Backland: Unremembered (Book #1)

by Jeff Shelnutt

  “Dude, we’re wasting time,” Slip finally said. He was apparently on edge, compulsively glancing around in all directions.

  “I don’t think we’ll find anything here,” Cam conceded. Something didn’t feel right. Slip’s tenseness was grating on him. Perhaps, too, his fever was affecting his mental clarity.

  As they emerged back into the sunlight, Cam’s head started to clear. Shedding the confines of the abandoned hospital seemed to recalibrate his lost equilibrium. He stopped.

  Slip looked at him curiously. “What’s up?”

  “Of course,” Cam said under his breath. “I should have thought of that.” He peered up and down the road, shielding his eyes from the sun. “I need to find a vet’s office.”

  “What’s a vet?” Slip asked.

  “A veterinarian.” Cam realized that meant nothing to Slip. “They are…or were animal doctors.”

  “Get out,” Slip exclaimed.

  “No, it’s true.”

  “So what good’s that gonna do you?”

  “Back when they used to manufacture medicine, the same company would often produce it for humans and animals. The medicines are basically the same, they were just packaged differently. If you know how to read the labels on animal meds, you can figure out the amount to give a person.”

  Slip was staring at Cam. “How do you know all this stuff?”

  “Oh, picked up a little here and there,” Cam replied evasively.

  “Yeah, right,” Slip muttered.

  *****

  Cam found the vet’s office after another half hour of wandering near the main road. It was two blocks over and located in a one-story building with a wing running down the side of the property. He guessed that this was once a kennel and confirmed his hunch by looking through a hole in the cinder block wall to see a row of chain-link fronted cells.

  The front door was closed, but hadn’t been locked since the mechanism was demolished sometime in the turbid past. An intact counter remained in the lobby, though all the chairs and whatever tables had once been within were long since plundered. Cam left Slip near the door. “Keep watch,” he instructed. He then made his way down the hall toward the exam rooms. Each one contained the same style cabinets hung on its wall. He checked them all. Entering the last room, his expectations faltered. Only one to go and so far the vet clinic had been just as bare as the hospital.

  In a corner on the bottom shelf sat a small vial. With thumping heart, Cam carefully removed it and brushed the layer of dirt off with his thumb. It was oxytetracycline. A powdered medicinal could keep for decades if properly sealed and stored in a moderately cool and shaded place. He walked over to the window and held it up to the light. To his dismay, he saw that it was empty, the rubber on the top having been pierced and the life-saving drug rehydrated and removed.

  He put the empty vial in his satchel. A wave of nausea crashed over him. He grabbed an exam table to steady himself. Its wheels weren’t locked and it shifted under his weight, causing him to stumble and go down on one knee. Panting, he waited for his head to stop somersaulting and the urge to vomit to pass. He eventually managed to regain his feet. With eyes closed and head-throbbing he wondered. After all that he’d been through, all the times he should’ve been the one not to pull through; after all of his flirtations with fate, would he die like he’d been witness to the death of so many others—because of nothing more than an untreated infection? It seemed ridiculously ironic.

  How many times had he wished death would come? And now, now for some inexplicable reason, he wasn’t ready to give in to it. The cosmic joke was suddenly on him. “Lord, help me,” he breathed.

  He surprised himself with the prayer. He didn’t know what prompted it or why he would even think to say it. Praying was not on the short list of his habits.

  He re-entered the lobby and was about to let Slip know that it was another bust when he instantly paused. Slip was gone. Though Cam knew he wouldn’t be there, he still glanced out to either side of the front door. He then pulled quickly back into the lobby out of sight. He hadn’t heard any shouts or sounds of a struggle. Slip wouldn’t wander off—unless something irresistible drew him away.

  He was suddenly angry. He had dropped his guard. Fever or not, it was unacceptable. He hesitated, irritably asking himself once again why he should care about the kid. Swinging his bow around, he knocked an arrow.

  Stepping out into the mid-day sun, he immediately began assessing the terrain. With the keen eye of experience, he quickly spotted the evidence of Slip’s route. His partial shoe print in a patch of dirt near the sidewalk told Cam what he needed to know. It also showed him that Slip wasn’t alone. He set off down the road in a fast, measured pace.

  8

  Cam didn’t have to go far. He moved noiselessly, staying in the afternoon shadows of the buildings as much as possible, and followed the subtle signs left by those he pursued. A half mile down the street from the vet clinic his ear detected a low murmuring of voices. He instantly stopped and listened. He was near an intersection and what he heard was coming from the left, but his view down the road was obstructed by a storefront. Proceeding stealthily forward, he paused again at the corner, immediately recognizing Slip’s voice.

  “Just tell ‘em you took care of it. You’ll never see me again. I swear,” Slip pleaded.

  A weak, mocking laugh was followed by, “He wants you alive.”

  That’s all Cam needed. He stepped from behind the corner that concealed him, bow drawn, razor-tipped stone arrow centered on the chest of a man who lounged against the back wall of the store holding a revolver that he had aimed at Slip.

  “Well if isn’t Davy Crockett,” the man said lazily, but with some effort as he gazed upon Cam’s outfit.

  “Lower your weapon,” Cam demanded.

  “Or what, you’ll shoot me?”

  “Yep,” Cam confirmed.

  “I might be better off,” the man blandly returned.

  Cam saw why this was true. He was obviously in pain, his face contorted, his breath coming in rapid spurts. He had on jeans and a tank top, was bald on top with the sides of his head shaved close, and looked to be in his late-forties. The parts of him that were exposed—his face, arms, and chest—were pale and dripping with abnormal amounts of sweat. Cam observed that he’d been coughing up blood and wiping his mouth on his shirt so that his sagging collar was blotted with dark smears. Holding the handgun steady was about all he appeared to have the strength for.

  “You know him, then, Slip?” Cam asked, keeping his attention and bow trained on the sick man.

  “I know who he is,” Slip answered in a quaking voice that couldn’t hide his fear of his pursuer.

  Cam was beginning to understand. Rival clans could be found scattered throughout the regions. Many were comprised of run-of-the-mill thugs and common crooks that had little to do but defend their turf and survive by any means possible. But some held territory covering hundreds of square miles depending on their size and influence. These were Backland mafias, highly organized and politically-motivated.

  It was seldom possible to avoid being a part of a clan. Most were born into one and apprenticed into its way of life from the cradle. It was also very difficult for a group of people to attempt to live communally apart from the authority of the local boss. They, at the very least, became nothing more than his vassals.

  Every clan had its code of conduct and nearly all of them decreed the death penalty for defecting. This inspired fear and fostered loyalty. What Cam didn’t understand was why they would send a bounty hunter after a kid like Slip. It didn’t seem worth the effort.

  The sick man eyed Cam and then looked back to Slip. His hand started to drop, but he recovered with a jerk, lifting the pistol up once again. He coughed up more blood-tinged spittle. Cam didn’t move, ready to instantly release the arrow if need be. He banked on the man’s innate desire to survive, on that instinctive hope humans entertain to be his motivation not to make a foolish and fatal decis
ion. Finally, the man lowered his arm, allowing it to rest on his outstretched leg, the revolver still in his hand but sloping toward the ground.

  Cam motioned with his head and Slip walked over. He didn’t lower his bow until Slip was shielded behind him.

  “Thanks,” Slip breathed in relief.

  “Who is he?” Cam growled.

  “His name’s Minnow.”

  Minnow continued to try to gaze at them, but he was unable to keep his eyes focused for more than several seconds at a stretch. His head kept falling forward, forcing him to snap it back up in a losing battle to stay alert. He was visibly weakening before their eyes. Cam’s concern was not so much for the threat he posed, but for whatever was afflicting him.

  “It looks like the creeping cough,” Slip offered.

  Cam frowned. He was thinking the same thing. Backland plagues were no trifling matter. The creeping cough could sweep through a camp and easily kill a third of the population in a couple weeks. He saw that Minnow was on the verge of unconsciousness, fighting hard to keep from going under.

  “Hey!” Cam shouted at Minnow. The latter started and gazed up. “When did you get sick?”

  Minnow appeared to be thinking about it. He mumbled something incoherently.

  “Speak up!” Cam demanded.

  Minnow managed a smile. “I felt fine two days ago…” he said, his voice trailing off.

  Something was wrong. What Minnow had resembled the creeping cough…but…if he’d given an accurate answer, Cam had never seen the disease work this fast. He took a moment to look closely again, scanning him for other symptoms. His eyes lighted upon the ground around where Minnow sat, on a sign he’d missed, or that had come about since he’d arrived only a couple of minutes ago. There was a dark substance slowly pooling out from beneath him. The man was hemorrhaging. From the amount of the blood visible, his insides were in the very process of liquefying. Even as Cam realized this, blood began to trickle from Minnow’s nose.

  “We gotta go,” Cam said abruptly. He backed up, without taking his eyes off the carrier of something really unpleasant.

  “What’s a matter?” Minnow cried, suddenly alert.

  Cam didn’t answer. He was almost to the corner, Slip following but looking at him curiously.

  “Tell me!” Minnow screamed.

  Cam paused. “You don’t have the creeping cough.”

  “What?” Minnow asked, confused.

  “Something worse,” Cam stated matter-of-factly. A white curtain of fear draped Minnow’s face.

  Cam didn’t wait any longer. As soon as he rounded the corner, he broke into a jog with Slip following suit. When they had gotten a hundred yards down the road, Slip asked in between snatching gulps of air, “What’s going on?”

  Before Cam could reply they heard the pistol report, its pop ricocheting down the side street and spilling out onto the road. Both stopped running and looked back.

  Slip stood motionless, stunned.

  “I’m afraid what he’s got…or had,” Cam added respectfully, “is much more dangerous to us than the creeping cough. But you’re off the hook now. We need to move.” He touched Slip’s shoulder to get his attention. Slip nodded and turned to keep up.

  They were out of the town, walking back toward the intersection before either spoke.

  “Where’d you come from?” Cam asked.

  “North.” Slip winced as a shiver traversed down his spine. He waited for Cam to tell him the inevitable, for him to turn and say they could no longer travel together; that it was too risky for him to be around a potentially infected person.

  “You best head in the same direction I am,” Cam said, breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

  “Why?” Slip asked, confused.

  “Cause that’s away from the affected area. I would think that’s obvious…”

  “No,” Slip cut him off. “I mean why would you want me around anymore?”

  Cam sighed. “You need to learn to stop pushing your luck with unnecessary questions, kid.”

  Slip couldn’t keep from grinning as he hurried to catch up with Cam who had suddenly set a brisk pace. “By the way, who’s Davy Crockett?” he asked.

  Cam only grunted in reply.

  *****

  The two traveled on until mid-afternoon. Recovering Slip had given Cam a burst of synthetic strength. But as soon as they were back on the road, he quickly began losing energy again. Slip saw him stumble several times and noted that he was struggling to keep up his former pace.

  “Hey, look up ahead,” Slip said suddenly.

  On the horizon was a barely perceptible object, a blur appearing to be heading their way.

  “I’ve already seen it.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’d say it’s a wagon.”

  “Pickers?”

  “We shall know soon enough.”

  They walked on until what was indeed a long wooden wagon with low paneled sides came close enough for them to make out a man and a woman sitting on the bench. A single horse drew them and their load. Cam didn’t knock an arrow, didn’t even place his hand near his bow. Slip found this strange. He wondered if his high fever was lowering his guard.

  “Whoa,” they heard the man say from fifty yards away to slow the horse from a trot to a walk.

  Cam halted and waited, unperturbed, though swaying slightly from side to side. Slip looked back and forth between him and the approaching wagon. It hadn’t escaped Slip’s notice that the man in the wagon had dropped one arm down beside him out of sight. When the vehicle was thirty feet away, the driver reigned to a stop and swung his arm up, leveling a pump shotgun directly at them.

  His bushy gray beard and tattered fedora made him look older than he was. But the woman sitting beside him was considerably younger. She had long dark hair, pulled loosely back into a pony tail that complemented a handsome face. Despite her pleasant looks, her expression was iron, backing up the shotgun’s threats.

  “Put the gun down, Pete,” Cam drawled. “You might hurt someone.”

  The man squinted his eyes, laughed loudly and lowered his weapon.

  “Well I’ll be! If it ain’t Cam!” he exclaimed good-naturedly. “I figured you was long dead.”

  Cam touched his hand to his hat. “Pete, Sarah, always a pleasure.”

  “Whose the young ‘un?” Pete asked, nodding his head toward Cam’s companion.

  “This is Slip. Slip, meet an old friend and his daughter.”

  Slip waved a hand. He then met Sarah’s steely eyes staring at him and dropped his gaze.

  “Still scavenging, I see,” Cam continued, eyeing the tarp-covered pile that rose behind the two in the back of the wagon.

  “What else would I do?” Pete returned. “I thought about retirin’, but they took my pension years ago.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “You look to be headin’ north,” Cam said.

  “Yep, been a few seasons since we’ve been out this way. Reckon we’ll be able to turn something up, though pickin’s are a getting slim.”

  “I would advise picking in another direction.”

  “Trouble ahead?” Pete inquired with a furrowed brow.

  “You could say that. A nasty outbreak of some sort is affecting folks farther up the line. Really bad…worst I’ve seen in a long time.”

  Pete set his hat back from his brow and wiped the sweat off of his forehead. He smiled and asked, “Why is trouble always close when you’re around?”

  “Hey. Just trying to survive,” Cam said, coming close to smiling back.

  Pete thought for a few moments, two fingers pressed to his lips. He then slapped his leg and said, “There’s a trade fair ‘bout twenty miles to the south-west. I’ve got enough goods to swing by and maybe still come out on top. Hop on. We’ll give you a ride.”

  “You have our gratitude,” Cam replied. Slip climbed into the back and found place to sit amid the wares. Pete frowned as he noticed that Cam was trembling and hesitating to foll
ow Slip up. He handed the reins to Sarah and went back to help him.

  “You alright?” Pete asked as he clasped a hand around his wrist and pulled. “You’re on fire.”

  “Yeah, fine,” Cam grunted as he rolled over the side and into the bed.

  “Sarah,” Pete called. “Hand me some water…” was the last thing Cam heard before he lost consciousness.

  9

  Cam didn’t wake up until on into the night. He could fell the warmth of a nearby flame on his face and smell burning pine as it crackled. Opening his eyes and lifting his head, he saw Sarah sitting beside him. She turned from facing the fire when she noticed him stirring,

  “Don’t try to get up,” she said softly, laying a hand gently on his shoulder. “Just rest.”

  “Evelyn,” he mumbled. “I need medicine,” he managed before laying his head back down.

  “You sure did,” Pete remarked, having walked over when he heard Sarah speak. “It’s a good thing we’re the ones who found you. I don’t know no one else who’d just so happen to have some anny-botics and a sir-ringe to boot, do you?”

  Cam smirked weakly. “Nope. No one but you, Pete.”

  “Sarah here redressed that arm of yours. I dare say did as good a job as Evelyn would’ve done. What you do, get into a scuffle with a bear?” Pete joked.

  “Yeah.”

  Pete cocked his eye curiously at Cam, wondering whether he was still a bit delirious.

  Cam took some soup that Sarah had given him, lay back down and was soon asleep again.

  The next morning, Cam felt well enough to insist that they continue. Pete knew better than to argue with him and offered no more resistance than a disapproving grunt. The four rode into a rainstorm toward the middle of the morning. Between tarps and a few ponchos that Sarah pulled out from somewhere, they all managed to stay fairly dry. The rain let up in time for the sun to dry the land out and warm the travelers up again before the late afternoon chill set back in.