by James Harden
Before I interviewed Rebecca Robinson last month she told me one of the main reasons for agreeing to do the globally televised interview was because she believed the people of the world have a right to know the truth.
If I have betrayed Kenji Yoshida’s trust for publishing his journal, then I sincerely apologize. I hope he understands that his words, his story needed to be told.
It is a story of survival, sacrifice and discovery. It is a story of a boy in love with a girl.
It is the story of a man’s journey into hell.
Sincerely,
Steven Munroe.
January 11th - The Afghan Mountains are cold and this is NOT a diary…
OK, technically it is a diary.
Dear Diary...
Nah. I’m not going to do that. I just can’t bring myself to write those words. Even though I just sort of did write those words.
But anyways… Yes, Kenji. This is a diary. But I think I’m going to call it a journal. Sounds less girly, I guess.
So why am I writing a journal? Good question.
I’m not proud to admit it, but over the last two years I’ve made a lot of stupid decisions.
And these stupid decisions just so happened to be life changing.
Let me explain…
Stupid life changing decision number 1:
I left home for military school without telling Rebecca.
I don’t know why I didn’t say goodbye. Maybe it was because I was scared. Maybe it’s because I’m a coward.
In the end there was a part of me that thought she was too fragile to hear what I had to say. I didn’t want to hurt her. I didn’t want to see her cry.
It seems so stupid now. Of course I should’ve said goodbye.
And I should’ve told her how I felt.
I think about her every day. And every day I rehearse in my head what I’m going to say to her, if I ever see her again.
My apology speech.
It goes a little something like this…
Dear Rebecca. I’m sorry I left. I was an idiot. I should’ve told you. I miss you. Please forgive me. Do you want to get some pizza?
OK, so I haven’t really worked out what I’m going to say. It’s still all mumbled up in my head.
I don’t know why it’s so hard. It should be easy. Telling the person you love that you love them should be the easiest thing in the world, right?
But it’s not. It’s hard. It’s scary.
I wrote a letter to Rebecca on the day I left home. I figured if I was too much of a chicken to tell her face to face, then a letter, a hand written letter would be the next best thing.
But guess what? Yeah, I couldn’t even give the letter to her.
My plan was to sneak over to her house. Leave it under her pillow or something. I don’t know.
But again, I chickened out.
I’m shaking my head as I write this.
My only hope is that one day I’ll get a chance to see her again, to say I’m sorry and give her the letter I wrote for her. Even if she slaps me in the face or spits in my face, even if she screams at me and tells me to go away and that she never wants to see me again; it’ll totally be worth it. And if all else fails, I can at least give her the letter. Hopefully she won’t tear it up.
I’ve thought about posting it to her. I’ve thought about that a lot. But I don’t want to risk sending it off. So I keep it with me in my top pocket, right next to my heart.
I’m not superstitious but I think it’s brought me good luck.
Stupid Life Decision part 2:
Ran away from military school and joined the U.S. Marines.
Again, I’m not even sure why I did this.
Was I punishing myself? Was I so angry that I would risk my life in the armed forces?
At that point in time I hated my parents for sending me away. I hated them more than I thought it was possible to hate anyone. How could they send me off without even consulting with me first? What were they thinking? How did they expect me to react?
I was furious and for a while I didn’t want anything to do with my parents. So I didn’t tell them that I was enlisting. I guess maybe it was a rebellious thing. An act of total defiance.
But there was part of me that really wanted to go. There was part of me that wanted to push myself, find out if I was strong enough to be a soldier.
But of course, my father found out. I knew he would. He has his ways.
He called me up. I thought he was going to yell at me and rip into me for being stupid and careless. I was expecting him to pull some strings and get me discharged for being a minor. I knew if the military looked into it, my fake birth certificate wouldn’t hold up under close investigation.
But he didn’t rat me out. Instead he quoted something from ‘The Art of War’.
He said the warrior’s path is his own. It is lonely.
“The first rule of war.”
“Yeah, I know.” I said cutting him off. “Know your enemy.”
“No. Remember. Think back. Focus. The first rule of war is, know yourself. You must know yourself; know your strengths, weaknesses, capabilities, and limitations before you know anything else. Go. Find yourself. Know yourself.”
I’m glad we were talking over the phone. I think I started to cry a little bit. And I did not want my father to see me crying.
But that phone call helped me get through the first few months of training. And For a while my mind was clear. But then we got the call up. We were being deployed in the Middle East and all the fear and uncertainty I had felt before was back, stronger than ever.
Was I too young for this? Was I brave enough? Did I have the courage to put my life on the line?
My father has always told me that our family comes from a long line of Samurai. Our ancestors were the personal guard to all fifteen Tokugawa Shoguns.
Do I have that warrior’s soul?
I had no idea. And really, I still have no idea. But when we got our orders I had no choice but to find out. The answer would be life or death. Sink or swim. Live or die.
No pressure right?
So yeah, I’ll admit it. I haven’t always done the smart thing or the right thing. But to my credit I’ve stuck by my decisions and I’ve lived with the consequences.
Unfortunately, I think the only way that I’ve been able to survive and cope and keep going is to compartmentalize everything, to bottle everything up.
I didn’t notice it at first, but keeping these thoughts and feelings bottled up and buried deep inside were slowly taking their toll on me.
And yesterday...
Yesterday I saw something that pushed me over the edge. When we got back to the base, I felt numb and sick. I felt dizzy. I couldn’t breathe.
I made an appointment to see the psychologist on base. I needed to do it. I was completely freaking out and I wasn’t even sure why.
But I couldn’t stop thinking about that poor kid.
So I went and saw the counselor. She assured me that after everything I’d been through, a reaction like this was perfectly normal. She was actually surprised it hadn’t happened earlier.
She advised me to start keeping a journal. She said I needed to verbalize and articulate and materialize these feelings. Get them out of my head, out of my heart. She said keeping them inside and bottled up will destroy me, tear me apart. She said they would infect my insides. Kill me from the inside out, like a virus.
Yeah, that’s it; she said it would be like a virus. It would spread through me, overwhelm me and destroy me.
I do not want that to happen.
So here I go. Let’s get this stuff out of my head before it kills me.
The following is an excerpt from Wasteland Wonderland Part 1 – The Fall of Hector Ramirez
Chapter 1
I
’m somewhere in the Buried City.
Somewhere below the Wasteland.
I’m in a bar, drinking what passes for beer these days. I’m in a bar because humans are fucking weird and even though it’s the literal end of the world, we still need to get a buzz on.
I’ve had ten beers.
But the beers are just chasers.
Because what I’m really drinking is something stronger. A fortified brew that tastes like gasoline. But it does the trick. Dulling the senses and memories, making me forget where I am and who I am and what I’ve done.
The beers are just for chasing away the taste. And to chase away a feeling I’m getting in my stomach. To chase away my nerves, to calm my nerves.
Because I just met a girl. An angel. An angel who has no business being in a place like this. She came up to me not even ten minutes ago. It was like she was looking for me.
She knew my name.
She was friendly.
And I didn’t ask questions. She told me her room number. She told me the door wasn’t locked.
Maybe I should’ve asked questions. Maybe I should’ve told her to get lost, to find some other mark. But like I said, this is the end of the world and I’m a lonely son of a bitch.
She left, begging me with her eyes to follow. I turned back to the bar and finished my drink.
And downed the chaser.
And now a tap on my shoulder. A guy. Tall and thin. He has a scar over his left eye and an expression on his face that says he’s all business. That he’s a consummate professional. He’s wearing a poncho, and I can’t be certain, but I think underneath the poncho he’s wearing a thermo suit. I’m thinking he must be a Merc from the nicer part of town, but I can’t be certain because this guy is dressed like he’s hiding something and I’m pretty damn drunk.
My vision is blurry.
I can’t be certain.
This guy has a beer in his hand but he’s not drinking it. Not like you’re supposed to drink a beer. He shows me a picture of a girl. He asks me if I’ve seen her and even though I can’t get her out of my mind… I lie.
I lie and I say, “I’ve never seen her before.”
And then I tell the truth. I tell the truth and I say, “I’ve never seen anyone like her before.”
The man leaves and he leaves his beer on the bar and I’m too drunk and careless and arrogant to even think this could be a problem.
For me.
For anyone.
I make my way to the room upstairs. She’s there. Waiting. And I’m suddenly aware of the heat.
It’s hot. Because it’s always hot.
Sweat covers our bodies.
I ask her what her name is, trying to make small talk because even though I’m drunk and my guard is lowered and my inhibitions are gone, I’m nervous.
She can tell.
And she says, “My name doesn’t matter…”
“It matters to me.”
She has her arms around me. She wears nothing but a smile. Except it’s not really a smile. It’s not real. It’s a mask.
She thinks for a second, too long. She whispers, “Ruby.”
“Like the jewel...”
“Yeah,” she says quicker. More eagerly. “Just like the jewel.”
Her skin is soft. Too soft.
Her hands.
Her thighs.
Her lips.
Everything is soft.
And smooth.
And pale.
She might be an angel. I might be dreaming.
She inhales sharply as I put my hands on her hips and pull her close.
I ask her where she’s from.
And she says, “Wonderland.”
I laugh.
She doesn’t.
I guess she’s running from an abusive husband. Maybe he’s a Wasteland Raider. Those guys are nuts. People think I’m crazy. People think me and my brother are insane. But we’ve got nothing on those guys. Raiders constantly venture above ground, out into the Wasteland, out into the scorching, deadly heat. People say the Red Giant cooks their brains. I’d have to agree with those people.
So yeah, maybe she’s running from an abusive husband or boyfriend. Or girlfriend. Then again, maybe she just wants some excitement in her life. A fling.
An affair…
Maybe she just wants to know that men still find her attractive.
Irresistible.
I can vouch for that.
And now she knows it, if she ever doubted it.
I kiss her and she shivers.
In the heat.
In this goddamn, unrelenting heat.
I ask her, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared,” she answers, her mask slipping away for the briefest of moments.
“Why?”
“Because I know secrets. I know things I’m not supposed to know.”
“What do you know?”
She places her hand at the back of my head. She grabs a fistful of my hair. She kisses me and whispers… “I know everything.”
Chapter 2
She fell asleep in my arms, covered in sweat, cold to the touch.
Cold.
Even in this heat.
I didn’t think about it. Didn’t think.
Because I wasn’t thinking.
Can you blame me?
She was a goddess and I was in heaven. Drunk and in heaven.
She was shivering. She was cold. Covered in sweat. No one is cold in this place.
Not here.
Not in the Buried City.
Not in the Wasteland.
Not on Earth.
Not anymore.
I’m still holding her in my arms and I don’t know when to let go. I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to deal with this because I don’t want to acknowledge exactly what went down.
Ruby… if that was even her real name, she was poisoned. I don’t think she knew she’d been poisoned. Not until it was too late.
I place her gently on the bed and cover her with the sheet. I stand over her with my head lowered. I don’t say a prayer because I don’t really know any. And I’m not the world’s biggest fan of religion.
So I just stand over the bed, beside the bed, standing over Ruby, as a mark of respect.
She said she was from Wonderland.
She said she knew secrets.
Maybe she was telling the truth.
And maybe this is why she’s dead.
Her skin, her hands, they were so soft. Softer than any I’ve ever felt. And now my instincts are kicking in, survival instincts I was born with and spent a lifetime honing by necessity. To survive in the Buried City, to survive in the Wasteland, hell, to survive on Earth, you need to be stronger than the next person in the food chain. And the next.
Ruby was not strong.
She was soft and smooth and pale.
Her skin had never been kissed by the Red Giant.
And she was scared. She was downright terrified.
Of who? Of what?
There’s no way she was from the Buried City. She was too clean and too nice.
Maybe she was from the Deep Canyon. I shake my head. No. There’s no way. So maybe she really was from Wonderland. But if she was, then what the hell was she doing here? Why the hell would anyone leave Wonderland?
Old timers, they talk about nights of passion. They can’t help themselves. Whenever they get together, whenever they get a sympathetic ear, they end up talking about a night, one night, during the last of the Great Wars, before the Truce, before the Arks were built. The old men talk about when they were just boys, child soldiers ordered into battle, into fierce urban warfare in ruined cities.
They didn’t think they’d survive the night. Or the next day.
The fear of dying alone is a terrifying one. So they’d share the night with a stranger, and if they were lucky enough to survive the killing, they’d never forget.
I wonder... was this the same for Ruby? Did she know she was going to die? Ma
ybe she just didn’t want to die alone.
Then again, maybe she sought me out for protection. She knew my name. She knew where I’d be.
She found me.
It’s my damn reputation. A consequence of my actions in a past life, a consequence of my various professions, of years of being me. But if that’s the reason, if she really did seek me out for protection, then I failed her. I failed her miserably.
Before I can even think about feeling angry and sorry for myself, there’s a knock at the door.
A loud knock.
A forceful knock.
Whoever is on the other side is not going away.
I’m expecting the door to come flying off its hinges any second now. But it doesn’t. They actually give me a warning. How nice of them.
“Open up. This is Immigration and Wonderland Border Control. We know you’re in there.”
And I’m wondering how… how do they know? And I’m wondering what the hell they’re doing here at the crack of dawn.
In this part of town.
In this part of the Buried City.
Wonderland Enforcers never leave the confines of Wonderland. Not unless something big is going down.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my eyes go wide. My heart races and a jolt of adrenalin shocks me wide awake. I’m not a morning person. Never have been. Never will be. But right now, I am awake. My eyes are open. And despite the large amount of alcohol I have recently consumed, my head is clear.
These guys are up to no good.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to be framed for Ruby’s death.
Her murder.
These guys want to play dirty?
Then it’s time to get dirty.
It’s time to welcome them to the Buried City.
Copyright © 2012 by James Harden
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.
All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.