Thrown Away Omnibus 1 (Parts 1-4)

by Glynn James

  Jack stood there for a moment, his hands wavering over the hilts of his machetes, but then he took his hands away. There was no threat of violence here. Only the dead or the dying.

  “Everyone’s dead?”

  The man nodded. “Ayuh. Everyone who stayed. Just me alive now, and I’m for the dirt soon, I reckon.”

  Jack’s thoughts zoomed back to the last few times he had been at the settlement. There had been families there and several children, probably fifty people in total, maybe more. He vividly remembered a young girl and boy, both maybe five years old, playing in the street.

  “Even the kids?” he asked, not sure if he wanted an answer. He glanced along the road again, at the naked foot sticking up in the air, poking out of the grave. Was that a child’s or a woman’s? He couldn’t tell.

  “Nah. They got taken off when the first of us caught the pox. That would be Tall Al and his wife Susan’s kids. Al packed up and left and took them all with him. Don’t know where they went. But they dint catch it, I’m thinking. I hope so, anyway. Hope they got away before it caught them.”

  The man coughed loudly, and then the cough turned into a heaving fit, until he leaned over and spat out a glob of grey mucus spotted with blood. Jack grimaced. The man looked up and laughed.

  “How about we do a bit of trade here?” the man asked.

  Jack frowned and opened his mouth to speak but then stopped. He was puzzled. What the hell could the man want? He was a day at most from dying. If any scavengers wanted to raid the village, they could just walk in and take whatever they wanted.

  “A deal. If you can manage.”

  Jack peered at him warily. “What kind of deal?”

  The man coughed again, then he took a few deep breaths, his chest rising rapidly with effort. “Got me a nice weapon back in there, locked up. Single barrel shot and thirty rounds, but the damn thing is in a case and I can’t open it. My hands don’t wanna work the lock. I gave up trying. Look. If you can take the key and take out the gun, you can have the damn thing.”

  “And what do you want out of it?” Jack asked.

  “An end to this,” stated the man.

  Three minutes later, Jack walked out of the main gates and glanced over the street to where the stranger had been. He was still sitting there, and as Jack walked across the street towards him, he saw the man’s hand reach to his belt, to something metal there.

  Jack stopped, and raised his hands. “I still don’t want any trouble,” he said.

  The stranger watched him for a moment, his gaze jumping from Jack’s face to the shotgun in his hand.

  “I heard the shot,” said the stranger, relaxing once more. “Thought that you must have gone into that crazy fellow’s house.”

  Jack smiled. “You met him already?”

  The stranger nodded. “Yeah. I went in there, took a look in a couple of houses and got to his. Damn crazy ass only started throwing rocks at me from his window. Missed, thankfully. He was raving and waving his arms in the air. So I took off. Figured I’d wait him out instead of risking getting smacked on the head.”

  Jack stopped at the side of the road and looked at the shotgun in his hand.

  “And you figured if I went in I might save you the trouble?”

  The stranger looked up.

  “No. No. I did warn you.”

  Jack smiled and the stranger smiled back.

  “No foul?” the stranger asked.

  Jack nodded. “No foul.”

  “Good,” said the stranger.

  “I’m Jack.”

  The stranger grinned. “Drogan,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”

  Caught

  Drogan.

  The thought of his friend from way back then made Jack feel a pang of nostalgia for the days that had passed and times that would never return, but right then, standing in the tunnel, Jack knew he had to do something about the old guy with Ratter’s Plague before a lot of other people were dead.

  He turned away from the man and started forward, hurrying towards the three Hunters that waited at the gate at the end of the tunnel. As he approached, one of the Hunters turned his head toward Jack, then nodded at the other two and slowly drew his stun stick. He stood there, the other side of the gate, watching Jack.

  Jack slowed as he got to the gate, and then turned and pointed at the old diseased man, who was slowly making his way down the tunnel. Behind the man, Jack could see several other captives in the tunnel, and a few of them were catching up to the old man.

  If any tried to help him, Jack thought. If anyone touches the guy, they’re as good as dead.

  “That man,” said Jack, talking to the Hunter that had drawn the stun stick. “That old guy has a disease.”

  “Move through,” Jack heard. The voice was metallic and emotionless. He turned back and saw that the Hunters had opened the gate and were stepping aside. The one with the stun stick drawn flicked the glowing bat, indicating that Jack should go through.

  “But the guy,” said Jack, turning back again.

  “Move through, immediately,” said the voice. Again it was emotionless and flat. Jack turned back to the Hunters and glanced at each of them in turn, realising that they weren’t even listening to him, and started forward, moving between the three armoured figures and out into the room beyond. He glanced back and saw that the nearest captive behind the old man caught up, glanced briefly at him, and moved on, walking past and away from the old guy.

  He sighed. It’s not even in people’s nature to consider helping when it could save them too, he thought. He turned back, looking into the room ahead. I would have done the same a few years ago, he thought.

  Before you met the boy. That was how things were. You would never have stopped to help the man. But he couldn’t help but feel a little resentful towards both the man who had just passed the stricken old fellow and the Hunters at the gate. Emotionless, all of them. Just like you were, once. If you hadn’t met the boy, and hadn’t learned to care, would you have just walked by the old man? After all, that is what you did anyway. You didn’t try to help him. But he’s diseased. You could have caught it, and then where would you be? You’d be exactly where the old guy will be a week from now. Dying, or already dead, or bleeding from everywhere, just like the man on the porch had been. Bleeding out of your nose, and your eyes, and your ears.

  Jack closed his eyes and tried to force the feelings of guilt to pass. You killed him. With his own shotgun. But he had asked you to do it. Yes, he had asked, but you didn’t even hesitate. But that was before. Before. Everything changed with Ryan.

  And anyway, it was merciful, wasn’t it?

  Ahead of him was a platform of some kind, maybe thirty yards long, with a metal rail along the edge. Beyond that he saw a row of windows lining something that was painted a bright white. He recognised it from somewhere, and tried to think how.

  A picture you’ve seen? But when? What was it?

  In the middle of the platform was another booth, just like the ones in the huge chamber where people were being... Sorted. That was what they had been doing, Jack thought. They were sorting us. But this one wasn’t. This was different.

  A group of three more Hunters stood at the booth on the edge of the platform. One was next to what looked like a metal seat that had wheels on the bottom. Beyond that was a door-shaped opening in the wall of windows.

  Jack walked forward and stopped at the booth. The first Hunter indicated the seat, and Jack complied, wondering what was coming next. He had just noticed that all of the windows on the wall next to the booth were blacked out when he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his shoulder. He looked down, staring at the spot where the pain had erupted, and saw another of the Hunters withdrawing a needle of some kind.

  It’s just like the pain from the dart. The one that Jagan’s slavers shot you with.

  A wave of dizziness swept over him and he felt his feet begin to tingle. The tingling sensation spread rapidly along his legs, up his body and into his arms,
then his neck and his face. As it flooded over his cheeks Jack felt the world slipping away.

  Will they put you in a fighting pit? He thought.

  No. He didn’t think so.

  The Pit

  Many Years Before

  Jack threw his weight to his left, hit the floor and rolled. Behind him, he heard a sharp clang as something hit the ground, hard. He pushed himself up, jumping to his feet, and spun around, instinctively swinging the wooden bat in his hand around in an arc as he came up. But his opponent wasn’t there. Instead, the man was away across the other side of the pit, hopping from foot to foot, almost dancing as he swung the flail around his head.

  The crowd above roared their enthusiasm, and Jack made the mistake of glancing up. Above him, maybe fifteen feet from the floor of the pit, was a metal railing attached to a barbed-wire fence, and looking down at him were dozens of faces, all of them wide-eyed, many of them grinning. A cacophony of voices assaulted his senses as the crowd shouted words that he couldn’t decipher.

  And it was a mistake to take his eyes off his opponent. Jack felt, more than saw, the man rush forward, and he sensed the flail - a ball of stone attached to a handle by a long chain, swing towards his head. He threw himself sideways again, rolling away, as rush of wind brushed past him.

  “Oh! It looks like we found a lively one!” came a booming voice, seemingly from all around him. But Jack was too busy avoiding the man with the flail to locate the speakers that the voice bellowed out from.

  He gripped his bat too tight, his fingers turning white from the exertion, and once again threw himself away from his opponent, coming up across the pit again.

  This time the man facing him stood still for a moment, his head cocked to one side as he scrutinised Jack.

  He’s weighing you up, Jack thought. He’s looking for a weakness. Well, he shouldn’t have much trouble. There are enough of them.

  The fight was obviously unfair and intentionally so. Jack had heard of the pit fights, and how those that were part of Jagan’s clan used them as entertainment, and he knew that he was meant to die there. His opponent was armed with a more lethal weapon, and wearing a leather jacket and leather trousers, but he was also wearing a motorcycle helmet with a mask attached, and some shoulder pads made of a material that Jack didn’t recognise. Was it metal? Reinforced plastic? A lot of Jagan’s men wore armour scavenged from the ruins or made from scrap metal. Jack, on the other hand, was wearing what he had left when they brought him in, just the t-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans.

  Jack stood there, breathing heavily, as the man started to circle around, edging towards him, and still swinging the flail.

  One hit from that thing and it will all be over, he thought, also considering his own weapon. It was a wooden bat, and thin. If he tried to use it to hit the man over the head, against the motorcycle helmet, he may dent the helmet, even stun the man, but the bat would most likely break. It already had some cracks in it.

  And then the choice was taken away from him as the man lurched forward, jumping the distance between them and swinging the heavy stone ball down towards his head. Jack stumbled, falling backwards, but still he tried to bring the bat up, tried to defend himself. He felt the wind rush out of his chest as he hit the floor, and then felt a jolt in his arm followed by the sound of wood cracking. He rolled sideways, and only just in time as the heavy stone flail came swinging in for a second strike. Again it missed him by inches and bounced off the floor where he had been just a moment before.

  Jack pulled back the bat, about to attempt a strike, when he saw that half of the weapon was lying on the floor a few feet away. All that was left in his hand was a foot-long splinter attached to the rubber grip.

  His opponent came on again, swinging the flail around his head, and all Jack could do was back away towards the wall. His shoulder hit wood and he realised, with certainty, that he had gone as far as he could. The next lunge would be his end.

  And then it came. The man stepped forward and swung the flail low, coming in from the side, and faster than he’d expected, but Jack, unarmoured as he was, was faster. He fell sideways and felt the heavy stone of the flail hit the wall. And then the man’s eyes went wide as the ball smashed through the wooden barrier and stuck there. Jack’s opponent had just half a second to attempt to pull the flail out from the wall, and he heaved on it, wood splintering and cracking, but the flail didn’t move. It was stuck fast in the dirt behind the barrier, and Jack saw his moment. Just as the man let go of the flail, and reached for the knife at his side, Jack lunged forward and rammed the sharp end of his broken bat at the man’s neck.

  Luck, it seemed, was with him. The wood splinter burst through the leather around the man’s neck and into his throat. Jack pushed hard, but then let go of the bat, his hands jarring with the impact, as he stumbled back and fell to the floor.

  He gasped for breath, heard the crowd above the pit roaring with enthusiasm, and watched as his opponent grabbed hold of the bat and stumbled. Blood poured down the man’s chest and down his arms.

  “We have a winner!” came the bellowing sound of the match’s commentator. The crowd above roared.

  “Bring him on up!”

  But the world around Jack darkened and spun, and he fell forward into the dirt. He was vaguely aware of boots on the ground around him for a moment, but then he passed out.

  That had been the first fight, but not his last.

  Caught

  The darkness of unconsciousness after the fight felt much the same as what Jack now experienced. Except this time, as the world came back in a swirling lack of colour, he wasn’t lying on the floor of a cage, but on a metal bed attached to the wall of a chamber even smaller than the cage he had spent most of his time in down in The Pits. But the walls of this new prison were solid, grey metal, and the only light came from a circular disk in the ceiling.

  It took him a while to sit up, and he rubbed his forehead, trying to alleviate the throb of the headache that now pounded on the inside of his skull.

  How long have you been out? An hour? A day? It could be any amount of time and you wouldn’t know.

  At least the cage in The Pits had a view of daylight.

  There was something else. Something, as he sat there on the bed, looking around at the room that was void of any furniture apart from the bed, that bothered him. His stomach was churning and his head felt light.

  Motion, he thought. It’s motion sickness. That’s what I’m feeling. I’m moving. Or rather, the chamber that I’m in is moving.

  A Trans.

  That was what the windows had reminded him of.

  The picture that he had once found of the strange, amazing construction that had been created by the people of long ago, and used, somehow, to travel great distances. The magazine from bottom of the dumpster in the old factory north of The Crossing and out towards the Ashlands. It had a picture of such a thing, and a long story about something called a Trans. That was what had been next to the booth in the last hall, and what he had seen before they made him sit in the wheeled chair and injected him.

  I’m on a Trans.

  But where am I going?

  Promotion Demotion

  Lisa sat looking at the window of the Trans carriage. Outside, a beautiful sunset raged over the forested hills. A deep orange glow, sliced with yellow and red, covered most of the landscape and highlighted the endless sea of spruce trees that covered the land. Except none of those trees were alive and Lisa knew it. Even if the land above had once been covered with trees, it would be difficult to look at them through the window she faced.

  The Trans hummed along the track, barely making an audible sound as it swept along. It was nearly two hundred feet underground, rather than up on the surface, and the dazzling view of sunset was actually a screen display to make the enclosure of the carriage less stifling.

  Lisa looked away from the screen and back down to the display pad in her hands. There, in bold type, were her new orders and her new assig
nment. She sighed heavily and closed her eyes for a moment before continuing to read.

  The last few hours had been worst of her career so far. That something could change so quickly, and for a misdemeanour that she considered so small, was beyond her. And yet, she thought back to the meeting that she had been called to attend with the Section Governor, a big, bearded man called Alderton, and she realised that it was only she that thought it minor.

  “So, Corporal...Markell. You were reported for removing your faceguard while out on duty. Do you have anything to say on the matter?” the tall man had said, and Lisa could tell that he was not impressed, and that he wouldn’t treat the incident lightly. But even so, she hadn’t expected it to go as far as it had.

  “Your record is exemplary. Top performance, high discipline record. Excellent. Not so high a delivery record in the last couple of months. Hmm...not so good, but that’s common at the moment, so we can overlook that.”

  Alderton hadn’t offered her the chance to reply and had merely continued to rattle on.

  “We can’t ignore the misdemeanour of removing your face guard, though. I have been advised to use the highest discipline in accordance, but I’m not an unreasonable man, and considering your record, I think the best choice will be to reassign you to a new duty. Take you off the recruitment operation. The alternative is to discharge you, and I’m sure neither of us wants that.”

  And apart from some formalities, that had been it. After two minutes of listening to Alderton, she had been dismissed and told to go and wait in her quarters for her new assignment.

  That had been just two hours ago, and her new assignment was waiting for her on the system when she got back to the barracks, with instructions to be packed up and waiting at the Trans terminal in twenty five minutes.

  Twenty five minutes. That was all they had given her. And the rest of her squad were out of the barracks and on duty, not to return for at least six more hours. She didn’t even get to say goodbye to them. Instead, she had quickly packed her few personal belongings and hurried out of her room, heading to the terminal and arriving with just five minutes to spare.