Wasteland

by Ann Bakshis

  My heart begins to race as I look around to see if there are any more similar items, which there are, about every five feet. I race back towards the ladder, counting the number of devices. There are forty blinking detonators, which means there have to be more than two hundred, covering the entire top deck of the shuttle.

  “Quin,” I shout before my feet even hit the floor of the cargo area. “Quin!”

  He emerges from behind a stack of crates, looking puzzled.

  “We have to get out of here,” I say, as I frantically begin looking for the door that we entered through.

  “We’ll be in Acheron in ten minutes,” Quin says, as he struggles to extract his rucksack, caught on the edge of a crate.

  “We don’t have ten minutes. The entire top floor is rigged with detonators, we need to go now.” I find the door behind a crate that must have slid in transit. Shoving it away, I yank on the handle, but it doesn’t give.

  “It’s pressure-sealed,” Quin utters, as he slings his now freed rucksack over his shoulder. “We’re moving too fast, there’s no way for us to get off.”

  The shuttle jerks violently before coming to a complete stop as the first round of explosions go off. Crates topple onto us as we are thrown to the ground. Quin removes them as another set go off. We are at the back of the shuttle, so we only have a matter of moments before the set over our heads detonates. Quin grabs the Levin gun and shoots the handle on the door. We push the door open, nearly falling out of it. I thought we would be on the ground like the shuttles are in Tyre, but we’re at least a hundred feet above a body of water.

  “Now what, Meg?”

  “We have to jump.”

  “Are you nuts? The fall will kill us!”

  “We don’t have any choice,” I scream, as another round of explosions shake the cars. The air outside the door is acrid, large plumes of smoke pass by. I lean out the door to see where we are in comparison to the last set of detonators. “There is only one more section to go before we blow.”

  We’re halfway out when the detonators go off. I see the blast before I hear it.

  The heat ignites the air in my lungs as I’m thrown out the door. I tumble through the air, not able to tell which way is up, managing to swing my legs over my head as I see the water rushing towards me. I brace for the pain to come. At this height, the water will be like hitting cement. I brace for the impact – as well as I can – but the sheer force of the impact knocks me senseless, and causes me to immediately sink down into the cold. My head begins to cloud over with pain as I continue to descend. Somehow, I’m still conscious enough to strip off my sweater, socks and shoes, which cause me to rise.

  I break the surface and see debris lay scattered all over the surface of the water. I find a crate top and cling to it in order to stay afloat, then look up to see the smoldering wreckage of the shuttle. Flames and smoke fill the sky as portions of the shuttle still cling to the rail. I look around for Quin, but all I see are chunks of metal and wood. I try to call out his name, but my voice is too dry from the heat and smoke to make a sound.

  I kick through the water, holding onto the crate lid, and finally spot Quin a few feet to my right. He swims over to me, grabbing onto the crate. We float along the rail line, chasing it back from where we had come. It takes some time, but finally we see the shore. The lake bed meets our feet and we walk the remainder of the way onto land, then sit and take a moment, trying to determine our next move.

  “What do we do now?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” Quin responds.

  We move further down the beach, trying to put some distance between us and the shuttle. Quin plops down on the sand, too exhausted to move. I sit next to him, leaning my head against his shoulder. He puts his arm around me, holding me tightly.

  A crunching noise behind us gets my attention. I look up and notice a pair of brown eyes staring at us from behind the foliage that lines the back of the beach. I jab Quin with my elbow, then point to the eyes, which blink once then disappear. We get up and walk over to where we saw them. I hear the buzzing of electricity as we get to the trees and bushes. Quin pushes back several of the branches, revealing a rusted metal fence, barely alive with energy. Much of the barrier has been swallowed up by the vegetation; pieces are embedded within tree trunks and limbs. The current is probably not as strong as it once was.

  “How did you get on that side of the fence?” A small voice whispers.

  I look down and see the brown eyes again.

  “You need to get off the sand before the Regulators catch you. The beach is lined with sensors, so they’re probably on their way.”

  “Can we climb over the fence?” Quin asks, bending down to be at level with the person.

  “Yes. Go that way about ten feet. There is a large tree that has completely enveloped the barrier. Climb that and you can come over. I will meet you there.”

  The eyes vanish as quickly as they appeared.

  We walk along the fence and find the tree. I go first as Quin stands below as a lookout. The branches of the tree are very thick and sturdy. I climb five feet up, swing my leg over onto a branch that is hanging on other side, and climb down. Quin joins me a minute later. The owner of the brown eyes is an elderly woman, severely hunched over. Her long white hair is unkempt, and pulled into a makeshift knot in the middle of her back. The few teeth she has are stained yellow, but she smiles at seeing us, lighting up her sunken face.

  “Come with me,” she whispers, waving her hand as she turns her back and scurries down the dirt path lining the wall.

  She takes us to a small group of homes made of gray clapboard with sagging roofs. The homes are laid out in a circle around a fire pit full of charred logs and branches. Old men and women sit outside on broken concrete steps, some rocking in chairs that look ready to collapse from age. There are about a dozen of these homes, all the same size and in the same condition. I don’t see any Regulators patrolling, and all paths around the area are made of either dirt or mud. Only one trail seems to lead out and down a small hill before disappearing.

  “In here,” she says, as she opens a door to one of the houses.

  I follow, but Quin is hesitant. He seems focused on the people gathering around us, perhaps trying to determine if any of them are dangerous.

  “Go inside, young man,” an elderly fellow says in the same whispered tone. “You don’t want to be caught outside with those things on.” He points to Quin’s clothing, tapping his pants with his stick for a cane. Quin enters the house closing the door behind him.

  The dwelling is cool, and the smell of mildew permeates my nostrils. The room we’re in has a table, two chairs, and a brick stove with burnt food stuck to the grill. Two other women are inside, sitting by the window towards the back of the room. Neither one gets up as we move about, following the old woman as she picks up scraps of rags lying on the floor.

  “You, dear,” the woman says pointing to me, “come with me. Young man, you can go into the back room and change. Darla, get him some clothes from Thomas’ house.” The woman with red hair gets up from her seat and exits while I follow the old woman up a narrow staircase.

  The attic has a low ceiling, cracked flooring, and five mattresses spread out on the floor, three have quilted coverings while the other two are bare.

  “Here,” she says, as she thrusts the rags – remnants of clothing, as it turns out - into my hands. “You can change up here while I get some tea going.” She heads back down the stairs, leaving me alone in the dusty space.

  I take off my top and wring it dry, intending to put it back on later. Then I notice my glove has a nasty tear down the center of the palm. I remove it and stuff it into the pocket of my discarded pants. The material of the rags feels like sackcloth: rough and itchy. I pull the shirt over my head, don the pants, and take down my ponytail using my fingers as a comb to brush through the knots, removing debris as I go. I decide to leave my hair down so it can dry, then head back down stairs.

  Quin is
wearing the same type of clothing as I am, and looks just as uncomfortable. We are both instructed to take a seat at the table while Darla brings us cups of warm liquid that looks like tea, but upon first taste makes my stomach immediately hurt. She along with the other two women drags over the chairs that were sitting by the window and join us. I sip the drink sparingly and notice Quin is doing the same. The old woman seems to have remembered something, gets up, goes towards a cabinet above the sink next to the stove, and returns with a small plate filled with brown wafers. I take one and bite into it, almost chipping my tooth.

  It’s difficult to choke the stuff down, but it’s clear, though, that these people are living on very little, so I thank them for the tea and biscuits, watching their faces light up in happiness.

  “What is this place?” Quin asks, after having finished eating one of the biscuits.

  “We live in a Bejaardes Camp, one mile north of the Factory Borough of Acheron,” Darla answers.

  “What is a Bejaardes Camp?” I ask, setting down my teacup, not being able to swallow any more of the tepid, bitter liquid.

  “It’s housing for the elders of the Boroughs,” the other woman responds in a whisper.

  “Yes, where the High Ruler places us to die.” The anger in Darla’s voice is thick as she pounds the table, causing the cups to rattle.

  “Now, dear, you just need to get used to it here. It’s not so bad.” The old woman gets up and opens the window to let some fresh air in.

  “I don’t want to get used to it, Claire. You and Helen have been here too long; you have forgotten what life is like.”

  “We didn’t have the same upbringing as you did, Darla. It’s not our fault you were banished to the Boroughs from the city all those years ago. This is where people our age live until it’s our time to pass.” Helen gets up from the table and climbs the stairs to the attic. Darla storms out of the house, leaving us with only Claire for company.

  “You will have to forgive Darla; she’s only been with us for a month. She’s not used to the boredom and isolation.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how old is Darla?”

  “I don’t mind at all, dear, but she might,” Claire answers with a smile on her face. “She must be approximately fifty or so, which is pretty old for the Boroughs, but young for the residents of this camp.” Claire pours herself a cup of tea. “Now, let me ask you two a question. Where did you come from?”

  Quin tells her we stowed away on the cargo shuttle to escape the Wasteland and were washed up on the beach after it had exploded. She takes the tale in stride, but I can tell she isn’t completely buying it.

  “Well, it sounds like you two have had one rough day. There is someone I would like you to meet, but first we need to eat. Young man, go outside and see Thomas. He will have you help him prepare the meat for roasting. Young lady, you come with me and we will go out into the garden for some vegetables.”

  Before we leave the house, Claire gives us each a pair of handmade sandals to wear, just like the pair she has on. Once they’re on our feet, Quin goes to the house across the way, while Claire and I walk to the back of the camp and pick food from their garden for supper.

  The meat is barely enough to feed four people, let alone the twenty that live in the camp. Quin and I are each given an extra helping of meat despite our protests, but each resident proudly gives up their portion. We all sit around the fire pit eating and telling stories. No one seems too afraid that Regulators will show up.

  “They don’t bother with us,” Thomas says, putting another log on the fire. “We only see them once a month for our food rations. They don’t consider us much of a threat.” He begins to laugh, which causes the others to laugh too.

  The sun has fully set and the temperature has dropped when everyone begins to wander back to their homes. Quin goes to stay the night with Thomas, while I take one of the empty mattresses in Claire’s house. Helen gives me her quilt to sleep with since she says she is warm, but I see her shake from the dampness that has settled in the attic. I’m about to give the blanket back to her when Claire lies down next to Helen, wrapping her blanket around the both of them. I don’t sleep well, but it’s not due to my surroundings. Helen’s quilt is soft and warm; the mattress is comfortable. The nightmares that keep coming leave me feeling unsettled and disturbed.

  How I long for a night where I don’t dream.

  The following morning, Claire cuts up fruit for us to put in our bowls of oatmeal for breakfast. The stuff tastes like paste, but I know it’s all they have, and we need the sustenance, so Quin and I eat every bite.

  Thomas is to take us into the Boroughs today to meet his friends, Naomi and Jagger. Claire gives me the sack of apples we had picked the day before. I give her a hug; she grips me hard in return.

  “Good luck, Trea.”

  I pull my head up in surprise, as I’d never told her my name.

  I don’t see any monitors around the house, so I doubt they saw the spectacle from Tyre.

  How did she know?

  I catch up to Quin and Thomas at the edge of the camp. We have to walk slowly due to Thomas’ sluggish pace. It takes us a better part of an hour before we are near the gated entrance of the Boroughs. I halt, fearing I will be recognized the minute we’re near the Regulators. Thomas has come prepared. He removes a pair of broken glasses from the inside pocket of his coat. The frames are bent, the lenses chipped, and I can’t see anything properly through them, so Quin props me up against him and I begin to walk with a limp at Thomas’ suggestion, using his cane for emphasis.

  We stop in front of the Regulator’s tower, waiting to be allowed entrance into the Boroughs. The rectangular stone structure rises up three stories, towering over the electric fence that emerges from the wings that extend out in the distance on either side. A gravel road beyond the gate stretches down past lines of broken-down buildings, some spewing black smoke into the air. Several people are walking up the road, some entering the buildings, others continuing on.

  Thomas rings a bell on the gate then stands back as it swings open.

  No one comes out of the tower to greet us, but the gate slowly closes the farther we walk in. I turn back around and see Thomas standing on the other side, tears in his eyes. He smiles, turns around, and begins to walk back to the camp.

  “He’s not coming with us?” I whisper to Quin, as we continue to walk.

  “He can’t, but he’ll be back for us in three days.”

  “How are we going to meet him? They’re not going to let us out.” I say, as we pass under part of the structure connecting the two halves of the tower.

  “He told me where we need to go. It’ll be all right, Meg.”

  I hear voices coming from above us as we walk past the building, so I turn my head skyward.

  Two large screens are affixed on either side of the post, displaying a blurry image. I slide the glasses down my nose so I can see what is being shown. The image is of a shuttle ablaze, smoke billowing skyward as flames shoot out in all directions. In the right hand corner of the screens is a smaller display of a man sitting at a desk, addressing the bystanders who have gathered beside us to watch.

  “As we have reported throughout the night, searchers have only recovered a few remains from the attack on Shuttle Six. This shuttle left Oasis Two early yesterday morning with approximately two hundred Acherons on board. It passed through the checkpoint around two yesterday afternoon with a dozen or so passengers disembarking.”

  The larger image changes to security footage from the checkpoint showing people getting off of a shuttle, as well as several Regulators inspecting the undercarriage and interior.

  “The Superior of Transportation and the Superior of Safety met with the High Ruler late last night to discuss possible motives behind this attack. It’s believed this act of violence was orchestrated by none other than Aldus Vladim, High Ruler of Tyre.”

  “They’re nuts!” I practically scream.

  People turn to look at m
e, surprised by my outburst. Quin drags me away as the story begins to repeat and the images flash back to the smoldering wreckage.

  “Don’t say stuff like that too loudly,” he says, scolding me.

  “There was no one on that shuttle except for us and it was their own Regulators that placed the detonators inside. Why would they lie about their own people being killed when they weren’t even there?”

  “Easy, Meg, Acheron is trying to start a war with Tyre.”

  “Why? What could that possibly gain for them?”

  “Us,” he whispers.

  He side-steps and guides me between two warehouses. I hear machines inside, creating what, I don’t know.

  “Think about it…Vladim broadcasted to Acheron the existence of the Antaeans. When you escaped, Acheron saw it as an opportunity.”

  “An opportunity for what?”

  “Hey…you two. Get a move on back to your homes.” We turn and see a Regulator standing a few feet away, his hands on his hips. “No work today, so go back to your homes.”

  “Yes, sir, we were just heading that way.” Quin replies, as I push the glasses back up my nose and lean on Thomas’ cane.

  “Get going then.”

  We walk past the Regulator and continue on down the road, under another Regulator building expanse, turn right, and start to head towards what looks to be a ravine. As we get closer, I notice a small wooden bridge spanning the gully. It doesn’t look sturdy enough to hold a great deal of weight. I look down into the chasm as we slowly cross the bridge and notice it’s partly full of water; the channel’s edges have been carved out by a great force. This must have been a river at one time, feeding whatever city once stood here.

  The water looks slightly green in color and is moving sluggishly north. Three boats move against the current, determined to make their destination. One boat floats under us, then begins to veer to the left and down another smaller channel, metal doors sealing the boat into a box. It begins to rise as water passes from one part of the channel to another. Slowly the boat is moved forward, eventually exiting out onto the lake, where I lose sight of it.