by Don P. Bick
Chapter 11
I have to blink a few times, staring at the long, straight road I am approaching, before I can believe it is really there. It has been so long since I have seen a road such as this, well maintained, that it seems an anomaly in this wilderness. But there it is. And along its length I see a wagon drawn by a grey mule, a pair of walking pilgrims with tall sticks, and a lone rider on horseback, all heading placidly north.
My heart eases, and breath returns to me. I am almost there.
My feet reach the road and I turn north. I am returning to humanity again on a path many others have taken. I feel the security of like-minded souls ahead and behind me.
There’s a wooden sign up ahead, and as I approach it I see that it says “Peace – 10 miles.” I smile. It really exists. I am finally reaching the end of this long, tumultuous journey.
The sun reaches its zenith and slides down the other side as the town draws into view. There are no walls here, no threatening chute. Just a gently grassy hill with buildings spiraling up along its slopes. Red banners fly from many of the roofs of buildings, bringing a festive feel to the town. As I approach I can see most of the windows sport window-boxes full of autumn flowers. There’s a granite fountain near the town’s entrance, and weary travelers are stopping there to drink and smile. Some are weeping.
There are booths set up along the street, some selling commemorative necklaces, other offering fresh tattoos of henna or more permanent varieties. Signs in the shops offer baths, shaves, and fresh clothes for those preparing to make that important final crossing. Arrows on posts direct newcomers to the “Outlook” where they can have a stunning view of the circumference wall and its Gate.
A pudgy shopkeep with thinning hair comes out of the bath-house and smiles at me. “You look like you could use a long soak in rose water,” he offers. “Only one bullet, and you can take as long as you’d like.”
A lanky man comes staggering toward us from the north, tears streaming from his eyes, moaning wordlessly. The shopkeep shakes his head sadly, watching him go, before turning back to me. “The Reds are always that way,” he sighs. “It’s hard on them, when the gate won’t let them through.”
I resist the urge to glance down at my hip. The wound is long since healed, and I am glad for the umpteenth time that I carved that tracker out of me.
I move past the shopkeep, following the arrows, and climb up the steep path to the top of the rise. I crest the hill and stop, breathing in a deep inhale.
The wall is stunning. It glistens in the late afternoon sunlight, its length seeming a silvery ribbon, stretching as far as the eye can see to both the left and the right. There are a series of granite benches laid out along the slope facing the wall, and I settle into one, staring along the wall’s length. Finally, I locate the gate. It is just a dark black hole within the longer silver, but I know in my heart that that is the spot. A sense of release thrills through me. At long last the ordeal will be over. I will be able to put all of this behind me and reclaim my life in the real world.
To my left, a tavern has taken advantage of the stunning view and has set up a large deck jutting out over the edge of the hill, raised on stilts. The shadowed area beneath it is rocky, rough, and scrawled with graffiti.
I chuckle to myself. Creative artists will always find a way to express themselves, no matter what the location.
I look down at my own body and smile. The shopkeep was right. I absolutely need a bath before I head into that gate. I walk back down the slope and step into his shop. In short order I have a room to myself with towels, rose-scented soap, a washcloth, and a large tub of steaming water. Candles glitter from all sides. My guns sit beside me on a low, wooden table, while a maid takes my clothing off to be thoroughly cleaned and dried. The six bullets I paid were well worth it.
I slip into the water, and tears come to my eyes with how soothing it feels on my aching muscles. Time slips away.
The sun is nearing the horizon before I climb back into my freshly cleaned clothing, brushing out my hair until it shines. When I step back out into the main lobby, the shopkeep nods his head in admiration.
“You do look a sight,” he praises. “I wish you all the luck in the world.”
I step out onto the street, heading north for the last time. My heart thunders against my ribs, and I wonder if the gate’s guardians will be able to tell my status even without the object they implanted on me. Would they use some sort of facial recognition? DNA analysis? Retinal scans? Every person I’d met so far had indicated that it was only the implant that would trigger the alarms, but maybe they didn’t know the whole truth.
And what would happen if I did pass through the gate without a problem? Would my memory return? Would I be welcomed by a loving family? Find a new position in the world that awaited me?
I still cannot remember even the tiniest glimpse of what it was like; of where I had come from. This landscape here seems all I have ever known. I feel a pang of what could be homesickness as I think about stepping beyond.
I walk closer and closer, and the silvery wall looms before me. The sun is setting, oranges and crimsons spreading across the sky. I keep going toward the dark spot –
As I get close, I realize something is wrong. The darkness of the gate is flat, without dimension. There’s no sense of anything beyond it.
It’s painted on.
The realization stuns me. I take a few stuttering steps, shaking my head. But the vision doesn’t change. The black arched shape is painted on the wall itself. At its base people are prone, weeping. There are a few burgundy charms and books abandoned by its edge, many looking as if they have been flung into place.
To the far right is a dusty pile of bones, apparently from a human skeleton.
I stare at the blackness of the gate, utterly lost. I stand there until long after the sun settles below the horizon, until the blackness extends across the entire world.
