Wasteland

by Ann Bakshis

  The windows inlayed in the door are blackening as I lose sight of her, so I slide down from my bed and onto the scalding hot floor, crawling my way over to the entrance, desperate for any fresh air that may be blowing through the gap in the floor, as my skin begins to blister from the heat.

  The cries begin to diminish, but the screams beyond the walls of the bedchamber escalate. I place my small fingers into the opening between the door and the floor and feel a warm hand squeeze my fingers…and someone calling out my name.

  “Meg,” a voice echoes in my nightmares. I feel my body rock back and forth gently at first, then more violently as I try to shake off whoever is disturbing my sleep. “Meg, get up NOW!”

  The scream in my ears causes me to jump upright in bed, nearly colliding my face with Devlan’s.

  “What?”

  “Get some shoes on and grab whatever clothes you can, then meet me down in the workshop. Do it now.”

  He leaves the room almost at a run. I sit disoriented from sleep for a few seconds before the anxiety in his voice registers. Diving into my closet, I grab a small duffle bag and begin to shove dirty clothes in, as well as my boots, leather jacket, and knife. I slip on my running shoes, tie my hair back, and dart out of the room. The pantry door is open, and the rush lights are blazing below as I enter the kitchen. I climb down, closing all doors behind me.

  “What is it?” I ask, reaching the bottom and placing the duffle on the floor by my feet.

  Devlan ignores my question, grabs the item I saw him working on earlier, and shoves it into the satchel from the Refuge. My ears register a low beeping noise that I’ve never heard before. Looking over to a panel on the far right wall I see a relay switch blinking in time with the sound. Devlan turns to me and pushes the satchel into my hands.

  “That’s marker number three,” he says. “Two minutes before they reach marker number two.”

  I stare at him, puzzled.

  Markers? I think, trying to make sense of what he is saying. Markers? Mile markers…My mile markers…My race course.

  “They who? Who’s coming?” I ask.

  The second relay on the wall begins to blink, causing the noise to increase.

  “Collectors…Collectors will be here. They must be in a vehicle to have reached the second marker already.”

  The message finally hits home.

  The course was not just for me to train on, but to also see how long it would take someone to reach the house on foot. Devlan always knew where I was in the course because he had a relay system synced up to the markers, alerting him to my progress. If they have passed marker two it will take them one minute to get here, but that’s on foot, so who knows how soon if they’re in a vehicle.

  Devlan sees that I understand the situation, and rushes past me to a heavy wooden dresser that he keeps his scraps in, next to the ladder. He shoves it with all his strength, sliding it along the wall, revealing a four-foot-high hole. He picks up my duffle bag, turns me around, and shoves me hard into the hole, tossing the duffle bag in behind me. I begin to protest, but he is already moving the dresser back into place. I begin to try to move it out of the way when I stop, hearing pounding from the floorboards above us.

  Devlan didn’t extinguish the rush lights, so the intruders will definitely know someone is below the kitchen. I hear shouts as wood is broken, furniture beginning to crash overhead. In the darkness, I turn around and notice the hole is actually a tunnel. I sit down on the red dirt, leaning against the dresser, trying to hear what is going on. There are more crashes and shouts followed by Devlan yelling. They appear to have made their way into the workshop.

  I want to scream for them to leave when I glimpse small red lights beginning to blink around me in the tunnel.

  Detonators.

  The blinking means they have been activated, and the faster they blink, the closer they are to exploding. I grab my items and begin to crawl as fast as possible down the tunnel, but only make it twenty feet when the first of the detonators goes off, igniting the rest. I curl up in a ball, protecting my head from the debris raining down on me. The tunnel begins to collapse, so I sprint down the shaft, bent over, scraping my back against the ceiling as I go. The smell of fresh air begins to strengthen the farther I go, so I know I’m close to the exit.

  I crawl up a slight incline to reach the surface, spotting my stolen motorbike parked a few feet away, as if expecting my arrival.

  Before taking off, I strap the bags to the back of the bike. The urge to go back and help Devlan is strong, but my gut tells me to keep going, rather than look back to see what is happening to the place I have called home for the last ten years.

  After going a mile, I reach a large mound of rocks. I park the bike at the bottom, rummage through the bag Devlan gave me, and find a pair of night vision goggles. Climbing the mound, I lie on my stomach at the top, and peer out at the landscape south of me.

  The house is ablaze, fire licking every eave, as well as the shed. Three figures in dark clothing are rolling around on the ground, probably injured by the blast. I scan the yard and see two large vehicles parked by the boulders I use for target practice. Adjusting the setting on the goggles I zoom in for a closer look. Two people are standing by the vehicles, hands securely wrapped around weapons I don’t recognize. The intruders are heavily protected, including face masks.

  The house begins to collapse from the fire, but I don’t see any sign of Devlan.

  I know he is lost. My heart feels certain of it.

  I stem the tears that try to escape my eyes.

  Why should I mourn a man who denied me a childhood? A man who robbed me of my mother? I owe him nothing.

  My focus changes to the attackers and their mode of transportation.

  The vehicles are large, dark, and without headlights; however they do have a bluish light emanating from the undercarriage. The wheels are thick rubber, attached by hefty suspensions to accommodate for the rocky desert terrain. One window at the front and four doors, two on either side of the vehicle, are open. I can’t see inside as they are positioned perpendicular to me.

  I’ve counted five people so far, and there are two more at the front of the house. Seven in total that I know of, but how many did they start out with? Their clothing is uniform; they’re all wearing the same black armor, masks, and carrying the same weapons. I keep watching long after they leave, until the fire begins to die down to only smoldering wreckage. The sun will be up soon and I need to find shelter, but I don’t dare move in the darkness, not with the remaining Collectors out there possibly looking for me.

  I slide down to the bottom of the mound, sit in the sand, and lean my head against the cold rock.

  What is wrong with me?

  Anger is all I feel. Devlan was never mean or abusive to me. I should be torn-up inside as he was my only friend in this inhospitable land.

  I’m not sure how long I sit there, but eventually the sun begins to creep over the horizon. Leaning over, I drag the satchel across the ground to assess what Devlan has given me. The first thing I pull out is a Beta gun, then the Levin gun that injured me. I set those aside and continue digging, pulling out a few detonators, one small metal canister, and something I recognize as a computer tablet, with a hand-written note taped to the screen.

  Meg – I have encoded your history into the memory of this device. It will only work if you place your right palm onto the screen. Anything you have ever questioned or wondered about is right here. Don’t let anyone see you with this. Don’t trust anyone you meet. Everyone in Sirain has their own agenda, even if they are from the Wasteland. No one can be trusted. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you in person. Everything I’ve done has been to protect you, please remember that. I’ve always thought of you as my daughter and I’m grateful for our time together. Devlan

  My eyes finally begin to tear up then spill down my cheeks. He never told me how he felt about anything, especially me. I thought of him as my captor, and even jailer, not someone who genuinely
had feelings. Let alone someone who cared about me.

  I place the tablet back into the satchel, pick up the metal canister, and twist off the top. Inside are two syringes of Quarum. I seal the canister and shove everything back into the satchel then walk over to the bike, and dig in my duffle bag until I find my leather jacket, which I slip on. After strapping the satchel across my chest and secure the duffle to the back, I start the bike and head north.

  I stay off of the main road and travel across the desert terrain. Luckily the monsoon season is months off, so the ground is hard and cracked, leaving perfect traction to ride on. I’m not sure where to go, but I keep heading north. Buildings are scarce so it will be hard to locate any useful shelter. The only place I can think of heading to is the Refuge.

  I see the dilapidated roof of the barn about a half-mile away, so I throttle down and approach the area cautiously. There doesn’t seem to be any sign of movement on the property so I turn off the engine, hop off the bike, and approach on foot, concealing my bike behind an enclave of rocks and tumbleweed several hundred feet south of the barn. I quicken my pace and sprint across the open expanse between the barn and the house, open the door, and then gently close it behind me, trying not to make any noise. The living room and bar are empty. I don’t dare call out, just in case a Collector is hiding somewhere on the premises.

  I walk over to the doorway at the back, looking through the small window in the door to see if anyone is in the hallway, but it’s empty so I carefully step through and walk over the planks covering the basement. Rena is down below, going through crates with the red and black emblem. I begin to retreat backwards towards the door when the board I’m on begins to crack. Rena looks up when she hears it and sees me. At first she looks annoyed, but a smile slowly surfaces.

  “I’ll be up in a minute, hon,” she calls out to me.

  I exit into the living room, plopping myself down onto one of the broken couches. My eyes begin to get heavy, so I lay my head down onto the arm, falling asleep.

  At some point I feel the weight of a blanket on me, so I wrap myself up further into it and lie fully extended on the couch, going back to sleep. My nap is restless, full of nightmares. Collectors oozing out of the walls, coming up through the floorboards, reaching for me, grabbing at my arms as I try to run. At last I’m caught, bound, and dragged through the desert. I lie there waiting for the inevitable. My heart pounds as I’m secured to a boulder, watching as a Collector stands feet in front of me, aims a Levin gun and fires, causing my body to explode into a dozen pieces.

  I bolt upright, sweat drenching my clothes and the blanket. As I’m removing my jacket, I look around noticing that Rena is tending bar - though no one is around. I flop back down on the couch, rubbing my forehead as I try to erase the nightmare, along with the headache that is beginning to form.

  “I wasn’t sure you were ever going to open your eyes,” Rena says as she walks over to me with a tall glass of liquid. I sit up as she hands it to me. The water is warm, but I don’t mind. She sits on the couch opposite mine, watching me. “You look like hell, girl.”

  I try my best not to break down since Devlan warned me not to trust anyone. I do tell her my name as I didn’t mention it on our first visit, then about Devlan’s death, the Collectors, and that I didn’t know where to go next. She gestures towards my right arm and the sleeve. I hesitate for only an instant, but explain that I was burned by the fire at the house. This seems to satisfy her, as that’s the only question she asks.

  “You can stay in the barn for now. There’s a mattress up in the hayloft, a shower in one of the old horse stalls, and you can keep your bike in there as well. The barn is sturdier than it looks and no one ever goes in there.”

  I stand up, Rena does the same, and I walk out of the front door as she goes to the back room to make me something to eat after I tell her I can’t remember when I last ate. I find my bike where I left it, walk it into the barn, and park it into one of the eight stalls that line the walls of the structure. I find the ladder for the loft, hoist both the duffle and satchel over my shoulders, then climb up.

  The mattress Rena was referring to is just several blankets sewn together, with bits of tuft sticking out of the seams. I set my bags down and drag several hay bales over from the other side, lining them up between the mattress and wooden railing so I have some cover in case anyone decides to wander in. The position of the mattress allows me a perfect vantage point to see the drive into the Refuge. I will be able to see anyone who enters or exits, if they use the drive. I put the duffle bag at the head of the mattress to use as a pillow and remove both guns from the satchel, stashing them in-between the hay bales.

  Hearing movement below me, I reach for one of the guns and look down to see Rena holding a plate of food in one hand, and blankets and towels in the other. I descend the ladder and meet her in the center of the building.

  “The shower is over in that stall,” she says, pointing to the last stall on the left. “It’s not much, but the water runs. Here are a couple of towels and that blanket you used on the couch, along with an additional one. It can get cold out here at night. The only one here during the night-time is Terrance, and he sleeps in the bedroom at the northwest corner of the house. Let me know if you need anything else before I leave, which will be in about two hours.”

  She hands me the plate, blankets, and towels. As she turns to go I ask her about the mattress up in the loft and why it’s there.

  “My brother used to spend the night here. This is his place, but I haven’t seen him in years. He went out on a raid…and never came back.” Her face contorts as a memory takes hold.

  I thank her as she quickly exits, holding back tears. Sitting down on the mattress and covering my lap with the blanket, I slowly eat my sandwiches - loaded with peanut butter. Once I have consumed about half of them, I grab a tank top and a pair of shorts then head back down the ladder to take a shower.

  The floor of the stall is stained concrete, not hay like the rest of the barn. A makeshift shelf hangs precariously by the showerhead, with an old bar of soap and nothing else. There’s no shower curtain, so anyone who walks in will see me naked, but I’m too ready for a shower to care. I spot a broken mirror on the opposite wall, and take a quick glimpse of myself in the reflection, noticing the black and brown smudges all over my face, and my hair sticking up in spots, with bits of debris clinging to my scalp.

  I shed my clothes with the exception of the covering on my arm, place the towels I’d picked up from the floor over the railing of the stall, turn the knob, and wait several minutes until the brown water that first comes out turns clear. My head hangs down as I stand under the cold trickle with my eyes closed. I turn and reach for the bar of soap, washing the layers of crud off before using it, then clean every inch of my body several times over, causing my skin to turn pink and raw from the vigorous scrubbing. I use the soap on my hair since I don’t have anything else, and pick out small bits of earth and wood. I even wash the covering on my arm, going gently over the area.

  I shut off the tap, wrap myself up in the bath towel, and use my fingers to comb through my hair. After I’m dried off thoroughly, I put the newer clothes on even though they’re dirty, drape the towels over the rail to dry, then wander from stall to stall, looking for whatever I can find that might be of some use. Several stalls have hay bales; in another I find a washboard and tub, which I drag over to the shower and then go rummaging for some soap to wash my clothes only to come up empty. I climb back up the ladder with the blanket that had fallen earlier and finish off my sandwiches.

  When the food is all consumed, I take the plate and head back to the house. Terrance is standing behind the bar when I walk in. He downs a small shot of liquid before motioning me over. He pours me a shot of Tequila and another one for himself, picks up his glass gesturing for me to do the same, and we drink. He smiles at me, takes my plate, and goes out through the back door. Rena walks out a few minutes later with two crates. I grab one from
her shaky grasp and place it on top of the bar as she sets hers down next to mine, plops down on a stool, and lets out a sigh.

  “Thanks, that was heavy. So, you’re settled in?”

  “Yes, but I need to wash my clothes. I found a washboard and tub, but no laundry soap. Do you have any?”

  “Let me go ask Terrance what we have in stock.” Rena leaves, returning a few minutes later with a small box of powered detergent. “You’re in luck, this is his last one.”

  “Thanks,” I say, as I take the box from her. “How does he get more?”

  “Oh, he has his ways,” she replies with a sly smile and wink. “Well, I’m going to be heading out soon. Do you need anything before I go?”

  I shake my head in reply.

  “Well if you do, Terrance is here, but be careful not to startle him as he sleeps with a knife under his pillow.”

  “Thanks for the warning. Do you need help with these?” I ask, pointing to the two crates.

  “No, those are for Quin. He’ll be here in about an hour to pick them up.”

  I thank her again for the soap and leave since I don’t want to be around when Quin shows up, especially if he is looking for payback from yesterday.

  After scrubbing everything as best I can, I drag the few garments I managed to toss into my duffle bag over the railings to let them dry. Luckily, today is an exceptionally hot day so they dry rather quickly. I repack them, clean up my mess, and go back up to my little den to look at the tablet before it gets too dark outside.

  I lean my back against the wall, bend my legs up so I can rest the tablet on my thighs, place my right palm on the screen, and watch as the screen turns blue to scan my print…then it goes black. I place my palm on the device again, but it remains off, so I toss it to the end of the mattress, frustrated. My instinct is to drop it over the rail and onto the barn floor below, but Devlan left it for me to use, so there has to be a reason behind it.