Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Don P. Bick

  Chapter 9

  I breathe in deeply, the gentle light of morning against my eyelids, and a feeling of peace descends on me. The gnats and black flies have been left behind. A fresh breeze blows through our camp. A kindling of hope fills my heart.

  I walk up to the top of the rise and face the sun to the east. I do my morning ritual, greeting the sun, and am pleased that the scar at my right hip no longer gives me any trouble at all. The twinge at my calf is an old friend, a reminder of some long-lost encounter.

  Done, I clean up the camp and give Blaze a fond pat. His brown eyes are bright, alert, looking forward to the day ahead.

  I hold up my hand, looking at my fingers. Five more days. If my calculations are correct, the gate should only be five days from here, even at a gentle pace. And then all of this will finally be over. I have ammo, I have supplies, and I have Blaze by my side.

  We trek contentedly to the west, following the edge of the lake, and around lunchtime we stop for a bit of fishing. I’m delighted to catch a trout, and I grill it over a fire while Blaze munches contently at a patch of fragrant clover. Then we are in motion again.

  As I had hoped, we soon spy a settlement up ahead, perhaps thirty or so buildings of various shapes and sizes. The town is without walls, and for some reason it reassures me. The dangers of civilization are behind us. Up here, it’s a simple outpost where the humans band together against snowstorm and wolf pack.

  There’s a stables immediately by the entrance to the town, and as it appears it’s probably the only one, I step within. A bald, thin man in burgundy robes steps forward. “Welcome, traveler, to Arrondir. Staying the night, I hope?”

  I nod, and he smiles, motioning a hand toward a well-kept stall freshly strewn with hay. I guide Blaze within, removing his tack and gear and laying them on a nearby bench.

  The man fetches a pail, pouring fresh water into Blaze’s trough. “One bullet covers you and your fine steed for the evening, room and board,” he states. “The hotel is right across the way.”

  I hand over the bullet, and he places his hands together at his chest. “Sleep well.”

  “And you,” I respond, and give Blaze one last look before heading across the quiet street.

  Nearly every person in the lounge and bar are wearing burgundy robes, and I find a quiet corner in the back of the room by the fire. An elderly woman with grey curls comes over, her robes clean and freshly pressed.

  “My name is Mary.”

  “Hawk,” I answer.

  “Welcome to our town, Hawk. What shall you have, dear?”

  “An ale, and whatever stew you have ready.”

  Mary nods, bustling off, and is back in a few minutes with my food. It is simple but filling. I have some trouble deciding what the meat at its core might be and finally settle on raccoon.

  The conversation is a low murmur around me, with discussions of the coming of winter and the state of the lake. There is a glance or two in my direction, but the locals seem merely curious, not hostile.

  When my bowl is empty Mary comes to take it away, and I sip at my ale, running a hand along the worn wood of the table. A log settles in the fireplace, sending off a small shower of sparks.

  My eyes go to the wood plank walls, and to a row of portraits which circle the room. Each person wears burgundy robes, and their eyes are uniformly serene and spiritual.

  Mary returns with a second mug of ale, removing my empty one. “Those are the ones who were called,” she murmurs with pride.

  “Oh?” Apparently this is a religious area of some sort. I take a long sip of my ale. I’m curious if they brew this here or if they ship it in from further south.

  She nods, her eyes shining. “They keep us safe. There’s dangers in that lake, deep horrors that no person should have to face. The Called are our guardians.”

  That catches my interest, and I look up again. I wonder if they are rangers of sorts, patrolling the water’s edge, looking out for wolves or coyote. “I’m sure you’re glad to have their protection.”

  She nods reverentially. “Absolutely.”

  I give thought to the idea, of having a group of steadfast, loyal protectors watching over the vulnerable. The idea appeals to me. I look down the list of faces again. I wonder how they knew they were up to the challenge; if they ever regretted their choice.

  At last the second ale is gone, and I head up to my room. The end of the hall has a window overlooking the main street, and my room to the left is on a corner, with windows both looking out onto that same main street as well as over a side alley. I can see the stables across the way, and my heart glows as I think of Blaze safely tucked within that shelter. For one night, at least, he can sleep soundly.

  Out of habit I push the dresser until it blocks the door and make sure both windows are securely locked. Then I pull the thick curtains closed.

  I lay on the bed, place the gun on my chest, and close my eyes.

  Blaze is standing next to me in a long valley, his eyes focused ahead, his ears sharp, alert. I can hear the strain in his breathing, and when I lay a hand on his long neck, a tremor runs down its length.

  There are steady footsteps behind me in the thick grass, approaching, but I do not turn. His voice comes to me, low, urgent.

  ‘Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.’

  My eyes open to moonlight slicing through a gap in the curtains, its silvery sheen sending a bolt of brightness through the dark room. The familiar cool metal of my gun is in my hand, lying on my chest, and I slowly scan the room.

  Footsteps ease down the hallway outside my room – four adults, average build. They come to a stop at my door, and pause for a long moment. I draw up to a sitting position, pointing my Ruger at the sturdy rectangle blocked by the heavy dresser.

  The scratchy sound of a key turning in a lock, a click, and then a quiet oof as the door intersects with the wood blocking it. A pause, and then they try again, this time with firmer pressure. The dresser does not move.

  I climb out of bed, and the springs announce my movement. A woman’s voice rings out, and I recognize Mary at once.

  “My dear, you’re only making this hard on yourself. Let us in.”

  I move to the window overlooking the front street, and draw back one of the curtains, looking out. The dusty road is deserted, with the full moon shining down over the area, carving sharp shadows along the stables and other buildings.

  There’s a metallic glint to the left, and I draw my eyes up. There, in the loft over the stables. The long barrel of a rifle pokes through a window, aimed in my direction. I quickly scan along the other buildings. There are several other suspicious shapes – are there five of them lying in wait for me? My chances of getting out of this are dropping by the minute.

  The short bark of a gunshot rings out, and I throw myself flat on the wooden floor as the window bursts in, sending shards of glass into the room. The bullet hits the back wall with a resounding thunk. I wrap my hands over my head as two more shots ring out.

  Mary is at the hallway window in a flash, as I can tell from her furious voice which echoes out over the night air. “You fools! We need her alive for the ceremony! Stop your damned shooting!”

  Silence settles across the town, and cautiously I poke my head up again from the floor. I peer over the edge of the sill, slightly comforted by Mary’s order, and take more careful stock of my situation. The man with the rifle in the stables, the glint of a weapon in the tannery to the left, and then the man on the roof of the general store to the right. I breathe a soft sigh of relief. Only three, then. These are odds I can handle.

  Mary’s voice oozes through the door, soothing, reasonable. “Now, there, Hawk, you yourself said the Called should be respected. They protect the rest of us. They are commemorated and hallowed by those of the town. They please our God. Surely I saw in your eyes that you appreciate what they do.”

  I look carefully at the porch roof beneath me. Would it hold my weight? From there it seemed only eight feet or so to th
e ground, and then a short distance across to the stables. But with those men at the ready, they could cut me down before I got three steps.

  “All of your Called looked to be townsfolk,” I point out, wrapping my left hand in the blanket and carefully brushing the stray glass away from the window’s ledge. “Surely having a guardian who wasn’t one of you would go against the purpose of what he does. How could a stranger watch properly?”

  There is a muttering from the other side of the door, and it seems that at least some of the group have brought up this argument previously.

  Mary’s voice has a sharper tone to it when it comes again. “You will do just fine,” she insists. “You are strong, capable, and once you are in the lake, you will come to feel its power.”

  I unwrap the blanket and lay it across the ledge. I straddle it, one leg on the roof of the porch below, testing it with care. It seems to hold.

  “I won’t go quietly,” I warn her. “I find it highly unlikely that I will make it to this ceremony uninjured.”

  There is a soft snort. “Injured is fine,” she agrees. “It shows a good amount of spunk. Just as long as you are alive.”

  The man above the stables is watching me attentively, and he leans further out the window to get a cleaner angle on me. His eyes gleam in the moonlight.

  “So it’s an injured Called you want,” I muse. I take in a deep breath, hold it for a second, then draw my revolver up and shoot twice. The bullets land in the rifleman’s right shoulder, throwing the rifle out into the night sky, and he falls back, letting out a hoarse cry.

  Mary is at her window again, fury rising. “Who did that?!”

  I give a chuckle. “I did. You have your injured Called, and he is suitably from the town, so he has a stake in those he is watching over. I can make it three bullets, if you want, but he might not survive. I think your God might be irate at you for wasting lives unnecessarily. Don’t you?”

  There is a long moment of silence, and I draw the other gun with my left hand, letting focus fill me. If this is to turn into a blazing gun battle, I am ready.

  At last she blows out her breath. “Mark. Gilroy. Go make sure he’s not bleeding too heavily and get him down to the coast. The rest of you, let her leave. There’s to be no more blood in town tonight.”

  I slide down onto the roof before she can change her mind, and in a moment I am dropping to the ground. I sprint across the short distance, and I keep the gun at my side on the table while I saddle and bridle Blaze more quickly than I had imagined possible. I have just finished pulling the reins over his head when there is a movement at the door. I have both guns in my hands before a pair of heads poke cautiously around the door. They raise their hands high, then look toward the ladder at the back end of the room. I nod, and they cross the space quickly, climbing up to gather up their injured friend.

  I toss the reins over Blaze’s head, vault on his back, and then we are galloping down the street, out of the town’s perimeter, and streaming down the road into the night.

  After a mile or so I slow him, looking behind me. There is not a trace of movement, but I don’t trust the locals to let me off so easily. I slide off of Blaze’s back, take his reins, and we head off cross-country into a stand of elm. The moonlight is scattered by the branches, and I move carefully, keeping an eye out for twisting roots and hidden streams. It takes a while for my heartbeat to steady, for my breathing to come in smoother draws, but at last I am convinced that we have freed ourselves of them.

  I run a hand fondly through Blaze’s mane. “That was a close call,” I murmur. “Guess next time, if I see a row of people being honored, I should ask just how they earned that honor.”

  Blaze nickers, and I smile, giving him a gentle pat. The moon shines more strongly ahead; apparently we are approaching a clearing.

  Suddenly the ground gives way beneath my feet, and we are tumbling, thrashing, as we cascade down a rocky slope. The fall seems to go on forever, and when at last I collapse against a hard valley floor, I lay there for a long while, unsure if I really have come to a stop. My world whirls and turns with stomach-wrenching gyrations.

  At last they, too, ease, and I carefully sit up, taking stock of my various body parts. I ache all over, and my right shoulder throbs, but nothing seems broken or seriously injured. I sigh in relief, counting myself lucky. I push myself to my feet and turn to Blaze.

  My blood runs cold. He is lying on his side, panting, and both of his front legs are clearly broken. His eyes are fixed on me, resignation filling them.

  I run to his side, flinging myself against him, tears filling my eyes. It was only a heartbeat ago that we had overcome the odds - that we were facing the world together. A brief second. And one step had changed it all. One short misstep. If I could only go back in time, could unwind, could retrieve that one step, we would be fine. Just one step. One second in history, out of so many trillions of them. Surely I could have that one moment back?

  The legs are still broken, and I can see the pain in his staggered breathing, in the thundering of his heart beneath his sturdy flanks. My cheeks are a river now, and I know what has to be done, and yet my mind stubbornly clings to the idea that somehow I can reverse time, can undo my mistake. It was such a tiny lapse. Such a momentary distraction.

  I run a shaking hand through his mane, patting his head, and there is nothing to be done.

  I stand up over him and draw the gun from my holster. I can barely see through the blinding tears. I do not know if I can do it – and yet to leave him in this state would be beyond cruel. There is no other option.

  A flash at the muzzle, a slow easing of his last breath, and he is gone.

  An eternity passes.

  At last I take a step, then two, and move to the saddlebags. I remove what supplies I can carry and set out northwest. But the night is beyond lonely. It is not the quiet of my initial wanderings when I first arrived here. It is a profound emptiness, a keening loss which fills my very soul. My feet go forward, left, right, without any meaning. My tears flow until there are none left to cry, and then it seems that there is nothing left within me at all.

  I drop to my knees, and then to my hands. My head hangs low, my hair forming a curtain, shielding me from the world.

  I cannot go on.

  I stay that way for minutes, perhaps hours, perhaps long days. Time loses all meaning. There is only darkness and emptiness.

  Then there is the barest hint of a voice, floating on the edge of the night breeze, sliding its way into the dry cracks of my soul.

  Get up on your feet.

  I resist the voice, want to hide deep within my blackness, but it pulls at me with gentle insistency.

  Get up.

  Finally I rock back onto my heels, then push myself to an aching stand.

  I take the first step forward.