Ash Princess

by Eve Langlais

  Having stretched his legs, he and Burton followed the track north, the path more and more unkempt. He saw no signs of recent passage. He slowed only a little when he drove past an abandoned village of a dozen houses. Not a single piece of laundry flapped on a line. Only a lone door banged open and shut in a light breeze.

  The air appeared clean, and plants still grew. No sign of the poison and yet the people had chosen to flee. He took it as a sign he neared the trouble spot. He made sure all the seals were tight on the truck, and then he kept driving.

  As he neared the border between the kingdoms, he couldn’t help but notice the start of some fuzzy gray substance coating the ground and frosting stunted trees. The hearty, scrubby grass in this area grew in patches, but even that appeared sickly. He didn’t see any signs of life, not even insects.

  As he drove through the undisturbed layer of ash, the motion agitated it enough the very air began to swirl with the particles. He eyed the windshield and checked the seals on the vehicle for signs of corrosion. The good news was he didn’t hear any worrying hisses. The bad? Time to put on the damned suit. He wouldn’t want to get caught inside a tank that decided to stop responding or began decaying at a rapid rate.

  First, he peed. Ate. Drank. Did everything he could, only to realize he once more delayed. Perhaps he shouldn’t have run off. Casey would be pissed. He’d not even left a note.

  What would it say? Sorry I was a cling-on. Have a happy life.

  Best he made a clean break. And quickly because she might just decide to come after him to kick his ass for going without a goodbye.

  The protective outfit fit over his garments, minus his weapons. Not that they would do him much good tucked inside. It zipped up, and then over the zipper, there was a magnetic flap. The ankles cinched tight around his boots and wrists. The material of the suit crinkled when he moved, which would get annoying quick, not to mention it would ruin the element of surprise if he left the tank and attempted to be stealthy.

  The helmet and gloves he kept beside him on the dash. It felt too much like being caged having it on his head. He did remember to put on his holster, a few notches wider than usual for the extra girth. It wouldn’t do to be caught unaware. He always felt better with his weapons in reach.

  Everyone seemed of the opinion that all life in Diamond had expired when the air turned fatal, but the Fall was proof that, even in the harshest conditions, predators would adapt.

  As prepared as he could be, Cam seated himself and drove on, the rumbling engine a good sign. Despite the lack of electronics on board, there’d been concern that machines just plain wouldn’t work.

  With Burton not even stuttering, he kept going. Soon it wasn’t just the ash on the ground that swirled in the air as his passage disturbed it. Speckles of it arrived on a light breeze.

  He couldn’t have said when he passed the border that demarked Marshland from Diamond. Borders obviously meant nothing to the tainted air. The longer he travelled, the more he fully grasped the horror of what awaited the Marshlands if the calamity that struck Diamond wasn’t stopped.

  Forget clumps of grass or hints of sky. Everything he saw was dead. Trees. Bushes. The ground was a shifting mass of ash. Not a hint of green or blue or purple to be seen.

  Nothing moved. The sun, while bright that morning, barely penetrated the haze. The way it illuminated the fluffy dust left him almost blind. It meant he had to watch even more intently.

  Burton plowed through the swirling fog of ash, not daunted in the least. The monotonous journey went on for hours. Long, boring hours where he had to jab himself until he felt pain to avoid nodding off.

  Thump-thump. The machine rolled over a swell that proved solid enough that he was curious. Which was probably stupid.

  Affixing his helmet, he checked all the seals like Riella taught him. It felt strange to hear himself breathing in the confines of the sealed glass. The gloves, while form-fitting, did require getting used to, which was why he made sure he pulled his gun from the holster and had a good grip on it before he entered the tiny cubicle by the exit hatch. The addition Riella created would offer him a way in and out of the tank without inviting the ash inside. It felt like a coffin those few moments where he sealed one entrance and waited to hear it click before opening the other. Even then, a curtain of plastic strips hung down to prevent the worst of the debris from drifting in.

  The hatch hit the ground with a clang, forming a ramp for him to walk down. He stepped into the ash, his foot sinking past his ankle. He eyed where it touched the armor, waiting to see if it sizzled and burned. It brushed off easily at the flick of a gloved finger. He didn’t realize he held his breath until his lungs screamed for air.

  Whew. He breathed out, then in, taking a moment to reassure himself he wouldn’t suffocate before turning to look around. Standing outside the tank didn’t change his view. Still a barren wasteland, just not comprised of hard-packed dirt or loose sand. Kicking his feet produced puffs that hung in the air before slowly sinking.

  He trudged to the rear of Burton and then a few feet more to see what he’d run over. Probably a fallen tree or a rock. Not surprising given no one was caring for the road anymore. The only reason he even suspected it was a road was because it ran through the dead forest in what was an obviously cleared route.

  The lump he’d run over appeared partially crushed. Kneeling, he brushed at the ash to see what it was. Rocked on his heels when he uncovered it.

  A person lay on the ground, nothing more than bones still partially encased in clothing, a large pack by its side. Dead for a while by all appearances. They wore a mask of some kind. At least the skull did, not that it had helped them. More perturbing, no one had disturbed the bones until Burton crushed them. The pack remained shut, and when he opened it, he found more of the masks and a few packs of travel rations that probably weren’t any good. Some kind of peddler thinking he could make a trade, except it turned out his goods weren’t all that great after all.

  Returning to Burton, Cam clipped a line from the reel on his belt to the tank. He chose a direction to walk away from the road amidst the trees, soon losing sight of his vehicle in the drifting ash. He kept his breathing steady, lest he panic at the lack of anything in this dead place.

  Thirty paces and there was nothing to see. Just more ash, more stunted trees, and the skull of some strange creature long expired.

  The other side of the tank was the same, minus the animal remains. His exploration accomplished nothing except to reinforce the fact that the deadness appeared constant in all directions.

  Where did the ash come from? Fire produced ash, and yet he saw no signs of anything burning. Although it was warm. Much warmer than he expected given the stories of the snow and ice that once covered the mountain peaks. The chills in the valleys. He had a warm parka and blankets in the tank in case the temperature dropped. However, he doubted that would be the case here.

  He returned to Burton and had to spend a moment longer than he liked in the cubicle while he activated a suction system to rid himself of as much of the poison ash as possible. Since there were no electronics, it required him hand cranking a fan that blew at him, dusting most of the ash from the suit. He swept it outside then blew again just because.

  When he’d cleaned himself as best he could, he entered the main body of the vehicle. He kept the suit on but stripped out of the helmet and tucked the gloves into the belt at his waist. He’d be using them again soon.

  With nothing to filter the air, he couldn’t help but notice a hint of something acrid to it. A taste of what lay outside. Nothing burned. He didn’t choke.

  Yet.

  He spent a moment perusing the old map he’d purchased from a vendor in Eden’s marketplace. Although map was being generous to the lines scribbled on a leathery hide, some marks indecipherable. But authentic the peddler swore when he sold it to Cam.

  If it were accurate, then the road he followed would lead him into a town. Couldn’t miss it, as he’d drive r
ight through it. He couldn’t be sure of the distance, but he found it a few hours later.

  It was even eerier than the one abandoned in the Marshlands. It appeared wraithlike in the falling ash, everything a dull gray.

  Suited up once more, Cam walked in and out of the abandoned homes, noticing the furniture still in place, the tables bare, the beds empty. The chairs sat waiting for someone to use them.

  What he didn’t see? Bodies. Nothing but decaying remnants of household goods and no indication of what had happened to the inhabitants.

  As he stepped from the last building, his imagination chose to act up. The swirling ash that blew at his face appeared like a mouth wide open to scream.

  He flinched and hurried back to Burton. He rushed through the decontamination process and, soon as he could, started driving again, but not for long.

  As night fell, visibility dropped to nothing, but of interest, the ash fall stopped, too. Fascinated, he halted the truck, suited up, and went outside. A chill he’d not felt in the day made him shiver, but he ignored the cold and glanced upward at the stars.

  Why did the ash appear only by day and not at night?

  He chose to drive a little while longer until he found an open spot. For security, he set up a simple set of warning bells tied by wire. If anything tripped them, they’d wake him.

  He slept on a folded blanket. Not very well. He dreamed of his sister, screaming at Roark, hitting him and saying she had to go find her brother. Had to go find Cam.

  Roark folded her in his arms and said, “He’s a grown man, and he’s made a choice.”

  “The wrong one!” Casey yelled.

  “Don’t worry. He’ll come back to you.”

  The king had more faith than Cam. His dream moved, and now he was flying above a town surrounded by a bog, one with mud-wattled huts and dirt roads. There were people outside pointing to the sky, where tiny particles of ash floated.

  He tried to scream at them, “Don’t breathe.”

  But he was simply a ghost and drifted on.

  There was something awe inspiring and terrifying as he floated as if a cloud over a land turned gray and yet streaked with hot red and purple. Like pulsing veins that flowed from a giant beating heart.

  And that heart was huge. He coasted over the rim of a giant raised crater and saw the bubbles rising and popping. A pulsating thing that filled him with a horror he didn’t understand.

  Ding-a-ling-a-ding-a-ling.

  The strident chime of bells woke him, and he sat straight up in his bed, a misnomer for the thin layer the blankets made on the floor.

  The night remained quiet. Too quiet.

  Had he truly heard the bells ring, or was that part of his dream?

  Awake, he couldn’t just go back to sleep. He chose to peek out the window first. The starlight didn’t illuminate much, but he had a light. It took more cranking to power it enough for it to glow. It showed him nothing but white all over. Which was odd because in the daytime the ash appeared gray. Could it be the fabled frost he was seeing? He noted his breath huffed from his mouth in a cloud and the inside of the tank had chilled overnight.

  But the cold wouldn’t have rung the bells. He kept cranking and looking for signs of the ash being disturbed. Saw nothing. The rear viewing port and side ones didn’t appear to have any steps in the dust outside. He thought about waiting for dawn to head outside, but honestly, the lack of raining ash made it easier to see. He suited up and headed out into the still landscape. His steps left distinctive tracks in the ash. The only tracks.

  The line of bells remained circling the tank, the ash beyond it still lying in the valleys and swells where it drifted. Nothing disturbed the air, and yet he felt watched. He hefted the big gun he’d brought with him. Big enough to blow a hole he could shove his fist through. Useful when confronted with locked doors and big baddies.

  He stayed out for a few minutes, pacing around the tank, seeing nothing. When he finally returned to the inside, he couldn’t sleep, so he started Burton’s engine. Cam drove the rest of that day, noticing when the road curved in order to divert around a mountain, which, according to his map, would soon turn into dozens of jutting hills and peaks with valleys in between. He wouldn’t be climbing any of those mountain tracks yet. He had a few more towns he wanted to look at.

  But every village he found was the same. Abandoned. Empty of bodies or clues. A layer of dust and ash on everything.

  The day proved to be a wash. When night hit, he was deep in another dead forest. He didn’t like all the trees so close to the tank. Hiding spots for predators. Yet he couldn’t find an open spot, and he knew it was past time he rested. A man couldn’t drive forever.

  He tried to sleep. Unlike the previous night, it didn’t go well. He’d strung the bells again as best he could. However, the branches of the dead trees stretched over the warning line in several places, and there were too many to hack down, meaning something that could climb would be able to bypass his alert system. Assuming anything out here could climb. His caution seemed misplaced, given he’d yet to see a single living thing.

  Didn’t see and yet would swear he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. It followed him even inside the tank and its secured walls. Lying down on the floor, wrapped in his blanket to combat the chill, he was all too aware of every single creak. He jumped up more than once to peer out a window, convinced he was about to be attacked.

  He couldn’t help but remember the little boy who’d had to survive in the Wasteland, frightened by every noise, using that fear to fuel his bravery. Except back then he had a reason not to let cowardice win.

  That reason was back in Eden, and as the night deepened, he and paranoia became close friends.

  When dawn arrived, noticeable by the return of the ash and that dull haze, his eyes burned, gritty with fatigue. He put the truck into gear and followed the road, wondering how long it would take for his tracks in the dust to be erased by fresh ash and wind.

  It occurred to him by the end of the third day of driving—and two more abandoned villages—that he had no idea what he should look for. Sure, Roark and the others had given him some ideas; look for a volcano, a crevice spewing gas, and Titan’s joked, Maybe it’s a portal to Hell. The ancient humans had believed in a place called Heaven for those who lived a righteous life and Hell for those who’d sinned.

  There was definitely no portal to Hell, which was supposed to be full of demons and brimstone and fire. This place was more like nothingness, the absence of all.

  He’d seen no sign of life. Nothing overtly spewing smoke. No glowing at night. It meant no true direction for him to follow, so he kept going along a road that became increasingly hard to discern, the ash drifting deeper than before.

  That night, he didn’t go for a walk. He slept with the helmet tucked by his side and his gloves on. Surrounded by the ghostly fog, more than ever he would have sworn he heard it whispering when he turned the engine off.

  Turn back.

  Come outside. You don’t need that helmet.

  Death.

  Run.

  Stay.

  Those imaginary voices fucked with his sleep, meaning the following day, he nodded at the wheel, not paying attention like he should have. He never saw the edge of the precipice.

  As Burton’s front end began to dip, the motion jolted him enough that he slammed the machine into reverse. With a lurch, it began to creep back, which, in turn, caused more of the cliff’s edge to crumble. He turned off the engine and held his breath.

  The tank stopped moving. He couldn’t see down into the crevice and stood to get a better view. Bad idea. It appeared the ass of the tank wasn’t as heavy as the front. It seesawed.

  “Fuck me!” Cam dove out of the driver’s seat to the cubicle for outside, which was of course when everything just had to go to shit.

  He bobbled the helmet, recovered, and shoved the protective headgear on his head. He twisted until he heard the hiss as it sealed to t
he neck of his suit. His gloves were tucked into his belt, but there was no time. He grabbed a big gun instead before he shoved himself into the tiny chamber. He didn’t bother to seal the inner door before he opened the outside one.

  He had to move fast. There was no time. Burton was rocking on the edge.

  The ramp had barely hit the ground when he threw himself out of the tank. He hit the ground hard, not hard enough to crack the face shield on his helmet, but his hands were definitely abraded as they plunged through the ash to the hard ground underneath.

  Not good. But at least he’d held on to the gun. He dropped it now and rolled to his back as he fumbled at his belt for the gloves, trying to not think of the particles coating his skin. He slid them on and tried to pretend he didn’t hear his sister saying, “Dumbass.”

  He should have been wearing them, but after days of nothing, he’d gotten complacent. And it cost him. His hands burned like they were on fire. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d suffered. He knew how to handle the pain.

  Pushing to his feet, he kicked the ash to locate the gun he’d dropped, only to find himself distracted at an ominous cracking sound. He whirled to stare at where Burton should have been parked, only it wasn’t.

  The tank was gone. He’d not even heard it crash, making him wonder just how deep the crevice went. He knew many deep rifts crisscrossed the continent. They had a few in Emerald, too. Bad places were usually home to things that liked to eat people. Alive. While screaming.

  Not the way he wanted to die, and death seemed certain with Burton gone. All his rations. His weapons. His means of transport.

  Gone.

  Rising to his feet, he allowed himself a moment of pity. Casey was right. How dumb of him to come here thinking he could find a way to help. He should have stayed where he was safe. Where his skin didn’t burn.

  Fuck that hurt.

  He stared at his hands. Thought about pulling off the gloves. Decided it was better if he didn’t see the skin blistering or sloughing off. The doctors used to make him look when he was a kid. Showed him things no kid should ever see. The smell of burned flesh and the sight of bone sticking through skin stuck with a boy. Cam learned young just how much pain he could take before he had to give in and scream. Each time it took a little bit more pain to get him to react and beg.