Into the Wasteland - A Dystopian Journey

by Lisa Shea

  I shake my head. “I cannot accept that.”

  All eyes turn to look at me, and her gaze is steadfast. “Here.”

  I flush. Perhaps turning her down would be the gravest of insults. I feel the pressure of the many eyes, and at last I bow, accepting the blade.

  “I will treasure this beyond all words,” I thank her.

  A soft smile lights her eyes, and she nods.

  The boy has circled back around to us and plunks merrily into his mother’s lap, gazing in fascinating at his hook bracelet. I eat several pieces of the tender elk, appreciating the fragrant seasoning of rosemary which flavors it.

  He gazes up at me suddenly. “Ishtato.”

  My breath catches, to hear the word on the young boy’s lips. “What?”

  “Ishtato,” he insists.

  I look to his mother, my heart hammering like a woodpecker’s eager tattoo. “What does that mean?”

  Again her eyes move tranquilly to the beadwork at my chest. “It means green eyes,” she explains.

  I look down at the beaded hawks. I realize it is true – each of their small forms features a dark green eye.

  The boy nods in satisfaction. “Ishtato.” He sits back against his mother, his eyes dropping to his bracelet, spinning it in slow circles on his wrist.

  The evening passes in the quiet drifting of billowy clouds across an azure sky. The villagers do not ask anything of me, and I am content to let them talk amongst themselves, of harvesting corn and storing squash. My eyes glance to the ridge of bluffs, high to the east, to the grassy line which makes up the length. I wonder if that is where the attack came from, when Born-in-Battle earned his name.

  At last the plates are being gathered and cleared, and I draw to my feet. I feel comfortable here, but I also feel the sense of unease in the group of the armed stranger in their midst. It was kind for them to share their food with me; I would not intrude on their peace further.

  I bow to the mother and to the group. “Thank you again for your hospitality. May you have peace and a good winter.”

  Her eyes hold mine. “May your journey bring you what you seek.”

  Born-in-Battle runs forward, and I ease carefully to one knee, my hand holding my hip to keep the bandage in place. He wraps me in a hug, and I give him a fond pat on the head.

  I look down at the bracelet. “Take good care of that.”

  He nods with enthusiasm. “I will!”

  I feel a sense of emptiness as I turn my back on them, crossing to the western side of the river and walking north. Soon it is only me and the whistling wind, and a hawk which circles high overhead.

  I make it about an hour further before I am fully exhausted. I feel I could trust the tribe, but it seems prudent not to camp right on their doorstep. I have come across a series of low caves in the bluffs, and one of them seems just right for a safe sleeping spot.

  The sun slips below the horizon, and while I consider a fire, I decide against it. No need to attract more attention than necessary, and the night only had a slight chill to it. I draw my leather jacket closer around my shoulders, running my fingers along the beadwork for a moment before closing my eyes.

  The large, brown eyes of a child gaze up at me in trust, his skin the glowing color of the river’s bluff in a crimson sunset. Flecks of darker brown swim in the depths of his eyes.

  Flecks of movement are spotted across the grassy plains, and I strain to see them against the stand of trees. I am lying flat on my stomach, pressed against the ridge, and I know danger is a breath away. The barrel of a rifle slides forward on my right, aimed at the distant shadows. I turn –

  I am stirred out of a deep sleep by something I cannot put my finger on. The mouth of the cave is pitch black, with no moon or stars glimmering in the sky above. I lay perfectly still, my breathing in even rhythm, all senses alert.

  There – a movement in the cave mouth.

  My heart thunders, and yet I do not move an inch. I resist the urge to reach my hand for the gun resting only a short distance away.

  A man steps forward into the arch. He is perhaps six feet tall, with shaggy, dark hair past his shoulders. His skin is the warmth of a cliff-side bluff in a late autumn afternoon. His eyes are the cool, welcoming green of a deep pine forest.

  Longing sweeps through me, and I draw in a breath.

  His eyes narrow in surprise, and he’s gone.

  I blink, grab for the gun, and push myself to standing, fighting back a groan at the resistance in my hip. Carefully I creep to the mouth of the cave, peering out.

  There is no trace of him at all. It is as if he never existed.

  There’s a tingling at my chest, and I look down in surprise. I realize now that the pouch had been doing this since I woke; perhaps this was what drew me from sleep. I glance around again, then holster my gun and draw open the pouch. I shake the red capsule out into my palm.

  It’s sparkling oddly, spastically, with an almost mesmerizing light.

  I move back into the cave, so that its gleam does not attract unwanted attention. The deeper I go, the more strange the sparkling becomes. Fainter. Feebler.

  I smile. Maybe this is my chance. If something about the cave naturally interferes with the transmitter, then they might simply think that I holed up in the cave and decided to live there. It could be months before they came in after me, if they even ever did. By then I could be long gone.

  I could be safely through that final gate, without a hail of machine gun fire cutting off my dream of escape.

  A frown creases my forehead. If the automated deathtrap did not trigger, I should be able to step to the gate. But would the guards there have an identity check, verifying me before they released me to freedom? Would they realize at that point that I should not be allowed through and end my quest permanently?

  I shrug. There is only so much I can plan for. One step at a time.

  I quickly gather up wood for a fire, and once I get it going, I make a small torch and move toward the back of the cave. It narrows into a rough-edged tunnel. I work my way down it, wriggling in several sections to make it through the slender gaps.

  This is perfect. The Wardens will never think twice about my being in these areas.

  The chamber opens up before me into a large gulf, so wide that my torchlight cannot reach the other side. Noises echo strangely off the slick walls. I carefully step across the rough surface.

  Suddenly a chasm yawns before me. I reach down and pick up a small pebble, tossing it in. It bounces from side to side on its way down; its pinging fades as it descends. At last it becomes lost in the depths.

  My smile grows.

  I take a final look at the cylinder in my hand, at the light which barely makes the smallest of glimmers now. And then, with a flick, it is gone.

  It makes not a sound as it plummets into the abyss.

  My shoulders ease in relief. I am free now of the tracker, free of the ‘Red’ stigma should I come across any other towns with sensors. Another two weeks or so and I should be at the Gate, then through it.

  I turn and start in surprise.

  A pair of dark eyes are staring at me without emotion.

  I grab for my gun, draw and aim in one smooth motion.

  The eyes have not moved a muscle. Not flinched a millimeter.

  I draw in a breath, my gaze focusing in the dark shadows. The shapes resolve … refine …

  The eyes are hollows in a skull. The skeleton is beneath it, the ribs sagging, one leg bent at a nasty angle. Undoubtedly the owner had come into here for some reason and hurt himself. He became unable to get out again.

  I step forward to look him over. His clothes are ratty and torn, and he has no gun on him. A rectangular leather pouch with a silver buckle sits next to him, about the size of a man’s foot.

  Curious, I undo the buckle and peer inside.

  The pouch is full to the brim with small silver nuggets.

  I run my finger through them, stirring them gently, a smile coming to my lips.
Perhaps I won’t need to conserve my bullets, after all. In fact, with my injury, it might just be time to invest in a horse.

  Chapter 6

  The afternoon sun shines warmly down on me, sparkling off of the twisting river which runs merrily along to my left. I am heading upstream, along a narrow deer-path edging the running water, skirting the occasional bramble bush or washed out gulley. I move my hand occasionally to the leather pouch hanging around my neck, to the wealth nestled between my breasts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope.

  A smile comes to my lips. As long as I can remember. The feat is probably less impressive than it might be for most people.

  My stomach rumbles, and I spot a flat slab of granite up ahead, slightly overhanging the water, with a blackberry bush up alongside it. I amble over and sit on the smooth stone, tugging off first one boot, then the other, then both pairs of socks. I stretch my toes in bliss, enjoying the warm breeze that tickles through them, before setting up a stick and a line with a fat, juicy worm on a hook. Then I lean back to start picking through the berries while I wait.

  Time seems suspended. The clouds drift overhead, long, stretched-out sheets which could be pulled wool waiting to be twined into thread. They are translucent white against a shimmering cerulean blue sky. The water ripples and turns, ever changing, and my mind fades from view. There is nothing but now.

  A tug, and the stick spins as something catches on the line. I swipe at it, hauling in, carefully guiding the fish in to shore. It’s a catfish, maybe twice the length of my hand, and I smoothly gut it before setting up a small fire on the center of the rock. A few small starter sticks, a larger branch or two, and the blaze is soon sizzling away at its flesh. The rich aroma sets my mouth watering, but I wait patiently until it is cooked all the way through before starting the feast.

  As I eat, I give some thought to all that has come until now. This seems to be the first time I have had the luxury to give thought to my experiences - to seek some order in the chaos which has been my short stretch of memory-held life.

  My skill set does not point to a quiet, studious college student. In the chute, I knew the gun’s feel when it was handed to me. When that metal door had slid open, I understood what was required to stay alive. I had felt no compunction in killing those who had fired on me.

  I roll that thought around in my mind as I take a bite of the catfish’s meat. Was I an assassin of some sort? A gun for hire? Is that why I had been caught, bundled, processed, and spit into this wilderness prison?

  The hit man image doesn’t seem to fit. In the tire-fire clearing I had done what was necessary, certainly, but I felt no joy in it. There had been no sense that I would seek out that task again.

  And when Ragnor had been killed …

  I pause for a moment, my mouth in half-chew.

  Ragnor had been taken down just when he was about to stab me in the back.

  A succulent dead bird had arrived on my doorstep just when I desperately needed a meal.

  I had come across a stash of silver just when my journey might get more challenging.

  I shake my head and swallow the bite. I seem to believe in fate, certainly, and in a sense that those who strive hard for a goal are more likely to reach it than those who passively wait. And yet, there comes a point where random chance seems a less likely scenario.

  Was someone lending me assistance?

  I give thought to the pine-green eyes which shine in my dreams, to the rich, resonant voice that even now I can hear tumbling in the water. To the sense of soul-deep comfort that comes with them.

  I put the fish down and stand, turning slowly in place. My eyes scan the streaming river, the grassy banks, and the long stretch of undulating wilderness which extends to the far horizon.

  There is not one sign of humanity.

  Is he out there?

  If he is, he certainly does not seem an enemy. He has, if my guesses are accurate, helped ensure that I remain healthy and whole. But why would he not make himself known to me? Is he waiting for something? And, if so, what?

  A crow caws out, long, rich, echoing in the quiet.

  I run a hand through my thick hair, a smile easing on my face. Whoever he is, if he even exists, I will simply keep moving forward. I will hold my mind as open as possible – welcoming, expansive, and free. I have a sense that this is my best possible chance for my memories to return - for me to regain my sense of self that seems all but lost.

  Content, I sit down to finish my meal.

  At last it is time to move on. I kick the remnants of the fire and fish into the water. I erase any evidence of my presence here, then push into motion.

  As I crest a rise, I can see a walled village on the horizon. My hand moves automatically to my chest, but the necklace is no longer there. Instead, my hidden wealth is beneath my fingers, reassuring, solid. The edges of my mouth curve into a smile.

  Everything will be all right.

  I stay alert as I approach the town, aware of the many eyes watching from the wall. The front gates stand open, and I can see the tunnel within, the closed doors at the far end. A gnarled man with the face of a rotting peach looks down at me from above the main gates as I draw close, his gaze neither welcoming nor hostile. He eyes me as if I were a strange sort of beetle, and he’s curious what I might do.

  His voice is low and flat. “Into the tunnel with ‘ye. Hands clear of your weapons.”

  I nod, taking in a deep breath, feeling each footfall as it lands in the soft dirt, dirt churned by countless feet and hooves. My heart pounds against my ribs, and with each contact of sole on earth I wait for the flashing lights, the blaring alarm, the whirl as every gun aims for my head. Any second now …

  My foot lands before the far gate, and the pock-marked wood swings open before me. I am through.

  The town is livelier than I would have thought. The main street is fairly crowded with people of all shapes and sizes. A pair of women are laughing, heading towards a general store. Three men, two tall and lean, the third shorter and stout, are pushing through the swinging doors of the tavern. An elderly man is sitting on a bench before a Sheriff’s office, smoking a pipe. A gaggle of children run screeching through the crowd, waving sticks in the air.

  The first building on the left is a large stable, and I walk through the open doors, letting my eyes adjust to the relative darkness within. There are perhaps twelve stalls, each holding an emaciated representation of a horse.

  A portly man with an orange handlebar moustache comes rolling over to me, wiping his hands down on his dark blue shirt. “Greetings, miss. How might I help you?”

  I look down the row of stalls. “Any of these for sale?”

  His eyes light up with interest. “Of course, of course. The four on the back right are mine, but I’m sure I could negotiate a sale for any of these fine animals, if the price is right.”

  I follow behind him and start in the back corner, listening as he describes each horse. There’s an appaloosa with leopard spots tracing over visible ribs, which he claims is only seven years old. I put the poor thing more at fifteen. The next is a stocky Clydesdale with a lame right leg. Then a white highland pony which he assures me is a young colt which will grow into an Arabian. Finally a palomino whose golden coat has faded to a dull brown with lack of care.

  The remaining horses in the stables are in far worse shape. Scars on their legs, skittish natures, and a dullness to the eyes. The man pats an emaciated Percheron on its shuddering flank and assures me, “this is the best you’ll see in town. And it’s a bargain at only twenty ounces.”

  “Twenty ounces,” I repeat. I estimate I have nearly two hundred hanging around my neck, but no animal in the stables would be worth even one piece of that. I would have to buy a wagon to carry the poor steed in, if it were to accompany me on my journey.

  I give a neutral nod to the man. “I’ll give it some thought,” I assure him.

  “Come by any time; I sleep in the loft. I take the car
e of my steeds seriously,” he assures me. He draws his eyes down my body, and they take on a shine. “Any time.”

  I step back from him, turning and moving out into the sunlight. My shoulders slump. If that is the type of horse available here, I might do better walking to the next town.

  My feet kick up small clouds of dust as I make my way down the street, feeling strangely comforted by the babble of voices and laughter around me. For so long I have been alone, and while it is peaceful, there is also something to be said for the presence of humanity.

  Down an alley to the right I spot a sign with a horse on it, and I head down to take a look. Indeed, it’s another stables, slightly smaller than the first, with eight stalls and a low roof. The owner here is reedy, tall, in a mustard yellow top and boots halfway up his legs. His face is wan and stretched.

  He glances at me with half-hearted interest. “Look but don’t touch,” he warns me, then goes back to mucking out an empty stall.

  I move along the line of half-height gates, looking over each one to the horse within. There’s a Shetland pony with stringy hair that has almost gone to white. A black steed which might have once been a Tennessee Walking Horse, but now can barely stand. A pair of Clydesdales, their heads hanging low.

  The man’s voice cuts through the air. “Those are each twenty-five ounces,” he states. “I see the silver weighed and in my hands before one leaves his stall.”

  I run a hand through my hair, shaking my head at the selection. Then I turn and head back out to the main street.

  The hotel has a restaurant on its ground floor, doing a good business, and across the street a gun and knife shop has two clerks both helping customers. Then the town proper seems to devolve into a collection of residences and garden patches. The mob of children tumbles past me, eagerly shouting about hide-and-seek. It almost seems normal.

  There’s one remaining barn on the left, before the smaller domiciles begin, and I walk toward it out of curiosity. I hear the nickers within before I see the stalls, and it seems this might be the location used by the locals. There are only six stalls here, each holding a steed, and they seem at least a few years from the grave, rather than a few hours.