Sons of the Lost

by Glynn James

  “Are we staying in Raleigh?”

  Leta looked at the girl and found it difficult not to stare at her wolf head. “No. I heard we’re not staying there. Jonah is taking us past the ruins to an old marina on the shore. He doesn’t think the ruins are safe. “

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know, girl. He is your father. Why don’t you ask him?”

  Keana shrugged, and the wolf skin shifted on her shoulders. “I will.”

  Leta looked to the west, where some members of the caravan had already begun to veer off the trail toward the marina. Those people had been members of clans who had lived in the area, and they knew how to safely circumvent the ruins of Raleigh.

  “Hey. You up for a little adventure?”

  “Of course,” said Keana. “What kind of adventure?”

  The old woman looked to the east again and then down at the cart. “You think we can pull this through some weeds and over some rough patches?”

  “Sure.”

  Leta angled the front wheels of the cart off the trail and toward the east where several other groups of people were headed. Most of the caravan remained on the path heading directly into Raleigh. They would all end up at the same place—the shore of the lake. It would be almost impossible to get lost here.

  Keana dug in to help Leta push the wheels of the cart over bumps in the rough trail. They followed the cart in front of them, but as the sun descended in the west, it cast long shadows toward the east. If the carts didn’t come through the ruins or reach the other side of the forest before sundown, they would have to stop for the night beneath the trees.

  “There’s Logan.”

  She looked to where Leta was pointing and saw the old man sitting on a rock and smoking a stock of wild weed. He was looking in the other direction, watching the carts move past.

  “Put your head down, don’t say anything, and follow me.”

  Keana turned her head sideways and furrowed her brow. “What are we doing?”

  “Shut up, girl. Follow me.”

  Leta shambled toward Logan, her arms outstretched and her head down so that the wolf’s ears were raised on the top of her head. Keana followed her. They approached Logan, and he turned to face them. Leta saw his eyes go wide and he dropped his smoke to the ground. She couldn’t hold her laughter in any longer.

  “I got you, you old badger.” Leta pulled the cloak back, and Keana stepped to the side doing the same.

  “You bitch,” said Logan. He spat and shook his head. “Where did you get those skins, and why are you walking around here with them covering your face? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

  “Don’t be such a pansy. We could have snuck up and scared the living daylights out of you. Take a joke, would ya?”

  Logan bent down and picked up the smoldering butt of his smoke. He inhaled until the end glowed a fiery red. “I can imagine the girl playing games, but it’s not right for old hags like you.” He pointed his crooked finger at Leta’s face.

  Leta slapped Logan’s hand away.

  “Why are you sitting here?” Keana asked Logan. “Why aren’t you going to the ruins?”

  “Because that ain’t where your father is taking us. I’ve been through here before, and there’s nothing left to see. I only got so many miles on these feet, and I’m not about to waste steps. If you two she-wolves want to walk through the camp tonight scaring folks, have at it. But leave me the hell alone.”

  “I swear, with each day you get more and more miserable,” said Leta. She shook her head and stepped back, pointing at the cart. “Come on, Keana. Leave the old fuck here.”

  Logan sighed. “Hold on.”

  Leta and Keana both stopped and looked at him.

  “How many of those wolf skins you got?”

  The old woman smiled a toothless grin and did a pirouette, nearly tripping over herself. Keana pranced around Leta bringing a smile to Logan’s weathered face.

  “Just these,” said Leta. “But I think Jonah brought back fifteen or twenty skins total. I’m sure they’ve been traded and passed around the carts several times by now.”

  “They look nice, ladies. Warm.”

  Keana bowed, and Leta did the same.

  “So you know we’re not staying in the ruins.”

  “Yes,” said Leta. “Of course we do.”

  “You see that gap in the trees over there?” Logan pointed to the east where people and carts continued to walk although it became more difficult to see them as night fell. “We should keep going that way. There’s a lake on the other side, and, from what I hear, an old marina. Some say those ruins are in better shape than Raleigh. I imagine that’s where Jonah is taking us.”

  Leta stepped aside as a man and two women maneuvered a cart past them. She nodded and noticed that they had been staring at her head. She looked at Keana and was reminded that they still had the wolf skins wrapped around them.

  “Do you think that’s going to be our new home?” Keana asked Logan.

  “Only your father knows the answer to that question, my lady. But from what I’ve heard about the armies coming our way, I’m not really sure where we’ll live.”

  Leta looked at Logan, but he didn’t need her glare to realize it was time to shut his mouth. He nodded at her.

  “I’m sure my father will find a safe place for us to live.”

  “Yes, I’m sure he will. Right, Logan?”

  “Jonah will keep us all safe.” Logan grabbed one of the handles of their cart. “Folks are setting up camp near the old village of Wilsonville. It’s close to the lake. I’ll take you there. This way avoids some of the rougher roads through the city.”

  Leta watched Keana grab a handle on the cart, a soft smile on her face. The old woman had been around long enough to know how important it was to treasure the peaceful moments that always preceded the storm.

  Chapter 30

  Gideon led the boys through the trees and down a steep embankment that took them to a pile of ruins at the bottom. They had been walking for most of the day, throwing rocks and taking shots at squirrels. He had insisted that every boy chase down their arrows. Gideon understood how important that was to his father, knowing that the war with the Cygoa was far from over.

  His mother had given him the idea. She told him to head out with some younger scouts and explore the area. Gideon wondered if she fully understood the risks involved or if she had realized that he was becoming a man and no level of protection or coddling would stop that from happening. He had promised her that he would also be on the lookout for supplies—things to fix the carts, carry water, or any other artifacts left from the old world that could be repurposed and used by the Elk.

  “Hey, look.”

  Gideon turned to see his friend pointing at the pile of rubble. “Yeah? So what?”

  “Behind it, fuck nut.”

  Gideon put his hand over his eyes and stared at the collection of massive concrete slabs at the bottom of the ravine. It was quite possible that at some point in the distant past, a structure had tumbled down the mountain. But it appeared as though his friend had seen something else.

  “What?”

  “There’s a ruin behind it. A building.”

  It was an old word, one that he had heard his father use on a few occasions. The Elk had used the term to describe a ruin that hadn’t completely collapsed—a structure one could explore without the immediate danger of being buried alive beneath it.

  Gideon pushed past his friend. All of the other boys took a moment to take a drink of water from their flasks. He scrambled down the side of the hill with his arms out, trying to keep his balance on the loose scree. He walked around the pile of rubble and then saw it for the first time.

  The building had four levels, based on the evenly spaced openings that stretched vertically into the early afternoon sky. A handful of crows sat on the northwest corner of the building in a neat line, fidgeting on the ledge but not spooked by Gideon’s presence.

  He le
ft the boys and their laughter behind as he walked toward the building. A doorway had been cut into the wall, most likely part of the original design. The opening was tall enough for him to walk through easily and wide enough to fit two carts side-by-side. Gideon put his hand on his axe and inhaled deeply. He caught a whiff of oil—the slick black lubricant the people of the old world had used on the carts to keep the gears from binding. He closed his eyes and listened, hearing nothing except the occasional flap of the crows’ wings and the wind blowing leaves across the concrete floor.

  With his heartbeat racing in his ears, Gideon stepped through the doorway. A wide hallway snaked to the right. The width had closed, narrowing to fit one cart at a time instead of two. The floor rose on a slight incline as it circled around itself, and as Gideon walked the middle of the hallway, he realized he was ascending from the first level to the second. The tunnel-like hallway opened as Gideon stepped out on the second floor. Trees had grown up through the gaps in the concrete, and a thin layer of leaves had accumulated over time, but most of the paint and the old plumbing remained intact. Without the violent effects of seasonal weather, the interior of this building had been preserved.

  Gideon walked to the right, stopping in front of a concrete pillar, and ran his hand gently over a large number two that had been painted in red, probably centuries before he was born. He used his index finger to trace the shape, feeling the smooth precision of it all.

  He saw a series of pipes in perfect parallel lines running over his head and into the other end of the level. Some of them had been fashioned out of copper and turned green by time, while others remained wrapped in white insulation of some kind. Gideon shook his head, unable to fathom why those people would have wanted to protect pipes made of copper or steel. What could have possibly harmed them?

  Under normal circumstances, the boy would have spent an entire day exploring the carts. Other than the barricade that Rav had built at the pass, Gideon had never seen so many carts in one place. The Elk had been collecting and using them for years, but these carts remained as they had been when the original owners had left them to rot. Most of the glass had been shattered, either by people, animals, or fluctuating temperatures. But some of the carts still had their glass even though it had been hazed over by centuries of dirt and grime.

  Gideon stood before one such cart. He used the palm of his hand to clean the window and then peered inside. He saw the seats inside the cart as well as some other artifacts strewn about the floor. He lifted the handle, but the door would not open. It seemed to be held secure by a hidden mechanism. The boy yanked on the handle, he looked at the door, and then shook his head. Nothing blocking it, nothing tying it secure. And yet, the door would not open. He raised his axe, and for a moment, he considered smashing the window so he could get inside the cart. That single act would satisfy his youthful curiosity, and he would be able to examine whatever items had been preserved for so long. But as he reared back, another feeling rose from his gut—a deep sense of sadness for all the things that had been lost, things no person alive now had ever known. Those memories, or feelings, or whatever Gideon labeled them, sat behind the magically locked door. And with his sudden sense of sadness came a feeling of responsibility to those forgotten people. Breaking into this cart would be like opening one of their graves, or unearthing a Dustfall. He thought about his father and what the man would say.

  Those people are gone and whatever they left are just things. Items that could save our people.

  Yes, that’s exactly what his father would say. Gideon could almost hear the words in his ears despite the fact that the chief of the Elk was miles away. But he was not his father. Gideon loved the man and respected him, but his father had different responsibilities, a different perspective on what had happened to the world and where it was headed.

  Gideon stepped away from the locked cart. He turned his head, counting at least twenty more carts that sat in neat rows on the concrete floor. Three or four of those carts had their windows intact, like the one he had been standing in front of.

  His heartbeat quickened as he remembered the scouts waiting for him at the top of the embankment. They would come looking for him soon, and if they found this place, he would not be able to stop them from smashing the windows and plundering the carts. The realization formed as a pit in his stomach.

  He looked to the corridor on his left which turned upward to the next level and then to the one on his right which descended to the ground level. Before Gideon could take a step in either direction, he heard a scratching sound, followed by a low growl coming from behind a cart only ten feet away.

  Gideon clutched his axe as a mountain lion walked out onto the floor, hissing at him, daring the boy to make a move one way or the other.

  At first, Gideon could do nothing but hold his breath. The wild cat’s fur gave off a musky, damp scent. The animal took two slow steps toward Gideon. Its hackles rose and its eyes blazed. He saw that the cat’s gray fur had been streaked black on its back, no doubt from crawling beneath and through the old carts. The cat’s hissing gave way to a low growl.

  “Stay there, stay there,” Gideon said. He started to raise his axe until the cat growled louder, sensing the minor aggression. “Okay.”

  Gideon looked around but had not yet seen evidence of a mate or cubs. If the cat was a lone predator, he would have a chance. But if more emerged from the carts, he would have to seriously consider whether it would be best to stand and fight or run, crying out for the others who would probably be nearby by now.

  Unfortunately for the boy, the wild cat made the decision for him. It hissed, bared its fangs, and lunged at Gideon. With his youthful and sharp reflexes, he spun. The cat’s right paw struck Gideon’s right shoulder, almost avoiding the collision. The force of the impact spun him around, and yet he kept his hand on the axe and both feet on the concrete.

  When Gideon turned, the cat had already sprung from its hind legs and was in the air again. The animal's jaw was open, its teeth aiming for the boy’s throat. He brought the axe up in time to wedge the handle in the cat’s open maw. Gideon twisted his upper body, transferring his weight to his left and throwing the cat with it.

  He heard a thud and saw the wildcat stumble. Gideon had tossed it into the concrete wall, and now the cat shook its head back and forth, the hissing turning into a pained whine. He stood there for a moment, his options running through his head. Gideon looked at the stunned cat and then to the concrete ramp that descended to the ground where the others would be. He knew killing the cat at this moment was his best chance at survival. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He had wandered into this animal’s lair. This place belonged to the cat, not him. Gideon would bury the axe blade in the cat’s neck if it saved his own life, but he was not about to kill the animal needlessly. A small voice in his head cautioned him about turning his back on the defensive, angry, stunned cat. Gideon blinked and decided to ignore it. He ran.

  Gideon sprinted down the concrete ramp, listening for the cat. He wanted to look over his shoulder, but he also knew that might slow him down. Instead, he pushed his legs harder, leaping over broken stone and dancing around piles of rusted metal that he had climbed over on his way up to the second floor of the building.

  The ramp angled down in a circular motion and when he reached the bottom, he ran straight into the first boy standing there. The other scouts had come down the embankment and stood at the entrance of the building, surmising that Gideon had gone inside. None of the boys had worked up the courage to go in looking for him.

  Gideon put his hands up before slamming into the boy, his momentum knocking them both to the ground. The others took a step back. Gideon rolled over and came up onto one knee in time to see the wild cat sprinting down the ramp and heading right for him. The other boys ran, and the one Gideon had knocked to the ground clawed in the dirt on all fours, trying to scramble away from the attacking cat.

  The animal leaped, springing with its powerful hind le
gs, but this time, Gideon went on the offensive. Instead of using his axe handle to deflect the attack, he swung. The blade hit the cat below its left ear. The animal’s body fell, dead before it hit the ground. Gideon stood and drew a deep breath. He yanked the axe from the animal’s skull before turning and vomiting into the weeds. Gradually, the others who had run off came back. Some poked at the dead cat while others surrounded Gideon.

  “Thanks for standing and fighting with me, fuckers.”

  Several of the boys smirked while others tried to hide their reddening faces.

  “You had that,” one of the boys said to Gideon.

  “Whatever.” Gideon looked past the building, and something unusual caught his eye. “What’s that?”

  The other boys had been too fascinated with the kill to look and answer his question. Gideon took three steps towards the north side of the building. The trees and other wild growth had consumed the ruins and would eventually take this building down as well. It wasn’t the color or the volume of the vegetation that made Gideon stop. He had noticed a rectangular area, ten feet wide by thirty feet long. And inside the space, the plants appeared to be of uniformed height—not something that occurs naturally in the wilderness.