by Don P. Bick
Into The Wasteland
Ishtato Saga, Book 1
Lisa Shea
Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Shea / Minerva Webworks LLC
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Lisa Shea
Book design by Lisa Shea
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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~ v5~
Persevere.
Into The Wasteland
Chapter 1
“I will show you fear in a handful of dust.”
-- T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land
I blink my eyes. The hallway is narrow, clinically clean, and crowded with an undulating line of men and women extending ahead and behind. We are uniformly garbed in tangerine-orange cotton outfits with short sleeves and long legs reaching down to sturdy leather boots. The cloth’s color reminds me of Buddhist monks, peaceful, seeking alms along a quiet dirt roadway. But here the bodies are burly and scarred. Muscular arms are tattooed with swastikas and rough symbols I do not recognize.
The heavy-set man before me turns and glares; I take a step back. His small eyes skewer me for a moment longer before he settles into place again, shuffling forward beneath the glare of the fluorescent lights.
A reedy voice behind me pipes into my awareness.
“Hey there, young lady. Careful, now, he’s a repeat.”
I turn in confusion, my eyes sweeping down until I find him. He’s perhaps five foot, rail-thin, his large eyes deep-set in a wasted skull. He nods to make his point, his gaze darting forward to the hulking form before us. “He’s been here before,” he insists.
“Been where?”
The hunched figure shudders, then glances ahead with trepidation. “Nodo.”
The word means nothing to me, and I stare at him blankly.
An awareness brightens his eyes, and he looks me over with pity. “Chute blindness got to you? I’ve heard it happens. Well, your memory might come back eventually. Or it might not.” The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Or the locals will blast a hole through you before you get a chance to find out.”
There’s a harsh voice to my left. “Strap on your belt. Your hand touches the grip before the doors open, and you die.”
I look up in surprise. There’s a sheet of safety glass to my left, a momentary disruption in the long wall of alabaster, and behind it sits an officer in full riot gear. A metal drawer pushes open toward me, and within it is a leather belt with a holster holding a Ruger double-action revolver.
I lift it out of the drawer, popping open the cylinder with reflexive action.
Fully loaded. Six rounds.
I strap it on my hip, my fingers settling the buckle with practiced ease.
I take a step forward, and behind me the thin voice bubbles in nervousness. “I’ve never used one of these before,” he argues. “I don’t know how –”
I turn, and the drawer is sliding shut, the gun and belt still within. I reach for it, snagging it out, holding it toward him.
My voice is tight. “What do we need these for?”
His eyes dart forward again. “For the wasteland,” he mutters. “But I have never shot one of those. It won’t do me no good.”
I look down at the holster. It’s a reversible unit. I flop it to the other side, then strap it on my left hip, overlapping the other. “Stay behind me,” I instruct him.
He scurries closer to me, glancing around in nervousness. After a moment his voice comes, low, quiet.
“I’m Ragnor.”
My mouth tweaks into a wry smile. “That makes one of us that knows who he is.”
He gives a short bark. “It’ll come to you,” he promises. “In the meantime, we just have to survive these next twenty minutes. Tales tell that a full quarter don’t make it past this first part.”
I glance ahead to the bright white of the hallway, its length occupied by steadily moving bodies. “Oh?” The weapon station had been the only break in its length.
He nods. “The chute is the worst, from what I hear. The locals see our release as a Christmas of sorts – free offerings of fresh weapons, unused ammo, and a few pairs of boots and holsters. The cops have cleared the forest for perhaps two hundred yards, but that turns it into a no man’s land. If we can make it across that, we’ll be OK.”
I glance back. “Then what?”
His eyes brighten. “Well, then we’re loose in seventy thousand square miles of forest and frozen winter. All we have to do it is make it through the two-hundred-fifty miles north to the goal, and we’re free. We get complete amnesty.”
My brow raises. “Amnesty for what?”
He gives a wide smile. “I’m completely innocent of my charges,” he promises. “I am sure you are too. This is all some sort of mistake.”
A voice sounds from above, clinical, flat, and steady.
“Any convict who touches their weapon before the gates open will be shot.”
Ragnor’s eyes slide nervously to the guns at my hips. “They’re serious,” he warns. “Don’t want to give them an excuse.”
The room opens up before us into a chamber the size of half a football field. Orange-garbed people fill in around us, crowding forward, pressing us against the matte corrugated metal which lines the whole front wall. As the trickle slows, each person creates a space around them, perhaps two feet, settling, staring at that wall, easing their hand toward the weapon at their side.
Ragnor huddles behind me, peering at the metal with trepidation.
“They used to send prisoners out as soon as they were convicted,” he murmurs, his voice tight. “But the locals picked them off too easily. It became a death sentence. Now the cops send us out in large groups. Figure the locals only cull out the weak and slow that way.”
I feel the weight of the weapons on my hips, steady, sure. I stretch both hands wide, settling back my shoulders. I draw in a long, deep breath, absorbing the fear, sweat, and adrenaline coursing from all sides. I let out the air, my eyes focused with pinpoint precision on the metal ridges before me.
The gate rolls up.
Bright sunshine glints off the hulk of a burnt-out black limousine etched in rust. I dive for its cover, Ragnor tight behind me. Shots zing out overhead, and the heavy-set man at my left screams in agony, clutching his shoulder. I peer through the shattered windshield. The scene before me is chaos incarnate. Piles of tires smolder in low flames, sending billows of charcoal smoke high into a pale blue sky. The ground is dirt and gravel, spattered with blood, bits of leather, and the occasional bone. All around me people are screaming, shots are ringing out, and a burst of crimson shows where a bullet met its target.
I glance back. A three-story-high wall of smooth concrete stretches to either side, as far as the eye can see, marking a border of my new world. The back wall in the chamber we had come from pushes forward, evicting the few stragglers who scream in frantic panic. Another few sharp retorts and their corpses spin and fall, splaying on the soft dirt.
The metal gate slides closed.
Ragnor scuttles back to one of the bodies, digs at his side, and then comes forward to join me again.
I look ahead to where a large rectang
le of plywood lays angled over a mound of dirt. I nudge my head at it, and he nods. I send two shots forward, and then go racing for the cover. There’s the tang of a bullet just past my ear, but we make it there safely.
I drop to my stomach and poke my head around the edge. A burly man wearing a coon-skin cap is fifty feet ahead, his pock-marked face red with exertion. He is carefully aiming a revolver to his left, drawing a bead on a gangly convict with pale eyes.
I steady my gun with my left hand, draw in a breath, then hold it for a moment. I focus on his chest and squeeze.
Pop.
I raise the Ruger to his forehead, his eyes now wide with surprise, and pull again.
Pop.
The body falls, limp. In a moment I’m in motion, racing forward to the clump of twisted metal beams he had been crouching in. It might have once been a shed.
Ragnor’s voice is tight behind me. “Why’d’ya shoot him twice?”
My eyes scan the terrain ahead. “Once in the chest - a large target to take him down,” I explain. “Then once in the head, in case he’s wearing a vest.”
The forest line is only a short distance ahead, birch and oak nestled in fall foliage colors. The crimson and orange make a complimentary counterpoint to our outfits and the bursts of blood which are exploding all around me.
A shot tangs past us on the left, and I spin, shooting twice, taking out a dark-skinned woman with a jagged scar across her forehead. Then we sprint hard, our lungs bursting with the effort, and make the tree line.
Safe.
I take nothing for granted. We stay in motion, pushing hard, delving further into the shadows. We climb over rotting logs and slog through tumbling streams. The sounds of battle drift far behind us, the quiet rustle of the forest fills our ears, and at last the blood eases its thundering in my chest. We have been in motion for at least a full hour.
We have escaped the welcome net.
Ragnor’s tense face widens into a smile as we step into a quiet clearing. “Seventy-five percent!”
I smile at that. “It seems so,” I agree.
There is a rippling stream before us, nestled amongst the white birch, and my throat is parched. I step forward to the bank, looking down in its clear water. There is a shallow by where I stand, and the smooth surface gives me my first real glimpse of myself.
My hair is long, perhaps to my mid-back, and dark brown in color. Gentle waves give it some texture. My skin is tan, although from the sun or nature I cannot tell. My eyes are wide-set, deep brown, and steady with focus. My body within its orange uniform is slim, with round breasts and slim hips. I appear to be in my early twenties.
I give a soft shrug, and the figure before me shrugs back. It will have to do.
I drop easily to a knee to drink in the fresh water.
A single shot rings out high overhead, a distinctive zing with an echoing reverb. I throw myself flat on the sandy bank.
There is a groan behind me, and I turn my head. Ragnor is splayed back against the moss, his blond hair askew, his left hand clutching at the dark crimson stain which is spreading steadily across the tangerine orange of his shirt.
