Ashes of the Fall

by Nicholas Erik

  Afterwards, I take the wolf meat to a fire pit I’ve built in front of the former administrative office—now my home. I get a good, hot bed of charcoaled wood going, putting the rib meat on a spit over the heat. Head about twenty miles north, and there’s no shortage of ruined trees dotting the landscape. They’re ugly, but they burn nice.

  While the meat’s cooking, I check the generator. It’s been acting up lately, which has me concerned with winter knocking. Those final days of March were brutal, and I’m not looking forward to a colder experience. Last week, Jana told me that it was October 21st. I asked why the Rems even bothered to log the dates, and she just gave me a funny look and said, “Because we’re not savages.”

  It’s amazing how fast your social skills deteriorate when you live alone with a bunch of skeletons for half a year. If I remember, I’ll have to ask Jana how I can prepare for the coming winter. But I’ll probably forget over the next few hours.

  All the dead used to freak me out. After a couple months, I started rooting around in the tents. Tons of stuff there—but almost every one had a skeleton. Thousands. I dug a couple of mass graves outside the camp’s fence. Sometimes I’ll take the truck, give ‘em a burial.

  It’s not much, but it seems better than the fate they got.

  Usually, though, I leave them behind, just cover them with the tattered canvas. There’s too many for me to bury. And the Remnants sure as hell aren’t going to come and help. I don’t know what they paid that guy to drop the generator in on the first night, but I haven’t seen one of them inside the gates since. It even makes Jana uncomfortable to come to the gatehouse.

  Thus far, Kid and Adriana haven’t ventured out to find me. I’ve heard no news of Blackstone, Tanner, HIVE or any of the alleged drives that Matt dropped off. I just let the issue die. The world can stay the same. Although I doubt it has, with the quake and the eruption.

  I pull the charred wolf ribs off the spit just as I spot a dirt bike kicking up a storm in the distance. I look at the position of the sun and mentally note Jana’s earlier than usual arrival. Walking and eating at the same time, I manage to hit the gatehouse the same time as her.

  She removes her helmet, her short hair standing on end from the sweat.

  “Hope you brought that bonus,” I say.

  “They could be some forks,” she says. “Seriously, Stokes.”

  “What?”

  “Look at yourself.”

  I take stock of my greasy hands, bloodied jacket. Along with the smell, the beard, the raggedy hair, it’s probably quite the scene. Luckily no one has to deal with me except for me—Jana’s weekly expeditions notwithstanding. But I saved her life, which means she can put up with my questionable personal hygiene.

  “What, I got a gala to attend later?” I say, stuffing more meat in my mouth. She puts the helmet on the dirtbike’s handlebars and lets out a long sigh. Then she removes a leather satchel from the back.

  Jana doesn’t look at me as she heads into the gatehouse. “You actually got them.” She doesn’t bother to hide the surprise. I guess that’s one benefit of telling her off—she doesn’t lie to me, or hide things. Honesty can be quite refreshing.

  “I told you I would.”

  “This one’s rotting,” she says, holding up the slightly maimed pelt up with an index finger.

  “I’m sure you’ll find a use for it.”

  “It’s just a formality, really,” she says. “We can find plenty of them on our own. My father just says we owe you. And your brother.”

  “In that case, I’ll use those formalities to keep warm tonight,” I say. I don’t move. I’m trying to strip every last piece of sinewy meat from the ribs. “Besides, you said someone was hurt. Got a couple supplies in there.”

  Bluff called, she begins unloading the satchel. Pint bottle filled with gasoline. Couple bags of jerky—from unknown sources. Could be crow, vulture, maybe a little mouse. Doesn’t matter. Tastes better than protein powder.

  “Who was it,” I say as she drops a handful of shells on the counter with a clink.

  “Who was what?”

  “Who was it that got hurt?”

  “You don’t know them,” she says, like I don’t care. And she’s right. I don’t, not really, I’m just curious.

  “How’d it go down?”

  “Someone stole a key to one of our vaults,” Jana says. She looks up, green eyes shimmering. “Wasn’t you, was it?”

  “I was out hunting Buck the wolf, feeling the call of the wild, so no.”

  “I didn’t think you could read,” Jana says. She finishes with a couple pills used to decontaminate water. I don’t know what the hell Damien Ford did down here, but drinking the water straight is a bad idea. I’ve gotten a bit of a tolerance to it—enough, at least, to eat the wolves that drink the water—but first time I did it, I was laid up for three days.

  Jana begins stuffing the pelts in the satchel, along with the medical supplies.

  “I don’t see any bonuses,” I say.

  “It’s on the bike.” She doesn’t look at me, just keeps moving. “Grab it quick, I gotta head back.”

  “In a rush, are we?”

  This time Jana looks up, honing in on me with those green eyes. “Someone’s dying, Stokes.”

  “Right, right.” I walk over to the dirt bike and rustle through the side pockets.

  “Bottom one,” she says. “Don’t take anything that doesn’t belong to you.”

  “The old man should tell you to be nicer,” I say. “Build a better customer-service relationship, here.”

  “Vlad lets me decide how to handle you.” She always calls him Vlad, never Father or Dad or Pops or anything affectionate. Wonder why. “So far, we haven’t had any problems.”

  I crouch in the cracked road on one knee and open the bottom pocket. The silver button pops slightly as it unhooks. Digging my hand in, I touch what I think is paper and a pen.

  “I already got plenty of office supplies,” I say, taking my hand out.

  “Just look at it, Stokes.” Jana hoists the satchel on to her shoulder and walks briskly towards me. “Or leave it. Doesn’t matter to me.” She gets on the bike and fires up the motor. “Last chance. I don’t think he meant to leave it behind, but I figure, you know, he would want you to have it.”

  With an unenthused expression, I reach back down and take out my prized bonus. A plain metal pen is hooked over the cover of a small black leather journal. As the dirt bike speeds off, leaving me in a cloud of dust, I turn the pen over.

  It says Property of Matthew Stokes.

  I wake up to distant rustling noises outside. Could be wolves. I roll over, banging against the kerosene lantern. It flickers out, plunging my room into darkness. I check the fuel, but it’s spilled on the floor.

  I fumble around on the floor, underneath the ratty mattress and frayed, faded comforter, and pull out the strongbox. The chain bolting it to the floor rattles. I dial in the code and unlatch the lock. Anything I own that’s worth much is in here—the rest of the semi-valuables are locked away in the truck.

  I push through the flashlight, truck keys, some extra credit slips I’ve been saving—for what, I don’t know, since I never plan on heading back to the Circle—a rusty .22 that I hope I can fix up if I get the right parts, and fourteen .38 hollow-point bullets courtesy of my trade with Jana.

  Plus Matt’s journal—and a quarter fifth of vodka I’ve been saving for the right moment. I feel like those two things will probably go hand in hand.

  My fingers find the flashlight’s switch, and I click it on. The weak beam doesn’t slice through the darkness so much as limp, like a rabbit paralyzed by a snare. But it does the job well enough. I take the bullets out and shove them in my pocket before I get up.

  I navigate back to the plain desk that sits in the corner—I dragged it in from the other office—
and place the flashlight upright. Then I sit down at the stiff, wooden-backed chair. Leaning back, so that the chair’s two feet are off the ground, I rock back and forth, staring at the faded propaganda poster—Tanner means security—taped to the wall as I load the .38 and listen.

  There’s no sound but the click of the bullets as I push them in. I examine Tanner’s healthy face, from more than twenty-years ago. Don’t know why I put the thing up. Thought it was funny, finding it in one of the tents. Besides, the paint in here was peeling, the off-white turned a sickly shade of yellow.

  I’m left with six bullets once I’m finished. I normally just load ‘em one at a time, so I don’t go trigger happy. Praying and spraying is a good way to be eating flavorless mush forever. One bullet, one kill makes you wait for the right shot.

  But if these aren’t wolves, then I don’t think a single shot’s gonna cut it.

  I take a final glimpse at Tanner’s confident smile as I stand. The poster’s colors have faded into washed out sepia tones, like one of those filters from the old internet. But this shot, unlike those, has been naturally weathered and aged by time alone.

  Pressing my nose against the boards I’ve used to cover up most of the window, I try to see if I can spot what’s making the noise. But there’s nothing visible but the gentle flap of the collapsed tent city. With the .38 in hand, I walk towards the door, ready to explore. The cold is already beginning to whip through my jacket.

  Figures I would forget to ask Jana about winter—and about getting more blankets. All excited about this useless bonus. I can’t survive on words out here. The irony of that turn doesn’t escape me.

  Standing tall despite the bitter cool, I put my ear up to the front door of the administrative office. I’ve rebuilt it—fortified it considerably against invaders—complete with a series of heavy duty locks.

  I take a moment to consider whether this is a good idea, decide it isn’t, then unfasten the rest of the locks lining the door frame. The gentle breeze feels like a stream of liquid nitrogen against my face.

  When I step out on the stairs, I can hear what I think are footsteps. I bring the .38 up, ready to shoot, and begin slowly descending the steps. Out near the gatehouse, where I have the truck parked, I can see that the headlights are on.

  Damnit. The battery is probably dead, and some sort of critter family came by to see why everything was lit up. Stupid move. I head towards the blowtorched hole in the fence, duck through, and begin walking faster. Sooner I cut the lights to the truck, sooner I can get back inside.

  Maybe some groundhogs came to check out the truck. Or a couple curious wolves. Hell, I might get a meal out of this. The consideration that it could be a person is all but out of my mind until I hear a familiar voice that sends a shiver up my back.

  “Nice to see you again, Stokes.” Kid Vegas comes out from around the back’s canvas flaps. “Great that you took care of our truck for us.”

  I bring the pistol up to shoot, but before I can, I feel a sharp pinch between my ribs. I crumple to one knee, my insides burning. While I clutch my stomach, a knife slides out from beneath my ribs. Adriana cleans the blade as she limps back to Kid.

  “We need him alive,” Kid says.

  “He’ll live with me driving.”

  The pavement is cold against my back, my shirt soaked through with warm blood that quickly turns chilly. I begin to lose consciousness as they pick me up and carry me towards the back of the truck.

  “You wanna live?” Kid says after putting me down on the floor.

  “Fuck you.”

  “You didn’t really think we wouldn’t come looking for you,” Kid says. “Look, we aren’t upset about you killing Jackson.”

  “I am,” Adriana says with a snarl.

  “You won’t be reprimanded for that,” Kid says. “So give us the keys to the truck, and let us haul you out.”

  It feels like my organs are about to melt out my back. Everything is going fuzzy. “The box in the…offices.”

  “Which one,” Kid says. I feel two fingers jab into the wound, and suddenly I’m wide awake, screaming. “Don’t go to sleep on me now.”

  “Admin,” I say.

  He turns away and starts running, leaving me alone with Adriana. I can hear her breathing hard, like she’s trying to reign herself in from getting revenge.

  “You’re lucky he still needs your help,” she says. “But when he doesn’t…”

  “Need help.” Even I can’t tell if it’s a question or a plea to save my life. But it’s the last thing I can think to say before my world goes black.

  I wake with a start, my hands instinctively rushing towards my throbbing abdomen. A woman trots over, her boots echoing. She places her hands on my stomach. I feel a large pinch, but my fingers grasp nothing but air.

  “What…” I can’t find the words.

  I blink, and I see the woman draw a large hypodermic needle away from my belly button. A rush of blood floods my temples, and suddenly my body feels like a computer coming back on line. Pain rushes through my chest, I can smell sweat and my own filth—and something that smells like…

  “Lilacs?”

  “Slow down, Casanova,” the woman says from across the room. It must be her. “Just rest.”

  Then all is silent and I go back to sleep.

  I spend a week in and out of sleep. Someone cuts my beard, and my hair, while I’m half-awake. The fever from the stab wound subsides. I guess they don’t have any of those fancy antibodies to instantly cure my woes any more.

  Or maybe I’m just not worth that kind of expenditure.

  My current living quarters are tidy and small—a six by nine foot room with a toilet, sink and a twin bed. Not much larger than a walk-in closet. There are bars over the door to prevent me from escaping. Other than that, it’s a great place to live.

  I hear the key scratching in the lock, so I pretend to be asleep.

  “Someone tells me you’re important,” the woman says as she enters. She tells the guard to wait outside, as she normally does. I watch with one slightly open eye as she lets her hair down—usually kept up in a bun. The blonde waves cascade down her bare shoulders, all the way to her hips. The strapless shirt she’s wearing looks about ready to fall off her chest. “Personally, I’m not so sure you’re worth saving.”

  Upon closer inspection, I see it’s just a scarf, tied around the important things. Not meant to be sexy, more for practical reasons. Despite the chill outside, it’s quite warm in here. Whoever did the insulation should get a gold star.

  “I know you’re awake,” she says as she washes her hands.

  “What makes you say something like that?”

  “You’re the infamous Luke Stokes,” she says. “Your illustrious reputation precedes you.”

  She comes over and checks my forehead. Dirt and grease streak her fair skin, and I follow the grime marks up and down her body. Maybe twenty-three, twenty-four. Endless brown eyes, wide enough that you could fall in if you weren’t being careful.

  “You’re dirty,” I say.

  “Says the man who came in here smelling like pig shit.”

  “You try living out in the wastes and see how you smell.”

  “No thanks,” she says. “You’re fully recovered.”

  “I bet.” I roll my eyes.

  “Something wrong?” Her eyes narrow, ready to fire bullets. I guess I shouldn’t doubt her credentials.

  “No,” I say, and stare at her eyes.

  “Then quit staring,” she says. “And don’t question my diagnosis.” Not like she’s uncomfortable, just telling me that I’m an idiot. For the first time in a while, I feel blood rush to my cheeks.

  “Who told you I’m important,” I say as she gets ready to leave.

  “The President,” she says. I can’t tell if that’s a joke or not. Looking at her face, I determin
e she’s serious. But, then again, I’m out of practice. Live with wolves too long and you forget a lot. “I believe you know him as Slick.”

  “Slick’s not president of shit.”

  Evelyn steps closer and slides down the corner of her waistband to display a small tattoo of a soaring phoenix. Then the elastic band snaps against her skin, and the bird disappears.

  “What’s that?”

  “The Ashes of the Fall,” she says. “A lot changes in six months.”

  Just what the world needs: another circle-jerk full of delusional pricks where no one actually challenges anyone else’s beliefs. That’s the problem with a group—any group, good or bad.

  That’s why you’re better on your own. Then again, a lot of good that’s done me.

  Distant footsteps echo in the hallway.

  “Tell me about it,” I say, my heart beating quicker. It’s amazing how quickly your cool leaves you when you’re suddenly the gazelle in a den full of lions. “Can’t you tell Slick I’m busy?”

  “No,” she says. “I have other things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Tending to the wounded.” She looks back at me, like an owner would regard a particularly pitiful dog. But she still doesn’t leave. She holds my gaze, hands on her hips, full lips pressed together. “I saved your life for a reason.”

  I think the subtext is don’t fuck up whatever Slick asks of you.

  “You have a name,” I say. “So I can thank you for saving my life?”

  “Evelyn Vera.”

  “Thank you, Evelyn Vera,” I say. “Can I trouble you to ask what the president wants?”

  “That doesn’t suit you, Luke.”

  “What doesn’t,” I say, propping myself up against the plain wall behind the bed.

  “Politeness. False modesty.”

  “Here you know so much about me,” I say. “And I know nothing about you.”

  “What’s there to know,” she says, like her life is nothing more than a grain of sand on an endless beach. “I live two blocks from here and I fix the broken.”