by C A Gleason
Some days, he even saw dark clouds against the blue sky, which typically meant rain, but to him the sky was always beautiful, day or night. Day was often blue and night was often dark with stars.
Stars impressed him. Probably because they represented somewhere else. Far away, containing mysteries he wondered about. For some reason he felt like he belonged out there.
His wonderings helped distract him from his current reality.
His backpack weighed as much as an ordinary man. He knew because he’d needed to throw around quite a few. Its weight typically didn’t bother him but tonight it did. Because he’d been on the move for three days straight without any rest.
He would have made camp earlier, but it probably would have meant a fight and he didn’t feel like fighting right now. The outliers didn’t know him. They wanted his belongings. He’d rather keep going and avoid killing.
Whoever wanted to tangle with him couldn’t keep up with his pace. Unless they drove a scoutbike. He wasn’t intimidated by whoever was after him but anyone could harm him, and he also didn’t feel like tending to wounds tonight.
Wounds stung. They annoyed him and slowed him down and he liked to sleep when he felt like it, which was pending, so he wasn’t going to be bothered by someone desperate. Or a bunch of them.
Those who followed him were usually thieves or even looking to murder him, but having to kill all the time was bothersome.
It didn’t mean he wouldn’t react. Sometimes he still needed to get up during the night when he’d decided to rest and end someone’s life, who was intent on rummaging through his belongings.
But the places he made camp were so remote that being awoken to a threat hardly ever happened. He didn’t need to sleep for long. Closing his eyes for mere hours could keep him going another week.
Why people confronted him was something he never understood. He never bothered anyone on purpose. If he encountered someone like himself, but twice as big—height and size—he would avoid the man. Maybe they had something to prove.
Half the people who needed to be dealt with had heard of him, which was why they bothered him in the first place, and the other half simply didn’t care if they lived or died. All they cared about was gaining what they didn’t possess without having to work for it.
They must have believed his backpack was full of things that would change their lives for the better—like currency—and they were willing to risk their necks to get at it.
Get near it was all they ended up doing. The backpack remained on his back and came off when he decided to set it down.
Turning briefly without stopping to get a look behind him, he saw nothing of concern across the flat, thankfully, just the occasional blackened skeletal remains of a war machine sticking up out of the ground at an angle, displaying it was no longer operational.
And would never be again.
And blurry mountains far in the distance, which was as he’d hoped. If he spotted fuzzy movement and dust trails, it meant people. All he wanted to do now was rest. The mountains somehow looked different tonight.
They typically were the same rounded shapes. Some of them were pointy spires reaching for the sky. But sometimes they looked nearer. Other times far away. But he could always see them.
Others he came across often couldn’t see mountains unless looking through binoculars. When they saw the flat, they described it as stretching indefinitely.
At first he thought they were fooling him, as so many did when he was young, but it turned out no one could see as far as he could. Especially at night.
His eyesight didn’t make the mountains in the distance look blurry to him, it was always the same, how many miles in the distance they were, because of Home’s day to day atmosphere. Or so he’d learned. Overheard. He didn’t understand its complication.
It didn’t really matter but he also wouldn’t ask anyone about it. They’d probably call him stupid as so many others did throughout his life. Nearly all of them stated it without him uttering a word. Their opinion was based solely on his appearance.
Often the horizon was blurry, as it was now, others clear. He liked it when it was clear during the day because it meant a clear view of the mountains. He liked to look at them.
He thought maybe it was because—somehow—mountains reminded him of Earth, and what his distant ancestors climbed. Also, because much of the planet looked so alien to him, as if even an alien wouldn’t be able to breathe its air, even though Onnin was born here.
Everyone could breathe on Home though, thanks to the plants and the oxygen they produced.
Clear days reminded him of a night sky full of stars. Both views stirred his insides, allowing him to get lost in thought.
He wondered how mountains were formed with all their rises and jaggedness. They looked like they’d been carved by something sharp. Or they’d broken apart into pieces and remained that way.
The shapes of the mountains weren’t the result of the war. They were natural formations. It was the way of things, knowledge passed down from the humans of Earth, to the humans of Home, even though Home was very different than Earth.
Mountain peaks looked still to be rising, growing, as he’d done himself throughout his life. He was pretty sure he wasn’t getting any taller now. But he did notice his muscles continued to grow. He felt stronger every day, which didn’t make sense because he was getting older.
He imagined he would live on one of those mountains one day. Then he wouldn’t have to fight anybody anymore, which was why he decided to head for them. Something he should have done long ago when he was younger.
He wasn’t sure what was out there, it might even be more dangerous than on the flat with all the towns, but he intended to find out.
6. Royah
She didn’t like the look of any of them, nor did she like the looks they were giving her. As if she weren’t a person at all. Just a female they intended for their pleasure. All she represented to them was what they wanted to do to her.
Unfortunately, she knew it without them even uttering another word, having been through it before.
“That’s far enough.” Royah raised the slung rifle dangling against her hip. Her aim didn’t faze them from advancing. “Make a wrong move and I’ll kill each and every one of you.”
“Mind if we try you out first?”
Laughter spread slow and steady, like a wildfire intent on burning a town to a crisp. Cocky laughs, the kind she hated to her core because they were fearless. They scared her.
Concealed within the false merriment was mutilated desire. It occurred to her the reason they didn’t grab her already was because of the rifle.
A gun, a deadly tech she despised that she held in her hands all the same, aiming at them, ready to shoot. Ready to kill them. To protect herself.
Royah was all too aware of the trappings of Westo, typically between buildings, but she was usually able to avoid them without incident. She hardly ever ventured into the alleys darkened by night because sometimes there were men waiting for women.
Their unfair advantage was they were often in a group, which meant they intended to take by force.
The layouts of the towns of Home were typically the same, built a long time ago, and unfortunately created opportunities for the shady sort. Criminals typically didn’t talk before they committed their crimes, so her aiming rifle was doing what she intended; keeping them away.
A different man in the group called out to her, probably another comment about her body, but it was unintelligible. And surely disgusting.
Royah didn’t blame herself for the situation she was in. Not anymore. The crime was never her fault. She didn’t deserve to be assaulted.
Over the last few years, similar crimes increased in Westo. It was because more and more people chose to live here. And outliers could disguise themselves among them. Protectors couldn’t be everywhere at once.
She was still alive and thankful for it, but tonight she’d allowed herself to walk too close
to where bad men sometimes congregated, this time hiding. The depth to which the desperate sank was maddening. And disturbing.
No matter what happened, she refused to think of herself as a victim. Instead, she strove to learn from her past. She honestly thought because it didn’t happen in a while, it wouldn’t happen again. It had, though, but this time she was more willing to shoot.
Perhaps, in a subconscious way, she’d allowed it to happen again. So she could do something about it. And by being reckless, somehow it would ensure it would never happen again for the rest of her life. Word about how she handled such matters would spread, she hoped.
Except she was dealing with an entirely different group of desperate men aching to do what drove some deep, dark place in their primitive brains. A soured form of how breeding was supposed to occur.
There was no sensitivity emanating from them. No respect for her or women in general. None of them had any idea how to court normally. They obviously didn’t care either.
Some say men like them were driven mad by the pressure of populating Home. Compared to where humans lived before like Earth, there were so few people here. Comparatively. Royah didn’t care if it were true or not.
There was no excuse. There was right and wrong and it was obvious which one they were doing. The best way to create new life was by care, not by savagery. She couldn’t and wouldn’t explain it to them.
The outliers likely arrived in town recently, having emerged from somewhere unknown, where the population was believed to be corrupted by savagery. Farther east than Easto.
The towns that were well-known—on maps—were the quadrants, Northo, Southo, Easto, and Westo, and also all of the towns within their borders. It was where more civilized folks lived.
Those who didn’t live within the quadrants, who made the mistake of going beyond where was known, typically either got lost and were never heard from again, or it took them too long to get back. By then they were different. Sometimes for the better. Normally not.
Living among outliers tended to degrade civilized people into behaving like them.
Beyond Easto was suspected to hold patches of poison. Vast open nothingness of the flat that assured death from the lack of water, starvation, losing sense of direction, or being abducted or killed by groups of outliers.
And if none of those things happened, then people joined them out of mere desperation.
Out there was where these men had come from. Outliers were what they were and somehow temporarily fooled Westo into thinking they weren’t. Royah didn’t know how it was possible. She’d given them one look and known they were trouble.
Perhaps only women possessed the intuition.
After thinking more about it, briefly, it didn’t take long for her to figure out they possessed currency. Currency was relatively common and could practically be found anywhere, like guns, but it held a different kind of power, giving anyone the belief they could be rich.
The possession of wealth was how the criminals were allowed into town, she was sure of it. Once they spent what they carried or were killed for it, they’d be forced to leave, whether by physical force or under their own volition.
Until then, they were allowed to walk the streets. And to terrorize women in the shadows. Until someone decided to do something about it.
After a longer inspection, outliers was exactly how she thought of them; gaunt faces, cracked dried lips, and long, dry burnt grass for hair. They were practically expressionless, like corpses, except for eyes moving wildly, accustomed to welcoming violence like an old friend.
Their heads were on a swivel, looking for anyone who might prevent what they planned on doing to her. They didn’t want to be stopped. It was strange that they weren’t showing guns. She wondered how many of them hid one away. Maybe all. Maybe none.
They weren’t thinking straight. She sensed their primal urges simmering, could sense them in a way opposite good men. An inferno roaring out of control within them. For anyone so far gone, there was only one way to put out the flames.
They spread out, widening their encircling of her, looking for ways to grab her before she could shoot them. Testing whether she actually had the courage to pull the trigger. She felt dizzy by her quick movements of the barrel.
It might be possible for at least one of them to get a hand on her. Then get her down on the ground like pack hunters. It was their plan. But Royah had a plan of her own.
She was aiming her rifle at their midsections, not their heads. Swinging the barrel from side to side and twisting to do the same behind her. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might make her miss.
“You can’t have me.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance. There was probably a rainstorm headed this way.
Her words did not deter them.
No one will hurt me again.
Saying so might change the minds of good men but not them. If you could even call them men. More like evil in human form. They leered, hardly moving at all, having positioned themselves for what they wanted.
If they followed through, she’d have to endure what happened to her already. Again. Something so horrific that she wanted to die afterward. To be treated that way. Treated as only a source of pleasure.
At least she’d survived. When it happened before, she was left alive. Barely. It was because they didn’t care one way or another. She’d been nothing to them. She wouldn’t allow it to happen again. She’d rather die.
What were the chances that she’d live through the same horror? None of them had been careful with her. They’d pulled and yanked and pressed, while ignoring her pleas. She felt sick at the thought.
When it happened before, she’d been in a similar situation as she was now; them surrounding her, her aiming a rifle. She’d warned them she’d shoot and even shot in their direction to try and scare them away. She’d believed it would be effective.
She didn’t want to kill anyone before then, before they did what they did. She only wanted to be left alone to go on her way. After firing the warning shot, their hands were raised and they verbalized they’d leave her be.
She chose to believe them. They lied, though, and grabbed her when her back was turned. All of them.
This time she wasn’t going to try to understand why they were doing it. Where they came from or consider their points of view. How they were raised or the hardships they endured. She chose not to care because she knew they didn’t either.
The outliers were spaced far enough. If they remained all bunched together, they might take her down easier because she’d probably only be able to kill one. Maybe two. Before she was on the ground and struggling. Then the situation would be out of her control.
Unfortunately, she’d been through it before. So they didn’t know who they were dealing with.
The one in the middle reached for her first and because he was closest, she raised the barrel at head level and pulled the trigger. The gunblast sizzled in the middle of his face and then his body fell.
The gunblast echoed through town and across the flat, sounding like there’d been two shots.
The sudden violence caused the circle of torment to spread, inadvertently weakening their stance against her. Royah saw fear on their faces. They looked as frightened as scared children.
Her ears rang from firing the gun in the alley. Normally, and when she needed to, she shot out in the open.
The report of the rifle was extremely loud and disorienting for her, but definitely for them too. They were already down a man and were about to scatter. Except she wasn’t going to allow them.
Quickly, she primed her lever-action rifle by cocking it. The clicking briefly halted what the other men intended on doing next, which was flee. The cowards had underestimated her—even though she held a rifle—because she was a woman.
Because of their barbaric nature, their mindset, they weren’t armed. Lust blinded them. She’d surprised them with her skill with a gun. They obviously didn’t think she would shoo
t. Probably didn’t even think she would pull the trigger.
Though seconds ago they were going to run, Royah sensed them change their minds and about to rush her, she knew it, a blank desperation on their faces again as plain as if they’d announced it aloud, understanding the threat of her and her rifle.
So she shot again, and again, and again.
The men were moving too fast for head shots, so she aimed right for where their hearts should have been.
The gunblasts caused passers-by to halt where they were going, pause what they were doing. But nobody rushed over to help her. Not at night.
As the aftermath of the violence faded, those who’d slowed—to see about the danger out of morbid curiosity, or determine if they were in danger themselves—resumed wherever they’d been going.
Gunblasts were nothing new in Westo these days.
7. Onnin
Although he was ready to make camp and rest, he decided to continue on a bit further. Best to keep distance between himself and who thought of him as their enemy. They likely desired his belongings. Without even knowing what was in his backpack.
The little he grasped about how others thought, they believed they knew him merely because they heard of him. Just hearing the stories couldn’t allow them to understand him. Not without really knowing him, or even meeting him.
Fellow emergers often thought he was simple-minded because of the way he looked, but Onnin wasn’t so simple-minded that he thought he could know someone without spending time with them.
Many wanted to steal his belongings rather than get to know him, which was a grave mistake. Everything he spent years collecting, using, and often overtly guarding, interested nefarious folks to get too close. Something they should never do.
If his belongings did get stolen, he would have to start over, and could, but he didn’t want to. Too much of an inconvenience. He would fight instead. Curiously, he couldn’t ever remember starting a fight but he always finished them.
