Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Don P. Bick

  Chapter 3

  Light hits my eyelids; I am instantly awake. I blink for a moment, regaining my bearings, the events of the past two days flooding in on me. I poke at my memories, pressing to see further back than that white, sterile hallway.

  Nothing comes.

  It is as if I did not exist before that point in time.

  I climb from the stiff mattress, moving to the shuttered windows and pulling them open. The town is already in motion below. A farmer trundles in with a cart full of turnips; a middle-aged woman leads her horse by the reins out toward the main gate. The sun is just peeking over the building opposite me.

  I stand, facing it, the golden glow warming my skin. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and draw in a deep breath. Slowly I swing my arms out at my side, bringing them up to meet, palm-together, over my head. My body throbs with pain all over - an aching pull deep in my calf; a sharper twinge in my right hip.

  I draw my hands straight down to hold for a moment at my chest.

  Aaptaniya.

  The word tumbles around in my head and seems to fit, even though I have no idea what it means. I let it settle into place.

  I roll my shoulders, then move to the dresser and push it back away from the door. At the bottom of the stairs, the bartender glances at me as I walk into the room; he holds up a thick glass. A question shimmers in his eyes. I shake my head and walk out to the street. The pair of boys are back on their watch by the main gate, and one of them salutes me as I head out into the crisp morning. I return the salute, then head north.

  My mind sorts through the figures as I follow a narrow dirt path along the side of the curving river, following its rocky banks north. Ragnor had said this gate of asylum was two-hundred-fifty miles north. It was autumn, and the temperatures were reasonable. My leather jacket held off the soft chill of morning. By afternoon I might even be a bit warm. The terrain seemed reasonable, and, accounting for river crossings and denser woods, I imagined I could manage an average of about three miles an hour. Say ten hours a day, to allow for gathering food and getting ample rest. I wouldn’t want to drive myself so hard that I fell into a dead sleep and risked being taken unawares.

  So perhaps nine days total before I reached my destination.

  I nod in acceptance, my legs taking the path at a slow, steady pace. No need to rush. Those who raced burned themselves out early. The quick-starts rarely finished the course. If I take each day as it comes, I will make it there. I know I have to.

  A burst of red comes into view ahead, and I draw to a stop by the chokecherry bushes. I pluck one, rolling its crimson shape in my finger before popping it in my mouth. I suck at its meat, being sure to spit out the toxic seeds.

  I fill my pockets with them, eating my fill, and then press onward. A gentle breeze blows along the river, and a flock of snow geese streams overhead, honking in chorus. The river runs almost straight north-south in this stretch, and the sun eases its path overhead through a brilliant blue sky. Across the way, a great blue heron stands stock still in the reeds, his eye focused down into the depths of the water.

  There is a movement to the far right, and I freeze, my hand dropping to my hip. A dark shape moves onto the gentle rise of a hill. It is a stag, twelve point at least, the antlers swept out in majestic strength. His ears are cocked forward, and he sweeps his massive head slowly from left to right, surveying his domain. The only other sound’s the sweep of the tumbling water moving past my feet.

  Then he raises his nose in the air, gives a snort, and is gone.

  Afternoon fades into ruby evening. The river has turned northwest now, moving in long, flowing loops that remind me of a campfire smoke trail in a lazy wind. I finish off the chokecherries, washing them down with the cool water. I feel keenly the lack of a proper knife. I’ll have to remedy that, the next town I come across. I have no way to whittle a spear to catch a fish; no way to easily clean any game I might trap.

  The sun sinks below the horizon, and I find a hollow along the bank. I have not seen hide nor hair of any other person throughout my long day. With my gentle pace, I should sleep lightly tonight, able to wake quickly should anyone come close. Even so, I spend a few minutes gathering up small twigs and branches, scattering them thoroughly around my chosen spot.

  Then I nestle my back against the hollow, close my eyes, and drop off to sleep.

  The stag stands on his high hill, his deep brown eyes sweeping the territory before him, ready to ward off any intruder. His shoulder muscles ripple, sure, ready, prepared for action.

  The man stands with his back to me, a rifle slung behind him, staring out over the edge of the bluff to the rolling forest below. I draw my eyes along the muscles of his shoulders, their outline visible beneath the tan hemp shirt he wears. His dark brown hair ripples in waves down past his shoulders. He turns –

  The image fades to black.

  I blink my eyes open as golden highlights edge the bank of the river, sending a glistening sheen to the tumbling ripples. My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I push it aside. I draw to my feet, turning to face the sun, and sweep my arms to the side and up. The aches have lessened, but still there is that pulse at my calf and the sharper tweak at my right hip. I drop my hands to my chest, soaking in the moment.

  Aaptaniya.

  My hand drops of its own volition to my hip, and I nurse the spot. The area feels tender, and I pull up my shirt to take a look. The flesh seems unmarked, matching the other side in every way.

  I shrug and set into motion.

  The low grasslands morph into a stand of American elm, the dark, twisting branches a counterpoint to the brilliant golden-pumpkin foliage in fluffy clouds above. I smile as a pair of sparrows chase each other through the limbs.

  There’s a movement to the right, and I stop, sweeping my eyes, searching in the shadows. If I was lucky enough to flush a pheasant, perhaps I could bring it down with my revolver and have something more substantial than berries for dinner. My hand eases to my hip –

  A middle-aged, wiry woman strides a step forward from the deep brush, spear in hand, a mass of furs and leather covering her gangly body. Her long hair is matted and streaked with grey; her face is an indeterminable color beneath the smears of dirt and blood.

  Her voice is a harsh bark. “Stay back! I’m a red!”

  I put my hands out to the side. She is a good twenty feet away, but I’m not sure how skilled she is with that spear. “I am not here to harm you,” I assure her.

  “ ‘Course not, I’m a red,” she snaps. “You know better.”

  “I do,” I agree calmly.

  She scans behind me, as if expecting a larger group, then her eyes dart back to hold mine. “Move along,” she demands. “This place is mine. You find your own spot.”

  I nod, breathing slowly, willing my posture to remain relaxed. She is a wild animal, twitching, her spear arm trembling with barely held-in energy. I back away from her, moving further north, retreating from her territory. I wait until I have turned the bend and moved out of sight of her before putting my back to her and striding forward.

  A sense of loss tickles at the corner of my mind. She has been the first person I have seen in two days, and I would have liked to talk with her, if only for a moment. Perhaps I could have learned more about this world I am passing through.

  That would have to wait until I reached Lamur.

  It is hours later when the first sign of the large town glimmers on the horizon. This is far more substantial than the outpost where I acquired my clothes. A stockade fence, nearly sixteen feet high, surrounds a substantial area to the east of the river. It backs into high, grey bluffs on the right. The gates protrude from the wall the way a wolf’s mouth protrudes from his massive head. Several men line the wall, rifles held ready in their arms. Their eyes follow me as I cover the distance to them.

  There is a stocky man already waiting before the gate, a large leather sack slung over his shoulder, his thick, curly hair mostly grey. The gates pull open b
efore him, and I see there’s a long, enclosed corridor within, with another closed gate on the other side. As he steps past the first gate, it closes behind him.

  One of the wall-guards, a thick man with a barrel chest, drops the nose of the rifle to point down into the chute. His voice is calm and even. “You touch your gun and you die.” He states it as if it’s a common greeting, not a threat of death.

  The rifle’s barrel makes a slow sweep from left to right, presumably following the progress of the man within. There’s a creaking noise from within the gate complex, and the guard raises his rifle, returning it to point again at the sky. His eyes drift back to me.

  His voice calls out to the man opposite. “Open the gate!”

  The pair of doors swing wide before me, and I step in to the shadows. The corridor is perhaps twenty feet long by six feet wide. I take a few steps in, and the grinding noise behind me indicates the gates have closed again. The guard’s voice high above is without inflection. “Keep moving. You touch your guns, and they become mine. Along with everything else your corpse holds.”

  I leave my hands at my side, the leather of my jacket between them and my guns. The gate before me grows closer –

  A loud blaring noise fills the narrow corridor, bright crimson lights flash, and instinct drives me to toss back the jacket’s flaps, to reach for –

  A voice sounds within my head, urgent, low - a voice I trust with my life.

  Freeze.

  I do, instantly, my fingers only inches away from my guns.

  The blaring fills my ears, the flashing lights nearly blind me, and I turn my head up to meet the gaze of the man on the wall. His finger is in the trigger, his gun sights steady on my skull.

  His eyes flick to something behind me, and the constant alarm mercifully ceases, leaving only the flashing of the light.

  His voice is calm but steely when he speaks. “We don’t like your kind in here, Red,” he snaps.

  I hold his gaze, my hands maintaining their position. The chance of me drawing and shooting him before he drilled that bullet through my skull was slim, but not impossible.

  I pitch my tone to be reasonable. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  He gives a barking laugh. “Sure thing, Red,” he snaps. “Nor from the Wardens, either, I imagine.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “From who?”

  He looks at me for a long minute, and then there’s an easing to his shoulders, a relaxing to the hand that holds the rifle. He doesn’t lower it, but there’s a releasing of the tension which runs through his frame.

  He calls out to the surrounding group. “Think we got ourselves a Red Virgin here, boys.”

  A ripple of laughter runs amongst the men, a counterpoint to the steady flashing of crimson light.

  I maintain my steady gaze into his eyes. “And what might that be?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “Why, dear, that would be you,” he explains. He makes a sweep of his arm, back to encompass the town. “You see, we here are the worst of the worst. That’s why we were sent into Noda. It’s why we were set apart from that world of computers and microwaves, of cars and convenience stores.” His gaze draws down to me. “But you, you are the worst of the worst of the worst. You were bad enough that the Wardens felt it important enough to track you.”

  I give my head a short shake. “Track me?”

  He nods. “Somewhere south of the border, in a plush, air-conditioned office full of leather chairs and mahogany furniture, the wardens have an entire wall made up of a map of Noda. And on that map is a speckling of little red dots. Each one of those dots represents one of you. And as they move and twist over the map, the wardens watch.”

  His grin grows toothy. “Should one of those dots stray within one hundred feet of the gate, the turrets lock on automatically. POP, and it’s Christmas time for the rest of us.”

  I look down at my garb, at the beaded leather jacket and the dark leggings. “You’re mistaken,” I insist. “I removed every item of clothing less than forty-eight hours after I got in.” My eyes glance at the guns at my side, and my brow creases. “Or is this a ruse to get your hands on my guns and ammo?”

  He laughs at that, giving a wave with his rifle. “If I wanted your weapons, I wouldn’t need any lights or alarms to take those,” he points out. “No, the tracker isn’t on you.”

  “Then how –”

  He leans forward, his eyes bright with delight. “It’s in you.”

  A cold tremor runs through me, and my eyes sweep the other men on the wall. They are nodding in agreement. This is not some sort of a ruse.

  I bring my eyes back to the lead guard. “So how do I get it out?”

  His laugh is rich with amusement. “Oh, Old Sanders tried that. He came to our gates time and time again, each time with a new gouge in his thigh; a new bloody bandage at his arm. A hunter found his corpse, finally, one afternoon in February. The old fool had tried to carve out his right eye.”

  He shakes his head. “Maybe you’ll be like Jacobs instead. He spent his days spelling out foul words with his movements. I bet the Wardens had a field day with that. Until, of course, a cougar got to him. Shame, that. Jacobs had a good way of spinning a yarn.”

  He motions with his head, and the door behind me pulls open with a creak. The guard looks down on me again. “Head south,” he advises. “Easy pickings down there, with the tangs coming in every few weeks. Best thing for you Reds.”

  I purse my lips, but say nothing, backing up steadily through the open gates. He holds his bead on me until I pass through them. The thick wooden doors give a hollow thud when they seal.

  He brings the rifle back into a neutral position, gives me one last look, then returns his gaze to the distant horizon, as if I had ceased to exist.

  I turn and walk north on the thin path between the river on my left and the walled fortress on my right. At last the structures are behind me, and only the looping river stretches before me, quiet and desolate.

  I know my next step with every drop of blood in my body. Somehow, no matter what it takes, I have to get this thing out of me.