stumbled forward and quickened my pace. Over the hill to the north-east I could see sheets of rain drifting across the countryside, dark and thick. It was going to be a downpour.
And now I could hear the engines.
The farmhouse was close now, and the crisp peal of raindrops on the iron roof clamorous. I bounded the last few steps and alighted under the cover of the verandah, barrelling through the wooden doorway with my shoulder. Slamming it shut, I moved into an adjoining bedroom, boots creaking on the floorboards, and crouched at the window, binoculars raised.
In moments I saw them on the road, coming over the hill: three clanks fleeing on foot, then the Marauders on their dirt bikes close behind. Of those running, one was male, and two were female, and one of the females was injured, being assisted along by the other two. Within seconds they had been overtaken by the bikes, five in total, which began to surround their prey and herd them within an ever-tightening circle.
The Marauders hooted and hollered victoriously, and then brought their dirt bikes to a halt as a truck with a cage mounted on the back appeared over the hill, along with the familiar shape of Wraith’s black offroader.
Wraith. Goddammit.
I shifted uneasily. This was not good.
Words were exchanged, but I was too far away to hear them. Only fragments drifted over to the farmhouse in which I hid. I knew that the Marauders would try to convince their quarry to surrender, since they only risked damaging their acquisitions if absolutely necessary. A whole and complete specimen would fetch a higher reward back at their enclave.
Wraith emerged from his offroader, his tall, dreadlocked form easily identifiable. He walked with a languid, casual gait, exuding a self-assurance that somehow managed to send fingers of ice down my spine even from this distance. I recalled an incident a couple of months prior, when myself and a few other clanks I’d banded with had cornered him alone in a burnt out bar in some nameless city, his shotgun out of ammo. He showed not even a glimmer of concern, instead offering us a grin and a nod of welcome before wielding his machete like an agent of death, killing three of my companions and driving back me and one other until more Marauders arrived.
I had been appalled by his viciousness. Shocked. I’d seen death before, plenty of times, but I’d never seen anyone kill quite like that. Not with that ease. Not with that wanton glee.
We had been forced to flee into the ruins, lucky to survive the encounter.
Now Wraith stood at the edge of
the group, his arms folded casually across his chest as the scene played out.
Unaware of Wraith’s presence, the male clank shrugged off what looked like a protective black vest, handing it to the injured female. A Marauder advanced, and the male kicked savagely at him, knocking him back.
I winced, knowing what was about to take place.
Things happened quickly then. There was a melee, the male clank ripped and tore at the nearest Marauder, and they converged on him, machetes swinging. They buried their blades in his chest, in his arms, but he kept thrashing.
The females were screaming, their voices piteous.
I didn’t want to watch this. I couldn’t watch. But I couldn’t tear my eyes away.
Wraith strode forward and grabbed the clank’s hair, ripping his head back and exposing his throat. Like a pack of hungry wolves, the others began to savage his neck, hacking and slashing, sending gobs of synthetic flesh flying and chiselling through alloy neck bones.
The clank ceased his flailing.
“Fuck!” I whispered, aghast.
In one brutal movement, Wraith wrenched the head free and held it aloft, watching the body slump forward and crash to the road, unmoving.
I slid back from the window, trembling. That could have been me up there if I’d been thirty seconds slower. The margin for error was excruciatingly thin.
I forced myself to return to the window with the binoculars.
All three clanks were loaded into the cage, the females sobbing and trying not to look at the body that had been callously thrown in beside them. The Marauders seemed to find it amusing, laughing and making snide remarks to their prisoners.
Then, to my horror, one of the Marauders produced what looked like a scanner and held his hand aloft to indicate that the others should wait. They complied, standing there stoically as the rain tumbled down around them.
I froze, terrified. Frantically, I looked about the room, wondering what I would do if they detected me. I’d need to get out of the house, but then what? There was nowhere to hide with all of these open fields surrounding me.
I could fight, but there was only going to be one outcome: the one I’d just witnessed.
This is the end, I thought with dread. It’s over.
I felt sick, like I needed to throw up, even though synthetics weren’t physically capable of doing so.
The Marauder with the scanner was turning in a slow circle, holding the device out in front of him and moving it up and down. The others waited. Wraith, who had been preparing to leave, opened the door of his offroader and got back out.
The Marauder with the scanner turned toward the farmhouse. He raised his eyes.
I felt like the walls were closing in. I was trapped. They were going to find me, descend on me amid the clamour of engines, and the last thing I was ever going to see was Wraith’s scarred face leering over me as he raised that wicked blade.
Abruptly, the Marauder stowed the scanner and made a curt motion, indicating for the others to proceed. They got moving along the road, speeding away, churning up the mud and shouting a war cry, disappearing into the distance.
By some miracle I’d been too far away to detect.
I spent a long night huddled there in the farmhouse. The rain eased and the countryside became still and quiet and, with clouds concealing the stars, completely dark. I kept replaying in my mind the moment when the Marauders had hacked that clank’s head off, Wraith yanking it free of the body like tugging a weed from a garden.
What would they do to me if they found me, considering our history?
They wouldn’t end it so quickly, that was for sure.
Part of me wanted to curl up here in the darkness forever, hiding where they couldn’t find me, but I knew that couldn’t happen. There was too much at stake.
I thought I heard their engines now and again, echoing through the wasteland from a great distance. Maybe it was just the distant howl of the wind. In any case, I kept away from the window, my face pressed near to the musty carpet as I waited out the night.
Morning broke the next day and I wasted no time getting moving, keeping well away from the road. I began looking constantly over my shoulder, on edge, waiting for the Marauders to appear any second.
They very well might appear at any second, I knew. With that thought, I made sure to survey the terrain in front of me, identifying the most likely hiding spot at any given moment should I be required to make a run for cover.
In order to keep out of range of the scanner, I ploughed on through fields and over old fences, making much slower progress, but at least feeling more secure.
The forest appeared, from a distance, like a ripple of black spines across the landscape. There was no foliage, no shadows cast by great branches heavy with leaves, no undergrowth. Instead there were only warped black trunks, broken and rotting, some still pointing skyward and others prone on the ground where they had fallen. As I reached them and began to walk among them I felt a certain solemnity, a deep respect for their plight. After all, they were living things too, and they’d been here for many millions of years before people. They could stretch their boughs so far toward the sky and their roots so deep within the earth, and yet in the end, they’d succumbed like the rest of us, those insignificant, short-lived mammals who scurried amid their feet and took rest within their shade.
I trod through the dirt, gently reaching out to touch a tree trunk here and there, like laying a hand upon the forehead of fallen comrades and silently wishing them well on their way. The quietude of the forest was calming, and over the next few hours I took my time, winding my way between the boles of these old giants, down through a ravine and across a rocky stream. Some of the trees seemed hardier than others, still stretching up an impressive distance into the cloudy blue sky, a couple of stubby branches jutting out in contrast to the otherwise verticality of the forest.
I confronted a large toppled log and decided that, rather than walk around it, I would go over it. I stepped up onto it and pushed myself over. As I rounded the crest it crumbled under my weight, sending me sprawling, the sound of cracking, splintering wood piercing the emptiness of the forest. I sat there looking back at it stupidly, probing at the flaps of my satchel to see if anything had been lost.
“Suave,” I muttered, picking myself up. I bent and sifted through pieces of the fragmented log, picking one up and turning it over in my fingers. Unseen to the naked eye, bacteria would likely be inside, eating away at the wood and breaking it down, a tiny engine room of organisms going about their business as they had for millions of years. They were perhaps the only ones still thriving in this world where everything else struggled and wasted away.
As night fell I found a broad, hollowed out tree trunk in which to make camp. It was large enough to accommodate three or four people so I had plenty of room to spread out. I didn’t really need to take shelter like this, but it did feel nice to rest my back against something for the night. Before dark came I pulled out the photograph and wondered what Zade would think if he were sitting here inside the trunk with me. Most likely he would find it to be a great adventure. He’d loved to go on forest walks, exploring the tracks and trying to spot birds, grubs, and the animals that lived on the forest floor. He also loved to run off at the first opportunity, his sandshoes scratching noisily against the earth and flicking dirt in his wake, one eye over his shoulder to see if anyone was giving chase. I always did, and rounded him up before he could cause too much trouble. His little legs always had the best intentions of escape, but were no match for my long strides.
The next morning I set off again, checking the compass frequently. Due to the terrain I had to make alterations in my navigation quite often, and I didn’t want this to cause me to get too far off track. During one of these checks I stood staring down at the compass in my hand as the needle steadied, and something caught my eye. I shifted my hand and saw it - a small green shoot on the base of the tree next to me. Amazed, I knelt for a closer look.
&nbs
p; The shoot was no bigger than my hand but it contained a cluster of healthy looking green leaves. The stem was reddish in colour and contained one offshoot, also containing a couple of leaves. I bent in close to smell their fragrance. It was truly wonderful in comparison to the stale rot that was ubiquitous to the rest of the land, and I leaned in several more times to savour the experience.
Excited, I got back to my feet and began combing the area seeking others. I searched for a few minutes, circling this tree and that, craning my neck and shielding my eyes from the sun as I peered up and down the length of every tree I found, but, try as I might, I could find no others. In this part of the forest, at least, it was an aberration. Maybe there would be others out there further afield, but there was no point spending any more time searching for them.
I left it there in that little nondescript corner of the dead forest and surged onward. I could feel it now, the pull of my destiny. It was a rope around my waist that tugged at me ever so gently. But the tug was getting stronger. With each step I took toward the west its insistence grew.
I scrambled up an incline, my feet slipping in my enthusiasm and almost knocking over a withered stump that stood out at a forty-five degree angle. Looking back I had a good view of forest stretching across the valley. Something glinted in the distance, and I lifted the binoculars for a closer look. Adjusting the focus ring, I zeroed in on the target and saw sunlight skimming off metal and glass. They were a long way away and details were difficult to make out, but I thought I could recognise a few Marauder dirt bikes and a jeep beyond the tree stumps.
“Dammit,” I said to myself.
After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) Page 11
