Wasteland

by Ann Bakshis

  Chapter 1

  My training today didn’t go as expected. Neither did the screaming match I had with Devlan. He never wants to explain anything fully to me. No matter how many times I ask about my past, the nightmares I keep having, or my ability to heal from any injury in minutes, he skirts the topics. I know I’m not a typical person, but I’d at least like to know something about where I come from.

  It’s well past midnight when I finally walk through the door, returning after spending the last several hours cooling off. My temper can get the best of me. It can get to the point of pure rage, exploding, so much so that I could kill someone. This scares me as I don’t know what causes such anger to develop.

  I know Devlan isn’t asleep, but working below the kitchen in his workshop. A pinch of light is visible between the floor boards under the kitchen table, so I stomp my foot three times, alerting him that I’m safely home.

  “Come down here,” he shouts in response.

  I open the door to the pantry next to the stove, lift up the trap door, and climb down, making sure to pull close the pantry door behind me.

  The workshop is a narrow rectangular room lined with shelves covered in pieces of scrap metal, several soldering torches, wires, blades of varying lengths, remnants of battle droids I have destroyed in my training, and several Levin guns in various stages of repair. The entire room is lit by two rush lights, small boxes with outdated bulbs carelessly secured into an outlet and run on solar power because the generator is currently off.

  Devlan is sitting on his workbench at the end of the room, hunched over the Levin gun I used earlier in the day.

  “You keep frying the conductor nodules in the grip,” he snarls at me, not bothering to look up.

  “It’s not my fault,” I exclaim, annoyed by his continual harshness of my weapons use. “I can’t get any power from this gun and when I do, it burns up. The Beta gun is a lot easier to use.”

  “The Beta gun is a child’s toy. You need to figure out how to operate the Levin gun without destroying it.” He sets down his tools, turns around in his seat raising his tired gray eyes to meet my gaze, and scratches his crinkly forehead. “I know how this is supposed to work… theoretically. We’ll try again tomorrow.” He sighs, gesturing that I’m dismissed.

  I climb back up the ladder, closing both the trap door and pantry door behind me, then head into my room where I rummage through the dresser extracting clothes to wear, choosing items based on their texture. The clothes I finally pick feel soft against my skin. The sheets and blankets are not as comfortable, but I’m really too tired to care.

  “You can’t take her,” my mother screams from somewhere outside my bedroom door.

  I keep still, lying curled up under my blanket, eyes glued to the door. Shadows move between the floor and the threshold as the light in the hallway flickers on.

  “We don’t have a choice,” a man shouts back. The voice is deep and rough.

  I don’t recognize it.

  “It’s not safe anymore. I have to take her,” he speaks again, this time a little more calmly.

  “I thought we had more time,” my mother cries. The sound of her voice getting closer, echoing those of the footsteps that approaches.

  “You’ve had six and half years. I know you expected more time, as did I, but somehow they’ve found out. We’re not safe anymore.”

  The hinges of my bedroom door creak as it swings open. The light from the hallway blinds me momentarily, but I don’t shut my eyes. The older man and my mother stand in the doorframe, staring me.

  “She’s not ready,” my mother whispers.

  “She will be,” the man says as he walks over to my bed, picking me up, blankets and all.

  I wake up at my usual time of five a.m., trying to shake my head free of the dream that continues to permeate my mind almost every night. I slide out of bed, throw my long auburn hair into a ponytail, then grab my running shoes and a clean pair of socks. As I lace up my shoes I can hear Devlan moving about in the living room, his footsteps causing the floorboards to creak as he goes through the kitchen and out the back door to start the generator. I follow in his steps and pause on the lower step of the back porch, waiting for him to begin my count.

  “Five minutes,” he says as he starts the timer.

  I bolt off the step running my hardest, heart pumping in rhythm with my legs, reaching the first marker in about one minute. The second marker is over a mile away so getting there in two minutes is going to be tricky; however the real issue is getting back to the house in the remaining two minutes. I know the course by memory. I know exactly where every boulder, cactus, and animal burrow is. I can run it blindfolded, but run two and a quarter mile course in under five minutes?

  That I don’t know.

  Rounding the second marker, I know I’m not going to make it back in the five minutes Devlan instructed me to. I always feel he asks too much of me, pushes me too hard, but I never argue since it won’t do any good. He is never cruel when I can’t meet his demands, he just simply makes me do it again until I learn the tricks, the methods needed to achieve my goals and exceed them. I have yet to figure out the trick to this course. It has to be on the route back to the house. The markers Devlan uses are sensors that record my time and speed. He knows exactly when I get to the two markers without me having to tell him. As I round the last boulder with the third marker, the house is barely in view, but as I get closer I see Devlan standing by the back door holding a pitcher of water and shaking his head.

  “Again,” he says when he hands me the pitcher.

  I take small sips so not to cramp up my stomach, and take off again. For the next three hours Devlan makes me run the course, only allowing me to take the occasional break for water and crackers. After my last lap he goes inside and begins to cook breakfast while I hobble into my room. My feet hurt and I can feel blisters trying to form on the tops of my toes, but they never appear. I throw my sweat-drenched clothes into the hamper in my closet, wrap myself up in my robe, and head to the bathroom to take a shower.

  The water is warm, not hot, but comfortable. I stay in long after the soap has gone down the drain not wanting to leave. My stomach begins to growl. I quickly dry off, put my robe back on, and join Devlan at the cracked, blue Formica dining table.

  Breakfast this morning consists of dry wheat toast and oat squares.

  “I need you to go to the Refuge for me and pick up something.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” I snort as I place my spoon down and pick up a glass of powdered orange juice.

  “No, I’m not.” His tone is serious, as is his demeanor.

  I stare at him for a moment, anxiety welling up, fear taking over. I see the face of the man, who kidnapped me all those years ago, which causes my pulse to increase. Sweat breaks out on my palms and forehead. My voice lost for moments as I tremble with panic.

  “All right,” I finally respond, my body shaking.

  I don’t bother to finish my meal since my appetite has vanished. I place my dishes in the sink after scraping off the remnants into the trashcan by the back door, and head to my room. An old hunting knife I found a while ago buried under years of mud and sand, sits idle on my nightstand, so I pick it up and throw it, watching as it slams into the chipped drywall above my bed, sinking to its hilt.

  I feel angry and betrayed at Devlan’s request.

  He has always forbidden me to go to the Refuge when he makes his monthly trips. He has drilled into my head that it’s a risky place for people of the Wasteland to travel. The name is polar opposite of its true nature.

  I dress wearing nothing but black, including my calf high boots and leather jacket. This attire will cause me to burn up on my trip as the full sun will be blasting down on me, and the baked desert grou
nd will radiate it back up, but it’ll make me easily forgettable. I remove the knife from the wall, place it back into its sheath, and tuck it in my boot.

  Devlan is out front, moving my motorbike out from the small shed a few yards from the makeshift driveway. His truck is still parked in front of the house from his visit to the Refuge two days before. This strikes me as being greatly out of character since he always keeps the truck a mile away.

  Each city has their own spy satellites that sweep over the Wasteland looking for people to steal, so if we keep the truck away from the house it won’t be associated with belonging to a specific residence. He doesn’t want anyone to notice the house is inhabited, despite it falling apart in places. But he’s drawing the cities to our home with his truck being left visible.

  How can he be so careless?

  “Why am I going to the Refuge when you were just there the other day?” I ask as I tie my hair back into a ponytail and don my helmet.

  “I got a message that something I requested several weeks ago has come in, so I want you to go get it since the truck is not working properly and I can’t ride your motorbike.”

  I question his excuse in not going. His truck has always run fine, and I find it odd that he is so willing to let me go.

  I straddle the bike, turning the key in the ignition.

  “Who do I ask for when I get there?”

  “Go up to the bar and ask for Rena.”

  I acknowledge him with a nod, place my foot on the back bar by the rear wheel, roll the handle forward, and take off down the long dirt covered driveway. I turn right onto the crumbling asphalt of the highway long extinct and head north.

  Chapter 2

  The Refuge is known to be the most dangerous place to go in the Wasteland.

  People have been known to disappear here or die here. It’s a recognized hangout for the Collectors: bounty hunters who scour the Wasteland taking people to be sold to the cities or other unknown locations. Since no one is sure who is a Collector, everyone risks capture whenever they go to the Refuge, but it’s the only place to get supplies in order to survive.

  This fact is one of the reasons I’m so upset that Devlan commanded me to go. The thought of being collected sends shivers down my spine. The more I think about the possibility of being taken, the sicker I feel.

  I doubt my knife will be enough to fend off a Collector.

  I approach the turn-off for the Refuge and spot another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. The small car is caked in red dust. The windshield is missing, exposing the two passengers in the front seat to the harsh elements. I doubt they can see me as I’m over a mile away. My vision has always been exceptional, as are my reflexes and agility; though my speed, not so much. I know Devlan can explain these oddities, but he refuses to tell me anything when I’ve asked.

  The car turns off towards the Refuge, so I reduce my speed, wanting to put more distance between myself and the strangers. They disappear over a ridge and I feel it’s now safe to make the turn myself. I accelerate down the sand-covered road, then up and over the ridge, spotting the Refuge about a half-mile away. I take it slow, checking for any other vehicles or pedestrians making their way to the ramshackle remains of a ranch. The house itself is still standing, but several burnt-out structures lie yards away; wire fencing stands bent and twisted, rusting down to the same color as the sand that surrounds it.

  I throttle back, turning off the engine to quiet my approach, and coast the remaining stretch of earth to the entrance. I dismount the motorbike at the rotted out gate and walk the rest of the way, pushing the bike alongside. The car is parked just outside the front door, its occupants nowhere in sight. I don’t feel comfortable leaving the bike exposed, so I push it around behind the house, securing it by two dumpsters. Sweat is pouring down my face after I remove my helmet, so I wipe my brow with the sleeve of my jacket before I strap the helmet to one of the handlebars. Prior to entering the structure, I make one full lap around the building noting the position of the windows and doors.

  The structure is only one level, with two windows in the back, three along each side, and two up front on either side of the front door. The only other entrance to the house is at the rear by the dumpsters. The demeanor of the area is unremarkable. The one other functioning building on the property is a barn to the east. The clapboard siding is crumbling and splitting, the roof sagging badly at the back, and all but two windows are missing panes of glass.

  I hesitate briefly on the porch, debating whether I’ve made the right choice in doing what Devlan wanted. Drawing in a deep breath, I reach for the doorknob, turning it slowly and gently before stepping over the threshold.

  The air inside is stuffy, and fans sway dangerously as they try to circulate the stagnant air through the large room. The interior doesn’t resemble that of a home, as it’s apparent several walls have been removed, some meticulously, others violently. Their jagged remains stand testament to their demise. The hardwood floors are beaten and scratched, flower wallpaper is peeling from the remaining walls. Not much light is entering the room due to the heavy drapes covering the windows. Several couches are pushed up against the far right wall, bunched around a broken table, probably smashed in a fight no one bothered to clean up after. To the left, a long bar runs from one wall to another, and stools in various stages of collapse are positioned along the tarnished brass rail. The wall behind the bar is lined with shelves housing various sized liquor bottles. I scan the room one more time, but don’t see the couple that had driven the car.

  “You look lost,” a scratchy voice speaks from behind the bar. The woman the voice belongs to must’ve been stooped below when I first walked in. Her short red hair is streaked with white, her skin is as tan as the wood flooring, and also as worn. Her frame is tall and slender like mine, except for her arms, which are quite a lot more muscular.

  “I’m looking for Rena.”

  “Well you found her,” the woman says, sweeping her arms at her sides.

  I walk over to the bar, leaning against the cracked grain, not daring to sit down on one of the stools. “Devlan sent me.”

  Rena scans me up and down before replying, “Did he now?”

  I hear a click from behind me.

  Moving sideways I side-kick the man standing behind me, grabbing the gun from his hands as he falls, and point it at Rena before either of them can blink. The man lunges for the gun, but I’m too fast and have him back on the floor in seconds; his face contorts in a silent scream as my knife lies cradled against his throat, all the while still aiming the gun at Rena.

  She looks down at the man cowering on the floor.

  “I like her,” she says to him before reaching below the counter for a glass and filling it with Tequila from a bottle behind her. “All right, sweetheart, you can let Terrance go now, he won’t bother you again.”

  I hesitate, but do eventually remove the knife and slowly stand, still keeping the gun on Rena. The man rolls over onto his stomach, gut touching the floorboards. He pushes himself into an upright position and goes through a door at the rear of the room where he must’ve come from.

  “You still gonna shoot me, or do you want Devlan’s order?” Rena asks, staring down the barrel of the gun clutched tightly in my hand.

  I look at the weapon, noticing it’s not one I’m familiar with, so I place the firearm down on the counter…but not too far out of reach.

  “What is it?” I ask, nodding towards the weapon.

  “It’s an old .38 caliber Smith and Wesson. Those haven’t been made in well over a century, not since the end of the last revolt one hundred and forty years ago. Terrance found it a few months back. There aren’t any bullets in it. He’d have to make his own but the fucker’s too lazy.” Rena reaches below the counter and brings up a large plastic tumbler. “You thirsty?”

  I nod and watch as she fills it up with water.

  I down the first offering, then ask for a refill.

  I hadn’t realized how
thirsty I was until Rena offered the drink. As I’m working on my third glass and Rena goes to the back to get Devlan’s item, I notice the people who arrived right before me come out of the back door with Terrance behind, carrying two large boxes of groceries. Several of the items sticking out of the top have a strange red and black label on them, but the decal looks distorted. Minutes after the couple leaves, Rena comes out carrying a thin flat box.

  “Here you go,” she says, as she sets it on top of the counter.

  “Thanks.”

  I finish my water and am about to leave when Rena offers me lunch, which I accept as my stomach is already growling. I sit down on one of the stools and am surprised at the sturdiness, but I can feel the iron bar supporting the seat poking me in the ass, something I can deal with for now.

  Terrance comes back as Rena leaves to make the food. He goes behind the bar, pours himself a shot of Tequila, forgetting about the one that was already poured for him. He spots it just as he is about to take a swig and slides the shot glass over to me, gesturing for me to pick it up, which I do.

  We drink the Tequila in unison.

  Terrance has no reaction to the liquid; however I feel a fire going down my throat and into my stomach. I begin to cough as my eyes tear up. Terrance quietly chuckles to himself while I grope for my water to squelch the inferno. Rena reappears with a plate loaded down with sandwiches just as I get my coughing under control. She places the plate on the counter and refills my water.

  “Terrance must like you. He doesn’t share his Tequila with just anyone.”

  I give a half smile as I reach for a sandwich and begin to eat, downing two of the ham and cheese concoctions. I’d have more, but my stomach is so full of water I can’t eat another bite.

  The front door bursts open, causing me to jump and instinctively reach for the gun.

  The young man almost fills the entire frame. He’s wearing a sleeveless brown shirt, dirt-stained jeans, and brown leather boots with a matching holster strapped over his right shoulder, crossing his chest and down over to his hip. He enters the room as if he owns the place, slamming the door behind him to further emphasize his presence.