THE
SURFACE’S
END
David Joel Stevenson
Copyright © 2015 by David Joel Stevenson
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
First Printing, 2015
Edited, 2016
www.DavidJoelStevenson.com
Cover Design: Michael Hutzel, Fox Fuel Creative
Cover Photo: Mykola Mazuryk, Shutterstock
CHAPTER ONE
Never go near the Deathlands.
This was a rule that everyone in the village could agree on. When a child asked his parents the inevitable question, “Why?,” a seriousness would wash over their faces. The answers would often sound like ghost stories; tales to strike fear into the hearts of would-be adventurers. The children, when left alone, would trade theories, letting their imaginations get the best of them. They would talk about their plans to discover the mystery of the Deathlands.
But when the time for action was presented, their bravery waned.
Jonah Whitfield sat at the top of a lonely hill overlooking the desolate wasteland. It's not that bad, he thought to himself. Just depressing, really.
He finished off the bread that was in his satchel, brushing the crumbs off his shirt. Lingering for only a moment, he gathered his things and stood, turning his back away from the cracked plain toward the green direction of home. His hunt had been only somewhat successful, but he knew that in order to get to the village by dark, he had to get moving.
Placing his weapons on top of the rabbit carcasses strapped to his bicycle's makeshift trailer, he jumped on the seat and started coasting down the grassy slope. He picked up as much speed as he could on the uneven ground, closing his blue eyes as the wind blew into his face and shaggy brown hair.
He was thankful for the mostly wooden bike – he and his father had put a lot of work into resurrecting it from trashed chains and gears. Without it, it would be impossible to travel the distance from here to town in less than a day unless he rode on horseback. He never liked the idea of keeping one of the family’s horses away from the farm for any time.
Unlike the obvious barren expanse behind, the landscape in front of him was lush, alive, and painted with color. The change between the two was abrupt, like someone dug up the wilderness and replaced it with useless, clumped dust. It looked as if a snake shed its skin, but in this case it was reversed – the live fell away and the dead remained.
Some people said it was similar to deserts they'd heard about in the rest of the country.
“It’s just a lack of rain,” they’d say. “It’s normal.”
But there was an understanding that it was not normal. Jonah had seen the sterile land soaked in the same storms as the grass mere inches away on multiple occasions.
Jonah frequently hunted near the edge of the Deathlands, hanging around not out of rebellion as much as out of curiosity. It was a prime location since none of the other towns folk came this direction in search of wild game, so the animals weren't as thinned out – at least not as much as just about everywhere else he'd seen. He'd been coming for almost two years now, starting just after his fifteenth birthday, when his father decided it was officially time to pass the torch. It was up to Jonah to provide the bulk of the meat for his five member family, and he found it to be a welcome responsibility.
When he first established this hunting location, it seemed that the Deathlands were a great distance away. Over the last two years, either because of his physical growth or because of his familiarity with the desolation, it seemed to inch toward him.
In recent months, the animals weren't quite as numerous. He was the only one hunting there to his knowledge, and didn’t think it was possible that he had thinned them out himself. He assumed it was only temporary, but lately he was starting to wonder if something else was scaring them away.
.- .-- .- -.- .
After dusk had descended, a few hours after he started his journey, he pedaled his bike between log homes with candlelight shining through the foggy glass windows. The houses were in the midst of fields, fenced in animals, and patches of trees trickling in from the forest behind.
Jonah slowed his pace to wave at the occasional neighbor who was finishing up chores, or child who would run toward him with hopes of him stopping to play. He smiled at the simple routine, glancing up at the first stars of the evening. Usually the expanse of the sky made him feel tiny, but on some occasions he simply felt like it was only there to be the backdrop of the sleepy town.
When he saw the lights from his home in the distance, he subconsciously picked up speed.
After jumping off his bike and catching his breath, he pumped a few gallons of water out of the well into a large basin. He carried the carcasses into the shed that was readied to clean and butcher his kill – whatever it might be. He removed his jacket and washed what remained of the animals' dried blood off his hands, then crossed the yard to the back of the log cabin that was his home. As he opened the squeaky door, he saw his mother, Helen, turn while wiping her hands on her apron. Her red hair was dusted with flour.
“Just in time,” she smiled. “Looks like you had a good trip.”
“It was okay,” he said as he slipped into his chair at the dinner table, his legs tired from the day's travel. “Maybe ten pounds worth of meat after I get done cleaning them.”
“That will get us through the week, but the ice box is getting pretty low. You're getting harder to keep fed these days, you know!” She chuckled as she brought a bowl of mashed potatoes to the table, calling out, “Dinner's ready!”
Jonah smiled and rolled his eyes a bit. At just under six feet tall, it was plain that his height had reached its peak, but his mother still talked about her 'growing baby.' Secretly, he appreciated the obvious affection, but was embarrassed when she used such language around the other town folk - especially within earshot of the girls his age.
He leaned over the table and drew in a large breath through his nose. Fried chicken, though a common meal since their chicken coop was a consistent provider of meat, always hit the spot. “I left a few traps set up,” he continued, “so I'm planning on going back out in a couple of days. I haven’t seen them, but I'm positive that the deer are still there,” he said, hoping aloud.
“Might be time to find a new spot,” she answered. “Seems like you're bringing back less and less each time you're out there.”
“Yeah...”
He knew she was right, but felt a tinge of sadness knowing that his routine might be changed. It would be different if the change was because of something... adventurous... But since it was merely to find a new place to do the same thing he was already doing, it felt like he was retreating. Gazing out into the Deathlands at least felt a bit exciting, just knowing he was on the boundary of commonplace.
His younger brother and sister, Harrison and Lillian, bounded in the room giggling to each other. At eleven and thirteen, respectively, they were still mostly able to remain children and avoided most of the 'responsibility' talks over the past couple of years.
Jonah's father slowly limped through the living room door into the kitchen, his right hand clenching his walking cane. He eased into the chair at the end of the table and took the glass of water that Harrison held out to him. “Thanks bud,” he said as Helen bent down and kissed him on the cheek. She placed a plate of cornbread on the table near him. “How was the hunt, Jonah?”
“Maybe ten pounds of rabbit... I'm planning on going back out in a couple of days.”
“That's my boy,” his father responded proudly. “Determined
to do what he needs to feed this family. If it wasn't for this... this—” His voice rose slightly.
Helen looked at him, a single eyebrow raised as if to say watch which word you choose.
“This aggravating leg,” he concluded, forgetting that he was in the middle of a sentence. He let out a deep sigh.
“We're lucky it was just the leg, Tom,” Helen reminded him.
Thomas Whitfield sat awkwardly silently for a moment, his eyes staring down at the limb that seemed to hold him down. Jonah had no doubt that his father’s mind was on the accident that took his mobility from him almost two years ago.
As Helen sat down next to him, Thomas bowed his head further, and the rest of the Whitfields followed suit. “Lord, we thank You for this food that You've provided for us. Help us not to concentrate on what we don't have, but on the many blessings that You've given us. Amen.”
“Amen,” the family repeated.
Jonah glanced at his father, and saw that his eyes watered slightly.
After recovering from the accident, Thomas had reluctantly taken Jonah aside to tell him that he was counting on him – that the whole family was counting on him – to take up the slack. The injured man wept bitterly, thinking he had let everyone down. Since then, he'd been determined to do everything he could, from butchering Jonah's kills to tending their large garden alongside Helen, albeit much slower than she.
But he still felt like an unnecessary weight.
“You know, I've been thinking,” Jonah said, trying to break up his father's obviously frustrating train of thought. “I could fix up that trailer that I use for my bike, and you could sit in it – maybe even figure out some way to help pedal. Then we could go hunting together... You can shoot, you know. It's just getting out there that's preventing it right now.”
A smile came across Thomas's face. “That'd be great, bud,” he said as a happier tear slid out of the corner of his eye before he could catch it with his handkerchief. His tone picked up slightly, “but you've got enough on your shoulders right now. No sense in adding to your workload.”
“No trouble. Maybe Harrison could help?” He looked over at his brother, whose mouth was full of potatoes, nodding. “It might take a while, but I know we can do it.”
Though Thomas was obviously appreciative, he changed the subject. Dinner continued as it did most nights, listening to stories from everyone's day.
.- .-- .- -.- .
Jonah was jarred awake by the rooster crowing just outside his window.
The sun was still far from the horizon, but he sat up, stretching and yawning silently. He looked outside, wondering if the rooster was simply there to wake him, or if it thought that its crow would actually bring the dawn.
I guess now is as good a time as any, he thought to himself, tossing the blankets off his legs. Harrison stirred in the nearby bed, but resumed a slight snore only moments later. With all three children sharing the same bedroom, and a rooster that found apparent joy in dispersing early morning dreams, Jonah's younger siblings had learned to sleep fairly heavily. Jonah, however, never allowed himself to sleep through much of anything. If he ever nodded off while waiting for prey, he didn't want his dreams to interfere with the reason he was patiently still.
It only happened once. He had found the perfect climbing tree, rested his gun on a branch, and leaned against the trunk. He had prepared to be gone for up to three days, and this was but an hour into the first day's hunt. After taking a sip of water from his canteen he closed his eyes, concentrating on the noises around him. The breeze blowing through the leaves, the lonely owl hooting across the woods, the sound of an animal rummaging through his food...
His eyes had jumped open quickly, seeing the hind end of a wild boar disappear into nearby brush. He tried to pull the gun up to his shoulder, but it was on the ground below him, next to his opened satchel. The time to shoot had long past, the sun was high and everything was exposed by its light, revealing that the animal had retreated well before he was even aware. His gaze fell downward, seeing his three-day-supply of food gone. He had never returned the top to his canteen, and the water had soaked through what little crumbs remained. He was so angry at himself that he decided to immediately return home, knowing that he would not have been focused enough to hunt for the day – and he no longer had the food to stay out longer.
Never again, he had said.
This morning, only a couple of days since he had returned from his last hunt, he quietly moved into the kitchen to the back door. Throwing a jacket on over his clothes, he quickly shoved some cornbread in his mouth and slipped an apple in his pocket for the bike ride. He grabbed his satchel, which was full of leftovers that his mother packed him. His sister had sewn a strap to his rifle not long after the failed hunt, so it could not fall out of reach if he again got too comfortable. Though he vowed it wouldn't happen again, he agreed that it was a good addition.
Once inside the shed he grabbed his flintlock muzzleloader rifle and bow, the tools of his trade. Luckily, before the animals were thinning, he stocked up on the round bullets and gunpowder he needed from his extra kills. Ammunition might as well have been currency in the sprawling farm town, so the town blacksmith didn't have as much to worry about in terms of where his meals would come from.
Jonah dropped a bag of bullets in his satchel, and grabbed a quiver of arrows as a last resort. He was a good enough shot with his rifle, but it would take too long to reload if he merely wounded his target. He never liked to leave home unprepared, and an arrow was much easier to prepare in a pinch.
Placing all of his gear into the empty bicycle trailer, he threw his leg over and pushed off into the still coal black morning. He had traveled the path so often that he barely even needed the wisp of moonlight that reflected the fresh dew. The air was silent except for his tires against the long grass, and methodical squeak from the bike chain.
Need to put some oil on that, he thought to himself. That could give me away for miles.
He had set out even earlier than he realized, because a few hours later, when he arrived at his tree near the Deathlands, the sun still had not peaked over the horizon.
He strapped on his satchel and canteen, then wheeled the bike under a nearby fallen limb. He paused after climbing the tree, taking a brief moment to admire his surroundings. As he did every hunt, he said a quick prayer, asking that his effort would provide food for his family and friends. He hid himself in the twigs and leaves so that he would still be inconspicuous when the darkness had disappeared. He rested his gun on the branch, loaded it with powder, wadding, and a bullet, then closed his eyes to listen to the sounds of the morning.
Hours later, he had heard nothing more than a few birds and a tiny rodent in a nearby bush. The sun was prominently hanging in the sky, and all the dew from the morning had disappeared. He considered removing his jacket since the heat would most likely only increase, but he was always wary of too much movement. He could cancel out the effort of his stillness in the preceding morning with the simple action. As such, he refrained.
Jonah took a quick, silent drink from his canteen, which he had placed on a branch close to his face. As soon as his right hand slid back to the trigger, he saw the bushes at the edge of the woods rustle. Judging by the movement, whatever caused it was large. This was no rodent.
Jonah froze.
The bushes were too far to his left to easily train his gun without making a bit of a commotion through the tree limbs, so he waited. If it was something worth shooting he would make his movement, but there was no sense in drawing attention to himself if not. He turned his head to see what was making the noise, but continued to wait, unable to decipher if he saw antlers or simply branches swaying with the motion of the brush.
He sat for what seemed like another hour in the uncomfortable position; his head elevated and chin an inch away from his left shoulder, while the rest of his body pointed forward. More than once he thought about giving up, assuming he would have at least confirmed by that
point that his target was something he'd like to eat. But hearing the words of his father echo in his head, “Determined to do what he needs to to feed his family,” he decided he could take the discomfort. Knowing what his father would give to be in this tree, with this freedom of motion, he felt that he couldn’t give up. He didn't know if this would be the only time this trip that he'd have an opportunity for big game – if indeed it was big game – because it had been so long since he'd seen any around here.
In an instant, a huge buck waltzed out of the brush as if he owned the ground it walked on. His antlers were covered with points – more than Jonah had ever seen before. It looked around, first toward the direction of Jonah's home, and then towards the Deathlands.
If he walks towards town, Jonah thought, there's no way I can get him. By the time I get my gun on him, he'll be deep in the woods again. He continued to wait.
As if it saw Jonah and wanted to make his acquaintance, it started walking straight towards the tree. Jonah held his breath. As the buck neared the tree, it turned left toward the Deathlands, slowly walking in a straight line.
Jonah kept his eyes locked on the animal, but was helpless. The graceful deer was far too close, and the branch he used to rest his gun prohibited him from pointing downward. He couldn't move, because it would definitely hear him from that distance. The buck idly nibbled on fallen nuts, oblivious to the thoughts of the predator above him.
Keep going, Jonah urged in his mind. Keep going.
As if the deer knew what Jonah wanted, it slowly walked forward about fifteen paces, giving him enough range of motion to aim – though the shot would most likely not kill the animal before it had time to run far enough away from Jonah to lose it. He held the rifle tight to his shoulder, and squinted his eyes with the buck in his sights. He knew that he would most likely have only an instant if the animal decided to run.
The Surface's End Page 1