Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Lisa Shea

  The woman purses her lips, but settles down next to the other two.

  There’s a store up ahead. I stamp my foot on the wooden porch, shaking loose most of the mud, before pushing open the door and stepping within. The structure is lined with shelves on all walls, filled with heavy wool blankets, wooden boxes of nails, tins of beans, and a variety of other sundries. A long counter runs along the right side, and a thin, speckled man wearing wire spectacles nods at me in welcome.

  “A new arrival, eh? Well, make yourself at home. All prices are as marked.” His mouth quirks into a smile. “I imagine ya ain’t got silver or gold on ya, not yet, but unless you’re a wild shot ya probably still got a few bullets left.”

  I move forward to one of the shelves, and sure enough, beneath each item is its price listed in bullets, silver ounces, and gold ounces. A pair of boots goes for ten bullets. A coon-skin hat is only four.

  His eyes move greedily to the second gun on my left hip. “You won’t be needing two of those,” he points out. “I can make you a nice deal for that.”

  My left hand drops easily to the gun’s hilt. “Think I’ll keep it for now.”

  “Of course, of course,” he murmurs, his eyes not leaving the weapon.

  I make a mental note of the prices and then turn my back, moving to the door.

  “Be sure to come back soon!” he calls out.

  I push the door open, heading back out into the street. The sun is lower now, dark violets and rich burgundies streaking the clouds. Lamps are glimmering into light in the windows, artificial fireflies beginning their mating dance. I move further down the street, heading down a side alley, my eyes sweeping the shadowed buildings.

  A small sign hangs by one door, saying, simply, “Store.”

  I push open the door and step in.

  The structure is neat, well-kept, with fewer goods than the previous shop. Most seem to be items of clothing, and a rack on a far wall features a row of hangers with a variety of items. A reedy man in leather, with thinning sprouts of sandy-brown hair, turns from the lamp he has just lit and holds my gaze for a moment. His eyes drop to the pair of guns at my hips, then he nods.

  His voice comes out in a slow drawl. “You’ll be wanting new digs.”

  I glance down at the tangerine color which seems to shimmer in the flickering light. The fabric would stand out as a beacon as I moved through the woods.

  I look back up at him. “Yes,” I agree.

  His eyes go to the pair of belts again, then down to the shoes, half caked with mud. “You give me all you wear, ‘cept the guns and ammo, and I’ll set you up with gear that’s functional and less …”

  “… pumpkin,” I finish for him.

  His teeth flash in a smile, and he nods.

  I look him over. “Agreed.”

  He waves a hand toward the rack, and I step to it, riffling through the options. Much of it is geared toward a larger frame, but I come across a pair of dark brown leggings that seem adequate. There’s a hemp shirt in dusty ivory, a worn set of boots that exactly fit, and a sturdy leather belt with a pair of holsters.

  Then my eyes light on a leather jacket at the end of the row, a rich brown the color of a stag in autumn. It would cover me to mid-thigh. A line of decorative beading runs across the chest, with the symbol of a hawk centered one each side.

  I gather up the items and step behind a thick, dark-blue curtain which hangs across the back corner. I leave my guns within easy reach as I quickly slip out of my tangerine garb and into the new items. They smell of sweat and dirt, but nothing that a few days on the road won’t quickly drown out. I buckle on the belt, slide the guns into place, and pull the leather jacket over the top.

  I swat back the edges of the jacket with my hands and practice my double draw a few times.

  Perfect.

  I push aside the curtain, dropping the pile of my old apparel before him. He flips through the items, nodding in appreciation, then looks up at me.

  “Jacket suits you,” he comments evenly. “Petrus cared for it well.”

  I glance down at it. “So why’d he give it up?”

  His eyes don’t flicker. “Dead.”

  I glance out the window, at the shadowy town beyond. “And his friends won’t mind?”

  He gives a short shake of his head. “Those who die weren’t meant to live.”

  I raise an eyebrow, and he shrugs. “That book has some sense in it, after all.”

  He looks me over for a minute. “So, heading to the gate?”

  “Seems the thing to do.”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up into a smile. “Seems so,” he agrees. His eyes hold mine for a minute. “Don’t take the Pilgrim Road,” he advises. “It’s fish in a barrel for those who enjoy those sorts of games. Follow the river north, to Lamur. You can’t miss it. Big stockade fence.”

  I nod my head. “Thanks.”

  Exhaustion pulls at me, and I turn, heading back out into the town. The night sky is densely dark, speckled with a thousand stars as bright as diamonds. I make my way to the main street, to the tavern, pressing open the swinging doors and stepping into the noisy brightness.

  The crowd within pays no attention to my entrance, going on with its babble of discussion and argument. I push my way over to the bartender, and in a moment he comes to lean toward me.

  “What’ll it be?”

  I nudge my head toward the stairs. “How much for a room?”

  “Three bullets. Four with a bowl of venison stew.”

  My mouth presses into a line at the thought of giving up such a large percentage of my ammo, but I know I needed a safe place to rest. If I stumble from town at this point, and find somewhere to hole up, I could be easily slain. I nod grudgingly, reaching a hand down to my left-hand gun and popping the cylinder. I count out the four bullets before him.

  He sweeps them up in a beefy palm, then calls over his shoulder.

  “Lenore, bring a bowl of stew and the keys to room eight.”

  The stew is warm, filling, and surprisingly good. In short order I stumble up the worn wooden stairs to a door with a burgundy number eight painted in its center. The room is sparse but neat, with a simple bed and a low table at its side. A dresser on the opposite wall completes the set.

  I close the door, lock it, and then give a heft to the dresser, pushing it over to block the door. I double check that there’s no porch or nearby roof to allow access to the shuttered single window. Then I tumble into bed, fully clothed, and the world winks away.

  Zing.

  I am sprawled, face-down on the mossy bank of the stream, and that distinctive sound-wave traces immediately overhead. Ragnor staggers, looks down in surprise at the crimson blossom at his chest, and falls back.

  Zing.

  I am lying on my chest on a grassy ridge, peering across a prairie at a group of shapes creeping stealthily toward us. They must be at least five hundred yards away. One of the forms staggers back, as if suddenly struck, then falls to the earth.

  I turn my head to see who is at my side - who made that shot - and the sky whirls to black.

  Chapter 3

  Light hits my eyelids; I am instantly awake. I blink for a moment, regaining my bearings, the events of the past two days flooding in on me. I poke at my memories, pressing to see further back than that white, sterile hallway.

  Nothing comes.

  It is as if I did not exist before that point in time.

  I climb from the stiff mattress, moving to the shuttered windows and pulling them open. The town is already in motion below. A farmer trundles in with a cart full of turnips; a middle-aged woman leads her horse by the reins out toward the main gate. The sun is just peeking over the building opposite me.

  I stand, facing it, the golden glow warming my skin. I close my eyes, lean my head back, and draw in a deep breath. Slowly I swing my arms out at my side, bringing them up to meet, palm-together, over my head. My body throbs with pain all over - an aching pull deep in my calf; a sharper twin
ge in my right hip.

  I draw my hands straight down to hold for a moment at my chest.

  Aaptaniya.

  The word tumbles around in my head and seems to fit, even though I have no idea what it means. I let it settle into place.

  I roll my shoulders, then move to the dresser and push it back away from the door. At the bottom of the stairs, the bartender glances at me as I walk into the room; he holds up a thick glass. A question shimmers in his eyes. I shake my head and walk out to the street. The pair of boys are back on their watch by the main gate, and one of them salutes me as I head out into the crisp morning. I return the salute, then head north.

  My mind sorts through the figures as I follow a narrow dirt path along the side of the curving river, following its rocky banks north. Ragnor had said this gate of asylum was two-hundred-fifty miles north. It was autumn, and the temperatures were reasonable. My leather jacket held off the soft chill of morning. By afternoon I might even be a bit warm. The terrain seemed reasonable, and, accounting for river crossings and denser woods, I imagined I could manage an average of about three miles an hour. Say ten hours a day, to allow for gathering food and getting ample rest. I wouldn’t want to drive myself so hard that I fell into a dead sleep and risked being taken unawares.

  So perhaps nine days total before I reached my destination.

  I nod in acceptance, my legs taking the path at a slow, steady pace. No need to rush. Those who raced burned themselves out early. The quick-starts rarely finished the course. If I take each day as it comes, I will make it there. I know I have to.

  A burst of red comes into view ahead, and I draw to a stop by the chokecherry bushes. I pluck one, rolling its crimson shape in my finger before popping it in my mouth. I suck at its meat, being sure to spit out the toxic seeds.

  I fill my pockets with them, eating my fill, and then press onward. A gentle breeze blows along the river, and a flock of snow geese streams overhead, honking in chorus. The river runs almost straight north-south in this stretch, and the sun eases its path overhead through a brilliant blue sky. Across the way, a great blue heron stands stock still in the reeds, his eye focused down into the depths of the water.

  There is a movement to the far right, and I freeze, my hand dropping to my hip. A dark shape moves onto the gentle rise of a hill. It is a stag, twelve point at least, the antlers swept out in majestic strength. His ears are cocked forward, and he sweeps his massive head slowly from left to right, surveying his domain. The only other sound’s the sweep of the tumbling water moving past my feet.

  Then he raises his nose in the air, gives a snort, and is gone.

  Afternoon fades into ruby evening. The river has turned northwest now, moving in long, flowing loops that remind me of a campfire smoke trail in a lazy wind. I finish off the chokecherries, washing them down with the cool water. I feel keenly the lack of a proper knife. I’ll have to remedy that, the next town I come across. I have no way to whittle a spear to catch a fish; no way to easily clean any game I might trap.

  The sun sinks below the horizon, and I find a hollow along the bank. I have not seen hide nor hair of any other person throughout my long day. With my gentle pace, I should sleep lightly tonight, able to wake quickly should anyone come close. Even so, I spend a few minutes gathering up small twigs and branches, scattering them thoroughly around my chosen spot.

  Then I nestle my back against the hollow, close my eyes, and drop off to sleep.

  The stag stands on his high hill, his deep brown eyes sweeping the territory before him, ready to ward off any intruder. His shoulder muscles ripple, sure, ready, prepared for action.

  The man stands with his back to me, a rifle slung behind him, staring out over the edge of the bluff to the rolling forest below. I draw my eyes along the muscles of his shoulders, their outline visible beneath the tan hemp shirt he wears. His dark brown hair ripples in waves down past his shoulders. He turns –

  The image fades to black.

  I blink my eyes open as golden highlights edge the bank of the river, sending a glistening sheen to the tumbling ripples. My stomach rumbles with hunger, and I push it aside. I draw to my feet, turning to face the sun, and sweep my arms to the side and up. The aches have lessened, but still there is that pulse at my calf and the sharper tweak at my right hip. I drop my hands to my chest, soaking in the moment.

  Aaptaniya.

  My hand drops of its own volition to my hip, and I nurse the spot. The area feels tender, and I pull up my shirt to take a look. The flesh seems unmarked, matching the other side in every way.

  I shrug and set into motion.

  The low grasslands morph into a stand of American elm, the dark, twisting branches a counterpoint to the brilliant golden-pumpkin foliage in fluffy clouds above. I smile as a pair of sparrows chase each other through the limbs.

  There’s a movement to the right, and I stop, sweeping my eyes, searching in the shadows. If I was lucky enough to flush a pheasant, perhaps I could bring it down with my revolver and have something more substantial than berries for dinner. My hand eases to my hip –

  A middle-aged, wiry woman strides a step forward from the deep brush, spear in hand, a mass of furs and leather covering her gangly body. Her long hair is matted and streaked with grey; her face is an indeterminable color beneath the smears of dirt and blood.

  Her voice is a harsh bark. “Stay back! I’m a red!”

  I put my hands out to the side. She is a good twenty feet away, but I’m not sure how skilled she is with that spear. “I am not here to harm you,” I assure her.

  “ ‘Course not, I’m a red,” she snaps. “You know better.”

  “I do,” I agree calmly.

  She scans behind me, as if expecting a larger group, then her eyes dart back to hold mine. “Move along,” she demands. “This place is mine. You find your own spot.”

  I nod, breathing slowly, willing my posture to remain relaxed. She is a wild animal, twitching, her spear arm trembling with barely held-in energy. I back away from her, moving further north, retreating from her territory. I wait until I have turned the bend and moved out of sight of her before putting my back to her and striding forward.

  A sense of loss tickles at the corner of my mind. She has been the first person I have seen in two days, and I would have liked to talk with her, if only for a moment. Perhaps I could have learned more about this world I am passing through.

  That would have to wait until I reached Lamur.

  It is hours later when the first sign of the large town glimmers on the horizon. This is far more substantial than the outpost where I acquired my clothes. A stockade fence, nearly sixteen feet high, surrounds a substantial area to the east of the river. It backs into high, grey bluffs on the right. The gates protrude from the wall the way a wolf’s mouth protrudes from his massive head. Several men line the wall, rifles held ready in their arms. Their eyes follow me as I cover the distance to them.

  There is a stocky man already waiting before the gate, a large leather sack slung over his shoulder, his thick, curly hair mostly grey. The gates pull open before him, and I see there’s a long, enclosed corridor within, with another closed gate on the other side. As he steps past the first gate, it closes behind him.

  One of the wall-guards, a thick man with a barrel chest, drops the nose of the rifle to point down into the chute. His voice is calm and even. “You touch your gun and you die.” He states it as if it’s a common greeting, not a threat of death.

  The rifle’s barrel makes a slow sweep from left to right, presumably following the progress of the man within. There’s a creaking noise from within the gate complex, and the guard raises his rifle, returning it to point again at the sky. His eyes drift back to me.

  His voice calls out to the man opposite. “Open the gate!”

  The pair of doors swing wide before me, and I step in to the shadows. The corridor is perhaps twenty feet long by six feet wide. I take a few steps in, and the grinding noise behind me indicates the gates
have closed again. The guard’s voice high above is without inflection. “Keep moving. You touch your guns, and they become mine. Along with everything else your corpse holds.”

  I leave my hands at my side, the leather of my jacket between them and my guns. The gate before me grows closer –

  A loud blaring noise fills the narrow corridor, bright crimson lights flash, and instinct drives me to toss back the jacket’s flaps, to reach for –

  A voice sounds within my head, urgent, low - a voice I trust with my life.

  Freeze.

  I do, instantly, my fingers only inches away from my guns.

  The blaring fills my ears, the flashing lights nearly blind me, and I turn my head up to meet the gaze of the man on the wall. His finger is in the trigger, his gun sights steady on my skull.

  His eyes flick to something behind me, and the constant alarm mercifully ceases, leaving only the flashing of the light.

  His voice is calm but steely when he speaks. “We don’t like your kind in here, Red,” he snaps.

  I hold his gaze, my hands maintaining their position. The chance of me drawing and shooting him before he drilled that bullet through my skull was slim, but not impossible.

  I pitch my tone to be reasonable. “You have nothing to fear from me.”

  He gives a barking laugh. “Sure thing, Red,” he snaps. “Nor from the Wardens, either, I imagine.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “From who?”

  He looks at me for a long minute, and then there’s an easing to his shoulders, a relaxing to the hand that holds the rifle. He doesn’t lower it, but there’s a releasing of the tension which runs through his frame.

  He calls out to the surrounding group. “Think we got ourselves a Red Virgin here, boys.”

  A ripple of laughter runs amongst the men, a counterpoint to the steady flashing of crimson light.

  I maintain my steady gaze into his eyes. “And what might that be?”

  The corner of his mouth quirks up into a grin. “Why, dear, that would be you,” he explains. He makes a sweep of his arm, back to encompass the town. “You see, we here are the worst of the worst. That’s why we were sent into Noda. It’s why we were set apart from that world of computers and microwaves, of cars and convenience stores.” His gaze draws down to me. “But you, you are the worst of the worst of the worst. You were bad enough that the Wardens felt it important enough to track you.”