Sixth Cycle

by Darren Wearmouth

“Is Rip Van Winkle part of the team?” a woman with short blond hair said.

  “His name’s Jake. Drop the childish nicknames. He’s military trained and will benefit our team. Now let’s move.”

  The team shouldered their rifles and advanced at a slow pace. Dust stung Jake’s eyes and impaired his vision. They had fifty yards of visibility in all directions.

  “Rip Van Winkle?” he said.

  “Most were taken to see you as a child. I’ve heard a few others.”

  “What’s with all the dust? I don’t remember Oregon being like this?”

  “The levels built up because of the decaying towns and cities. It comes in waves. This should be hitting Omega in half an hour.”

  Four of the team grabbed one end of the trunk and heaved it to the side of the road. The other six formed a wide circle around them, each covering an arc of fire to their front.

  Trader stopped twenty yards short of them and put his finger to his lips.

  Something rustled in the undergrowth next to the shoulder.

  He swung his pistol around. A scream pierced the air.

  Footsteps pounded along the road ahead. An axe spun over the team clearing the log and skidded along the surface past Jake.

  Two wastelanders charged out of the undergrowth at Trader. He fired at both. One collapsed, the other continued forward, clutching the side of his stomach. Jake pumped two rounds into his torso. The force of them checked him, and he collapsed backward, five yards from their position.

  Rifles cracked to Jake’s left.

  The wastelanders were trying a badly coordinated pincer movement. Trader edged to Jake’s side, and they both aimed at the still bushes and shrubs that lined the highway.

  One of his team sprinted over. “We’ve taken two down ahead. All clear back here?”

  “For the moment. Clear that damned log. If others are in the area, they’ll be attracted by the shots.”

  He nodded and returned forward. Jake glanced down at the closest wastelander in his dirty black leather clothing. He had a golf-ball-sized growth above his left eye and boils on his neck.

  For the next minute, Jake and Trader stood in silence, sweeping their weapons across the side of the road.

  “All clear,” a man called from ahead.

  “Move out!” Trader shouted.

  The group collectively returned to their vehicles. Jake slammed the SUV door and clicked down the lock.

  Chapter Eight

  Skye’s convoy sped through the decaying landscape along a weed-infested road. She cupped her hand over her eyes, protecting them from the dust, and gazed at the abandoned ruins of a small town. The shell of a large house on the outskirts, with two rusting vehicle skeletons in the drive, signaled they were five minutes from Zeta. Finch once told her that the place was Gothic revival style, but that didn’t mean much. She used features like this ruined house as distance markers between the strongholds.

  Wastelanders had once used a row of five wooden shops by the side of the road to stage an ambush. She swept her rifle along broken dirty windows and looked for any signs of movement around the collapsed shelves inside. They always chose a hiding place to spring an attack, but never in a large group like this morning.

  The SUV crashed through a gouge in the crumbling asphalt. Skye grabbed the steel roll bar to steady herself and let her weapon hang loose.

  “How long are we staying for?” the driver said.

  “I’m not sure yet. You might have to go back without me.”

  Skye’s thoughts turned to Finch’s second request. Killing an outlaw. She had never shot anyone in cold blood before and started to have second thoughts. Completing the mission would depend on what his contact told her about the man and his crimes against society. Putting a bullet in someone’s head for stealing food wasn’t an option.

  A gust of wind blew across the vehicle, coating her in more grainy dust. The analogue dashboard clock clicked past three o’clock. They did well to reach this far in sixty minutes.

  The walls of Zeta loomed in the distance, built on a natural plateau with excellent views for miles around, when conditions allowed.

  Skye could never take her eyes off the old gas station that lay half a mile from the gates. Eroding remnants of six fuel pumps protruded from the cracked forecourt. Two still had faded black rubber hoses attached. Six concrete columns surrounded them, the supports for holding up the roof, which slumped in the middle and rested on top of a derelict brick building.

  It was hard to imagine how easily accessible resources were to people before the war. Driving around in safety, shopping in stores and having access to friends and goods through a computer seemed an abstract idea. Skye liked to look on the bright side. She lived in the same space but had a different set of challenges.

  One day the planet would be connected again, but they had to make it safe first. The emergence of Phillips might push forward the development, and Skye looked forward to speaking with him again, if Epsilon didn’t put him back to sleep. In her opinion, they couldn’t afford to let a source from the old world go untapped.

  The SUV hit the smooth paved road and approached the gates to Zeta. The area surrounding the stronghold still had scorch marks from their regular burns. Zeta liked a clear space outside the wall, to avoid any nasty surprises. A repainted old sign that gently rocked in the breeze read Welcome to Zeta.

  It didn’t feel like four years since her last visit. She had several reasons for avoiding the place. Most of all, the officers rubbed her the wrong way. They were always looking down their noses at their guards and citizens. Omega wasn’t perfect, but it was nothing compared to the oppression that resided here.

  Zeta produced uniforms that clearly set the officers apart. Dark blue forage caps, stiff navy jackets and trousers, and boots that gave off a metal click when they walked along the paving. A citizen’s heart must’ve sunk when they heard that sound approach. Skye felt sure the governor selected the most brutish people to commission. He ruled the place with an iron fist. She could never fit into his way of thinking.

  The medical center provided a saving grace. Zeta's strict discipline helped run the place with precision, and it quickly boosted their population clock when their reputation for disease-free care spread around the other strongholds.

  The thick wooden gates between the high granite walls opened. Two guards walked out of the small gap and stood either side of the road. One lifted a handheld radio to his mouth.

  Skye switched to the Zeta channel.

  The radio squelched. “… confirm who you are?”

  “Zeta guard, this is Lieutenant Skye Reed from Omega. I have three casualties for the medical center. Over.”

  “We’ve been expecting you. Drive in and park on the right.”

  “Copy that, Reed out.”

  The gates fully opened. Several storage trucks moved out in the opposite direction, no doubt delivering clothing under the instructions of Trader.

  Skye's convoy drove through the gates and parked in a cobbled yard next to the guardhouse. Skye jumped out of the SUV and went to sign in. Zeta kept a written record of every coming and going from the stronghold. They liked to make sure visitors didn’t linger and take advantage of their resources.

  Two men pushed open a tall sliding door on the side of the block-built textile factory. A woman wheeled out a dumpster full of waste material. Skye peered inside at the busily whirring rollers on the mechanical hemp-spinning machine.

  Although the internal area of Zeta covered three times the size of Omega, fifty brick-clad apartment blocks packed tightly around the factory. Beyond that, they harvested hemp. The real key to the stronghold's success.

  Skye entered the guardhouse and stood in front of the counter. An officer flipped open a hardback folder, thumbed to today’s page, and passed her a pen. “Sign here, please.”

  “No problem. Have you seen any wastelanders in groups recently?”

  “One attacked a patrol vehicle yesterday. Why do you ask?”


  “A group carried out a coordinated assault on Omega today. Thought I’d better warn you.”

  She wrote about the three casualties being delivered, and put a vague description about goods to be delivered after seeing a similar wording a few lines above.

  He gave her a false smile and snapped the folder shut. “We’ll keep a lookout for wastelanders. You’re free to get on with your business. Please leave by sundown.”

  A bearded officer stood by her SUV with a clipboard tucked under his arm. “Are you Lieutenant Reed?”

  “Call me Skye. Is there a problem?”

  “Governor Harrison wants to see you. Come this way.”

  “Can we drop the casualties off at the medical center first?”

  “My team will see to that. We can’t leave him waiting.”

  Skye reluctantly nodded and followed him past the factory toward the headquarters, a drab steel building with eight plastic windows.

  The Zeta officer held open the entrance door and led Skye past a sparse reception area with a tatty calendar on the wall. They stopped outside a blue door with Governor stenciled on it in black lettering.

  The officer knocked three times and stood to attention. Skye followed suit, hoping to avoid any unwanted scrutiny.

  Footsteps pounded inside, and the door swung open. The instantly recognizable figure of Harrison stood in the entrance, dressed in his officer’s jacket with light blue epaulets. He beckoned her into his office. “Lieutenant Reed, I haven’t seen you for years.”

  “Hello, Governor. I’ve been busy around Omega. You know how things are.”

  He sat behind his desk and studied a piece of paper. “It says here that you’ve got three casualties. Is there anything else you need to tell me?”

  Knowing Harrison deeper than his mask of civility, Skye decided to tell him about the shipment. The chances were that he already had his men look in the back of the truck while she visited the guardhouse.

  “I’ve got a delivery for Foreman Rhodes.”

  “A sanctioned trade?”

  “No. It’s just an exchange of goods outside the system. No reason why we can’t help each other, right?

  He sucked on the end of a pencil and stared at her. Skye cursed Finch inside for putting her into this position.

  “What do you have in the container?”

  “Knowing Governor Finch, it’s probably items scavenged from one of the old cities. I’m not trying to hide anything.”

  Harrison groaned and sat back. “Tell Finch he needs to speak to me personally in the future. I like to run a tight ship, which doesn’t include having bric-a-brac passed around citizens.”

  “I understand, Governor. I’ll be sure to tell him when I return to Omega.”

  “Make sure you do. Between talking about butterflies and searching for junk, I’m sure Finch has a brain in there somewhere.”

  “Can I make the delivery to Foreman Rhodes? I’d like to get back by last light.”

  “I’m coming with you. Rhodes has some questions to answer.”

  Skye nodded.

  * * *

  A worker directed Skye and Harrison to the far end of the factory. Rhodes, a middle-aged man dressed in navy coveralls, stood by a large open door that led to the hemp fields outside. He looked surprised to see them both and walked across the smooth stone floor to meet them.

  “Can I help you?” he said and nervously fidgeted with his cuff.

  Harrison jabbed a finger into his chest. “Lieutenant Reed tells me you’ve got a delivery from Finch. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  “It’s nothing, Governor. Just some old tools we’re exchanging. He sends me the surplus from Omega. I send him our broken ones.”

  “Why does he accept the trade?”

  “I don’t know. We usually throw them away. I’ve managed to get us a return.”

  Harrison took a step back and smiled. “I bet the selfish idiot uses them in his garden. Bring me some items from the container so I can inspect them.”

  “Yes, Governor. I’ll do it when I finish my shift.”

  “Make sure you do. If I find out you’re lying …”

  A machine rattled behind Rhodes. He glanced over his shoulder and back at Harrison. “Would you like me to give Lieutenant Reed a tour of the factory?”

  Harrison sighed. “If you must. I’m sure, like me, she’s got better things to be doing.”

  “I don’t mind,” Skye said to the governor. “Beats patrolling the Omega rampart.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t stay for the whole show?”

  “I won’t be offended, Governor,” Rhodes said. “You know this place back to front.”

  “No need to kiss my ass, Rhodes. Get on with it.”

  Rhodes led them to a large container with a pulley system on the side of it. “From the hemp fields you saw on the way up, we move the harvest to here. This is where we process the plants. We separate the woody core from the bast fiber with a hammermill.”

  “Interesting,” Skye said, but felt the opposite.

  Harrison wasn’t even listening. He followed four yards behind them and fiddled with his radio. A spinning machine started to clatter on the far side of the factory.

  Rhodes raised his voice. “The bast fiber is then cleaned and carded to the desired core content and fineness. Isn’t that right, Governor?”

  Harrison looked up. “What?”

  “I was telling Lieutenant Reed about the cleaning and carding.”

  “Right. Cleaning and carding. Carry on.”

  “We carry out a chemical removal of the natural binders to produce weavable fiber.”

  Harrison covered his mouth and yawned. “I’ll leave you in the capable hands of Foreman Rhodes. Make sure you tell Finch what I told you.”

  “I will, Governor. Nice to meet you again.”

  He narrowed his eyes and turned to Rhodes. “And you. Don’t forget to bring me a selection of those tools. I need to decide if I can distribute them more efficiently.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll do it tonight.”

  Harrison gave Rhodes an extended glare before leaving by the open factory door.

  Skye watched him leave and let out a deep breath. Acting was never her strongest quality, and now she was firmly part of whatever Finch and Rhodes had going on.

  “Thought the old coot was never going to leave,” Rhodes said, changing his tune from nervous to confident. “Best way to get rid of him is to start explaining just what we real citizens are doing. All he’s bothered about is running his damned group of bullies.”

  “I don’t appreciate you or Finch compromising me like this. I only agreed to do it as a one-off favor.”

  Rhodes smiled. “It’s really no big deal. Be comforted by the fact that you’re helping the people who deserve it the most.”

  “Finch said the same thing. I doubt it will help at my court-martial.”

  “It won’t come to that. Trust me.”

  Rhodes appeared and sounded more genuine than all of the officials in Zeta. She gazed out to the hemp fields. Rows of men and women, with baskets hung around their necks, stooped and collected the latest harvest. All were dressed in nothing more than glorified rags. A telling sign from a place that regularly sent clothes to the other seven strongholds.

  If the delivery helped the workers, it at least provided a justification against the risk involved in carrying it out. This place was probably heading for a revolution.

  Rhodes gestured his head to a dark corner of the factory. Skye followed him, and they stood behind a stack of compressed hemp.

  “Let’s get down to serious business,” Rhodes said. “Finch tells me you’re one heck of a tracker. Did he mention what the outlaws are doing to my workers?”

  “He said you were having a problem but didn’t go into specifics. Before you continue, it’s only fair to tell you that I haven’t made my mind up yet.”

  Rhodes nodded and glanced in both directions. “We have fields spread outside the city wa
lls. I found a perfect spot a mile west, and we send workers out every day.”

  “The outlaws are attacking Zeta workers? What for?”

  “We send out a supply of food so they don’t have to come back for lunch. At first the outlaws raided us for food. The attacks have gotten worse lately. Some of the things they’ve done to those poor girls …”

  He closed his eyes and bowed his head. Skye hadn’t heard of this type of behavior before, apart from a few old stories about wastelanders. The thought of it disgusted her.

  “Do they take the women?” she asked.

  “Yes, and murder our men. It’s spiraling out of control, and we need to stop it.”

  “Why won’t Harrison do anything? Doesn’t it put pressure on your workforce and clock?”

  “Some of the workers aren’t officially on the clock. He calls it his expendable resource pool and doesn’t bother sending out guards. They have to use their farming tools to defend themselves.”

  “That’s illegal. Does Trader know about it?”

  “What do you think? We’re not exactly above the law ourselves.”

  “Tell me about their leader. How do you know he’s responsible?”

  “It started getting worse after he showed up. It’s always the same story. A man with a graying black beard, directing a band of outlaws. They attack any individual who strays from the group.”

  The thought of being one of his victims sent a chill down her spine. Nobody deserved to be subjected to that kind of abuse. “Can you give me a description and possible location?”

  “Finch told me you were the right woman for the job and would understand. I’ve already prepared the details.”

  He handed her a rolled piece of paper. Skye stuffed it into the thigh pocket of her cargo pants. She still didn’t like the idea of killing a man in cold blood, but this outlaw deserved everything that was coming to him. If Zeta wouldn’t make him pay, she would.

  “Consider it done, Rhodes.”

  Chapter Nine

  Trader led the convoy toward the first bunker. Jake had visited three installations before, but not this one. From a distance the layout looked familiar. A large flat area, roughly three square miles, surrounded by a chain-link fence, a building by the gate and one over the top of the bunker’s entrance. The loading doors were obscured by a grass mound three hundred yards from the building and could only be opened internally. All pretty unexceptional to a casual observer. It was designed to be that way.