Wasteland

by Terry Tyler

  Dylan crosses the room like an automaton. When he reaches his bunk he stands there for a moment, staring down at the book he left, open at the page he was reading.

  Don't think. Just do.

  On the bunk above, Kevin is reading a comic. He doesn't acknowledge Dylan; they are not friends, despite having slept in the same corner of the vast dorm for several years. Kevin thinks Dylan is a wimp because he does as he's told.

  As he shoves his toothbrush, toothpaste and clean pairs of underpants and socks into his pockets, Dylan thinks, at least I never have to see your ugly mug again. And, for the first moment since Rocky told him of the plan, he experiences a brief flutter of exhilaration. He's going outside. He's going back to the wasteland.

  At least the rain has stopped.

  Emma appears at the door of the women's dormitory, looking somewhat padded; she is wearing all her tops, she says, and two pairs of jogging bottoms, with four pairs of knickers and two pairs of socks.

  "Look, I could hardly do my trainers up―and I've put my moisturiser and jewellery in my bra!" She looks most pleased with herself as she cuddles up to Rocky, kissing him.

  "Em―are you sure about this?" Dylan asks.

  "Course; where he goes, I go! Right, babe?" She gazes up at Rocky, adoration all over her face. He appears not to have heard her.

  Dylan says, "I hate to ask this, but what about our chips?"

  "That's the easy part." Rocky digs in his pocket and brings out a Healit pen. "Tel gave me it. Right; Entrance D, then."

  Dylan follows the pair of them across the dark compound, zig-zagging to avoid the brightest of the lit areas. As they approach the gate, he sees just one guard. One armed guard. The gates are high, and Dylan knows that any exit and entrance will register on the monitors elsewhere in the Village, in a room he has never seen. The crossing of the threshold is also marked by breath scan; their fortune now hinges on whether the guard will want the stolen goods crammed into Rocky's jacket.

  "Stay here," Rocky whispers. He sidles up and whistles to attract the guard's attention, while Dylan and Emma hang back; she slips her hand into his.

  "I'm so glad you're here," she murmurs. "I would've hated to go without you."

  "I wouldn't have let you."

  They can't hear the conversation between Rocky and the guard, but Dylan watches as the latter delves into the bag of assorted trinkets that holds the key to their future. He takes something out; the metal glints under the floodlight. Next, a small bag of blitz, which he opens and tests. When he nods at Rocky, Dylan's whole body relaxes; the guard fiddles with the control panel at the side of the door, and Rocky walks back over to them.

  "Man here is our new best friend," he says. "He's turned off the scanners and the camera." He brings out the Healit pen. "Right, chips out."

  As the knife scores into the thin flesh behind his ear, Dylan clenches his teeth and fists, curls his toes, anything to stop himself shouting out, especially when he feels the tiny chip being extracted, but a moment later the analgesic enters his body and the pain floats away. When it is Emma's turn, he holds her head tight to his chest; he has to stop himself kissing her soft hair.

  They approach the gate. Dylan stares at the guard, a beefy sort with a chunky neck and a bald head. "Won't they find out? I mean, won't you get into trouble?"

  He fixes his eyes at a point past Dylan's right shoulder. "Never saw you."

  A moment later, they are outside the walls of Hope Village 9.

  Dylan glances back, to see the gate closing. "What happens when Lennox finds out? When the governor does? Won't that guard get in serious shit?"

  Rocky sticks his hands in his pockets and sets off at a fair pace; Emma hurries behind him to keep up, and Dylan strides after them.

  "Rocky? I said, what's going to happen to that guy?"

  "He knows what he's doing. He'll split the gear with a geezer in the tech control room, who'll make it look like we left through Entrance F."

  Dylan stops. "But then Lennox will be after the guard on duty there―"

  Emma stops, too. "Rocky, the guy on Entrance F, he might lose his job―or if Lennox gets hold of him―"

  Rocky strides ahead, then suddenly stops dead and turns, arms outstretched. "So what d'you want to do? Go back and give yourself up? Bleat to the governor about that guy back there who's just saved my fucking life? I don't give a shit about the guard on Entrance F. If it's a choice between him or me, I choose me." He shakes his head, like he can't understand what the problem is. "You wanna go back, you go back. Do what you fucking want, the pair of you. I'm gone."

  They trudge through the cold, damp night, down country lanes that once led from one village to another, much travelled, but are now just part of the wasteland, overgrown and redundant. Dylan walks behind, sick to his stomach not only about the fate of the guard on Entrance F, but the way that Emma ran after Rocky, saying sorry, clinging on to his arm, telling him that of course he did the right―the only―thing he could have done, under impossible circumstances. Not once does she mention what a fucking idiot he's been for trying to rip off Lennox.

  Dylan wishes he didn't love her like he does; then he could just hang back, further and further, and sidle off down the first side road he sees. Disappear. Maybe find the people he used to be with, all those years ago. Except he's not sure if he would recognise them. When he tries to remember, he just sees a jumble of faces.

  No one will come looking for them. Rocky told them; he knows stuff, Rocky does. Says they don't bother to look for Hope Village escapees. Haven't done for the last couple of years.

  "Yeah, the governor told Lennox. Said if they want to run off to the wasteland they can stay there; no one gives a shit. It's only Lennox we've got to worry about."

  They pass a broken signpost for a village that no longer exists; part of the area is fenced off, with a sign saying 'UK Farm 23. Strictly No Admittance Unless Authorised'. All that is left is an abandoned church. Through the darkness Dylan spies gravestones, and thinks about those buried beneath. A community. All gone.

  He feels sorrow for a place and people that he never knew.

  Further on they reach a clump of houses and choose one to sleep in for the night. Rocky whips out a pen torch and has a good root around, unearthing some candles. Dylan borrows the torch and has a look around the house, but finds little except furniture and boxes filled with toys and random possessions. The sight of them fills him with a great sadness. Some of them must have been presents, or items bought with love and care, a long time ago.

  In a downstairs room, Rocky has found a fireplace. Between them, they break up a couple of chairs to burn; the fire smokes badly, and they have to open the windows to let it out. Emma coughs and says it's making her feel ill; after a while Rocky says, "Fuck this. Let's go sit upstairs."

  They settle in an empty room, where Emma produces a bottle of energy drink and two Snickers bars. Dylan has two protein bars in his pocket, but he's keeping quiet about them. They'll need them for breakfast.

  Emma begins to cry. Dylan's automatic reaction is to move closer to her; he is about to put his arm around her, to comfort her, when Rocky pulls her to him, staring Dylan down, as if to warn him off.

  "Come on, babe, get a grip. No tears."

  She sniffs, snuggling her head into his warmth. "I'm just scared. How are we going to live? Where will we go?"

  "That's what I was wondering," mutters Dylan. "What are we going to do, just hope we find some friendly wastelanders?"

  "Did you think I wouldn't have a plan?" Rocky taps the side of his head, removes his arm from Emma's shoulders, and unwraps the remaining Snickers bar, without asking the other two if they want a piece. "Always thinking, me. I've been putting out feelers." He looks pleased with himself as he chomps on the chocolate. "We're going to an off-grid. I was talking to this guard about 'em, few weeks back. He says there's one about sixty miles from here that takes people in. Lake Lodge. Supposed to be alright. There's another one nearer, but it's one of
them that are run by the megacities, and we don't want that, do we?"

  Dylan asks, "Why not?"

  "Why do you think? 'Cause it means you'll be on the fucking database, and Lennox has got eyes everywhere. He gets the word about where I am, I'm a dead man; I might as well trot on back to Hope 9 and give myself up. But this Lake Lodge, it's one of them independent ones. So I say we head for there."

  "Sixty miles?" says Emma. "We've got to walk sixty miles in the cold, with no food?"

  Rocky bites off half the Snickers in one go, chews on it, screws the wrapper into a ball and throws it across the room. "We'll be alright. There's one of them charity supply drop-ins for wastelanders not far up the road. All we gotta do is get there, and we can stock up."

  "How do you know?" Dylan asks.

  "Made it my business to find out, didn't I?" He taps the side of his head again. "Preparation; gotta have a plan in place."

  "So you always thought this might happen? That you might have to make a run for it?"

  Rocky laughs, stretches his arms towards the ceiling, and yawns. "Mate, I was ripping off Lennox!"

  How much more cocksure he seems about his situation, now they're away; proud of himself, even. There is no trace of the shaking, terrified man who approached Dylan's bunk only a few hours before.

  Emma says, "You should have told me. Said something to me about what you were doing."

  "No way, babe. You'd have nagged me to fuck, wouldn't you?" He chuckles, slings an arm around her and kisses her on the cheek.

  "Yes, I bloody would―if I'd known―"

  "Well, you didn't complain when we were getting all that alone time in the couples unit, did you? Didn't you ever wonder how I made that happen? Anyway, talking of alone time, I reckon we need some now." He squeezes her to him and grins at Dylan. "Go on, bro, fuck off!" Turning to Emma, he plants another smacking kiss on her cheek. "Come on, babe; take that mardy look off your face and keep me warm, will you?"

  Next door, Dylan eats one of the protein bars. The other, he will save for Emma. Fuck Rocky.

  Twelve hours later, Dylan is wondering about the wisdom of their flight. Hungry, so hungry he wonders if he can walk another step―Emma has sobbed silently for the last couple of miles―they reach the drop-in to find hardly anything there. Two men, both armed, guard the small, square building, though it is sparsely stocked. Most of the food on offer needs to be cooked― rice, pasta, pulses. Dylan says they could look for a house that might have pans, but Rocky says, "We haven't got time―we want to get there, not fuck around looking for saucepans." So they take the only four tins (beans and ravioli), which Rocky says he can open with his knife and they can eat cold, some biscuits, and some pasties that are four days out of date. They are told they can fill one small carrier; Dylan stuffs as much in as he can.

  "We're heading for Lake Lodge," he tells the guards. "It's an off-grid. Do you know it?"

  "Sure do. It's run by Steve and Kendall Gregory. Solid folks."

  Dylan's spirits bounce up from the floor, just an inch or so. "That's good to hear." He looks round at Emma, who is busy tearing into one of the pasties; she nods at him, her mouth full.

  "Are there any more of these drop-in places before we get to it?"

  The guard shakes his head. "Sorry, mate; there's one just a mile past it, though. You've got another sixty miles to go, I'd say."

  "More like seventy," says the other one.

  Emma gulps her food down. "Seventy? But I thought―"

  "I'd say you can do it in three or four days, if you pace yourself."

  "But Rocky said it was sixty when we started out, and we must have done at least ten miles already." Emma sounds petulant, like it's the guards' fault she has been given the wrong information.

  They both look round at Rocky, who is making the most of the guards' distracted attention to stuff packs of biscuits into his jacket. Noticing eyes on him, he does up the zip.

  "You got enough to drink?" the second guard asks and, when Dylan shakes his head, holds out a large container of water. "Go on; you won't get far without that. What've you done, escaped from a Hope?"

  Dylan likes them, so he smiles back, and replies in the affirmative. Emma looks as though she's about to start crying again; Dylan wishes he could send her back with these kindly men to wherever they call home.

  "Where do you two come from?"

  "MC6. What was Lancaster and surrounding areas."

  "But you work for a charity? For the wastelanders?"

  "Aye. All changing next week, though."

  "What do you mean?"

  "The drop-ins are being shut down; no one's told us why. I can't see the reasoning behind it―everything comes from donations from the public. Just another great decision made by our caring government."

  "Yeah, after this week all donations are going to Hope Villages, instead," says the second guard. "I tell you what; on my last day out here, I'm going to stock up with whatever's left, and carry on walking―and I'm taking this baby with me!" He holds up his rifle.

  Rocky joins them, and pats the guard on the back. "Don't blame you, mate! Why work for The Man when you can please yourself, eh?"

  Dylan is surprised all those biscuits don't fall out of his jacket.

  At least they have food now, which makes all the difference, but the weather remains damp and chilly, and by the end of the next day Emma says she doesn't feel well. She has a headache, she says, and a sore throat. When they find a house in which to settle down for the night, Dylan does everything he can to make her comfortable and warm.

  "Come on, buck up," Rocky says. "Stop looking so pissed off; you're putting me on a downer, too." Just a moment too late, he laughs, to take the edge off his words. "It's just a cold, babe. You get a good night's sleep and you'll be as right as rain tomorrow."

  He takes cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and walks out of the house; Dylan follows.

  "Go easy on her. She's not handling this too well."

  Rocky lights his cigarette and blows out a long stream of smoke. "Tell me about it. I shouldn't have brought her along. She ain't holding up, is she?"

  "She's okay. She's just not well."

  "It's a bloody cold, that's all. Fuck's sake, I've got it sorted, haven't I? I knew where the drop-in was, and I know where we're going. It's only a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. I'm not asking her to hike over the friggin' Andes." He slaps Dylan on the back. "I'm glad you're here, bro. You're better at this sick bed shit than I am."

  Dylan sticks his hands in his pockets and looks down, kicking at some stones. "Well, I care about her."

  "So do I mate, so do I. Thing is, though, she's supposed to care about me, too, but all she's done since we left is whinge; I'm fed up with her trailing behind me, snivelling. Gets on my wick. And I tell you what, she didn't even want to fuck last night."

  Dylan doesn't want to hear that. "Well, she's not feeling good, is she? And she's scared."

  "I dunno what about." Rocky looks up at the inky blue sky. "Women, eh? They're not good at this stuff. Don't have the stamina for it."

  Dylan laughs. "That's rubbish. Don't let Emma hear you say that―or any other woman, come to think of it!"

  "Well, it's what a lot of men think; they're just too scared to say it."

  "Maybe, but it's not true."

  Rocky shrugs. "Yeah, well, all I know is that I took my girl out of that shit-hole back there to give her a better life, and she can't do nothing but whine."

  He chucks his cigarette away and stomps back into the house, where he crouches over a tin of ravioli and pierces the top with his knife. He doesn't ask Emma if she wants any, and nor does he enquire after her health.

  "I say we rest up here for a day, tomorrow," says Dylan. "Give Emma a chance to get back on her feet. There's books here, and we can light a fire."

  Rocky shoves a spoonful of cold ravioli into this mouth. "You two can do what you like. I'm carrying on. The sooner we reach Lake Lodge, the better."

&nb
sp; Chapter 23

  Rae

  Off Grid #2

  After Beckett's Farm we stay with some people Ace knows who have taken over a derelict pub. They're nice, welcoming, but I feel suddenly overwhelmed with the massive changes that my life has undergone, and I can't cope with company.

  I tell Ace, because I don't want to seem rude, and I'm relieved that he understands.

  "We all get like that sometimes. You go and hit the sack."

  Curled up in my sleeping bag I fall asleep immediately, and wake up eight hours later feeling like myself again.

  We make an early start, because we're heading over the other side of the North Yorkshire moors to the next indie off-grid: Sunrise. On the way, we pass a drop-in, and to my surprise Ace stops, and gets off the bike.

  It looks closed, but the door opens. He points to a notice covered in plastic, which is nailed to it. "Here. I thought something looked wrong. These places are usually guarded."

  I step forward and read.

  This drop-in is permanently closed, from 17 October 2061. Help yourself to anything that's left.

  "That's not good," he says.

  "Why? We don't need anything."

  "No, I mean that it's closed at all. Either they're not getting the donations, or it's the start of something." He shoves his hair out of his eyes. "Or the end."

  His words make me shiver. "What do you mean, the end?"

  "Not sure. Depends if others are closed, or just this one."

  Inside we find nothing but a few packs of rice and pasta, and I insist we take some of each, even though he doesn't want to; we can use them to barter for fuel at Sunrise.

  "Let's be on the safe side, shall we?"

  See, I'm getting used to how things work, out here.

  Sunrise does not live up to its delightful name.

  We toil up a steep, stony, muddy track to an unlocked, rusty gate, which swings open, about to fall off its hinges. We park up, and look around; for a moment there is so little sign of life that we wonder if the place is derelict, but no―I hear the mooing of a cow, a lovely sound, not one I'd ever heard in real life until I left MC12.