He turned and plunged into the thick growth. The drone would follow, but leading it off the trail could serve to slow it down. Cam heard it behind him as it stepped around trees, occasionally pausing to re-adjust its route. But still it came.
He angled down a hillside and burst back out onto the open. Hanging a sharp left and then following around the base of the hill, Cam paused briefly so as to gauge the proximity of his pursuer. A thump and sudden increase in the rapidity of its footfalls told him it too had cleared the brush.
Cam sprinted on and met up with a wide trail and took off down it. After covering another thirty yards he stopped and confirmed his position. He then turned and waited. It was the kind of waiting that took more determination to maintain than the frenzied running. He banked everything on his theory about being wanted alive. He saw no other option than to attempt what he had in mind. He couldn’t keep going—not at this pace. He was tiring; the drone was not. Even if he miscalculated, death was probably preferable to capture.
The creeper came into view and jerked to a stop when it saw its target directly ahead. It proceeded to move in carefully, having “learned” from Cam’s previous actions to be aware of potential traps. Slowly but persistently the drone closed the gap between it and its human prey.
Cam had his knife at the ready. The drone froze. “Come on!” Cam screamed impatiently. He heard the whirring of a tazer charging. He lost no time flinging his knife. It spun head over hilt with an accuracy honed by hundreds of hours of practice. The momentary movement of both Cam and the projectile in its peripheral caused the creeper a second’s hesitation as its A.I. component struggled to discern the difference between the target and the possibly irrelevant object.
Cam had fallen to the ground as soon as his knife left his hand. Face down, head covered, he waited a breathless moment for what would determine if he was to retain his freedom for another dreary day. He heard the twang as the blade sliced through the parachute cord. A second later he felt the expected whoosh of wind on his neck, perilously close to his head.
Instantly calibrating its gun barrels to combat the hurling wooden mass, with an ear-shattering boom the creeper released two simultaneous shots. But the rounds had no effect on the log’s momentum as it began its upward ascent, guided by the vines lashed tightly around it.
Though the drone’s armor plating was strong, it was insufficient for the blow it received. Cam heard the crunching of vital components within. He lifted his head to see the force of the impact throw the machine twenty feet. It slammed into the rocky ground and skidded up against the base of a tree. Cam jumped up and quickly, but cautiously approached the arachnidan form, an arrow at the ready. Reflexively responding to the danger, it fired again. But from its broken position the shot went wide. Cam looked directly into one of its lenses for whoever might be on the other side of the live video stream. He didn’t want there to be any mistake as to the identity of who was defying them.
The drone sputtered and whirred, its legs kicking spasmodically at the air. There was a weak spot, an access port located on the back underside of its body. It was the only place Cam knew from where the thing could be completely shut down. The creeper’s eyes, still alert, gazed upon him with electronic hate as he approached to get into position.
He was ten feet away when he released his arrow. It penetrated deeply into the port. “Good night,” he growled. This initiated a new series of flailing and humming from within the drone. But instead of going dark, the creeper began emitting an ominous beep-beep-beep, the sounds spaced at half-second intervals.
Not good. The thought hadn’t finished its race across Cam’s brain before his legs sprang into action. He ran, yanking his knife out of the dirt as he passed. Hardly breaking stride, he frantically scanned the area for something to get behind. Since nothing large enough to protect him revealed itself, he kept running. He was trying to make it far enough away to avoid the shrapnel that would be embedded deep into his flesh. The creeper detonated with a furious roar, sending a column of fire leaping skyward. This was followed by the pops and snaps of dirt clods and rocks raining down through the leaves of the forest’s trees.
Cam stopped, turning back to look at the black smoke bellowing up from the mechanical killer’s final resting place. He hadn’t counted on it self-destructing. That must be a new feature. It would’ve been nice if he’d been able to salvage a bit off of it before leaving. He would’ve at least felt like he got something for all his trouble.
He made his way back to the cave. He grabbed his pack and began throwing whatever he thought might be necessary into it. Taking one final look around the cavern, he allowed himself a brief moment of remorse at losing such an ideal home, at the loss of all that he’d collected and stored up over the seasons. The expectation of one day returning, however, he didn’t allow himself to indulge. Surveying the room, his eyes landed on the bookshelf. The journal. He ran over and snatched it up. He hesitated, and then threw the Bible in his bag as well.
*****
Cam traveled all day. Keeping up a grueling pace, he only stopped to take advantage of the creeks he crossed to replenish his water supply. Living in the forest had always been a risky enterprise. Until recently aero-drones hardly ever flew near. The frequency of these surveillance missions had begun to concern him. They’d prompted him to prepare the log trap and several other similar obstacles, not knowing exactly what to expect.
He would seek refuge in one of the nearer deserted towns for the time being. Backup would eventually arrive and he didn’t want to be around when it did. After hours of hard walking over rugged and wooded terrain, he met up with a dilapidated paved road, pockmarked with potholes and sprouting weeds like stubble. The middle yellow line was faded, but visible. He paused briefly to survey his surroundings. Content that he was alone, he stepped out onto it.
He reached his intended destination at dusk. The house he decided upon was an acre off of the road. A huge oak had fallen on it, crushing one half of the structure. But the other end was habitable. The look of vacancy and desolation would work to his advantage. He entered a back door, walked through a kitchen and into a living room. Dropping his pack, it sent a cloud of dust spinning into the air. He sat down on the hardware floor and leaned back against the remnants of a sofa. His arm ached more than it had in the morning. Unwrapping the soiled bandage, he discovered that the battle had opened up one end of the larger gash.
He pulled more venison jerky out of his bag and ate, studying the living room from where he sat. It was trashed. A broken arm chair and end table lay in a heap together on one end. A busted bookshelf was overturned in the corner. Whatever items it once held had probably been consumed in the fireplace in which were the blackened remains of magazines whose middle pages didn’t catch. Other squatters had obviously also taken advantage of the location. Incredibly, there was still a picture on one wall. Cam hadn’t noticed it until now because the same thick coat of dirt and grime that covered the wall coated it as well. He got up and walked over, gently lifting the frame down. After blowing the dust away, he wiped the glass off with his finger. It was a family of five.
They were smiling: mom and dad, two brothers and a sister. Cam stared at their cheerful contentment. What had finally become of them? The instinctive yearning for the family he’d never had unexpectedly enveloped him. Weaving through the sudden mist of sentiment were all the desires a normal life fulfilled—peace and security, a home and steady work, the due reward of one’s daily labor. The picture represented a settled existence, the kind he’d never known. And, he knew, not with pity but something nearer resignation, never would.
The photo turned his thoughts to Stuart. Cam gazed at their faces a moment more. He then quickly returned the frame to the wall, leaving the picture for time alone to contemplate. Contemplation of this sort was a dangerous exercise. It would only distract him at a time when that was not a viable, nor a healthy option.
5
Cam was up and packed before the sun r
ose. He didn’t know where exactly he’d go yet, but that had never stopped him in the past. Too much detailed planning was impractical. It could hem him into inaction by the unpredictability of circumstances. He would adapt to the need of the moment. He left the house and its ghosts and walked down what was left of a sidewalk to the street.
The immediate area was only occasionally inhabited by the roving bands of squatters or pickers who passed through. He’d traveled in such groups before. Some were tolerable; most were not. He could take care of himself, could do without the security that a troupe offered. But it wasn’t many others who had that luxury.
He was always aware of his immediate environment. For the one who traveled alone, being ready to face whatever exigency might arise was the golden rule of survival. In the forest it had been bears and drones. Here, it was primarily the human animal that had to be guarded against. He fell into a quick, rhythmic gait as he followed the road that led out of town, deftly stepping over places where the concrete had buckled, cracked or crumbled back into the earth.
Some houses he passed were standing and others had all but fallen in on themselves. Several were burned down and left only blackened foundations behind. Lawns, once lovingly trimmed and meticulously manicured, were masses of tangled brush and weeds, littered with limbs and debris. He got a glimpse of an old, empty swimming pool, a relic of days when men possessed leisure time. All was quiet except for the brooding presence of nature. This was literally a dead town, a graveyard of homes and memories.
During the Days of Terror people initially fled the cities and came to places like this in search of food and safety. The home owners resorted to defending their properties, many being killed in the attempt. When the war was finally over, the Purge resulted in deportation of the majority of the remaining population into the cities—or, into the internment camps.
Cam froze and instantly pulled his bow around from his back, reaching for an arrow with his free hand. His eyes swept the area, taking in the whole in seconds. Something wasn’t right. His ear had caught a distinct shuffle, a sound that could only be produced by an animate object. The air was charged with the presence of some other personality, be it man or beast. Arrow knocked, he approached an old shed with a rusted tin roof that stood near to the side of the road.
“Show yourself,” he commanded evenly.
There was a slight stirring and what sounded like a snort, but nothing emerged.
Cam took another cautious step in order to gain a better view. He’d probably only cornered an animal—wild hog perhaps. They were dangerous enough, hundreds of pounds of nastiness with razor-sharp tusks barreling down with petrifying intent. Arrows and bullets bounced off their heads and cartilage-fortified shoulders.
Instead of a hog, however, suddenly a young man—or an old boy—tore out from behind the building and incongruously ran straight for him, eyes wide with a fear mingled with careless negligence. He wielded a knife, which he held high above his head with both hands.
It was a ridiculously ineffective method of attack. Cam stood calmly as the wild youth covered the short distance between them. He didn’t move until the guy was almost upon him and then deftly side-stepped, laying his free hand across his assailant’s back and placing his foot in his path. The teen toppled over and crashed to the ground.
Cam looked at him, lying face down, and wondered if he’d impaled himself on his homemade weapon. His question was answered when the youth abruptly rolled onto his back and tried to rise. Cam stepped on his wrist, pinning his hand holding the knife to the ground.
“Take it easy, kid,” he said.
“I’m not going back,” the young man replied breathlessly as he gave up struggling.
“Huh?”
“You’ll have to kill me first.”
Cam stared down at him. Close up he looked to be about 16. He was thin and dirty, but otherwise healthy with a head full of thick, dirty blond hair. Cam shrugged and said, “Why would I do that?”
The youth didn’t know how to reply to such an unexpected query. He only gazed wide-eyed up at Cam.
“You alone?” Cam asked. It was a question he already knew the answer to.
“Yeah,” the young man answered, fearfully observing Cam reach down and pluck the knife out of his hand.
Removing his foot and stretching out his other hand, Cam said, “Get up.”
The youth hesitated and then reluctantly accepted the help, allowing Cam to pull him to his feet.
“It’s not safe to be alone.” Cam continued. “What are you, a picker?”
“Nah.”
Cam looked him hard in the eyes for a few seconds. He’d learned long ago that the eyes often revealed what people otherwise would prefer to keep hidden. What he saw told him that this kid was no threat, only a nuisance. “What you did was foolish,” he remarked. “This isn’t a safe place to be.” He paused and then added, “But you already know that.”
The youth still gazed at Cam, though with more confusion than fear.
Cam smirked. “Don’t forget your knife,” he said, handing it to him before he turned to resume his journey.
“Where’re you going?” the young man called out, suddenly finding his voice.
“None of your concern,” Cam returned over his shoulder.
“You need a second?”
Cam ignored him.
“I’ll die out here.”
The way he said it, in a sort of whiny desperation caused Cam a second’s hesitation. This, in spite of the fact that he abhorred the prospect of the kid’s company and sure couldn’t afford the burden of someone else to look out for.
The teen noticed Cam’s momentary indecision and seized upon it. He ran to catch up. “Name’s Slip,” he said.
Cam didn’t answer. He kept just kept walking.
*****
After passing out of town, the two followed a road that led into open country. Cam reluctantly resigned himself to his shadow. Short of tying him up, it seemed he had no choice. Expansive tracts of fallow land fanned out for miles to either side of them, only broken by intermittent groves of trees. Sluggishly rolling hills taunted the road to follow along. Occasionally a vacant house or barn could be seen off in the distance. Cam stopped abruptly at one point and peered off across a field.
“What is…?” Slip began, but was cut off by Cam lifting a hand to silence him. Slip strained to see what had gotten Cam’s attention. There was a well-tended vegetable patch, seventy-five yards away.
“Somebody’s…” Cam lifted a finger to his lips, again cutting Slip off mid sentence and pointed. There, sitting under a tree near a corner of the plot was an old man. He was asleep, head back, a hoe laid across his lap. When Slip noticed him he said in a low tone, “We can take him.”
Cam gave Slip a withering look of disgust. “Just like that? You would take what he’s struggled to produce?” he demanded.
“That’s how you survive,” Slip returned defiantly.
“No, that’s how you lose your humanity. There’s precious little of that left as it is.”
Slip puckered up his face at Cam in pity.
“Look closer,” Cam told him. Slip surveyed the area again. It was several moments before he noticed what Cam referred to. There was a hedge near the edge of the plot, not far from where the old man reposed. It didn’t quite fit in with its surroundings, but Slip couldn’t figure out why.
“It’s a blind,” Cam said in response to Slip’s confusion. “The old man’s not alone. You don’t think he could have made it this long with that amount of food, by himself, exposed as he is day after day? There’s at least two more of them. You would’ve been dead before the old man could even wipe the sleep from his eyes.”
Cam commenced walking again. Slip lingered, still observing the sleeping figure contemplatively. Shrugging his shoulders, he finally turned and followed.
The incident confirmed to Cam what he’d already surmised. Slip didn’t have the sense of someone who’d been alone for long. Left
to his own devices, he would die. However, he did possess the arrogance of one who’d always found security in those he had around to protect him. Cam asked himself again why he was even letting him tag along. His reluctance to leave him behind almost annoyed him more than the kid did—almost.
They passed skeletal remains of vehicles, stripped of everything except their frames. Many of those that were still around after the war were scrapped when the fuel supplies finally ran out. Cam had known people here and there who’d figured out how to run a car or truck on alternate power sources, but moving objects with heat signatures generally drew too much unwanted attention.
In an attempt to break the silence that had ensued since leaving the garden behind, Slip asked, “What’s up with the clothes, dude?
Cam slowed his pace and glanced down at himself. He was wearing pants and a shirt that he’d made out of deer skin, complete with a pair of leather moccasins on his feet. It hadn’t even crossed his mind that it was a bit out of the ordinary, even for the Backland.
Cam shrugged. “They’ll last. Yours…,” he began, nodding his head at Slip’s ragged t-shirt and khaki pants with gaping holes in each knee, “… are already falling apart. They won’t make it another month.”
“Yeah, but you look weird.”
Cam picked up his pace again. Not accustomed to unnecessary conversation, he chose not to reply.
Toward late morning a rabbit darted out from a high patch of grass forty feet in front of them. Cam instantly swung his bow around and seated the arrow in one fluid motion. He followed the rabbit with his aim for a couple seconds and released the string just as it reached the shoulder of the far side of the road. After walking over and pulling his arrow out of the animal’s body, he wiped the blood off the arrowhead with a leaf and replaced the arrow in his quiver. By then the rabbit had stopped its jerking and he slung the corpse over his shoulder.
Backland: Unremembered (Book #1) Page 3
