After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1)

by Mark R. Healy

  I searched more of the ruins along the way, and the night had arrived when I made it back to Max’s location outside the low-rise apartment building where I’d first found him. It was a squarish, nondescript place, the kind of inner city housing that had been around forever and which, before the Winter, would have been just waiting for a developer to knock it down.

  But Max wasn’t there. The street was empty. So much for showing my gratitude, or even saying farewell.

  My hair was ruffled by a cool breeze that drifted down the thoroughfare, and looking up I could see the hulking shapes of skyscrapers all around me, vast black silhouettes that blotted out the starlight. For so long there had been nothing above but blackness, an impenetrable shroud that hid the stars, the sky, and even the sun. It lasted so long that, for a time, I thought it might never go away.

  But the Winter was over, and the stars had returned. That was something to be glad about.

  As I was about to leave, I saw a faint rectangle of light appear on the second floor of the apartment building. It grew steadily brighter, settling on a homey yellow colour almost like candlelight, spilling illumination across the courtyard and the sidewalk outside. From my angle on the street I couldn’t make out any details of the room inside, and there was no sign of Max himself, but I assumed he was probably up there.

  “Max?” I called out.

  “And I thought I was noisy,” came Max’s voice from above. “You’re really putting me to shame stomping around out there.”

  “I’m sorry, I uh-”

  “Yeah?” he prompted, still unseen upstairs.

  “I just wanted to say thanks.”

  “I distinctly remember telling you to leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Yeah, you did,” I said, discouraged.

  “So why are you creeping around my place at night?”

  “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone. If that’s what you want.”

  My boots rang out as I stalked away, head bowed, feeling foolish. Why had I bothered? This had been a bad idea from the start. I should never have turned around at the river. I should have just kept going, marching right out of the city.

  I’d taken a few paces down the street when I heard his voice again.

  “Hey!” I could see his face in the window now, peering out at me. “You’re too stupid to be dangerous. You can come back if you want.”

  With that, he disappeared back inside, his invitation left hanging in the air. He seemed indifferent about whether or not I accepted it.

  I decided I would.

  In the courtyard I moved past a soda vending machine on the ground floor, illuminated softly from the window above, its front panel bent and torn aside to reveal the innards. It brought to mind the image of starving people looting and squabbling over cans of cola as the food ran out all those years ago. I’d seen them killed for less.

  From there I moved up the stairwell, and it became obvious that Max had used it in transit a lot. The concrete was scratched and gouged all to hell where he’d been shoving his bulky frame around. The wall too showed markings of his passage.

  Light from the apartment cut into the darkness of the balcony, and when I reached the landing it took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Inside, Max sat slouched in a big wooden high-backed chair with broad armrests to accommodate his sizeable frame. It had seen plenty of repairs, evidenced by makeshift wooden splints on the legs and by a short plank that had been hammered into the splintering backrest.

  He sat quietly now, his attention drawn to the window as he stared out into the night. The room was illuminated by a small lamp on the end of a metal rod. It had been inexpertly fixated to the plasterboard wall through a ragged hole, kept in place by lengths of timber that had been roughly sawed and then haphazardly bashed into place. Bent and twisted nails covered the boards, as if the one performing the installation had never used a hammer before.

  The room was covered with a patchy, threadbare grey carpet, full of stains and tears and fraying ends. The smell of it was cloying, a musty and unpleasant scent that wafted out overzealously into the stairwell.

  “Well, don’t stand out there all night,” Max said. He didn’t look at me.

  I moved forward and more of the room came into view. Paint peeled from the door in great vertical curls that showed the grey of the wood beneath, and a bronze door plaque, blotchy and green with age, displayed the number twenty-one. A matching door handle hung limply, and the door frame was splintered and busted where it had been forcibly opened.

  It was a modest place, angular and cramped, with a tiny kitchen and a living space all jammed in together. The kitchen itself was empty, the benchtops bare and coated in dust. Ceramic tiles, mounted above the sink, were imprinted with whimsical etchings of blue and white striped house goods. A teapot, a mug. A jar of sugar. Some had peeled away and fallen in the sink where they lay untended.

  “Sorry,” Max grunted at my hesitation. “I’d have vacuumed the place and polished the silverware if I’d known you were coming.”

  “It’s okay I uh... it’s fine.”

  The carpeted area formed an ‘L’ shape that surrounded the kitchen. Set back from the window was a small red faux leather sofa, stuffing protruding from a broad rip on the cushion, and the leather itself was covered in grime. A wooden bookshelf rested against the back wall, the shelving collapsed on one side. Various knick-knacks had slid down and collected in the bottom corner, including a tennis trophy, an ashtray, a box of matches and a filthy stuffed Pooh-Bear minus an arm. Above it hung a shredded television panel, surrounded by scorch marks on the wall. A darkened doorway led out the back.

  I stepped into the room and edged past Max. Space was tight and I brushed up against his chair in attempting to pass. He made no effort to move. I placed my satchel on the floor and sat on the sofa, but from there could only see the back of his head, so I stood and carefully slid it forward along the wall to where I could observe the ‘good’ right side of his face as he stared out the window.

  “So, uh, thank you for saving me. I mean that. That guy was about to rip me a new one.”

  “So I noticed. Looks like you aren’t getting on well with the Marauders.”

  I laughed softly. “Yeah, I think I’ve really gotten under their skin of late.”

  “What happened?”

  “Well, the last time I saw them they were camped in the ruins of a city further west. They had seven or eight captives inside a cage near where they’d made camp for the night.”

  “Alive?”

  “Most of ‘em, yeah. I heard they’re experimenting on the live ones before dissecting them for spare parts.” I screwed my mouth distastefully at the thought of it. “So, anyway, I crept in under cover of dark and killed the one who was guarding them, the girl our friend was screaming about.”

  “Oh right. The ugly one.”

  “That’s her. But she didn’t go down quietly. The others came running, and I only had a few seconds before they converged, so I smashed the lock on the cage and we all ran like hell.”

  “Did the prisoners make it?”

  “I don’t know. We split up so we’d be harder to find.” I stared wistfully out the window. “I hope they made it. Anyway, this kind of thing has been going on between me and them for the best part of a year now, I guess. It’s been hard to keep track of the time, but I think that’s right.” I gestured to him. “How about you? Have they given you trouble?”

  “They don’t come out here,” he said simply.

  “Okay.” I looked about the apartment. “So, how long have you been here, Max?”

  He didn’t answer right away. He clasped his hands under his chin and sat, as if contemplating.

  “A long time,” he said finally, his gravelly voice drawing out the words. “Lonnng time. Since the beginning.”

  “What, since the beginning of the Winter?”

  “Yep.”

  “But that’s been decades.”

  “Has it? Feels like longer,” he sa
id sourly. “Like you said, hard keeping track of time out here.”

  “What were you? Before, that is.”

  “Domestic clank. Cleaning, sanitation. Gardening. You know the drill.”

  “Yeah.” He didn’t have the appearance one would expect of a synthetic with those kind of duties, given his large frame. He looked more suited to hard labour and heavy lifting to me, but I didn’t push it.

  “How about you?” he said. He turned to face me for the first time and raised his damaged left hand, tapping an index finger on his dented metal temple. It made a hollow tinny sound. “Where’s your mark?”

  He referred to the tattoo on the left temple that all synthetics were branded with when created, marking them as the product of their corporation. It was a way to quickly and easily tell the difference between humans and machines at a glance.

  “It’s a long story. I’m a custom build.”

  Nodding, he waited for me to go on. “So, that’s it? You’re gonna leave it at that?”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “I guess you could say I came out of a lab.”

  “A lab,” he said dryly. “Well that explains it.” He rubbed his forehead, exasperated. “What lab?”

  “It was a research lab,” I said simply.

  He sighed and levered himself up on his elbow. “So did you go to all this trouble of coming back here and sneaking around just to not tell me anything about yourself?”

  “What’s there to tell?” I said. “We’re both stuck out in the middle of nowhere, with no place to go. What does it matter which lab I came from?”

  “Okay,” he said, relenting, holding up his hands. “Whatever. You’re right, I don’t give a shit.” He looked over at me, thoughtful. “So you’ve given me your thanks. Is there something else you want?”

  “Uh, what do you mean?”

  “I mean did you come back here because you want something from me? Is that what this is about?”

  “No, I don’t want anything from you,” I said flatly.

  “You didn’t come here to break me up into spare parts?” A hint of levity glinted in his milky eye.

  I glanced over his massive frame, aware of the irony in his jest, and recalling the way he’d torn the Marauder apart with his bare hands. If anyone was going to be breaking anyone else up for spare parts, it would be him breaking me.

  “I’m no goddamn Marauder,” I said. “I’m no cannibal.”

  “So what, then? Surely you have somewhere you’d rather be.”

  “Well, I’m trying to get home, but I can’t go there with these Marauders on my tail. I don’t want them following....” I trailed off, and Max just stared at me curiously. “Anyway, once I’m sure they’re gone, I’ll be heading back west.”

  “And in the meantime you’re going to sit around with me? Hang out with a broken clank who sits in his apartment, staring out the window? Not exactly riveting stuff.” There was a soft buzzing sound, and he turned his head. “Light’s giving out,” he said, glancing up at the lamp. Sure enough I could see it beginning to dim, the coils inside becoming more yellow and distinct as they lost their brilliance. For the first time I noticed a black cabling snaking out the window and upward into the night.

  “Is it solar?”

  “Yeah. It’s hooked up to a battery that stores enough charge for a couple of hours’ light. Some days it holds out longer than others.” He jabbed a finger upward. “Receptor’s up on four.”

  “Why didn’t you run it to a room on the ground floor? Might have saved you some effort on those stairs.”

  “I never installed it. It was like that when I got here. Besides, the TV reception is way better on this floor.” He stuck a sarcastic thumb over his shoulder at the useless panel hanging on the wall.

  The lamp was draining rapidly, and in moments it would be dark. Max seemed to fall silent with it, settling back into his chair and linking his fingers across his chest as if getting comfortable for sleep. I took the photograph from my pocket and held it up. I had a few seconds to study it, to take in every detail. To remember. Then the blackness came.

  5

  Synthetics didn't sleep, but I found that if I rested and let my thoughts wander, it helped to refresh my mind in much the same way. In that mode, the hours of darkness passed quickly.

  When day broke Max unceremoniously clattered out of the chair and set off for the stairwell without a word. He scraped and jostled through the doorway and then made a racket as he plunged headlong down the stairs. I cringed to hear him thumping and banging his way down. It had to hurt. He grunted once or twice but didn't slow down.

  From the window I watched him slither across the courtyard. The morning air was cool and there was a thin layer of condensation on the windowsill. For the first time I noticed several copper coins there as well. I picked one up and turned it in my fingers. It was so tarnished that I couldn’t make out any inscriptions at all. I placed it back on the stack with a soft clink.

  Making my way downstairs I followed Max at a safe distance, keeping well clear of his flailing leg stumps. In a few minutes he made his way back out to the street and found the resting place he had favoured yesterday.

  “This again?” I called out, incredulous. Not unexpectedly, he offered no reply.

  Returning to the apartment, I gathered up my satchel and headed out. There were things I could do in the city while it was light, such as hunt for supplies, so I figured I might as well make the most of it. I was only going to be here a couple of days before I had to move on, so I didn’t have time to sit around with Max. Maybe he would be in a more communicative mood later in the day.

  I followed the morning sun, heading east toward the river. Although I’d traversed this same path yesterday, there was contrasting light now, and the street itself seemed like a different place. Sunlight glimmered off the wrecks of cars and cast illumination into the ruin of cafes and hotel lobbies that had been obscure the day before. When I neared the river, one structure in particular caught my eye. It was several stories high and clad in a conglomerate of thick plate steel and metal bars. Walking the perimeter, I ran my fingers along the walls to assess their integrity. There were scorch marks in several places and I imagined those outside hurling Molotov cocktails ineffectually at the plate metal. Elsewhere there were gouges in the pavement and buckled walls where more concerted efforts had been made to breach the exterior. But it had not been compromised. I rounded the entirety of the place and could not find a single weakness.

  “This thing’s a fortress,” I muttered in appreciation. If the looters hadn’t gotten inside there might be a chance I’d find something useful in there.

  But how to get in?

  I made my way around again, this time more carefully as I searched for an entrance. I pulled, pushed, and hammered my fist on the plate metal, searching for hollowness that might indicate a cavity. There didn’t appear to be one.

  I tried climbing the walls but, apart from a few metal bars, there was no chance of finding handholds. I was running out of options.

  I backed up and tried to get a wider view. Think outside the box. Maybe there was access from the roof. Using a winch from a nearby skyscraper might have provided a way to get in back in the day, but I had no such mechanism to help me now.

  My eyes fell on a rusted manhole cover further down the road. It piqued my curiosity. Making my way over to it, I lifted it aside, scraping noisily on the asphalt. Peering down the hole, I noted it was dark down there, too dark to see. I slung my satchel to the ground, pulling out the lighter, the canister of whiskey and one of the spare shirts I’d acquired. In the rubble nearby I also found the wooden leg of a chair. Tearing up the shirt, I wrapped a piece of it around the end of the chair leg and doused it in whiskey. I snapped the lighter. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Nothing but sparks. I bent in lower to the ground, using my body to create a windbreak. On the next try the flame ignited and my makeshift torch was ready.

  Gathering my gear, I carefully made my way down into the
inky blackness of the sewer. Once at the bottom, the blue light of the torch flame cast an eerie glow all around me. My boots scuffed on the floor and echoed noisily. Although somewhat uninviting, at least it was dry and the footing was sure.

  The tunnel curved toward the river, in the direction of the fortress, and I headed that way, treading carefully. Although the walls seemed secure, I had to be ready to take evasive action should there be any sign of instability.

  The glint of something pale on the floor ahead brought me to an abrupt halt. It wasn’t moving - not much in this world did anymore - but I wanted to be sure it wasn’t a sign of structural collapse.

  As I moved closer, I realised it wasn’t part of a cave-in. It was a skeleton. And there were more than one.

  Approaching, I could see that they were human. It wasn’t uncommon to see the remains of people in this world where everyone had died. They had all decomposed, eroded or been buried under sand, but there were still more than enough to stumble across around the place. Even though I was used to seeing them, it still saddened me to be reminded of such terrible times.

  In the blue light these skeletons looked ghostly, ethereal, as if they might dissolve into mist and blow away at the slightest stirring of air. Stepping between them, I could see they hadn’t died peacefully. There were holes, possibly gunshot wounds in several skulls, as well as broken ribs and other trauma. I counted eight sets of remains in all.

  Suddenly, from the depths of the tunnel behind me, I heard the deep groaning sound from the day before. It was like the mournful, wailing voice of a mountain, the intonation of the earth itself, calling out in anguish and solitude. I waited for something to come rushing at me out of the darkness, something terrible and primal and worthy of such a voice. The tunnel vibrated all around me.