New Alcatraz (Book 1): Dark Time

by Grant Pies

  Almost immediately after I left the spot where the time movement device dropped me, I could not tell where I started. All around me was endless sand and dry cracked landscape. As I approached the craggy mountains, the ground grew more petrified and inflexible, crunching and popping under my feet with every step. The sun floated overhead and stayed there for longer than was bearable. Its rays bounced off the impenetrable earth, and pierced my eyes and skin.

  I would have been drenched in sweat had the baked air not extracted it from my body before it even formed droplets. The gravely ground pulled the energy from my body out through my feet. My lips were dusty and chapped within hours. As I trudged along I had no choice but to retrace the events of my arrest and trial. Images of the murdered agent’s body echoed in my mind. Now, limping toward the rotted termite infested trees in the distance, I couldn’t shake the thought of questioning how my DNA was at the scene of a murder. As always there was no answer.

  As the day drifted on, the white sun moved across the sky and seared my back. Once I reached the edge of the forest, the sun’s rays ran almost parallel to the earth. But for a few spindly branches that grew upward and wrapped around the trunks, the skeletal trees in the forest were bare. The bark was the color of ash. Even if the forest provided only a little shelter from the elements, I was eager to escape the desolate gravel landscape behind me. By itself, each tree appeared weak and fragile, but as a whole the timbered area was sturdy and immovable. Upon entering the woodland, the gravel underfoot turned to light dirt, almost dust like. Particles puffed upward under my feet with each step. As the persistent sun fell below the horizon I decided to break for the night. Without a destination or goal to reach, the thought of continuing on seemed absurd anyway.

  I sat on the dry earth with my back leaned against one of the hundreds of brittle trees in the forest. My tongue felt swollen inside my mouth. I had to find water, I thought; I will be dead in three days without it. With the sun gone, the air was cold. The trees swayed and creaked. I stared into the distance and surveyed my surroundings. On the forest floor, I saw the first sign of life since I arrived in the future. A large insect almost ten centimeters in length scurried across my leg. It had antennae that were almost as long as its body. I watched it as the insect crawled down my leg onto the ashy ground and burrowed into the earth. At least I was not alone in the future.

  CHAPTER 21

  5065

  NEW ALCATRAZ

  DAY 2

  At daybreak I moved toward the mountains on the other end of the forest, hoping to reach a higher altitude with cooler temperatures, and possibly a water source. My mouth was dry and my stomach cramped. My brain pulsed inside my head and a jolt of pain shot through my body with each heartbeat.

  With each step further into the forest, the trees closed in on me. More and more trees clustered together the deeper I traveled westward. No other vegetation grew in the forest, no grass, shrubs, or moss; nothing but skeletal dead gray trees that climbed up towards the white sky. Often times the trees abutted each other; almost sharing the same space. Other times the trees left only narrow gaps to squeeze through.

  The forest moaned as the wind pushed against the fortress of trees. News outlets estimated that up to 20,000 prisoners per year were sent to New Alcatraz. They further guessed that ninety-eight percent of those died within two weeks, and another seventy-five percent did not last beyond the first year. Of course, this was pure speculation. They based their estimations on scientists’ theories as to what extinction event could occur in the future and what shape the earth would be left in after such an event.

  Then, survival experts discussed the likelihood of an average prisoner’s ability to survive in the wild, specifically in harsh environments. The experts considered survival probabilities in desert environments like Death Valley, the Lut Desert, and the Sistan Basin in Afghanistan. They considered survival in harsh frigid environments like Greenland, Siberia, and the Arctic. Consideration was given to survival probabilities in a radioactive environment, such as Fukushima, the Siberian Chemical Combine, and Chernobyl. If the survival estimates were accurate, then one hundred prisoners should survive each year in New Alcatraz, leaving only five hundred people spread out in this unforgiving future landscape. After a year, even the experts didn’t theorize on the rate of survival.

  By midday the trees thinned out. Upon close inspection I saw more small insects burrowing inside the trees. Termites gnawed through the already weak wood. I found one tree toppled over, the bark crumbling off of the tree and revealing the dry saw dust inside. The termites feasted on the tree. Cupping the dust and the termites in my hand, I picked the termites out. I ate as many as I could wrestle out of the pile of dead tree dust. The insects were so small that there was no taste whatsoever. I only needed their nutritional value, if any. But more than food I needed water.

  I sat down on the ashy dust of the forest floor. I spent the entire day navigating through this dead forest. My stomach growled and scoffed at the tiny amount of termites I picked out of the tree. Inside my pocket I felt the water purification tablets that the Ministry gave me before I arrived. Never had I had something so useless in my possession.

  I stopped long before nightfall. Every step I took in the forest was irregular. I squeezed through trees and stepped over fallen branches. I leaned and ducked around the tall wood structures that blocked my path. Half a day in this forest was equivalent to walking a full day out in the open. I sunk to the ground, and my feet throbbed. My eyes closed and I drifted off to sleep. I didn’t know if I would wake up; I didn’t particularly care.

  CHAPTER 22

  5065

  NEW ALCATRAZ

  DAY 3

  The heat continued on the third day, and I was beginning to think it would never stop. Gradually the small amount of shade the forest provided diminished as I reached the western edge of the trees. Beyond the gray trees, the craggy mountains dominated the skyline. The mountains’ incline was steep. Canyons carved through the mountain range and clusters of bright green fungus grew on the rocks, the first vibrant color I saw since my arrival. I squeezed the green fungus and a meager amount of water wept out and fell on my parched tongue. I collected every scrap of fungus I could find and wrung out every drop of water, sucking on the green plants until they disintegrated in my mouth.

  As I traversed the rocky cliffs, the loose rocks slipped and tumbled out from under my feet, breaking and splintering into sharp shards of rock. My hands were sliced and cut; my knuckles bruised and scraped. One wrong slip and a smooth blade of stone could slice into my wrist and tear across my forearm lengthwise. One wrong foot placement and I would tumble down the side of the cliff as pointed chunks of rock punctured my body until I crashed into the ashy dirt below and shattered the bones in my body.

  I carefully reached a short peak on one of the mountains, and traversed along the ridgeline. I looked back over the dead gray forest I stumbled through, and saw the endless arid gravel desert beyond that. More rocky formations spread out on the other side of the mountains; beyond that I assumed there were even more. Some were short, some towered high into the atmosphere. No cities or manmade structures of any kind were in sight from this peak.

  Maybe the survival experts were wrong, and no one could survive in this environment for long. Maybe I was alone. And maybe the next prisoner sent here would be alone as well. I had no goal; no reason to continue. Even if I did, I had no reason to continue in this particular direction, except for keeping the sun at my back for most of the day.

  The temperature dropped maybe ten degrees as I made my way up the mountain. My third night in New Alcatraz was even less comfortable than the others. The jagged rocks poked and tore through my jumpsuit and dug into my skin. I longed for the soft ashy dirt in the dead forest from the night before.

  Throughout the day I found several other patches of fungus, and perhaps drunk the equivalent of two full glasses of water. The growls in my stomach echoed deep inside of me as it shrank and
pulled away from my rib cage. My muscles weakened over the last three days as my body cannibalized itself; soon there would be nothing left.

  I drifted in and out of sleep during the third night. While awake I sat on the rocky ridge and stared up at the night sky. For the first time since my arrival, I realized that I could not see the moon.

  My eyes were heavy and weighted. A few dreams crept into my mind, but the frantic winds and piercing rocks jolted me awake before I could slip off and properly escape this place even for just a short time. The darkness was like a blanket tossed over my head. I did not know if the darkness before me was only centimeters from my face or if I was looking far into the expansive nothingness of New Alcatraz.

  My eyes rested in the form of long blinks. One time, when my eyes opened, I spotted the unmistakable faint red and orange flicker of a fire in the distance, slightly west of the ridgeline. I gasped at the sign of life. Human life. And for the rest of the night I watched this speck of a fire fade and flare. Tiny sparks flew off into the air. I imagined that a small group of people had found each other in this future place, and made the best of their situation. I imagined they told slightly exaggerated stories of their past lives. Maybe they found small animals and roasted them on a spit. Even if it was another lone traveler we could be the beginnings of this jaunty group.

  I locked my eyes on the position of the fire, and, before daybreak, before the sun colored the sky red over the horizon, I set out to find who had lit up my night with a glimmer of hope. For the moment, I forgot that if I did find another human they were quite likely to be the type of person who deserved to be here more than I.

  CHAPTER 23

  5065

  NEW ALCATRAZ

  DAY 4

  With a goal and a destination in sight, I moved with more purpose. My steps were swifter and my eyes were sharper. Spotting the fire the night before was the equivalent of eating a large meal and drinking a canteen of water. I was rejuvenated.

  By mid-day, after a period of fruitless searching, I found the spot where the fire had burned the night before. The ashes sat cold in a small circle surrounded by rocks. I lifted the ashes to see if any items were burned in the fire; no remnants of cooked food. The stiff winds threw the ashes I lifted into the air, and carried them down and over the cliffs. Besides the campfire, there was no other evidence that anyone slept here the night before. Whoever started this fire was not headed towards me, so I decided to continue on in the same general direction; southwest.

  Continuing along the ridgeline, the mountains looked more like mounds of loose rocks piled on top of even more loose rocks. Behind me, the large gray forest of dead trees and ash faded and grew smaller and smaller. Valleys of flat dry hardpan rested between the large mountains. As the white sun dropped and sat along the horizon, I reached the peak of one of the mountains. Below was a small dense forest similar to the one I first encountered in New Alcatraz, except these branches had traces of pinkish foliage. Many of the leaves had fallen on the forest floor, covering the ashy dirt underneath. This was the first place I found that provided consistent shade from the bright sun.

  Unable to control my descent, I slid and skipped down the side of the mountain, shaking a trail of stones and pebbles loose behind me. These were the first trees I saw that had any growth on them; this forest could possibly house wildlife or edible plant life. Whoever made the fire I saw last night surely would come here.

  I proceeded through the forest. Unlike the branches on the trees in the dead forest that snapped under pressure, the branches in this forest bent and bounced back when I pushed them out of the way, and the fallen leaves crunched underfoot. By the time the sun disappeared, I was far enough into the forest that I could no longer see outside of it. The smell of burning embers floated around the trees, but I could not see through the dense trees to tell where the fire was. But I knew a fellow prisoner was nearby. I pushed on; the branches bent and swatted me in the face. Eventually I heard noises; human noises.

  My heart raced with excitement. I moved at an even quicker pace, and the noises grew closer and louder. Eventually, I made out the sound of laughter, and I heard the crackling of the fire through the thick trees. Other than the person laughing, I heard another person talking. As I got even closer I made out a third voice. Three people! The closer I got, the louder the voices and laughter became. The voices were a beacon, and I tripped and scrambled through the forest towards them.

  As I approached, the sounds changed, morphing into something different than I originally heard. The laughter, which originally sounded jovial and lighthearted, sounded delirious and crazed. The voices had the characteristics of a man begging for his life; or the life of another. I slowed my pace until I eventually froze. For the first time, I considered that I really should approach other people in New Alcatraz with great caution. I focused my ears towards the commotion. My stomach clenched, and every sound trembled through my body. The last voice I heard was garbled and halted. I surveyed my surroundings, found a long sturdy branch, and broke several smaller branches off of it to create sharp knobs on the end.

  As I crept closer, the voices and cries grew louder. The smell of burning wood wafted in the air. The light from the fire flickered through the dark forest, and the smoke filled the air. Shapes came into focus through the trees. I was able to make out fragments of what was said.

  “Tell me!” one man shouted.

  “He doesn’t know anything!” said another.

  I snuck as close as I could to the fire without revealing my position, and peeked through the tree limbs. On the edge of a small circular clearing in the forest, a fire sat at the base of a tree. A man was bound to a tree, his arms wrapped around the tree behind his back; his feet hung above the ground, the fire burning just beneath him. Bundles of twine and strips of cloth wrapped around his body trapping him against the tree. The man’s blonde hair was smudged with ash and dirt to make it a dark gray tint. A second man paced around the clearing holding a long wooden spear. Blood droplets dripped from the tip of the spear and fell to the forest floor, mixing dark red swirls with the ashy gray dirt. A third man sat on the ground. His hands also bound behind his back.

  The pacing man interrogated the man who dangled above the fire. A sense of dread filled my body, and I froze. Paralyzed over the decision to flee and risk being heard or to stay and risk being seen. I gripped the sturdy branch I found on the ground. My knuckles were white, and my heart fluttered like a hummingbird. The man paced and peppered the man above the fire with more questions.

  “Where were you heading?” he asked. The man offered no reply. This was not a choice but a limitation of his physical condition. “What was the plan after you left?” the man screamed in the other’s face. The other man cringed and groaned in pain. Only guttural noises and globs of blood fell out of his mouth.

  With every unresponsive answer, and every answer that the interrogator found insufficient, he jabbed the man with his spear, puncturing his skin and sinking into the inner cavities of his body. When the interrogator pulled the spear out, blood oozed out of each hole, ran down the blonde man’s body, and fell onto the burning embers of the fire underneath him.

  The droplets hissed and cooked on the fire, coagulating like thick glue against the burning embers. Just above the burning bloody ashes, the man’s feet were charred and black. Thin strips of skin dangled off of his feet and legs to expose pink muscle tissue and white bone underneath. The man’s breathing was labored and shallow. The smell of burning flesh and blood now filled the forest, drifting into my nose and stinging my eyes.

  From my vantage point I could not see the third man, and I could only make out that he was sitting on the ground with his hands behind his back. With each puncture of the burning man’s skin, the third man on the ground begged the torturer. He pleaded with him to release both of them, insisting that they knew nothing of what they were asked.

  “How many people were you working with?” the torturer asked. After no response the man
drove his bloody spear into the victim’s stomach and angled it upward. The man on fire gasped as air rushed out of his punctured lung. When the spear yanked out of his body, the new hole let out blood in spurts. The victim’s head now dangled down until his chin was buried into his chest. The torturer stoked the fire, causing the flames to creep up and burn the man’s calves and knees. The torturer stood and examined the man above the fire. He grabbed his blonde hair and lifted his head up. The man’s eyes were closed. Holes riddled his body. The torturer cut the ties around the man and let him fall into the burning coals of the fire.

  The man slumped into a heap in the embers. His flesh bubbled into blisters that quickly popped in the heat. His hair melted and curled back onto his skull. Red blood leaked out of cracks and fissures in the man’s skin and poured out into the fire. The torturer scoffed and chuckled at the man as his body lay in the burning coals, seemingly oblivious to the stench that made me want to puke. Through the trees I saw that the torturer had now turned to face the remaining man sitting on the forest floor.

  He told the man to stand up, nudging him with the bloody spear. A force inside of me finally pulled me toward action. My body was like a magnet tugged toward the torturer. I couldn’t let this place change me; at least not so quickly. The urge for survival inside of me, that would normally have inspired me to flee, now made me plan an attack on the man with the spear. As if my own life depended on the other man’s survival. Maybe I needed a fellow traveler. Maybe I simply felt the need to punish the torturer.

  The French term jamais vu is the opposite of déjà vu. It is a sense that a moment is familiar yet unfamiliar. It is a sense of recognition, yet one knows they have never truly experienced this, at least not yet. Some people believe that schizophrenics suffer from chronic jamais vu. Sufferers of jamais vu can begin to question their own existence in certain moments. I had read about such a feeling, but never felt it in my life; until now. This man, this place, this predicament. It was wholly familiar, yet totally strange, both at the same time. Maybe both déjà vu and jamais vu is caused by re-living past lives. Or maybe, as my dad described it, it is caused by our strand of time tying itself into a knot and overlapping, or our synapses crossing over timelines. Or maybe we are all slightly schizophrenic.