Wasteland

by Ann Bakshis

  The puttering of an engine breaks the silence.

  Rolling over, I crawl closer to the opening in order to see who’s arrived. Quin jumps down from the driver’s side of a large truck, moving a little too well for someone who had his knee blown out yesterday. He goes into the house and comes back out seconds later with both crates in one arm. He sets them down in the bed of the truck, then goes back inside for a much longer stint, finally emerging with Terrance in tow. The two hop into the cab of the truck and head out. I’m half tempted to jump on my bike and follow them, but just as I’m staring at my gear, thinking about getting dressed, the tablet begins to ping.

  I crawl to the end of the mattress and lay on my stomach as the screen goes from blue to green to gray. On the side of the thin device a small port opens, revealing a pair of headphones. I pull them out and attach them to my ears. The voice starts speaking as a faded picture of a little girl appears on the screen.

  The little girl is me.

  “Meg, I’m sorry I’m not there to tell you in person. This tablet is programmed to activate every evening for five days just before dusk, but you must place your palm on the screen five minutes before or it will not turn on until the following evening. This is a security precaution to protect the information on this device from being read by anyone other than you. Also, the messages will only last for ten minutes.”

  The screen moves from my picture to another of flags covered in stars, stripes and other insignia of various colors, burning.

  “The country was at war with itself, class against class. The wars raged on for decades. Tens of thousands died. Those who survived were left without homes, food, or social structure. Many tried to take control, who then lost to others who had greater power or more influence. A century passed with more wars and lives lost. After a tumultuous battle, the decimated land of Sirain was divided up into three cities: Nuceira, Acheron, and Tyre.”

  The screen shifts to a map displaying each city in its own quadrant: Tyre past a ridge of mountains to the West, Acheron sitting amongst a chain of lakes to the Northeast, and Nuceira on a peninsula surrounded by a large mass of open water to the South. The Wasteland sits in the center, surrounded on all sides by the cities and their outlying Boroughs.

  “Workers were scarce, so the cities used their armies to collect small towns that had escaped the carnage of battle. One particularly large tent city, called Asphodel, had the largest causalities from the cities’ raids; the only recorded incident where Tyre infiltrated Acheron land. Each city sent in spies or hired criminals to cause chaos and unrest in the others’ territory.”

  The map lights up, displaying different colors for each region, showing just how small the Wasteland actually is, and emphasizing that Tyre has the largest mass of land compared to Acheron and Nuceira.

  “The only time the cities banded together was to protect the entire land from raiders determined to destroy Sirain; however the High Rulers in each city didn’t relish the idea of having their own citizens going off to fight, so they decided to send workers who lived in the Boroughs and outlying villages off to battle. When the Rulers realized they were losing the conflict because of the inadequacy of their troops, they decided to design them instead. They wanted an army of super soldiers.”

  The image changes to a picture of a man and a woman wearing gray uniforms, their muscles bulging in the tight material.

  “The cities knew they needed a defense against the hostile forces. At first they argued about who would donate the researchers to create the soldiers, then they argued about which city would house the facilities needed. It took years for a compromise to be reached.”

  The screen goes blank.

  I remove the headphones and they retract back into the tablet. Lying in my spot, I wonder what this could possibly have to do with me. My head begins to hurt and I grow tired, so I store the tablet between the two hay bales by my head, lie down, and watch through the large hole in the barn’s roof as the sun sets and the stars start to shine. The temperature begins to drop, so I grab both blankets, wrap myself up, and fall asleep.

  Chapter 4

  My sleeping is restless.

  The nightmares tonight contain people without faces falling dead in front of me as I dodge bombs that drop out of the sky. I’m glad it’s not my usual reoccurring nightmare, but it still disturbs me. A bomb falls next to me, but doesn’t detonate. Instead it makes a beeping sound that doesn’t stop. Through the haze of waking up, I realize the beeping noise is coming from outside my dreams, so I open my eyes, seeing only darkness. The beeping sounds again, this time outside the barn. Crawling closer to the opening, I peer out of the corner looking for whatever is making the noise.

  The car I encountered the other day is sitting just outside the house. One occupant, a male, is honking the horn of the car while another, a female, is banging frantically on the front door. Scanning the area, I don’t see anyone else on the premises. I dig through the satchel and pull out the night vision goggles. As I slip them on, the darkness turns to daylight. I look far into the distance and see only desert. Terrance must not be back yet, or he is ignoring the pleas of the couple.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” the driver pleads.

  “No, we need help. Someone should be here,” the woman cries.

  The man gets out of the car, walks over to the young frightened woman, and drags her back inside. She is shrieking, fighting for her freedom, but eventually succumbs and crumples in the man’s arms, whimpering. He holds her tightly, stroking her hair trying to comfort her. The two get back into the car and head up the road out of the Refuge.

  They don’t get far.

  I lie there, too terrified to move, as two battered trucks cut-off the car, nearly causing it to crash into a tall cactus. The car backs up, but one of the trucks has anticipated the move and drives behind the vehicle, blocking all means of escape. Two men exit each truck, reaching the car at the same time. One set goes for the driver’s door, the other for the passenger’s. The driver is dragged out of the car and shoved to the ground. He stands up and tries to fight off his assailants while the woman is removed by her hair as she shouts, flailing her arms wildly, hitting one of the offenders in the nose.

  “No!” she screams at the top of her lungs.

  Her mate hears her, tries to dive over the hood of the car, but is immediately brought down with a kick to the knees. The woman is dragged around the vehicle to where her friend lies writhing on the ground. She tries to go to him, but the two holding her restrain her movements, forcing her to stay standing. The tall bulky man from the other group pulls a weapon from his waistband, aiming it at the driver’s head. I notice it’s a Levin gun, so I remove the goggles and crouch into a ball under the window as the man fires. The girl screams, an agonized sound that rips at my core.

  I can only imagine the horror she is seeing. I’m too paralyzed to go to her aid.

  I try and block the images from my mind as I hear her continued cries, which slowly fade. I get up and run quickly down the hay loft to the opposite corner and retch, not stopping until I have nothing left in my stomach. I walk back to the window, put the goggles back on, and see that the car and the body have been cleaned up.

  Evidence of the incident no longer exists.

  I store the goggles back into the satchel, crawl under my blankets, and try to block the world out a little longer, but instead I toss and turn. Sleep doesn’t want to come. The woman’s tormented cries still echo in my ears.

  Nothing frightens me, except the idea of being taken. I guess it stems from when I was younger, but I can’t be positive. I hate myself for not going out to help the woman, but at the same time I know that even with my training, with the odds against me like that, I probably couldn’t have saved her or her friend.

  Finally giving up on sleep after two hours, I walk down the ladder and close the doors to the barn since they had been left open, go back to the ladder, and begin doing pull-ups.

  Feeling my muscles
burn tells me I’m still alive.

  Even as my biceps start aching after a half hour, I don’t stop. A few splinters find their way into my palm, but I don’t quit, not until my fingers begin to bleed.

  I wash only my hands under the showerhead, splinters rising to the surface as my skin heals. I know the sun will be up soon, so I go back up to the loft and change into a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and my running shoes. I leave through the back door of the barn, beginning a timer in my head: three miles, five minutes. However, not knowing the terrain makes my run harder. I get back to the barn after seven minutes and start the timer again. I continue to run doing a continuous loop until the sun has broken above the horizon, only stopping a little after dawn as I run up the porch of the Refuge, walk in, and see Rena counting boxes of goods on the counter of the bar.

  “You had me a little worried,” she says, as I walk towards her. “I went into the barn to check on you and you weren’t there.”

  “Sorry,” I reply, “old habits die hard.”

  “Terrance is looking for you. He’s back in the kitchen. He made you breakfast.”

  I go through the back door and walk over the planks, the smell of cooking food wafting down the hall. The kitchen consists of a small wooden table, four identical chairs, each with a missing piece, and two large crates stacked on top of each other creating a makeshift counter. Terrance is currently bent over a hot plate.

  He smiles when he sees me and gestures for me to sit down. I walk around to the other side of the table so I have a clear view of the entrance. He fills three plates with scrambled eggs, bacon, and almost burnt toast. He places a plate in front of me, reaches into one of the crates and removes silverware. He sets the other two plates down on the table, and as if on cue, Rena walks in and sits across from me.

  “Terrance,” she says, as she picks up her fork, “you have out-done yourself again.”

  He smiles, turning slightly pink, then takes a seat and we eat.

  The eggs have to be fresh. I’ve never tasted anything so wonderful before. The bread is pretty fresh too, and the bacon is crisp. As we eat, I debate whether or not to mention the incident I had witnessed, but they haven’t said anything. So I decide against it. I insist on cleaning up, and once Rena and Terrance are done I take their plates and utensils, walk down the hall, and wash them in the sink in the bathroom. It takes a while since the water coming out of the faucet is only a dribble. I go back to the kitchen and place the items in the open crate.

  “Why don’t you get changed and you can help me sort out the orders for the day,” Rena says, as she wipes down the hot plate.

  Back at the barn I take a quick shower, throw on a pair of denim shorts, and a black top with flames on the front. I put on my boots and slide the knife down inside, then return to the house just as Rena is coming out from the back. She asks me to pick up one of the boxes from the bar’s counter and take it to the back for Terrance, who is in the storage room. I lift the box, expecting it to be light, when in fact it’s quite heavy, forcing me to juggle it between my arms.

  Terrance, clipboard in hand, is marking things down as he goes between the rows in the small room. Setting the clipboard down, he takes the box from my arms and points to the board, indicating for me to pick up where he left off. I look down at the laundry list of items, noticing that some of them are electronics such as bulbs, clocks, and small radios. Walking up and down the aisles, I check the quantities of each item, noticing no food items.

  I hand the clipboard back to Terrance when I finish, only to be handed a pack of notecards, each containing a single name with a list. He points to a stack of empty boxes that have the bizarre red and black emblem, then motions for me to put the items listed into the boxes. It takes me about an hour to fill all orders I have in hand. Showing Terrance I’m done, he points down below his feet, indicating to take the cards and boxes down to the cellar.

  I have no idea how to get down there, so Terrance guides me through the hall down to the kitchen, where he slides a stack of crates away from the far wall, revealing a door. I open it and see a staircase leading down. Instead of hauling every single box down with me, I stack them in the kitchen, take an empty crate that is hiding under the kitchen table, and head downstairs with my note cards. There isn’t much light and I almost fall a couple of times since several of the steps are loose.

  Rena has two strings of lights burning when I get down to the cellar, but they aren’t very bright. We work as a team putting the rest of the orders together. A majority of the items have the red and black symbol, but a few have a blue and gold emblem. I can’t make it out either as it blurs the way the other does, so I ask Rena if the symbols are supposed to be blurry.

  “Yes, of course,” she responds, seemingly puzzled by my question.

  I continue to stare at her waiting for a further explanation.

  She realizes I know nothing about these symbols, so she explains. “The red and black emblem is from the city Tyre. It’s a black bull standing on a red cape that is still attached to his enslaver, who is being crushed under the bull’s hooves. The blue and gold items are from Acheron. It’s the symbol of a bird with gold feathers against a dark blue background.”

  Rena reaches into her pocket and extracts a small, round lens. She holds it over one of the crates and the image comes into focus.

  “The cities do this to prevent counterfeiting, especially if it’s a rival city trying to flood the Boroughs with rotten or worthless goods.” Rena holds the glass over another symbol and it, too, jumps into focus.

  “If all the cities use the same technique, couldn’t they still counterfeit each other’s items?”

  “They’ve tried, but each city embeds their own code into the ink. Only a Regulator’s glass can reveal the real merchandise. If the code is slightly off, the image will have blurry edges or lines, then they know it’s counterfeit.”

  “Regulators?”

  “They’re in charge of law and order around the cities as well as the Boroughs. They make sure all goods going in and out of the cities are genuine, as well as enforce the laws.”

  Having never heard of such people, I begin to get concerned about what else Devlan didn’t disclose to me.

  Rena and I continue putting the orders together and when we’re done with each box Terrance comes and removes it. We take a water break shortly after noon. The cellar is uncomfortably warm, so Rena brings us drinks down from the bar. Terrance doesn’t seem to want to take a break, and continues to fill orders.

  “Rena,” I begin, just after Terrance scurries above our heads, “how come Terrance doesn’t speak?”

  A pained look crosses her face as she swallows the rest of her water. She looks at the planks above our heads, making sure Terrance isn’t within earshot.

  “He used to work in a paint factory in the Industrial Borough of Acheron. There was a huge fire there well over ten years ago. Hundreds perished. Those who survived were left scarred or deformed. Terrance’s vocal chords were heavily singed, and his lungs polluted with chemicals. The doctors in Acheron left him for dead, but he’s still here. He appeared in the Wasteland about a year after the fire. My brother found him wandering on the outskirts and brought him here. He’s never left, except once.”

  “When was that?”

  “To go look for my brother after he was taken by Collectors.”

  I’m regretting my questions, but Rena tells me not to worry about it.

  We finish the orders around two. I carry the last of the boxes into the living room where Terrance has the rest stacked. He waves me over to the bar, pours out two shots of Tequila, and we drink in unison.

  I’m beginning to like this ritual of ours.

  Terrance is in the process of setting up another round of shots when Quin makes his very loud entrance. Our eyes meet and I can feel myself reaching down towards my boot for the knife. Quin must have sensed my motives since he also begins reaching for a weapon that he has holstered across his back.

  �
��Quin,” Rena says, trying to diffuse the sudden tension in the room. “These are ready to go into your truck for deliveries whenever you and Terrance are ready.”

  Quin smiles at me, but his eyes display hatred.

  “Sure Rena. Come on, Terrance,” he gestures towards the door. Terrance puts the bottle back on the shelf behind him and follows Quin out to the porch.

  The two of them load the truck quickly and leave.

  I excuse myself and walk out to the barn where I climb up the ladder, remove the Beta gun and place it into my waistband, hop on my motorbike, and drive down the path I ran in the morning. I go until the Refuge is well behind me. The anger in me seems to be propelling me forward. Stopping about an hour later I notice how exhausting the heat is and how I don’t have anything to drink. The Tequila is playing havoc with my body as I become lightheaded, causing me to immediately sit down in the middle of nowhere.

  I remove the sleeve from my arm, wanting another glimpse of the injury that I haven’t fully looked at in two days. The stream up my arm has thinned, but is still bright and I’m able to make out small waves rolling back and forth colliding with each other, though I don’t feel anything. Reaching behind me, I grab the gun, which seems to hum in the palm of my right hand. I clutch the grip, aiming it at a cactus twenty feet away, and watch as the energy that seems to be alive in my arm intensifies. A tingling sensation pulses up and down every ligament, muscle, blood vessel, and bone in my arm. I squeeze the trigger and put holes into the cactus till all that is left are several large lumps, then I strap the sleeve back onto my arm, re-secure the gun, and drive off going farther into the unknown.

  I finally stop when I come upon a high wire fence with warning signs hanging precariously on the posts, warning of possible electrocution from high voltage. I stop the bike just a few feet away, hearing the hum of the current as it flows along the metal mesh. The barrier, which goes on for miles, stands twenty feet tall, with razor wire coiled several feet thick at the top. On the other side of the fence, about a hundred yards away, stand tall white support columns that are placed every ten feet down the length of the fence. I look up and see the supports are attached to a set of rails. A moment later, a shuttle speeds down the rail, probably loaded down with passengers. I want to sit longer and see if another one comes by, but my thirst returns, so I turn the bike around and head back to the Refuge.