Sixth Cycle

by Darren Wearmouth

  In one move she pushed off her heels and dashed over to a large boulder. Only fifteen yards away now, and she could smell their body odor.

  Two men casually talked in broken English, unaware of her presence. She leaned around the boulder’s slippery surface and pushed a damp fern to one side.

  A tall, stocky man propped his arm against an oak. Grime plastered the upper half of his weather-beaten face. A thick graying beard covered the rest.

  A mixture of mismatched light leather armor and dark pieces of cloth stretched around his bulky frame. His boots, as suspected, looked handmade. Dark leather laces crisscrossed over his calves.

  He shouted something unintelligible and roared with laughter.

  His partner remained obscured by the tree, apart from a filthy hand that gestured toward the first man. She could see no sign of their hostage. These men were wastelanders from the edge of the fallout one.

  The first wastelander picked up sticks and pinecones from the ground and piled them up in the small clearing. The second moved from behind the oak and helped him. He looked much the same as the first, although a few inches shorter with no sign of graying. Starting a fire would be hard in these wet conditions, and a curious thing to do, given the time of day.

  “Get bigger sticks,” the taller one said.

  “I not your woman. I no take orders from you.”

  “For now you do. Sky Man says so, until we done.”

  A chill ran up Skye’s spine. The last man to mention that name had cut her father’s throat seconds after. She'd hid under their cart and watched her father’s hair being ripped back. Sky Man sends his regards.

  She ran hours that night after watching her settlement being systematically slaughtered by a group of organized wastelanders. Eventually she came across sanctuary in the form of Omega.

  Skye spent ten years dreaming of a faceless man coming for her every night. Six years hunting him every day to get her revenge.

  She decided to hold off her attack and see if these two revealed any information about his whereabouts.

  Nobody believed her story. The woman who ran the small orphanage told her it was a child’s mind dealing with a horrific event. They had been outlaws, not a drilled invasion force of wastelanders. It wasn’t considered possible. They didn’t coordinate in groups.

  Ross was the only other survivor that night, and he never supported her version of events. He claimed he fought off and killed six men before finally abandoning his post. If he had, he would know the truth. They were no simple outlaws of society; they were mutated abominations of men on a mission.

  Ross ran like a coward. He wasn’t the hero that presented himself at Omega. Finding Sky Man would prove her right.

  “I don’t care what he says,” the younger wastelander said. “I am free man. I do what I please.”

  “He says we come here. Take north man and burn him. Start problem with other stone city.”

  “Why?”

  The older wastelander laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. “Make them all easier to kill. Then we live in stone city with Sky Man. Own their food and tools. So stop argue and get more sticks, idiot.”

  If their motivation was to cause unrest between two strongholds, they were doomed to failure. They didn’t count on a witness.

  With the rain continuing to fall, soaking her regulation uniform, Skye decided not to waste any more time. A citizen could be dying close to their location. The trail of blood didn’t look good. The longer she delayed, the less chance she had of saving this poor soul.

  She had the element of surprise and couldn’t see any weapons. Wastelanders usually carried knives, axes or spears. No match for her pistol at this range.

  A footstep squelched on the forest floor behind her.

  She spun and faced a man, like the other two. He lurched forward. She raised her pistol to fire. He swung his thick muscular arm and smashed it out of her hand with his fist.

  He clamped his right hand around Skye’s throat and squeezed. “You listen to my friends. Now means I have to kill you early.”

  She struggled to prize away his hand. He slapped her across the face with his left palm.

  How could she have been so stupid and forget about the tracks that led to the ruins. She never made these kinds of mistakes. Talk of Sky Man had distracted her.

  She refused to panic and raised her knees. The others were only yards away. Taking three would be impossible at close quarters while he still had her in a firm grip.

  “Stay still, you. I don’t want to smash your head until I have proper kiss. No pretty girls like you where I come from.”

  In the corner of her eye, she could see the other two had stopped building their fire and focused on her. Thankfully these were the northern variety, otherwise all three would be instantly attacking. Wastelanders were migrating from the south in increasing numbers, and brought an extreme and unquestioning form of aggression.

  Skye thrust her feet against his chest and pushed out as hard as she could. His grip momentarily loosened. She sprang forward and gouged her thumbs into the corners of both of his eyes. He roared in pain and swung his fists. Both wild punches sailed over her head.

  She reached for her boot, pulled a dagger free and rammed it under his jaw. His eyes bulged and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his throat.

  The larger wastelander pulled a spear from behind a tree. He hunched like a bull preparing to advance, growled and charged. Skye skidded to one knee, grabbed her pistol, aimed and fired.

  His head snapped back after the round punctured his forehead, and he thudded face first into the boulder she initially hid behind.

  The younger one ran at her, his face contorted in rage. He jabbed the rusty barbed point of his spear forward and bared his rotting teeth.

  Skye aimed and fired. The chamber clicked, but nothing happened.

  She pulled the trigger again. Nothing. “Shit!”

  He lunged at her with his spear. She sprang to her left, stuck her leg in front of him, and used his momentum to plant his face in the dirt.

  Skye stamped on his hand with the heel of her boot and ripped his spear free. He tried to wriggle away. She thrust her boot at the side of his head. He screamed and desperately tried to grab her ankle.

  She raised the spear in a two-handed grip and rammed it into his back. He let out a wet croak, and his arms relaxed by his side.

  She stooped next to his head. “Say hello to Sky Man for me.”

  Skye searched the immediate area and found the abducted man propped against a trunk. His glazed eyes stared blankly to one side. Blood stained his uniform and face. She recognized him as one of the new tower recruits, Jai Lee. Early this morning he’d left with a message from Omega to Sigma.

  Everyone in a tower spent time as a messenger while being trained. Somebody had to do this dangerous job, and the less experienced the better. They hated losing an experienced number off the clock.

  She checked his pulse, but knew deep down it was too late.

  Taking a moment to catch her breath, she surveyed the scene of carnage. Nobody could deny this compelling evidence that outside groups were making a move against them. She tore Jai’s Omega-issued dog tags from his neck and stuffed them in her trouser pocket.

  Before leaving the scene, Skye retrieved her dagger from the larger man’s throat, wiped it clean on his shirt, holstered her useless pistol, and searched the wastelanders for evidence. The younger one was still alive, but he didn’t deserve a quick death. She had to get back to Omega and inform them of the impending threat.

  Sky Man had returned.

  Chapter Three

  Jake staggered deeper into the woodland cover and tried to process what he had just seen. The sign, written in English, and wooden carvings in the ship only led him to a single bizarre conclusion. He was being used as a tourist attraction.

  The ship must have come down in another English-speaking country. Possibly his only bit of good news since waking. The UK, Canada, Austral
ia, New Zealand and Ireland were also part of the Allied Alliance. The chill climate suggested he wasn’t anywhere near the Caribbean.

  An oily burning smell hung in the air, probably from the factory.

  The buildings were only two hundred yards away, making Jake acutely aware that he could be quickly and easily spotted once he decided to make his move.

  The breeze wrapped a sheet of yellowing newspaper against the base of an oak tree. He moved across to it in a crouching run and picked it up.

  His eyes immediately shot to the date on the top right-hand corner. Epsilon Monthly, April 2205. It seemed impossible that he spent one hundred and thirty years in stasis, but it did provide an explanation for the sign and the state of the ship.

  The headline on the article read: Stronghold facing fight!

  The top two paragraphs were still visible, the rest faded to a blur.

  Due to the declining popularity of Phillips, Epsilon requires a solution in order to maintain the clock at three thousand. The Trader will not sanction an increase of weapons exports, so the Beth and Barry are currently looking at our alternatives. Suggestions so far include an offer of new sets of pots for the other seven strongholds, or a commissioned statue of their choosing.

  At the moment, we still have space for seventy more citizens. If a cut is required, Beth and Barry have assured this paper that it will be done through natural decline and recruitment from outside will be frozen.

  Not only was Jake a tourist attraction, it looked like he wasn’t even a good one. From what he could gather from the article, the size of this stronghold’s population linked directly to their economy, him being part of that. Who were these people?

  He had to get the hell out of here and contact HQ. If they still existed. The realization hit that he might not know a single person alive, although they knew him.

  Part of Jake’s basic training taught him how to live off the land. He needed food and water to help build his strength, but his priority was getting over the high stone wall, away from this place.

  A twig snapped to his front. He ducked behind a tree and peered around it.

  A young boy, about six years old, walked through the trees, wearing a brown woolly sweater and black trousers. He held a carving of the Orbital Bomber and made a whooshing noise as he swept it from left to right.

  Jake lowered his rifle. “Hey, kid … Over here.”

  The boy froze.

  He held out his remaining blackcurrant gel pack. “Would you like this? Tastes good. You can have it if you answer a couple of questions.”

  The boy dropped his ship, pressed his hands against his cheeks, and screamed. He ran for the town without looking back. Jake considered chasing him, but that would clearly lead him toward trouble. His walking, talking self might not find friends around here. He decided to find a place to climb the perimeter wall.

  He sprinted to his left, away from the housing area and factory, bounding over the soft ground while swerving between trees. Adrenaline pumped through his body, allowing for easier movement. The perimeter wall wasn’t far away.

  Jake’s right foot tangled in a thick knot of weeds. He flew forward and twisted to his side. His shoulder crashed against the ground and skidded through a thick layer of damp pine needles.

  The twenty-foot-high, dirty stone wall was only thirty yards away. An eighty-yard rampart ran between two red brick towers on his left and right. It looked like the defensive wall of a medieval town or fort. He understood why the newspaper called this place a stronghold. A gravel track ran around the inside of it.

  A low metallic clank, like a Swiss cow bell, repeatedly chimed from the main center of the stronghold. The same noise echoed from the tower on Jake’s right, shortly followed by the one on his left. Others rang around the perimeter. It sounded like a herd of wild cows on the loose. That would be preferable to the probable reason behind the collective noise. An alarm to signal his hunt.

  Jake took a deep breath, sprang to his feet, and wiped pine needles off the side of his rifle. He ran to the edge of the track and glanced in both directions.

  The wall and track curved into the distance on either side. To his immediate right, a wooden ladder was propped against the rampart. He could jump over the wall from there, if the drop on the other side wasn’t potentially fatal.

  A male voice shouted from the left tower. Jake couldn’t make out the words above the clattering bells.

  Other voices called out behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Ten figures moved through the trees, dressed in dark blue jumpsuits, the closest carried a hammer. He had to go for it.

  He slung his rifle over his shoulder and rushed for the ladder. A voice from the tower bellowed again as Jake’s boots crunched over the gravel track. He immediately grabbed the smooth wooden ladder rungs and ascended. He hurried to the top, pulled his rifle into his shoulder, and carried out a quick visual sweep.

  Six men and four women appeared through the trees and stopped on the track below him. They gaped up, and one whispered something to another. Thunder rumbled in the darkening sky.

  A steel door on the right-hand tower creaked open, and a bearded man, also in a blue jumpsuit, stepped onto the rampart, no more than thirty yards away. He trained his strange-looking rifle on Jake.

  The bells stopped ringing.

  “Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head,” the bearded man said in an unrecognizable English accent.

  Jake edged back until his back pressed against the ramparts. He peered over it. A twenty-foot drop on the other side. Tree stumps peppered the ground twenty yards in front of the wall, only a short distance to cover to reach the forest’s edge.

  “Don’t even think about it,” beard said. “If you move, I fire.”

  Jake decided to gamble that they wanted to take their tourist attraction alive. Beard’s aggressive expression and threat added to his burning desire to leave.

  Jake earned his parachute wings during basic training. At the time he thought it was a pointless relic of hundred-year old armies, but the landing technique would avoid him twisting an ankle or breaking a leg. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he would throw himself sideways to sequentially distribute the landing shock along five parts of his body. His feet and the sides of his calf, thigh, hip and back.

  He didn’t hesitate and vaulted over the wall.

  The ground rushed toward him and he thudded against it, went to his right, and rolled in the damp grass. His right ankle twinged, but he didn’t have any serious damage.

  A shot split the air and thumped in the ground a few yards away. The bearded man aimed over the wall. Another man joined him.

  “Stay right where you are. It’s dangerous out there.”

  Jake would rather take his own chances. These lot didn’t seem the friendliest bunch. He darted for the forest, zigzagging between tree stumps, expecting to hear gunfire at any moment. None came, and he entered the densely packed forest.

  * * *

  Jake decided to find some clear ground to try to establish his location. Maybe he would see a recognizable landmark, an Allied vehicle or craft, any sign of familiarity to help him plan his next moves. If it really was 2205, and he had his doubts that a human could survive so long in stasis, the world would be changed significantly. Alliances might have shifted, the balance of power changed.

  On current evidence, civilization had regressed rather than advanced. At least people spoke his language. The newspaper mentioned seven other strongholds. If they were in close proximity, Jake might have a chance of capturing an individual and asking them questions. At the moment, it didn’t feel safe to approach one of these places without knowing their potential to be a threat.

  He headed for the sound of running water. A foaming, twenty-yard-wide river cut through the forest and snaked down a gentle hill, gushing over rocks that jagged above the surface. Following one of these in any survival situation usually led to civilization or a coast, although the distance could be vast. Wherever the river fl
owed toward, it was away from Epsilon.

  Jake knelt on the bank, splashed his face, cupped his hands and drank. He felt the cool refreshing liquid run through his body, and followed it up by eating his last blackcurrant gel pack. The boy not accepting it was a blessing in disguise, as the pack provided some much-needed carbohydrates.

  Gentle rain began to fall as he trudged a mile along the bank. Jake had no idea of the time. He didn’t need a wristwatch in an Orbital Bomber; they'd had digital clocks everywhere. The newspaper didn’t look too old, and this wasn’t atypical of a spring day in April or May in the northern hemisphere.

  The dark forest on either side looked uninviting and claustrophobic. Thankfully the river helped with his orientation. The forest eventually thinned to Jake’s right, and he noticed the shattered remains of a village amongst the trees.

  He approached to investigate. A broken wall surrounded an area the size of a football field. Two sides were reduced to piles of rubble. The four towers on each corner were little more than collapsed ruins. All thirty stone houses inside were burnt-out shells. Black scorch marks covered stone lintels above the smashed windows. Slates collapsed through the roof, leaving only charred timbers.

  In the center of the settlement, weeds and small trees sprang out of the gaps in a cobbled square. To the left of the houses, eighty wooden crosses poked out of the undergrowth in various states of decay. All crudely constructed out of two stakes lashed together with rotting rope, apart from two: varnished pine crosses at the end of the back row, with names carved on them. Bunches of wilted flowers lay on the trimmed grass at each of their bases. Jake read the closest inscription.

  Thomas Reed. Died 2195.

  Somebody still cared about him and still visited this place, although it must have been years since people lived here. It also made Jake finally believe the date on the newspaper. Two pieces of matching evidence from separate areas, coupled with the odd stronghold and the state of his ship. He didn’t believe in coincidences.

  The situation blew his mind, but dwelling on what he now knew to be true wouldn’t solve anything.