by Luka Petrov
“No, no, please,” he whimpered, “what is it you want?”
Siobhan sat in the corner with her brother, having brought a bottle of purified water to his lips. Hamish seemed to hazily awaken in time for them both to look over to their Driver and see him in his current predicament. Now, they had neither the key to their car nor the means to protect the man who could drive them. Siobhan looked across the tables and saw the American, his short grey hair slicked back with sweat, face to face with the meanest creature in the bar. With one hand, she took her brother, bringing the giant to his feet. “Easy now, ‘Amish,” she said, helping him unsteadily. “We’re going to go. Right now.”
Hamish stumbled upward, gasping for air, his sister carrying him beneath his arm. Soon, they were walking past the crowds of gyrating women, barking dogs and dice rolling gamblers. Even Siobhan struggled to keep her eyes in focus, the strength of the chemicals running cold in her veins. Suddenly, as if all the world had become clear, she could see how many faces were focusing on her—the dirtied cheeks of waste-landers, irradiated fiends, mutated fishermen. She and her brother looked like obscure angels, puncturing the wildest of places. She ran with him, fast, struggling to catch up. With his sheer size, Hamish pushed them past the crowd, forcing their way into the tunnel of market stalls.
The cold air hit them with wisps of white snow curling around the stone arches onto their bodies. They saw huddled vagrants lurching by the stones, hands touching their bodies as they passed. The light at the end of the tunnel was a dull green, the faded haze of a premature sunrise. Escaping out into the cold, the siblings found themselves confronted with more of the chaos that was there to begin with. A large cage filled with men was being paraded through the streets on a horse and cart. Some of the crowd seemed to throw things at them—detritus from the ground—while others shouted prices at the ringleader, a broad-hatted individual at the head of the cart. “How much muckle fur this braw workin’ gentlemen?” he grumbled, shouting into the night.
Hamish, swaying drunkenly in the breeze, departed from his sister. She attempted to resist, clinging on, but could not help but move toward his intended locale. Hamish clung his hands to the iron bars of the cage, looking up to the men within. They looked down on him, their own skin flickering by the light of their owner’s lamp. “Tis that laddie, tis Hamish, ‘n’ his sister,” cried one, clinging to the bars with some intensity. Suddenly, all of the slaves had crowded to the front of the cart, looking down upon the pale siblings. Siobhan looked up in awe, scanning her memory for their faces. Through the filter of drunken madness, their visages seemed like waking dreams, suddenly plunging into the darkness. The ringleader drove the cart away at some speed, grumbling to himself.
Siobhan and Hamish were left in the cloud of white fallout that followed the cart as the horses were hurried away. Once the dust had settled, they were left alone beneath the light of an oil lamp, cowering in utter confusion. “Wis that what became o’ oor folk, sister?” slurred the gigantic Hamish, his pink eyes unable to stay still. Siobhan looked up at him with no other answer than any she could usually give. She took him further along the cobbled streets, their rifles still hanging from their backs as they rushed away from the bustling crowds of the night. As they walked on, they saw crowds of hazmat men and women, dragging sacks of hessian on their backs. Their children and families stood waiting at doorsteps, eager to receive the spoils of their hunt. These men were the ones that ventured into the forbidden place, the ones that returned alive. Hamish watched as the doors closed, wives ecstatic with emotion, each sack being dragged into the armored defenses of the buildings.
In the heated candlelit chamber of the barroom, the gambling continued. Though the animals had been ushered away, now they had turned to cards and dice, the tables full of jeering faces. Each survivalist had a shared demeanor, some locals and others tourists. The surface of each table was full of firefighters, knives, cigarettes, and flint, all worthy barter in the weight of their play. In the center of the room, the Driver sat opposite Uncle Black, the two now given room to talk alone. “If ye do not wish to sell them directly,” the gravelly voice continued, “then I wish for you to take somewhere for me.” The Driver nodded, still not wishing to be killed. He also saw no reason to save the siblings, despite the trust they had bestowed upon him.
“Take them to the Mainland, to the Ring of Brogdar,” he grumbled, his forked tongue curling over chapped lips. “And tell the folk you find there that I sent ye. Then, ye’ll be safe.” The Driver stared blankly at the scarred, withered face of the man, deeply confused by the insinuations in his eyes. “And just what do I get out of it, man?” the Driver brazenly asked, a hard gulp in his throat. Uncle Black sniffed loudly, taking a swig from a flask of whiskey. “Ye’ll git yer life ‘n’ a boat tae England,” he ushered, his rotten mouth forming into another grin. “N’ when ye get there, perhaps there’ll be ‘nother job.” The Driver looked at the terrible man as he weighed up his options. A gristled hand full of bandages and rings slid over. The Driver shook it.
The siblings found themselves woozily running through the marketplace, desperately trying to avoid the gazes of the townsfolk. Everyone looked as though they would rob them or murder them given the chance. Perhaps it was only the size of her brother that warned them off, the impending possibility of his size crashing down on them enough to deter them from putting their desires into action. As their muddied feet collected the dust of fallout, they spun into an alley that led directly to a large red tent. The last spirals of snow fell upon it, oil lamps giving the canvas a peculiar hue of orange. Siobhan looked behind her, Hamish still hiccuping, to find a group of men watching from the dark. With no other choice but to escape, she ran hand in hand with her brother, belting into the mouth of the tent.
When they entered, they were strangely greeted by shushing and silence. A large bucket was being handed around. Within it some placed dolls, bottle-caps, cloth, or empty bottles. Soon, the bucket disappeared into the dark of the crowd, a fire-lit torch lighting the stage. One by one, more lights lit it, until the raised stairwell was gleaming with flame. Emerging out of the dark, walking with some heaviness, appeared a man almost the same size of Hamish. This man looked down over the stage with loud reception, some clapping and others screaming. He was pale, just like Hamish and Siobhan, but far different in every way. The man hunched over with his back covered in the most grotesque bulges imaginable, as if his entire body was covered in tumors.
Hamish clung onto Siobhan, the siblings seeing immediate affinity in the being that stood before them. His bones were horribly contorted, his flesh rippling with sores, head full of heaving spheres of skin and muscle. A voice came booming across the room from an unseen body: “Behold, th’ Jimmy o’ th’ islands, th’ Jimmy o’ th’ lights.” Claps and applause then roared, the poor soul bending and contorting on the stage. Tears ran down from Siobhan’s eyes, a glimmering possibility of where she and her brother might have ended up. But before they could watch further, a drunken man placed his hands upon their backs. They turned to see the Driver, now covered in fur and heavily intoxicated, smiling in the light of the fire. Through the wet grey hair that swept over his brow, his bulbous eyes caught theirs. “Where’ve you been, guys? I have been looking all over.”
As they left the tent, they saw jealous glances from the crowd, as if the Driver had seized these pale-skinned folk for himself and in many ways, he had. Now with the badge of Uncle Black’s approval, he seemed to walk through the town without fear of injury, people moving away as he passed. Now, unlike the siblings, he had a true sense of purpose, his conscience unhurt by the fear of reprisal. The cobbled streets of Thurso seemed to gaze down on the traveling lot, Hamish walking himself out of his drunken daze, while Siobhan tearfully gazed upon the few beautiful things. She could be sure of nothing other than the fact that they were alive, hoping that soon she and her brother would get some rest. The Driver shared a large bottle of water with the two, and they glugged down the ch
alky fluid as others gazed in envy.
As they approached the car park that loomed in the distance, a desolate specter of grayness in the morning sky, they saw also a building filled with cheering individuals—town criers, mothers with babies, children bustling to get inside. What once was a small tavern was now converted into an auction house. Through the glass windows, they saw the hazmat men selling their wares, fresh from the forbidden zones, to a crowd of hungry bidders. They walked on past as the Driver insisted, focusing on their return to the car. By now, the blanket of white had settled on the land, giving every part of the town a coat of gentle icing. Hamish felt like playing in it, like grabbing and basking in the white dust, but at his sister’s insistence, he did not.
They arrived at the front of the car park, the Driver arm in arm with his pale associates. They seemed to follow him without question, not because he was older but because he had some kind of plan. Siobhan had trusted him because he had not touched her yet, while Hamish did because he had no mind not to. At the front of the concrete entrance, they were met by a cluster of masked, hi-vis wearing gentlemen, some bearing torches and others fire escape axes. “Crakin’ trip tae town, wis it?” one asked.
Another butting in quickly, “We’ll be expecting a cut for our time.”
The Driver laughed with a gentle hesitation, waving his hand about as if the midst of some magic trick. Soon he had crossed their palms with the dog furs on his neck, several rusted pocket knives, and a sealed can of Coca Cola. They seemed to fight amongst these objects immediately, each guide squabbling to decide who owned what. “Please, gentlemen, let’s not fight,” added the Driver, leading his albino associates up the stairs. “I thank you for your time and protection.” They continued up the concrete platform until they had reached the area where their car was parked. There, clustered around it was a series of guides sitting in the open doors. Slowly, they approached, seeing that the men within did not share the happy expression of the Driver.
“Can I help you gentlemen?” asked the Driver, grinning with a deepening fear. Suddenly, each man plucked the courage to step out and move into the very dim light. Each wore their jacket as if part of some obscure gang. They all looked as if they had been poorly planning an attack for some time. They crowded around Siobhan and the Driver, the men looking rather fierce, some brandished knives, others steel pipes. “We need yer’ keys,” one ushered. His head was full of mutated pustules, some large enough to burst at any moment. Hamish walked out of the dark, a single oil lamp lighting him from afar. The men looked up at Hamish, suddenly less eager to do anything. The Driver attempted to diffuse the situation but instinctively placed one hand on his shotgun. “Please, gentlemen, can’t we—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the fight had begun. Siobhan was immediately driven to the ground by a man pulling a mask of thin fabric over his eyes. He began to attack her in one corner, the girl screeching with agony. Hamish turned around to face his sister’s attacker, swinging his rifle around his shoulder. Unloaded, it clicked with the sad resignation of emptiness, and a heavily tattooed man leapt on him with a brick in hand. The stone hit hard on the back of Hamish’s skull but did little to dent it. Instead, the white giant came tumbling down, crushing the man beneath him. Hamish turned around to find the man unconscious, another above him booting him in the face.
The Driver himself had been kicked to the ground, his shotgun now spinning beneath the vehicle. One of the men ran toward him and fished through his pockets for the keys. The Driver gnawed at the assailant’s wrist with his teeth and received a deft kick to the ribs for his trouble. It was Siobhan who, as the man above her scrambled at her clothing, slipped a knife into his stomach. Blood gushed from his mouth and the man writhed in agony. She pushed him aside and crawled underneath the dark of the car to relative safety. Hamish managed to pull another man down to the ground, wrestling with him with all the intensity of his strength. Hyperventilating under the dripping oil of the car, Siobhan took the shotgun in her hands. She shot once, aiming for the man who was beating Hamish in the head. She watched impassively as his body spun away into the viscera of the car park. She shot again, missing her next mark, but all the others ran into the distance, their footsteps echoing across the stone.
The Driver stood up from the floor while reaching down to pick Hamish up. The two stared at one other, the giant white-haired man looking down at the grey-haired, leather-jacketed elder. Soon, they saw Siobhan crawl out from the vehicle, shotgun in hand. As she stood, they all embraced, their hearts thudding from the exhilaration of near death. “Let’s get out of here,” uttered the Driver, gripping them tightly to him. Despite even this, his intentions for their delivery did not waver. Now, he saw only the possibility of their exchange. They bundled into the vehicle, and the Driver started the ignition. They now had another canister full of fuel, maps, and rations, enough to last them several days. Hamish stuck his head out the empty window and gazed out across the fading landscape. They were once again on the road, far away from the strange creatures of the town.
When they got far enough away from the town, Siobhan filled up the gas tank with Hamish keeping watch. The early morning bleached the deep green of the sky with tendrils of light as if bleach was flooding down into the murky swamp of the heavens. The sun hovered overhead, a distant, fuzzy moon of whiteness, illuminating the dilapidated landscape filled with patches of rotting land. The grass only grew in meager clumps, with some trees dead and others flowering. Nothing of the land seemed to make sense anymore. The roads themselves were overgrown with weeds, rocks, and the wrecks of cars of other hopeful travelers whose journeys ended too soon. A great fog seemed to roll over the hills as if the dangerous zones were ever nearing, as if the blackouts would consume the Earth.
11. The Passage
Hamish had slumped down into the backseat, a large bruise on his head. His sister was comforted by the sound of his snores, long and drawn out like those of a sleeping dragon. The Driver seemed edgy, as if something was troubling him. His face poured with sweat, his hands anxiously switching from side to side on the wheel. Siobhan found herself drifting in and out of conscious, sometimes dreaming and sometimes awake. She found herself by the sea of her dreams, waves crashing against her. When she awoke, she was there in the car, the green of the sky now thin enough to let true daylight through. She heard birds crying in the distance, and she peered out at the window at the changing landscape.
It appeared the Driver was still awake, his eyes unflinching and perturbed by the nature of his inner thoughts. One gift Siobhan had been taught was to know when a person was infected by sin when they were burdened with secrets yet untold. Though she had attempted to run from the man, she still felt a close affinity to him. In her naïveté, she was still sure he would take them to some mystical paradise. “Tell me,” she said, with a voice something like a child’s, “what is your name?” The man stuttered and coughed, not aware that either of his passengers was awake. He was now also aware that by giving his name, he would in some way be implicated in his actions, though no police were available to retain such information.
“I d-d-don’t have one,” he stuttered, turning a corner across a grassy knoll. He was now heading toward the harbor, toward a boat that Uncle Black had told him about. The Driver held on his body a certain symbol, one that would guarantee him and his human cargo safe passage across the water. Siobhan was taken aback by his response and settled in her seat without further question. It was strange, she thought, to not have a name. But she imagined, like them, perhaps his parents had died in the blackout having never issued him a name. “Would you like one?” she asked, smiling sweetly with her large pink eyes. “Sure,” he replied, following the shoreline to his destination.
“I will call you Christopher,” she whispered, “after the saint.” Wiping sweat away from his face, the Driver nodded his head. Her innocence bewildered him and made him feel vastly worse for his actions. “Thanks, doll,” he said, as he maneuvered the car alon
g the motorway. It began to snow all around them again, the sure sign of another poisoned area. But this time, the snow fell heavy enough to land inside the vehicle, coating the floor with cold white dust. Siobhan shied away from it, clinging to her brother, but the white snowflakes descended through every open window, threatening to completely cover them. “Try to get it off you,” the Driver insisted, smoothing the icy substance off his own face. Hamish awoke covered in the toxic frost, gleefully laughing, his mind too simple to comprehend the damage it may have done.
As the snow continued covering the hills with peaks of constant white, the green sky deepened into an azure rippling effect. It was as if the horizon was a damp cloth being shaken free of its water. It was at this moment that the car seemed to skid and glide, taking control out of the hands of the Driver. He held fast, attempting to grasp at its controls. But soon the vehicle seemed to float above the ground until it was drifting over the side of the hill. None of them could brace for impact as the metal itself drifted, hovering in the sky as if in water before hitting the muddy soil of the bank. With a loud thud, they hit the dirt, the entire vehicle crushing upside down into the grass.
They awoke crumpled on their backs in the upside-down car, smoke smoldering all around them. None of the three moved, as the vehicle laid upside down. Siobhan took a moment to gather her wits about her, taking in the enormity of what had just happened. Siobhan woke first and began shaking her brother. The only thing that she cared about was the safety and welfare of her brother, Hamish. Blood spilled all around them from the cuts and bruises on their bodies. The Driver sat motionless, upside down in the front seat, his body caved in halfway. The ground itself had moved through the vehicle, jagged rocks from the bank collapsing his chest. Siobhan gazed upon him, noting that he appeared almost peaceful, his skeleton hunched forward. In that moment, she knew he was dead. With some strength, she tumbled out of one of the windows and crawled into the gray grass. She pulled at her brother’s arm which allowed him to tumble out.
