Chapter 14
Kilt
Kilt drug himself across the chalky, wind torn land. He kept his eyes down, mostly, watching his feet robotically take another step, then eyes forward, periodically, searching the horizon for water, eyes up, skittishly, scanning the skies for search drones, until finally, again, eyes down watching his legs drag his body deeper and deeper into the inferno.
He would have considered himself lost if he were still trying to go north. The grey expressionless sky blotted the sun making it almost impossible to navigate, but navigation wasn’t important, water was important. Water was his destination. It was mid-afternoon and it had been hours since his last meager sip from the adobe well.
His Danner boots scraped along the surface of the finagled ground. The dirt, once a deep red, was now infested with ash and had faded into a milky-ketchup sort of pink. It rose with his steps and was carried off by the adamant wind. The boots, a half size too large, were a gift he’d received earlier that day from a skeleton. Poor bastard must have been out for a hike through the formations when he keeled over. Tough luck friend. Maybe he had the Medusa madness and thought he could run away from the vomiting, bleeding and seizures. Perhaps he was like Kilt and searching for water. It couldn’t have been a nuke because they hit to the east along the coast of Texas, destroying the refineries. He was further north. It was the cloud that zapped this land.
At least that’s what his childhood neighbor Churin had told him, good old white-haired Churin in his faded overalls and wire rimmed glasses. The man knew everything about farming—and probably everything about everything. Kilt could almost see him as if he were floating, just a few feet ahead in the rocks, sitting in his tiny cabin, scouring old, forbidden maps, teaching young Kilt about the ways of the world before the Rebuilding. It didn’t all start with Medusa, Churin always said, everything was being put in place long before the sickness and the bombs.
Churin had even showed him some pictures of landscapes from before. It was hard for Kilt to believe he was currently standing in the same place where fields of crops once stretched on, spread out like a sultan’s budding brothel, randy and ripe. However, now the sun was gone, the rain, acidic, and the youthful land had dried and aged fallow until its inhabitants left it behind, dumped. It’s not you it’s me.
It is me.
He stumbled on a stray rock. His boots beat the ground heavily as he grappled to keep his footing. The center of gravity on this strange planet is strong. I have noted it so in my logbook, Captain. Excellent.
He continued walking, his muscles cramping from lack of fluid making every step a little heavier than the last. He thought about shedding some layers of clothes. There wasn’t any sun but, he had kept his jacket on to protect his skin from the needle-like bits of sand being hurled by the wind. However, maybe his long-sleeved shirt underneath would offer enough protection. He stopped walking and began to remove his pack.
Wait. What’s-that? What’s-that?
He looked up and searched the sky, swearing he had heard the hum of a drone. There had been two others that day. Both too far off to be a threat. He turned around in a drunken circle, nearly falling over before determining it was only a false alarm. Whew.
How far had he traveled? What did it matter? His thirsty brain was now mush pie. No it’s instant grits. Grainy-grainy-grains. That’s what’s in dees brains!
God, his head was pounding. He wanted to sit and have a rest, but if he went down he might not get back up. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a snake skin, old and brown, lying among the rocks, as inconspicuous as a water hose.
He remembered as kids how he and James would pull up the soaker hose when they were thirsty in the fields. Their fat lips would clasp around the spongy black tube like eager little sucker fish, their homemade bowl cut hair lifting from their freckled brows, whipping about in the wind, and they would face each other, smiling as water dribbled down their chins. Like most everything, it was against the rules, but like most boys, they didn’t care.
The Farmer’s water station was a half mile away from their assigned work section.
Young boys and girls on the farm were responsible for working the crops on the far edge where the glass walls of the Kradle began, or ended depending on how you looked at it. The areas by the Kradle air filters were windy enough to drive a man crazy. The crops there bent with the force and were considered poor producers. But for Kilt and James, it was their private world where they could eat, explore and play.
The exploring part was what eventually got them into trouble. Perhaps it was because they were so close to the edge of the world they couldn’t help but wonder what was outside. What was beyond the thick glass which was dotted with microscopic holes making it breathable like an egg? Parents told ghost stories, as their parents did before, filled with protective warnings woven into a predictable plot.
Kilt hated these stories. It wasn’t that they were scary. Because they weren’t. He didn’t even believe them. What was frightening was how parents believed them. That was the scariest part.
Despite the elder’s fables, Kilt and James bravely faced the forbidden boundary, running head first into the battle winds, their swords of hand shovels drawn, charging bare-chested with their shirts tied around their necks like capes. The thick vertical scar tearing down his chest was James’ battle wound. Cut by the glass of the Kradle, as they told the other kids.
The wind would beat against their thin bodies, trying to push them back. “Hold the line!” They would yell. Anything beyond the Kradle was enemy territory.
They played with other kids too: Mike, Manny, skinny, redheaded Christina and Pickle—her little brother who cried if he felt excluded. However, Kilt and James liked to sneak off from the group and search for rabbits. They liked to watch them burrow into their holes and run out of the Kradle. That was how they knew the Sphere didn’t go all the way underground like a giant marble as they were told.
Playtime ended when the Final Hour horn blared. Then Kilt and James would look at each other, wide-eyed, and scramble to fill their baskets with eight hours’ worth of produce in just one hour’s time. Then they would haul in their goods; tomatoes, corn, carrots and peas; to the delivery trucks where they would dump the vegetables in the back and watch it drive away to be distributed to the Corps.
It used to tug on his insides standing in the yard, watching their goods being carried down the thin dirt road and disappearing behind the wall of corn. At first he thought he was the only one, but then one day he looked around at the faces of the other farmers. Men and women were scattered, most looking so red and raw it was like the wind blew the skin right off their faces. Some sat on the ground like old doormats while others leaned against fences stretching their backs, but every day they gathered to watch the trucks disappearing over the horizon like a recycled sun set.
Then came the old Pubb truck with its squeaky wheels. The driver liked to slam on the brakes just short of the crowd and laugh like a maniac. Its shiny beer spouts and glass bottles clinked as they swished forward and fell back into place. Then the forlorn looks would be replaced with tired conversation. They were a community who had nothing new to say to one another.
The distinct vibrations of a drone overhead caused Kilt to snap his neck up. He scanned the grey sky but didn’t see it until he looked sharply to his left.
The dark, miniature airplane turned, its wing rising, almost as if it was giving a wave. I seeeee you!
“Shit!” He ran to the right, careful not to look back.
Running uphill, he hoped his legs could carry him, but they moved like wet cement.
The hum grew louder.
At the top, his right hamstring convulsed with an intense Charlie horse. “Aaah!” Kilt reached back and grabbed it. At the same moment he lost his footing and tumbled down the hill. He rolled over the rocks, twisting in every direction. His brain bounced against the inside of his skull like a rock in a jar.
“Oof!” Upon hitting the groun
d, the wind was knocked clean out of his lungs.
Kilt rolled over on his back. In the distance, there was a snarl of a tree line, thin and uniform like the teeth of a comb. He was only a couple hundred meters away. If it hadn’t been for the drone sending him over the hill he would never have spied it.
He rolled onto his feet and listened, determining if he would be better off staying put and hiding by the hill. As he waited under the unassuming sky, still holding his leg, the drone passed over his head, engine whining. Then it banked to the left.
With his heart aflutter he prayed that it was turning to leave, but no, it turned again and was losing altitude, heading right at him. Kilt jumped up and broke toward the trees, but his leg wouldn’t cooperate and he half dragged it behind him.
The Predator moaned over his shoulder as it closed in.
Suddenly there was a pop and a whoosh. Kilt, still more than a hundred meters from the trees stumbled to the side.
The dirt beside him flew up with a ping. It was a tranq-needle. They were going to subdue him and then send in the troops for retrieval. Kilt pulled himself up and kept going. There was another pop from behind and he jumped to the other side. Missed.
He was closing in on the tree line. The branches still had some grey leaves clinging to the snarled twigs which would give him some cover, if he could just make it.
Pow!
“Aaaooh!” That one got him square in the shoulder. Kilt tried to pull it out but he couldn’t reach, not while running.
Another shot was fired just as he dove behind the tree line. It hit a trunk and sent bark flying. Kilt used this opportunity to pull out the tranq in his back. He looked down at the bloody needle and tossed it aside.
He pushed deeper into the woods. Up ahead the trees grew thicker offering more coverage. He pressed on wearily, looking for a hiding place for when he keeled over from the drugs.
The Predator was still passing over, crossing back and forth like a cat stalking a fish bowl.
The weight of exhaustion was pulling him under. Or was that the drugs? And maybe he was delusional, but he swore he could smell water. And hear it. Yes, there had to be a stream or pond here with all these trees.
Kilt tripped over the uneven ground, booby-trapped with leaves and sticks. His eyes were blurry as if he were under water. Water! He could smell it now, practically taste it. He was going to fall face first into that river as soon as he was close. It was getting louder. He’d be there soon enough. The wind picked up, cooling him all the way down to the sweat painted roots of his beard, but it was a very strong wind. Too strong. The Predator! It was right over head.
He ran, but the ground was like Velcro with its hidden logs and twigs grabbing at his feet. His eyes were completely blurred over. Everything had a thick sheen of white while the edges of his vision were black and closing in.
Without warning the ground dropped off.
Kilt fell, face first off the edge and belly flopped into the cold river. He tried to swim but his arms had stopped working. He should have felt panicked in the wake of eminent death. His brain understood that he was going to die, but instead, perhaps in a pre-mortal flashback, a desperate search for reasoning, his mind flickered back to instance that brought him to this point in the river. His mind when back to the day he met Maxim. How did the old saying go? When it seemed too good to be true, it probably was.
The water pulled him down and his useless arms and legs spread with the current as if he were a baby reaching for his mother. The outskirts of his vision closed in until everything went black.
Chapter 15
It was deep into the warm afternoon when Kilt hurled the last bail of hay into the truck. It was his day off from the Farms, but he readily volunteered his sweat and muscle as a payment to his buddy, Rick. The bundle landed, its bristled edges fitting squarely among the other bails. Kilt covered his mouth with a gloved hand and turned away from the yellow dust. He was drenched with sweat and his arms were shaky with exhaustion, but he was finished an hour early, and anxious to talk to Rick.
He hopped of the back of the rusty old truck, an antique but coveted piece of equipment.
“Hey Rick!” He cupped his hand around his mouth and called toward the house. He stuffed his gloves in his pocket and turned on the water hose to wash his shirtless body.
Rick staggered out the old farm house and stiffly tottered down the porch steps clutching a bottle of Blue Buzzard. The liquor sloshed with each step. His overalls were disheveled and stretching over his round belly.
“Whatcha say, old man?” Kilt smiled. Rick had been a farmer since birth, even before the Rebuilding.
“Old man, my taint.” He stopped and surveyed the empty barn. “Well I’ll be damned. You already finished boy?”
Kilt turned off the hose and grabbed a towel. “Finished, washed up and hung out to dry.”
Rick sniffed and took a generous glug of the Buzzard. He avoided Kilt’s eager stare.
“Rick?” Kilt prodded.
Rick kept gazing inside the barn.
Kilt sighed. “C’mon. You said you’d help me. It’s too late for second thoughts.”
Rick met his eye. “Alright.” He pulled a cork from his pocket and stuck it into the bottle. “I’m going inside. I told him I’d call when we was ready.”
“Wait. Who?” Kilt held up a hand. “You mean, you’re not helping me?”
Rick’s red face scrunched and he turned an eye to Kilt. “Boy, you think I have that kind of pull for a job like this? No sir. I had to call a guy.” He walked heavily back up the decaying porch steps, resting briefly after each one. “You wait right out here until I come get ye’. Ye’hear?” He gave Kilt a hard look.
“Fine, but can I trust this guy?” Kilt asked, but Rick had already disappeared into the house.
Kilt hesitated. After weighing his slim options, he tossed the soiled towel aside, threw on his shirt and sat down on the steps.
A half hour later, Rick returned to the porch. “Come on in now.” He flicked his head.
“He’s here?” Kilt pointed down. “How?” But Rick ignored him and went back inside. Kilt paused. He didn’t hear anyone pull up in the front drive, no car engine, nothing, as if the guy had been teleported right into the house.
Carefully, Kilt entered the dark house.
Rick was in the dark living room sitting on a plastic covered couch. Behind him hung a pastel quilt nailed into the wood paneling. The built in shelves were cluttered with dusty bric-a-brac—glass figurines, rusty tools, mason jars. The over-ripe sunlight filtered in through the thread-bare curtains, the pattern of tessellations bleached with time and hardly visible. There was a man sitting at the table smoking. The glowing cherry flickered in the darkness.
“Sit down.” Rick gestured to the table.
Kilt pulled out a chair. It scraped across the wood floor cutting through the silence.
He and the stranger stared at one other. He was wearing a black suit and tie, his dishwater hair was slicked and combed to the side. A distinctive bone structure gave him an exotic air along with a set of heavy, prehistoric brows that shadowed his icy eyes. Kilt hadn’t seen a man in a suit since he was a boy back in the Corps, but this guy wasn’t from the Corps.
“My name is Maxim,” said the man, his mouth full of smoke. His voice was deep and laden with accent, pronouncing ‘is’ as ‘ees.’
Kilt nodded once, and glanced out the window—an electric car. Those things were as silent as a tomb, no wonder he didn’t hear his approach. “Does Maxim have a last name?” Kilt folded his hands.
“’Maxim’ is the only name you’ll need, kid.” Rick pointed with his bottle.
Kilt leaned back.
Maxim removed the cigarette from his mouth. “I hear you have a brother in the Demos.”
Kilt said nothing. Maxim offered him a cigarette. Kilt accepted. “I do.”
“The Demos are a death sentence.” Maxim smiled.
Kilt scoffed, “Tell me something I don’t kn
ow.” He turned to Rick. “Who the hell is this guy?” He looked at Maxim. “Pardon my tone, but who the hell are you and why are you here?”
Maxim stood up slowly. Kilt sat up straight, ready for trouble. Maxim turned and went to the liquor bar. He poured himself a brown drink from an unmarked bottle. “That is good question Mr. Tillman. Who am I?” He took a sip and faced Kilt. “If you ask your government, they say: I don’t exist. If you ask my government, they say: I don’t exist.”
“So you’re Eurasian.” Kilt shifted in his seat. His eyes darted toward the back door.
Maxim smiled, revealing an even row of tiny teeth. “But if you ask my associates. They would tell you I am a business man, and this drone war has been very good business.”
Maxim sat down at the table.
“So.” Kilt studied him through the smoke. “Your government must have sent you here for a reason. Are you a spy or a--?”
“Just think of me as a business man. One who works outside the law.” The Euro swirled his glass. “And I can get that Demo victory for your brother.”
“I’m listening,” Kilt said casually. If this guy was trouble he didn’t want to appear eager, but then again he had just moved a metric ton of hay for this meeting so he probably reeked of desperation.
Maxim leaned forward, his square shoulders setting a perfect straight line below his head. “You will be your brother’s Trainer. Therefore, you will be with him inside the Training Center for the week prior to the Demos, no?”
Kilt nodded. “That’s what they tell me.”
Maxim smiled. “Then you will have access to the drones, yes?”
“Looks that way.” Kilt glanced at the “L” shaped bulge beneath Maxim’s jacket.
The Eurasian pulled a briefcase from under the table and opened it. He removed a thin file folder and slid it across the table. “Here is what we need.”
Kilt slowly opened the manila folder and leafed through the contents. Inside were black and white sketches of what looked like a combat drone. The other pages were a map with descriptions of the Training Center.
Children of the Kradle (Trilogy Book 1) Page 8
