Backland: Unremembered (Book #1)

by Jeff Shelnutt

  BACKLAND

  Book 1

  “Unremembered”

  Jeff Shelnutt

  Copyright © 2014 by Jeff Shelnutt

  Horse & Buggy Publications

  PO Box 17

  Shannon, AL 35142

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For all those who refuse to forget.

  History would be a wonderful thing—if it were only true.

  -Leo Tolstoy

  1

  Appalachia Reserve Zone

  Cam slowly raised the bow, simultaneously drawing taut its string. Arm muscles strained but steady, he inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the sharp morning air. A stout breeze found its way to where he stood and gently lifted his beard. He immediately checked himself before the impulse of exhalation. The doe still seized upon the strange scent. Her head shot up, ears stiff with attention, eyes furtively scanning the undergrowth, body rigid. The hum of the forest melted into the silence of the focused precision that possessed Cam’s universe at the height of the hunt.

  He released the arrow the split-second after his keen eye caught her tense for the leap. He’d anticipated the shot perfectly. Barely off the ground, the arrow entered the deer’s flank and pierced her heart. The momentum of the jump continued to carry her body up as it twisted awkwardly in mid-air before crashing back to the earth, twitching once and lying still.

  Cam approached the corpse, knife in hand. He would now have to move quickly. The doe was too heavy for him to manage her alone. Squatting down over the body, with habitual dexterity he began making the necessary incisions in order to remove the skin. That task done, he then carved out the choicest cuts, wrapped them in a tarp and placed them in his pack. He would be leaving so much here, a waste that contradicted all of his instincts.

  What he did manage to get into his bag was still heavy enough. Standing with a grunt, he picked up his bow and took a few careful steps, permitting his legs to compensate for the weight. He then began the climb up the forested hillside, gradually quickening his pace. Sweat erupted from his pores with the exertion. He continually scanned for movement and listened for the audible impressions that would immediately put him on the defensive.

  He crested the hill and paused to catch his breath before entering into a narrow clearing. The forest was quiet—too quiet. Whatever might be near, whatever else might also be on the hunt had impelled nature, at least in his immediate vicinity, to only silently observe. Nothing but the leaves dangling from the trees, just on the verge of trading in their colors, stirred in the stony silence. Their cover cloaked what Cam strained to see. He was exposed and vulnerable. He needed to keep moving.

  He cautiously made his way toward the edge of the clearing. Suddenly, a cold wave of acute awareness flooded his chest with nervous anticipation. The dense wall of brush to his immediate left exploded, flinging at him a massively dark blur that filled his peripheral vision. He impulsively lifted his arm to protect his head and staggered back. What felt like a log slammed into his forearm with enough force to knock him flat on is back. He rolled once and jumped up, propelled to his feet by a surge of adrenaline. His breath came in rapid spurts and his pulse thumped wildly in his ears as he crouched and gazed at the bear on its hind legs towering over his discarded pack. Casting a long threatening shadow, the dense, low rumble of the bear’s growl grew in intensity as it stared Cam down, daring him to defend his kill.

  Cam retreated slowly, keeping his attention on the beast but being careful not to look to look it directly in the eyes. The bear dropped down on all fours and charged at him in a warning display of intimidation. It didn’t desire to engage the human any more than was necessary. It had what it wanted, drawn by the irresistible scent of fresh blood.

  Cam, for his part, had wasted too many arrows on bears before. It took them forever to go down, if they went down at all. Even injured, they were quick, their fury posing a mortal threat to life and limb. He continued to back up until he’d put some twenty feet between him and the animal. Seeing him pause, the bear growled again and trotted forward a couple steps. Swearing under his breath, Cam had no choice but to leave the creature to devour its stolen prey. It continued growling after him, muffled rumblings interspersed with sounds of ripping flesh.

  Cam’s sleeve was torn and soaked with blood. Upon closer inspection and an attempt to move it he ascertained that his arm was not broken, though a fracture was not out of the question. Two long gashes ran parallel across the muscle of his left forearm. The more distance he put between him and the bear allowed his body to recover from the excited tension of the encounter. But as he calmed his wound increasingly pulsated with pain. He stopped to cut a leather tassel off of his jacket. He wrapped it around his arm between his elbow and the wounds. Pulling it tightly with his teeth and free hand, he hoped it would slow the flow of blood that was dripping a noticeable trail in his wake. He then realized with disgust that he’d lost his remaining arrows in the scuffle. No, it was not turning out to be a good morning.

  He, however, forced himself to remain alert. An encounter like that could draw more attention than he desired. He took his bearings. It was only a half mile back to his shelter. His arm demanded immediate care. Continuing his trek, he only walked a few paces before he suddenly stopped again. The sound was distant but unmistakable. He only heard it because it didn’t fit into the mosaic of the forest to which his senses were so attuned. It was a greater threat than the bear. Not waiting for the source to become visible, he just broke into a dead run.

  The second rush of adrenaline gave his legs the push they needed to cover the distance in mere minutes despite the branches that slapped at his face and chest, in spite of the thorns that grasped at his pants and the vines that threatened to send him flailing. He didn’t slow until he reached the buckskin hanging across the hole that led into his dwelling. By now the hum was so distinct he knew it was almost directly above him. Glancing through the canopy he caught quick sight of the sleek black body of the aero-drone. He thrust himself inside and once again hoped the layers of rock would offer enough buffering that the scout’s thermal sensors wouldn’t pick up his presence. He waited just inside until silence again resumed and he was reasonably convinced it wasn’t turning back for another pass.

  He relaxed slightly and propped his re-curve near the doorway. The cave was deep, though he hadn’t bothered to explore its tunnels extensively. Surviving left little time for such ventures, and lighting was scarce. He used the front part of the cave, a cavern about twenty feet in diameter with a vaulted ceiling. It was an isolated hideout, one of the countless caves that had never been mapped, scattered throughout the extensive mountain chain. He’d only discovered it by mere chance sprinkled with a bit of luck.

  Ten miles or so to the south lay what was at some time in the past a frequently used recreational trail. On one of his hunts he’d come across an old map box lying off to the side of the path. Mostly buried, only one corner was visible. Its thick plastic was in intact and had protected the paper within from the elements. But the sun had long since faded most of the markings. He could make out “APPALACHIAN TRAIL” at the top, and a little ways down a “You are here” arrow. Though, the location of “here” was no longer particularly relevant. Because it snaked through the mountains from Region Four in the deep south way up into Region Three in the far north-east, the trail had been used as an insurgent supply line during the war. In surreal defilement of the trail’s natural beauty, craters and r
uts gouged its twisted route, remnants of aerial attacks.

  Cam picked up a wooden box full of miscellaneous, though potentially useful items, and rummaged around until he found a half-used bottle of bright blue liquid. Its expiration date was a faded splotch of timelessness. The person he’d procured it from, a trade off for a couple small skins, didn’t know what to make of it other than stating, “It’s liquor, sure ‘nuff!” Cam knew better. It was mouthwash. He had put it aside for just such a moment.

  He sat down on his bed, a rough construction of small saplings with rope tightly crisscrossing its frame. Reaching up over his head he pulled down a spool of thread from a rock hollow he used for a shelf. But it was too dark for him to see well enough to perform the procedure.

  He walked over and threw back the door flap. He strained his ears but heard nothing, so he tied the skin up to allow the light in. Settling back down on the bed, he took up the antiseptic. He then undid the rag on his arm. Steeling himself, he carefully tipped the bottle so that the fluid filled and spilled over the two gashes. He sucked in air and breathed out a moan. He wished now he’d snatched up the small vial of lidocaine he’d been offered at one point. It was when he’d still had bullets, but he wasn’t desperate enough to part with the ammunition then. He’d definitely give up a few rounds now if given half a chance.

  One of the lacerations went clean through the muscle so that he caught glimpse of the opaque-white gloss of bone. It would need a mattress stitch. He threaded a needle also procured from the shoebox and dipped into the mouthwash. At least he did possess a cutting needle. Clenching his teeth, he pushed it into his flesh far enough from the edge of the wound to leave room for another pass. The sharp point sliced easily through the skin and came out low. He continued pushing, allowing the curve of the needle to guide itself back up and emerge at a slight distance from the gash on the opposite side. He paused to let the fire in his arm die down.

  Taking another deep breath, he jabbed the needle back into his flesh on the same side where it’d just exited. This time it was closer to the wound and he didn’t go as deep. Exhaling heavily, he pushed the needle back out in front of the initial entry point. Now both ends of the thread protruded from the same side. With his right hand he managed a double over-hand knot. He grabbed one end of the thread with his teeth and after a few attempts, was able to pull the cut closed. Repeating the process a dozen more times, he finally managed to seal up the laceration.

  Cam closed his eyes and remembered his thirst. He fetched a bladder from near the head of his bed. He drank deeply, long inured to the taste of sediment that stream water left behind, and then returned to continue the procedure. His motivation was ebbing dangerously. The pain, the day’s tension and his blood loss all threatened him with lethargy and carelessness. The smaller laceration only needed surface stitches, but it needed to happen soon. He knew how to handle pain. Really, the pain would be still be there, but he knew how to disregard it temporarily while his hands mechanically performed the task before him. Finishing the job, which took him another half hour to complete, he fell back on his bed, exhausted. Now that it was over, he felt every single burning point where the needle had pierced his arm.

  He still needed meat. Deer were plentiful, grossly overpopulating the whole region. Humans hadn’t been permitted to hunt them since the start of Reconstruction. But, neither were they able to hunt the bears that were also doing a phenomenal job of multiplying. Cam did not have rights to the land or its wildlife. The human element was an unwelcome intruder, a trespasser. Any unauthorized persons found in the reserve were to be shot on sight.

  2

  Cam’s eyes snapped open. He sat up wearily, weak from the morning’s excursions. His wounds throbbed with a deep, persistent ache. He struggled to retrieve the last thought he’d had before he fell into sleep. He should remember. It was important, something he didn’t need to lose. But the harder he tried the more it eluded him, like tendrils of smoke through the fingers of his memory.

  He staggered over to the door and flipped back the flap to see by the fading light under the forest’s canopy that it was mid-afternoon. He turned from the doorway and walked to the back of his cavern to where several strips of dried venison hung. Pulling one down, he sank his teeth into it. After a short struggle he managed to rip a piece off. He commenced chewing, allowing his salivary glands to work and tenderize the salty, leathery strand. His head spun—a warning from his body that he still needed rehydrating after his loss of blood.

  He laid the meat on a table near his bed and located his water. As soon as the mouth of the bladder touched his lips, he yanked away again. Charged with the illumination of sudden recollection, he sprang up, grabbed his bow and quiver, and rushed out of the cave.

  He sprinted the quarter mile to the site, disregarding the agonizing jarring of his arm, his heart pumping not from the exertion but from the dread of what he’d find. His destination lay in a clearing that was indiscernible from beyond its tree-lined perimeter. He’d tried to make sure it wouldn’t be found from the ground except by accident. However, he could do nothing about the aerial view. It was a risk he’d had to take. His health relied upon it. Stepping into the patch, the acrid taste of disappointment filled his mouth and trickled down the back of his throat.

  In the second of that first glance he simultaneously comprehended and mourned. The field was a charred ruin of black. Patches of ash still smoked here and there, though nothing any longer burned. It had been his garden, his sustenance. She represented his toil, his sweat, his freest hours. It was a labor of love, and in some strange way, it had been a marriage. He gave extensively and intentionally to the relationship. The field had offered him something to care for and to nurture. He now realized he had even given himself emotionally to her. And she had devotedly given back in seasons past, been a companion, been something to live for. Now, she was dead and he would have to leave her corpse where it lay.

  The garden had been fire-bombed. If the drone hadn’t spotted him, it had certainly seen evidence of his presence. It made sure it was eradicated.

  Most of the seeds that generations had saved and sown for centuries were destroyed during the war. It was not only an effort to break the rebel resistance, but also to ensure the survivors would not be able to replant their farms again—ever. Legal seeds now available to buy in the Free Zones were all hybrid and sterile. Cam had sacrificed more than he cared to remember obtaining the heirloom seeds that he’d sown this field with. Checking his sadness and subduing his shock, he took one last survey of the senseless waste. That was all he could allow himself. He then turned and slowly walked back to his cave, feeling nothing but numbness.

  *****

  Cam ate his dinner of jerky while sitting on his bed and thought about turning in early. But his earlier nap and the day’s events wouldn’t permit his mind repose. He restlessly stood and walked over to a plank laid across two rocks on the ground that served as a bookshelf. It held a small collection of books that he’d pieced together over the years. Among the titles was a copy of Plato’s Republic.

  The irony of the philosopher’s cave illustration was not lost on Cam. He’d read it over many times in the flicker of firelight while his own shadow danced upon the rock wall. Assuming this existence was nothing more than mere illusion, many times removed from the ultimate reality, it sure felt sufficiently real enough to him. Speculations of an ideal, yet unattainable otherness are easy enough to entertain, especially from the confines of an ancient society that tolerated metaphysical ruminations.

  On the shelf were also a post-war history text and a King James Bible. Beside these sat several yellowed paperback novels, all of which he’d read more than once. They were written before the Days of Terror. They spoke of times all but forgotten, if those days had ever even really existed in the ways the narratives described.

  And, there was a black-leather covered volume with pages full of neat, cursive writing. He picked it up and opened it, reading once again on the titl
e page, “This journal belongs to: Stuart Fields,” the man’s name written in the same cursive that matched the pages that followed.

  Cam didn’t know how his brother had obtained the journal or why it was so important to him. Maybe Kyle simply treasured it as a novelty. Or maybe he clung to it as a reminder, a link in a chain of events, without making a judgment call upon its contents. That was more like Kyle. He was methodical. He did things for a reason. That’s what Cam’s gut told him. But he couldn’t ask. Kyle was dead.

  The journal wasn’t written by a professional historian and was refreshingly simple and candid. To Cam it had become more than just a record. The journal was a mirror into a time and a place that he somehow understood but couldn’t comprehend; the past that was always present, but would never be again.

  He could lose himself in the journal’s words. He could briefly experience a different life—the one perceived by Stuart. This didn’t change anything. But it did offer a momentary escape, especially when it was too much of an intellectual effort to try to accurately remember the past, reconcile it to the present and project that image into the future. Perhaps this had, to some degree, been Kyle’s reason for holding onto the journal as well. It was the only tangible item of his brother’s that Cam possessed. And it was the most unlikely of items for Kyle to have passed on to him.

  But it was the Bible that Cam picked up now and returned to his bed with. He occasionally perused this book, particularly the Psalms. One verse had suddenly propelled itself to the forefront of his mind. He began haphazardly flipping pages in pursuit of it. His eye fell upon what he was looking for:

  But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All they that see laugh me to scorn: they shoot out the lip, they shake the head, saying, He trusted on the LORD that He would deliver him: let Him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him.