“Now when the moon is waning, Tara, it’s the best time for plantin’ the taters, and when it’s a waxing moon, then it’s time for the corn. You gotta remember that if you want a good harvest.”
“I’ll remember, Grada,” I whisper at the moon.
“Good girl,” it says back in Grada’s raspy voice. “Now, finish what you started.”
“Aye, I will,” I say.
I stand alone in the dark. It’s quiet. So quiet I can hear my own heart thumping. These past few hours I been occupied, so busy with what I was doing I ain’t had time to think. But now with the quiet all around me, things are just jumping into my head.
Why Grada? I think. Why did you just save me? Why didn’t you at least try and save the others or yourself? Why did you hide me and nobody else?
Grada’s last words to me echo in my head. “You must stay alive.”
Why? So as to feel all this pain and grief? I can feel the ache in my chest welling up again, and I take a few deep breaths to stop it. The time for crying is over, Tara, I scold myself. Do what you gotta do.
I strike my flint and light the torch I’d made earlier from Shelly’s wood table leg and some of the whiskey-soaked cloth strips. I ain’t even considered using the other torch for fear some evil would come from it. But I hesitate before I light the kindlin’.
There’s something I should be saying, but nuthin’ comes to mind. If Ben were here, he would know what to say. But Ben ain’t here. It’s just me. Why I should be standing here while everybody else is gone … it ain’t right!
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. My voice is scratchy and raw from my crying. “I’m sorry that I couldn’t help save y’all. I’m sorry those things came from the sand lands and killed y’all, and I don’t even know what for. You were good people. Proper people. Grada … you were a fine grada. The best a girl coulda ever wanted. And I’m sorry I cain’t give you a proper burial. I’m gonna miss you real bad.”
I stop talking ‘cause my throat hurts again. I start setting aflame the pockets of kindlin’.
“May the gods show you mercy and grant you peace.”
I stay just long enough to make sure the fire catches. I throw the torch into the flames. The moon will be bright enough for walking, and a lit flame out in the sand lands would just draw unwanted attention. From what, I ain’t sure, but I don’t want to take no chances. Waiting for morning is not an option. There’s no way in dirt dog hell I’m gonna stay another moment in this place of death.
I pick up my slingbag, heave my bow and quiver over my shoulder, and start walking. East, along the riverbank like Grada had told me to do. I ain’t ever heard of Littlepass, but if he said I’d best go there, then that’s what I do. If I’m gonna stand a chance of finding Ben and the others, then I’m going to need help. Lily, he’d said. Find a healer named Lily. How hard could it be?
I keep walking a steady pace, one foot in front of the other. I don’t look back. I ain’t ever coming back. Ben was right all along. Rivercross is dead.
2
The Sand Lands
Eight days into the sand lands. Eight days of nuthin’ but sand and wind and the burning, cruel sun. Eight days of nuthin’ to distract me from the awful thoughts running through my head. Replaying the deaths of my kin over and over again, wondering if there was something … anything I could have done to save them. Worrying about Ben and the young’uns. If they were okay. If I was ever going to see ‘em again. If they were even still alive. Sometimes, the despair is so overwhelming that I don’t want to take another step. Just wanna lay down, right where I’m standing and let the vultures have at me. But I don’t. I keep moving. I keep walking the flat, desolate lands. Sometimes, I come across the occasional husk of a settler’s ruin, but I don’t bother to look in them. They’re nuthin’ but skeletons already picked clean long ago by scavengers. I ain’t seen another living soul.
I stop only long enough to sleep, praying to the gods for an evening of rest free from the night terrors, but they come every night. Every night I see their faces and hear their screams. Some nights the metal monsters in my dreams have teeth, and they eat up every one of my kin, even Ben. I hear their bones crunching from the metal jaws, and I wake myself up with my cries, my face wet with tears. I lay there shivering and afraid, listening to the howling of the devil cats and wolflings being carried on the wind and sleep don’t come no more. So I walk.
It’s taking a toll on me, all the walking. Yesterday, I had to cut the tail offa my tunic and use it to wrap my feet. They’re cut up real bad. The wrappings helped though; my feet ain’t hurting so bad today. And my head isn’t hurting no more either. It had healed up real nice. Even the cut had closed up, not even a scab. I always was a real fast healer.
So I keep walking.
Twelve days into the sand lands. Least I suspect it has been that long. I’m losing track, I think. This is my second day of traveling on no sleep. I made camp last evening, but just as I was settling down, I heard a noise coming from the other side of the boulder I had camped under. I snuck a peek, real slow like so as not to make any sound. The moon had been bright enough for me to see the shadow of something about ten or twelve paces from where I was set up. Cain’t rightly say if it was human or critter, though it appeared to be walking on two legs, all hunched over and shuffling its feet. My heart was beating so loud I figured for sure the thing would hear it, and although it paused for a moment it thankfully moved on, heading gods only knew where in the empty wastelands. I waited for a time, wanting to make sure it was well gone before I packed up and moved out. I didn’t know if it was a mutie or raider or such, but I knew I didn’t want to run into it. And I surely wasn’t sleeping any tonight. So I walked again. I walked ‘til the sun came up. Only then did I stop to rest.
The food I’d brought with me is all but gone, and one of the water skins is bone dry. The other is half-empty even with my rationing. I’ve come across watering holes along the way, but they’d either been dried up or gone foul. I keep checking the riverbed, hoping for one of the flash floods of water the old folk would talk about, but it’s as dry as always. The bottom of it nuthin’ but baked, cracked mud. Another story I no longer believe in.
I’m going to have to hunt soon, I think. It’ll slow me down some, but I got to eat. I’ve seen the occasional wild bird and crow. Ain’t spotted any dirt dog but no matter. I left my snare wires back in Rivercross, and dirt dog is almost impossible to catch with an arrow. They never stuck their heads out of their burrows long enough to get a good target on them. No, food isn’t going to be a problem, but water … that’s worrying me some.
Day fifteen. The land I’m walking on is changing. I’ve been noticing it for a day or so now. The empty, hard-baked ground I’m used to seeing is turning to sparse grasslands and sloping hills way off in the hazy distance. I can even see what I believe to be a tree line on the horizon. A good sign. Where there are trees growing, there’s water. Just in time, too. I reckon the water I have left won’t last the day.
I stare at the tree line, trying to work out in my head how long a walk it’ll take me, but I ain’t sure. My thinking is getting a bit muddled. I need to drink more water soon; I know that for certain.
Out of nowhere, a flash of light hits my eyes and nearly blinds me. What the hell? I squint into the light as awareness slowly filters into my jumbled brain. It’s the sun hitting something off in the distance to my left and reflecting it back to me. Is that? No … cain’t be. But it is sure enough. Shanties, about half a league from where I’m standing. Between the blowing dust and heat shimmers, I ain’t noticed ‘em before.
I turn direction, heading right for them. The only thoughts in my head are water, food, people. But I don’t get no more than five paces when my mind goes clear again. What if I find something there I don’t want to find? Like muties? Or raiders? I hesitate, my steps faltering. Then again, maybe it’s just normal people like me, with fresh water and maybe even a bed for me to sleep in for a night. Shizen,
the thought of sleeping in a soft bed instead of on the hard ground crawling with sand biters … well, I figure it’s worth taking the risk. Decision made, I head for the shanties.
I approach ‘em slowly. I don’t see or hear nuthin’ but I keep my eyes open for any movement. For any sign of something not right, ‘cause if it is muties or raiders living here, then they probably won’t be out greeting me with smiles.
There are three shanties in all, facing each other in a kind of triangle formation. They look a bit different than the shanties of Rivercross; these are mostly built of wood. Comes from living so close to a tree line, I reckon. But they still have the tin roofs and doors I’m used to seeing. Two of the doors are torn off, and the third is just hanging by a hinge, swaying in the breeze. I stop walking and look around. It’s real quiet. The silence spooks me. It reminds me of the ghost villages from Thomas’s scare stories. I take a couple of steps toward the closest shanty, the rocks crunching under my boots the only sound in the dead calm. I poke my head in through the door less entry, but I don’t go inside. I keep my attention on my surroundings. I don’t want nuthin’ creeping up on me.
The shanty is just a small, one-room building, and it don’t take me long to see it’s empty. The place is tore up though, belongings scattered everywhere. Somebody had searched it for sure, but it ain’t been scavenged or set aflame. Strange. I find the next two shanties in the same condition, both of them empty as well. Where are the people who live here? I think. What happened to them? I stand in the middle of the three buildings looking around curiously. My gaze falls on a stone well on a little rise just past one of the shanties and my curiosity is quickly replaced by one single thought. Water! Hoping in my heart that the water ain’t foul, I sprint for it.
The wooden cover is knocked off and laying on the ground in pieces, but the rope and bucket seem undamaged. I lower the bucket down, hear the splash, and pull it back up. Please, please, please, let it be drinkable.
I peer into the bucket. Looks clean enough. Don’t smell foul. I taste it and smile for the first time in weeks. My parched lips crack open and bleed from the effort but I don’t care. I cain’t stop smiling. The water tastes like gods’ brew. I want to drink ‘til I burst, but I know if I do that I’ll just retch it back up, so I take my time and sip it slow. I drink my fill, the cool liquid easing my dry throat. Finally, my thirst quenched, I take off my hat and pour the rest of the water over my head, not even bothered that it’s soaking my clothes. It feels real good, and I know I’ll dry quick enough in the heat of the day. I lay down my slingbag and bow, rub my shoulder to ease the tension. Reckon I may as well take a rest, fill my water skins. The place appears harmless enough.
I’m busy looking through my slingbag for the second water skin when I hear it. A low, deep, guttural growling. I freeze. Slowly I raise my head, my hand reaching for the knife strapped at my thigh. I’m staring into a pair of blood-red eyes no more than five paces from where I stand. A devil cat!
My heart starts beating out of my chest, and I can taste the bile in the back of my throat. I’m gonna get eaten alive, I think as I stare at the beast. I ain’t ever seen one up so close … not a live one anyways. The creature is huge! Sweat beads my upper lip as we keep eyeing each other. I’m afraid to break the contact lest the beast takes it as a sign of weakness and attacks. By now, I’m holding the big knife out in front of me, holding on so tight my knuckles turn white. The beast growls again, showing me its dagger-sharp teeth. Its pointy ears flatten against its broad head.
It don’t make a move. Neither do I. The hand holding the knife is so slick with sweat I’m afraid I’m going to lose my grip on it. Finally, I cain’t take it no more.
“Gods dammit, whadda you waitin’ for?”
It’s either scream at it or black out. It moves then and I tense, expecting any moment to feel the sharp claws tearing through my skin and ripping it offa my bones. It moves at me … and sits down on its haunches. It keeps staring me down, but it don’t attack.
“It’s okay. She ain’t gonna hurt you.”
My nerves already wound tight from the stare down with the devil cat, the voice makes me jump. The cat goes back on all fours at my movement, eyeballing me again.
“Cat. Down, girl.”
A young boy, no more than twelve born years to be sure, walks up to the massive black beast. He goes right up to it and unbelievably starts rubbing its head. And if that isn’t strange enough, this beast, this killing machine from the campfire spook stories, just falls to the ground and rolls over so the boy can scratch its underbelly. I can only stare, openmouthed.
“You can put your knife away,” he says.
Didn’t even realize I’m still holding it. I hesitate, look from the knife to the devil cat, and then put it back in its sheath. I reckon if the beast wanted to eat me, it would have done so by now. The boy continues to scratch the animal’s belly, but his eyes don’t leave my face. He’s on the losing side of scrawny with unkempt, matted red hair hanging to his shoulders and a smattering of freckles cross his nose and cheeks. Least I think its freckles, could be just dirt. He don’t look like he’s had a proper washin’ in months. Or a decent meal for that matter. His tunic and trousers are mud-caked and hanging from his tiny frame like they aren’t even his. I’m thinking that I must look just as strange to him with my own clothes so dirty they could probably stand on their own, and my wet hair hanging in strings about my face. We stand in awkward silence, just sizing each other up. Finally, my curiosity gets the better of me, and I nod at the beast.
“How come it lets you do that and don’t bite your hand off?” I say.
He smiles then, a big ol’ gap-toothed grin and scratches the beast’s belly even harder. The damn critter actually starts to purr.
“I reared Cat since she was a cub, going on four years now. She would never hurt me.”
“You reared up a devil cat?” I say, still not believing what I’m seeing.
“Already told you that,” he says in disdain.
“And you named it Cat?”
“Aye, was a fittin’ name as any,” he says.
Cain’t argue that.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
He stops scratching, and the black beast nimbly gets to its feet. It’s just as tall as the boy, could probably snap him in half in one bite if it had a mind to. I still cain’t help but be terrified by it.
“Finn,” he says.
“Nice to meet you, Finn. I’m Tara … of Rivercross.” I look around. “What’s the name of this place?”
He looks at me strangely.
“Ain’t got no name … just the homestead, I guess. At least that’s all Ma and Pa ever called it,” he says
“Oh,” I say. “And where are your ma and pa?”
I regret asking right away. His face scrunches up like he’s trying real hard not to cry. I watch him struggle, but he’s tough. The tears don’t come.
“Dead,” he finally answers, but his voice quivers. “‘Bout four weeks now since the monsters on wheels came and killed ‘em. All of ‘em. I buried ‘em over yonder.”
He points with his chin out past the rise we’re standing on. I can see disturbed ground marked by cairns. There are five of them from what I can tell. That familiar pain starts blossoming in my own chest.
“I’m real sorry,” I say quietly. “They came to Rivercross and killed my kin, too.”
He nods, as if talking about your dead kin is normal conversation. We both fall quiet again, each lost in our own painful memories. Then a thought strikes me.
“How you bury ‘em by yourself?” He ain’t no bigger than a twig.
He shrugs his skinny shoulders at me. “I done the digging and Cat helped me drag ‘em. She’s real smart, does what I tell her to,” he says.
About two weeks ago, I would have thought that to be a crock of shite and reckoned the boy was lying to me. But between the metal monsters on wheels and a tame devil cat, well, I guess anything could be possible. Ben wo
uld be tickled pink by my new beliefs.
The beast, Cat, is getting restless now and starts moving towards me. It’s so big its head is level with my chest. It comes so close I can see the dirt stuck in its black, matted fur and feel the heat rising off of it. It starts sniffing my hand; its nose is cold and wet. It keeps sniffing, moving up my arm to my neck. I’m too terrified to move. I watch, frozen, as a long, blue tongue escapes from its mouth and slowly licks my face, leaving a slimy trail cross my cheek and my lips.
Shizen. It’s gonna eat me, I think. I look to the boy, my eyes pleading for help, but he’s just laughing his fool head off.
“I think she likes you,” he says, bent over with laughter.
“Call … her … off ,” I say through clenched teeth. I don’t want to open my mouth for fear that blue tongue will find its way inside. He’s still laughing but calls her name, and she backs off.
Right away I start wiping my face with my sleeve. Ugh. Disgusting.
“Don’t worry, Cat don’t eat people,” he says as if he’s reading my mind. The beast is now back sitting meekly at his side, licking its paws and cleaning its whiskers like it’s just some tame village cat and not a killing machine. I keep eyeballing it. I don’t trust it.
“Well, excepting for the bad man from the metal monsters. She caught him before he could escape back into his machine. The rest of ‘em, they got away, but he never. Aye, she caught him and ate him up real good. There weren’t nuthin’ left except his weapon and boots.”
Finn sounds pleased as anything by this but it makes my stomach heave, and I scrub my face even harder. Ugh. The boy don’t seem to notice my disgust.
“I kept his weapon, but I never seen nuthin’ like it before. I ain’t got no idea what it is. You wanna see it?” he asks.
I wipe the remaining foul traces of the cat’s slobber off my face before I shrug. Why not? I’m real surprised to hear from the boy that there were actual men in those metal monsters. Maybe seeing this weapon will help me understand better what they are. He grins at my acceptance and scurries off to the shanty with the hanging door. I follow behind, making sure to keep distance between me and the beast. I cain’t help but feel it’s going to pounce on me when I least expect it.
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