by Nick Ryder
The Seer had sought out people with powers that fit well into his gamified vision of the world. Some people could alter time and space in little pockets that they could drop, they would leave as many as they could for their own team and call these checkpoints, because trans-dimensional quantum immortality failsafe pocket alarmed the layman.
There was nothing salvaged from any conquests if the teams died halfway from home. There were checkpoints in crevasses, but nothing when someone made a run for it in the open world.
Another quirk of this new world: excessive, obsessive score-taking and saving. People got to know of big players in other settlements through word of mouth. They kept rank and shared them with each other to compare information until everyone knew exactly who to mess with, and who to leave the fuck alone if you wanted to live.
This was the Seer’s plan, too. Life was a competition now, there had to be a way to rank people, to score. Currency had fallen apart, too. Bartering was a possibility, but so were points. They kept track of their kills, or contributions to their societies, and used those points to trade with others. That allowed merchants to level-up just like fighters.
There was always a path to the top of the hierarchy.
Pointless, maybe, but their way of looking at the world had at least made it into everyday vernacular. Could that much be said about run-of-the-mill super strength?
“Are you coming?” Cara asked Sampson as she lifted her weapon of choice.
“I’ll be there before you go.”
Cara left the hut and felt the blazing sun on her tanned shoulders.
The counsel happened on Thursdays. It was already two in the afternoon. They watched the twenty-year-old stroll confidently into the amphitheater: a dugout area where many people voiced their concerns; sometimes a play or two was acted out every week. It was a place to give everyone the opportunity to speak to the rest of the village.
It was Cara’s first time inside the generous space because before she saw the fire on the mountain, she didn’t have anything to say to the group.
“We have come to a recommendation.” It was an unorthodox beginning. In the meetings Cara attended before that day, usually the person at the center of the theater addressed the crowd.
That Thursday, it was Victor McKinney who started the debate. Cara waited to hear what Victor had to say because her father had raised her to be respectful, but not stupid.
“It is better Isaiah and his group venture to the other side of the valley to see what creates the fire.” Victor was appointed by the community to make overall decisions when it came to the health and safety of the village.
He’d never intervened in anything outside the town. He indeed hadn’t interfered in expeditions outside because Victor openly rationalized that anyone moving beyond the safety of the walls was fair game for poachers or animals. That meant fewer mouths to feed.
There was a collective murmur from the groups of people huddled on the stone seats carved from the limestone.
“That’s not how we do things here, Victor,” one of the older villagers said. Many of the people over the age of thirty left scavenging to the younger people. Young people, who were cunning and fleet of foot, were better at bringing back much-needed supplies. It was survival of the fittest, and if scavengers managed to come back after a few days in the heart of the wilds, then they deserved respect.
Cara hadn’t had many days beyond the security of the village. While her father understood the need to venture out into the world, Sampson wasn’t interested in losing his only daughter. Many of the villagers lost their offspring to the environment outside the parameter fences. She’d taken her turns at patrolling the borders. She’d killed a few intrusive critters who wanted to plunder the vegetable fields or carry off the occasional infant.
Victor was allowed to have two children as leader. But the balance of the village had a sustaining power of 250 people. It was a number that had been decided on after many calculations. Of course, it could sustain one or two either side, but keeping the strict number was easier to manage. Better to have a hard line that couldn’t be crossed. That meant if someone died, there was room to grow, at least by one. The balance worked, and people weren’t procreating until there was an opening.
Sex was allowed—because outlawing stuff like that was political suicide—but pregnancy was figured via a lottery, and only if the woman allowed her male counterpart the opportunity. Cara was a prime female, healthy and attractive; every man in the village was willing to step up to mate with her. She had no interest in sex, though.
Victor puffed up. Cara looked from him to his son, standing proudly at his father’s right side. There was a smaller chair to Victor’s left where his daughter quietly sat. She was the apple of her father’s eye and the female version of him. While no one asked what happened to her mother, everyone assumed she’d succumbed to the Great Fall or the Change.
Rebecca McKinney was disingenuous much of the time. She was nineteen, and the way she watched Cara through narrow slits suggested she knew more about Cara’s popularity than her own. Sampson said Rebecca had narcissistic personality disorder, much like her father. But as far as the village went, most of the practicing professional psychologists had changed into hideous creatures at the beginning. The profession died with the lot.
She wasn’t homely if handsome was an admirable word to describe a woman. She had handsome features if eyebrows meeting in the middle were a fashionable accessory. She had more than her share of rations. Hunger never happened in Victor’s house. And there was a mild rumor Cara overheard once at a late-night celebration that Rebecca and her brother, Isaiah McKinney, shared more than a bedroom together.
But Isaiah was a man without personable qualities. He was at the forefront of everything discovered within the village. Most of the crucial discoveries happened when Isaiah went scavenging with other people. That meant anything brought back was shared by the good grace of Isaiah and through that extension, Victor. Sometimes if he went out with three people, only two would come back. One usually looked worried and hid for a few days. But Isaiah had the most points in the village.
His top scores in one to one battles ranked high. It hadn’t taken long for people to realize that not all monsters were worth the same amount of points. They were ranked: minion, underboss, and boss, with increasing number of points awarded for killing each. He had three confirmed underboss kills. Too many minion kills to count. No one had seen a boss in several years, and the villagers were happy about that. Usually if a boss showed up, people had to start reproducing right away to rebuild the numbers once the monster left.
It wasn’t that Maurice was an excellent fighter on any level. But with two scimitars and a lot of screaming, he was the guy to have in an invasion of killer beetles, hawk-sized mosquitoes, or rabid squirrels. As long as you didn’t get too close to him once he got started. And usually Maurice had to change his shorts once the melee was over.
The hierarchy in the community was kept by the Keeper. Blank paper was a luxury, and all of it went to the Keeper so he could record information on the population. He was the only person on in the village with the gift of reading people’s stats if they had powers.
If paper that wasn’t blank came into the village, it was quickly dispersed through the communal toilets for maybe a little light reading before the paper had other, more pressing usage.
Cara and Sampson shared a communal toilet with their neighbors. They had a mammoth antique leather-bound dictionary to use. Cara thought Isaiah was insipid (mostly because they got as far as I in the dictionary) and his father had an insidious effect on the rest of the public.
But the ubiquitous (because Cara liked to read ahead while she used the privy) consensus suggested they tolerated Victor and his children because he was something to use as a target for their frustrations. Sampson said without a leader, it was impossible to get anything done.
She saw her father take a seat next to the Widow Barnes. The woman recently lost
her husband and son during an expedition. Sampson invited the widow to dinner a few times last week.
“Isaiah has traveled farther than anyone else here. Certainly farther than Cara,” Victor stated proudly, continuing his argument that it should be his son, not Cara, who got to explore the mountain. Mapping the surrounding area came with a signature at any addition. Isaiah got top scores since he’d turned sixteen.
“That is by his own account,” someone said. The statement put the carvings in dispute and meant little for morale. There was a shifting volume of grumbling from the group.
Isaiah looked personally offended by the remark but made no challenge. He had a strong presence, was remotely handsome, as far as lanky men went. But he didn’t make a lot of boastful comments in public. His voice lacked enthusiasm. And Victor had more of a sense when it came to public debate.
“If you don’t let Cara lead the way, you are undermining the foundation of what we’ve built here.” The sound of her father’s diplomatic voice behind her gave her chills. It was the kind of pride that came with love. She hoisted her favorite weapon so it was vertical and stabbed the blunt end into the compacted dirt. Her father had given her a halberd with a very long and sharp blade. Her presence was impressive without the sharp weapon, but it definitely helped complete the look.
“Aren’t you afraid she’ll not return?” Victor asked genuinely.
“Of course, I am.” Sampson sat close to Widow Barnes; Cara noticed when she looked over her shoulder at her father. “But we have to let go sometimes, Vic. If we don’t, we’ll never survive as a society.”
Cara realized that her father had demoralized the community leader by calling him by a name he didn’t concede was honest. Victor was a traditionalist. Someone who named their offspring Isaiah certainly had some issues. Sampson also spoke as the whole community because they listened to him. He was a leader even when he didn’t try. People came to Cara’s house every day to show respect, ask questions about better constructions, and to leave offerings.
Sometimes there were so many rations Sampson and Cara carried baskets to the food bank. Victor collected spoils from exploitation. Sampson earned them out of respect.
“I choose who goes with me,” Cara shouted finally. She got tired of listening to the adults bitching about how politics worked around essential things. She knew the fastest way to get things done was to go right through the center. It was dangerous, but it took a hell of a lot less time.
“I’m not interested in what you have to say, Vic.” She knew when to take a cue from her father. Sublime humiliation helped blunt the man’s hubris. “And I’m really not interested in listening to another debate that will last until sundown.” She sighed. Everyone waited, hanging on her every word.
“And I’m really worried for you whenever you sound like some Victorian dystopian novel. I mean, really? Aren’t you afraid she’ll not return?” She lowered her voice to mimic Victor. “Who the hell talks like that?”
There were chuckles in the crowd. Isaiah’s scarlet tartan matched Victor’s face.
Cara turned to the rest of the crowd. She didn’t feel like a Christian in the center of a Roman coliseum anymore, waiting to be impaled by sharp implements. She was the gladiator wielding the weapon now. She pointed to the crowd, singling out someone sitting beside Maurice.
Poor Maurice, fearing his end was near, at the hands of his best friend, was alabaster and trembling. But he let out a noisy whistle of air between his teeth. And squeezed out a fart, which was extraordinarily loud in the amphitheater; when Maurice was nervous, he got flatulent.
Chapter Seven
The group that followed wasn’t dangerous, at least compared to what was in front of them. They huddled behind an outcropping and tried to hide from the intensity of sunlight. There was a creature skulking around the desert ravine, clawing at loose rocks, slurping up insects that were as long as Cara’s forearm.
“Who’s behind us?” Wilbert Carver asked. He craned his neck to see along the cliff face. Cara grabbed his arm to pull him under cover. It wasn’t important who tracked them to the far side of the valley. It was about the creature in front of Cara and Wilbert that might feel today was the day to move up the food chain.
“It’s probably Isaiah and his little band of flunkies,” she whispered.
The beast had fuzzy ears that continuously twitched on its head. It was mottled brown and gray. Its matted fur matched its environment. It was close to three feet tall and had long rear legs with powerfully muscled thighs. The beast looked like it hopped, but at the moment it was content to dig at earth and eat centipedes with spindly legs. The insects scrambled from under overturned rocks with lightning speed. But the beast was faster, clawing at it with the small front furry paws. It had a fluffy snub tail.
“Look,” Cara said and pointed without extending her arm. Wilbert shaded his eyes and peered across the area. There were more of the creatures. Unmoving, they blended with the environment.
There was a clatter of rocks falling behind Cara. She froze, clinging to Wilbert’s hand. One of Isaiah’s crew had kicked a stone. The heads shot straight up in the air. The long ears turned in the direction of the sound and tuned in. The creatures as one rose to sit high on hind legs and peered into the distance with front claws resting against their chests. They had incredibly long front yellowish teeth that protruded from the top lip under twitching pink diamond-shaped noses. The whiskers were as long as broom handles and as sharp as samurai swords.
The huge beasts leaped away, racing down the valley at top speeds, kicking up dust clouds with every heavy hop.
“They look unnatural; like they were made by men,” Wilbert said, tapping his chin.
“Men?” Cara asked snippily. She was already in a not-great mood.
Wilbert made a face. And it was easy for Wilbert to make faces because there was great elasticity in the skin. He was lanky and dark. Cara loved spending time with Wilbert when Maurice was unavailable. Often even when Maurice was available, he was emotionally unavailable. Wilbert went with the flow; even when it came to following Cara across the badlands.
“I mean, they aren’t natural,” he said. “Can’t be.”
They were at a vantage point allowing them some relative obscurity and view of the panels that lay across the mountainside facing the sun. The panels were wide and long and flat. Something was hanging from one of the boards. It had the body of a box, with clamps for hands at the end of steel limbs with multiple elbows. One of the legs had a bucket and a squeegee, washing the shiny face of the panels.
They both caught sight of the thing suspended over the panel, holding on with one of its extended clamps.
“Do you think that thing made those mutants?” Cara asked.
“That might be a robot.”
“What’s that?”
“Mr. Johnson said robots used to do all sorts of things for people before the Great Fall. They were all sizes. Some even flushed toilets or went around and vacuumed houses.”
“That’s silly, who ever heard of a flushing toilet?” Cara watched as the thing lost its grip on the top of the panel and slid down the tilted face. It tried to get another grip along the way but only managed to scratch the entire mirrored surface on the way down. The sound of nails on glass echoed across the valley. Cara’s teeth hurt because of the sound and she saw far off great plumes of dust from the hopping creatures as they scattered from the noise.
She glimpsed the unmistaken scarlet tartan of Isaiah a few miles away. There were three in his group. He never traveled alone and always had someone sluggish that kept the group from gaining too much ground fast. Cara believed Isaiah used the added weight as a distraction in case he had to run away from something. Isaiah just had to be faster than the rest of his group.
“We need to hurry.”
“What’s that?” Wilbert pointed to a plateau several hundred yards from their perch. There was an enormous steel door. After a few minutes of surveying the area, they saw the box w
ith arms and a bucket roll across the platform and slip through the bent steel doorway.
“That’s how the robot gets into the mountain.”
There was a hint of excitement in Wilbert’s voice when he said, “Do you get to keep a whole mountain?”
“I think so. I know I get those things on the side of the mountain. They’re mine. I’ll share, of course. But I think you get the door since you saw it first.”
They shared a look and together, Cara and Wilbert raced across the platform to squeeze through the doorway. There were heavy steel crates inside. Cabinets with stacks of paper inside harder manila paper sleeves, that blocked the entry. The robot had pushed the whole mess against the opening.
Cara was first inside, and she thought maybe Wilbert let her win, or he wanted her to get squished or eaten before she could claim anything else. Although, that wasn’t like him.
“You get a whole mountain,” Wilbert whispered begrudgingly.
It was dim inside. But not completely dark; there was ambient light. Cara touched one of the light sources with her fingertip. It was cool on contact.
Cara had chosen Wilbert to accompany her and share the loot because he was the best at mapping out their location. He saw something and quickly drew the map on any flat surface. They used charcoal for markers. The best Cara managed was using charcoal sticks for eyeliner and mascara. It got hot in the sun, and bright. The heavy eyeliner helped them see across the vast desert. She saw Isaiah and his red team slipping up through the rocks as they made their way into the enormous steel fort.
“What is this place?” Wilbert asked.
Cara said, “It doesn’t matter, it’s mine.”
There was the clink of something down one of the many corridors. Much of the place was in shambles. There had been a fire years ago; there was black smudging on the walls, and Cara saw mold sprouting from the greasy spots.
