Wanderers of the Silent Season (Heartbeat of the World Book 2)

by T. Wyse

  “Not quite triumph, but certainly the warrior’s way.” Wolf offered a growling chuckle.

  “Fine. Since I’ve entertained you, how about you entertain me?” He couldn’t find so much as the strength to turn his head and glare at the beast. Instead he found words, and for their part, they came out clear enough.

  “Why Glalih, but not the trees? Why some of the houses, but not the town?” he muttered, his mouth slowing from the clinging berries. There was a lull of silence as the words fell, and Kechua found himself sneering, another excuse not to speak; not to share any wisdom.

  “Age?” To his surprise, Wolf conceded, orbiting around the edge of the crater. “The trees were very aged creatures.”

  This cooled the burning in his heart a little at least. “The trailers in Glalih were older than me, and the forest was ageless. At least, everyone said so,” Kechua bit with annoyance, tearing the wrapper of one of the ration bars. He rocked back and forth, not letting his legs fall completely into numbness. He would not rest. “When I listened; really listened to the earth in Glalih’s forest, I could hear the ringing of ceremony within the woods deep down in the mountain’s rocks.”

  “The season takes and leaves what it wills. It is a thing of silly fancy, not worth lingering on,” he growled with a subdued annoyance. “Be glad perhaps that your forest was not brought here, else its secrets be privy to the unworthy; else it be violated by those seeking firewood.”

  There was the faintest hint of something in the tone; a half-truth used so many times, it came from a predictable place within the creature’s words. Kechua rocked forward, forcing his legs to fold. The cuts no longer stretched open as he moved.

  He let his legs rest a moment, finishing the mealy bar. It tasted faintly of tea and chocolate, but a low murky oil hung in his throat worse than the berries. Finished, he folded the wrapper carefully and replaced it in the pack.

  Gently testing his legs, he ensured the two knives slept firmly in their sheaths. He grew bolder, with his rhythmic swaying in place, until his foot made a piercing protest and forced him to hobble back to the crater.

  In the end, he needed the staff’s aid to bring himself to stand with the pack on his back. Both legs ached and stung in protest as he left the crater, leaving the final trace of the boy he had followed.

  “The dwellings are the other way, boy,” Wolf muttered from behind. The staff agreed, giving a dowsing tug backwards.

  Kechua kept his feet alive, the sands gulping at his heels but not stopping him. “And it went that way,” he replied, a grumbling grit in his throat from the protein bar. He spat into the painted blob of red sand as he passed. “That’s where I’m going.”

  “Pushing ahead is not dull, but you will find more excitement than you want if you get caught in the night,” Wolf murmured, pacing beside the boy. His head twisted so the slitted eye shone above him like a bloody crescent moon.

  “Why? Does your flimsy oath break the moment the sun is gone, oh creature of dark and fear?” Kechua spat into the clear brown sand.

  “No. New siblings wait for the dark to fall,” rumbled the creature. The crescent withdrew, leaving the redness of the fading sun glaring in Kechua’s eyes.

  He walked in silence, fighting his throbbing legs. With each step, they grew less painful and wearier, but he never let his rhythm slip. It only slowed in pace to rest, only to rise again.

  “Something bothers me,” he said to the emptiness in front of him. “I wonder if you’ll share some more of that trickling wisdom.”

  “I promise nothing, but do tell,” came a muttered snarl from behind.

  “We passed through a town and a forest. We’ve been walking what seems like a long time, and I am hardly an expert, but even I know there are no towns so close to Glalih. It should be desert and cliffs for days. The gas station may not have considered Glalih as a ‘real’ spot, so maybe not quite one hundred miles away. Even so, I don’t think I would have reached it so soon, even on my best day.”

  He kept his creeping pace, the sun forcing his eyes to his feet. “I don’t know where we are, actually. Even if the houses had a town name, I wouldn’t know.” He sighed, losing himself in the rhythmic wobbling waves of the rising layers of dust frothing forth from his footsteps. “I wasn’t sure about it before, but even Glalih was warped, nudged in like someone punched at its heart and everything gathered up.”

  “Perhaps it is less cluttered; purer. Cleanse the nonsense and noise away, and let the predators and prey meet.” Wolf chuckled darkly.

  Kechua sank, allowing himself a pause to break the hypnosis of the brown smoke about his feet. He leaned on the staff, trying to anchor himself, and slung himself reluctantly forward, only to stumble again.

  On the horizon, coming out from the blinding glare of the lowering sun, a flat black shape grew into view, beckoning him forward.

  “Well, it’s something. Think we can make it?” he asked the staff. He thrusted himself out of the swallowing earth and found more energy in his pace, letting him almost skip above the surface of the sands. The staff replied with a joyous hum, and it cut through the air and anchored his arm with renewed energy.

  The shape rose and sank down the middle, looking like some square-headed cat frozen mid-stretch, its tail coiled around an orb of flame. Black changed slowly to grey, revealing itself to be patterned brickwork of a building, which only grew as he approached. The fading sunlight lit a glass dome to his right, explaining the illusion of the flame-touched tail.

  The jagged arch was cut out of a once-straight and quite normally-shaped building. At the lowest arc of the removed chunk, the ruined grey brick barely stood taller than a half-hearted garden fence, though it rose on an abrupt stepped curve on either side.

  The building, or complex—as it wouldn’t have fit within the face of Glalih—grew before him without offering him a door. Large windows, thatched with diamondine patterns, cast glances into dark, silent rooms. Above the ruined wall, he spied books resting upon large tables. The angle even gave him the glimpse of a teacher’s board, the scrawled half-finished theorems and declarations dancing in the unsure light. The memory of some clinging plant reached from the ground, present only in the bleached and vague outline remaining etched into the brick.

  With the building an arm’s length away, it towered above him, reaching to the sky and horizon, though both sides ended with fattened nubs. He found no hint of formal doorways and followed the wall, hoping to find a surer footing so he wouldn’t need to shed his pack to ascend.

  The roof presented itself a straight-lined temple shape, stopping suddenly, with a jagged almost tearing rip to the parting. The absent section looked as if some giant had leaned over to take a greedy taste, only to find it not appetizing enough for a second bite. Backing this absurd thought were the many mason bricks knocked loose and scattered in an explosive arc around the hole. The furthest of them rested perhaps fifty feet away, having traced sliding paths into the earth in their flight.

  Kechua forced his weary and battered legs over the wall. The shortest section was as tall as his neck, but the bricking remained loose enough to let him scramble up slowly. He slipped onto the hard floor, his pack straining his knees to a near buckle as the lingering touch of the sand coughed upwards and from his body.

  The moment his feet landed, a trembling buzz coiled through the floor and into his aching muscle. A tickle at first, it pulsed slow and interwove with the pain, growing until it wrapped around his chest and forced him to shake its grip. The rhythmic threads meshed into a tapestry of a thousand pools, each tugging at him to pay heed to their nagging song.

  Separate desks huddled around the front of the classroom; a looser smattering of them in the back. Kechua found no shattered brickwork more than a few inches from the wall, though the classroom’s ceiling was absent and the whiteboard severed neatly in a curve, which aligned with the outside wall.

  Notebooks lay open on the desk, pencils and pens waiting. The podium at the front lay on i
ts side, the papers spilled as if trying to flee above the shortened wall. He strode slowly about the room, trying to see some sign of life, trying to filter through the faded times; trying to find the echoes of new footsteps. The dimming light fought his eyes, but the floor below fought him even more.

  For a brief period, years ago, Anah owned a radio she had proudly saved for. In the end, she could only hear the faintest hints of music drowned out by a chaotic buzz. The marching feet oozing forth—from every inch of the floor below—was like the buzz, so overwhelming he couldn’t quite make out any recent activity, if there even was any to hear.

  He stepped through the door, wobbling on it briefly, and the rhythm of the flowing feet within the hall washed over him like white-foamed river rapids. He held onto the doorway, gripping it desperately as his exhausted mind whirled at the edge of that gravity. It was no worse than the feeling of the screaming earth at the hands of mining machines; closer, but something he could endure.

  Red eyes glared at him from the opposite end of the building, the growing dark cloaking him in black. The outer wall opposite his entry point had a much stubbier wall remaining, leaving only half-bricked fragments between the new classroom and the silted earth beyond.

  He shed the pack against the doorway, taking the obsidian knife at his side to lean down, keeping half an eye on the hulking beast before him. A quick wipe of his hand against the floor confirmed his unsure eyes.

  “Dirt.” He followed the tracked path out and into the soil beyond. Dark imprints of feet led into the growing shade. He allowed himself the quiet relief of stepping back, into the silent soil, and gently placed his palm against one of the imprints.

  “What say you then?” the voice grumbled.

  “New footsteps, fresher than the tracks from the station.” Something bothered him, something drawing him more to the earth below. “The bricks are here too, but . . . they’re more recent,” he muttered, retrieving his arm. He felt the bricks clash against the pattern, loud thuds on the earth as they fell, constrained timing the only rhythm within them. They had all fallen quickly from a single event.

  “The bricks fell after the ‘Season’ began. Do you know what happened here?” Kechua asked, hopping back onto the hard floor of the school and returning to his pack. His head ached worse than his legs, but the draw of memories seemed numbed.

  “Why, I know everything,” Wolf growled before he disappeared along the wall with the whip of his tail.

  Kechua glanced upwards, counting four floors. Bits of metal, wood, and brick left threadbare memories of the structure. The arterial hallway ran on either side, opening into darkened caves.

  He indulged one more dip into the silent sands to steady his head, straining for any trace of the earthen creature’s song. Not even the faintest buzz hummed from the depths, and he returned to his pack with passion surrendered. He didn’t dare sit, though the chairs called to him. The moment he did, he wouldn’t be able to move again, and he had to decide before then.

  He stared upwards again, squinting uselessly and trying to scan some path upwards. There had to be a stairwell somewhere, but the thought of risking the remaining light on stumbling in the dark to find another invisible doorway seemed foolish. His spent legs complained of walking up two to four flights of stairs, let alone climbing the ruined slope of the wall.

  His mind mused that as high as possible was the only solution, but his legs whined back that surely the second floor would be safe. He found the second voice somewhat more compelling as he floundered on the first few steps of the unsure masonry. His legs insisted that finding a door to hide behind in the dark hallways would be enough.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  Kechua glanced around, stumbling back onto another of the crumbling bricks. He looked to the staff, which offered no response, and glanced around for Wolf, but no red glow cut into the dim light.

  “Up!” The voice gave a hoarse whisper of someone attempting to project but remain quiet.

  Kechua stumbled back and scoured above, locking his eyes on a roundish shape jutting out of the threadbare silhouettes above. “Hey!” He waved, echoing the hoarse whisper.

  “Did they throw you out? I can’t see you so well.” The hoarseness shed and the soft baritone of the man’s voice immediately made Kechua smile.

  “Oh, you aren’t one of them.” The shape disappeared a moment, sliding back into view. “You need to get up. Night’s here. I don’t know how there’s nothing after you as is.” The hoarse whisper became frantic too.

  “Is it safe up there then?”

  “Nothing’s happened so far.” The man shrugged. “Either way, I’m barricading soon.”

  The red burned into Kechua’s side, hovering out of sight just above the taller of the two ruined walls. “You will come to me with dawn’s first light, or I will come to you. The ‘barricades’ will not keep me away.”

  Kechua looked behind him and thought of some retort, but he found the space empty, the very existence of Wolf only a lingering memory.

  “What are you hearing? What’s out there? Get up here!” the voice called above, more desperate. It paused, the silhouette bobbling over to peer at the wall, growing a pair of arms.

  He heard things move in the sands. They cut above the din of the place; reaching out through chill, dry clay. He heard a rumbling somewhere distant; a legion of inhuman feet cutting some chaotic path. Things stretched and moved below, so faintly he felt a lazy song within the earth, the words drifting sleepily into the empty sky.

  Even with the man’s guidance, the raw masonry combined with his ragged legs to make the ascent difficult. Certain places along the wall stood firm, providing a tenuous set of steps, at least for the first pair of floors. Only at the third set of floors did the man bother to offer his hand.

  “Final bit. Gotta jump it, I’m afraid. Gotcha.” Their hands clasped and he tugged the boy with enough force to make him stumble as he landed.

  “Thank you.” Kechua smiled and wavered on his legs, coming very close to cramping and locking up. “My name is Kechua.” He offered the same trembling hand again in greeting.

  “Tyran, I guess.” The man gave a passing glance at the boy, lingering on his legs. Satisfied, he gave a sharp nod down the hall, offering a quick but firm handshake. “We need to get in, seriously.” He pointed.

  The man was darker than Kechua and a full head taller. His head shone bald in the lingering light and his shoulders were almost as wide as Talah’s, though everything about him was set in molded perfection. Tyran’s eyes glanced over Kechua, lingering on the staff only a moment, and sized him up.

  Most wonderful was the single pulsing gravity about the man. It was strong, firm, and very real. There was a twinge on the surface; the faintest bit of disturbed panic, but that seemed squashed with overwhelming purpose and clarity.

  “You okay, Kechua?” Tyran cocked his head.

  “Y-yes. It’s just . . . really good to see someone.” He smiled. “It’s been a long day.”

  “I bet. Must’ve seen some brambles to get the pants cut like that,” he muttered. “Big pack too. Were you hiking? Big trip? This way.” He waved and slipped into the shadows. “Doesn’t matter too much. Like you said, good to see someone new. Glad to have the company out here.” He flashed a grin back. “Sorry, don’t have lights to spare. Just sort of feel the wall as we go. First door on the right after the broken class.” They submerged into the cave darkness, and Kechua followed the confident rhythm of the man’s footsteps.

  “I don’t know what to ask, but—” Kechua began, but he was silenced.

  “Nobody does. Not sure what to say. Now’s not the time though.” He shrugged. “Here’s the door. You got lucky down there. We can talk a little once we’re inside and safe.”

  The door opened with an oiled compliance and slammed loud behind the two. The fading blue cut across the bare area of the floor; a lake surrounded by a forest of desks.

  “I hope you’ve got some sleeping gear in there.”
Tyran motioned towards the puddle. “As it is, I’ve just been making do. Drop your stuff wherever. I could use your help closing up.” He motioned to a pile of what Kechua took to be garbage; of jackets, shirts, books, and papers all set into a loose rectangle.

  “Home for now,” the voice called from across the room.

  One of the long desks groaned across the floor, the rubber stopper grumbling in reluctance. Kechua let his pack slip, using some rope to tie the staff around his shoulder before slouching over to help with the table. He managed to get by the desks, only slamming his feet into two of them.

  “Guessing you aren’t rescue. You sure aren’t one of mine,” Tyran said, his voice clenched as they lifted the table. “Up and over.” They turned it on its side, flat against the door.

  “Two more you think? I usually do three.”

  “I . . . sure.” Kechua helped him move two more, one immediately bolstering behind the first. The third locking them together was placed on top.

  “Whew, okay.” Tyran slumped down on the makeshift bed. “Gets dark really fast. Gets cold too.” He sighed.

  Kechua dragged some desks and hollowed a little nook out for himself, finding the chill cutting against his shirt and suddenly glad for the jacket.

  “So, what is it then?” The rustling of fabric betrayed the man’s position as the last of the day’s light faded away. The gulping of liquid could be heard. “You’ve got water?”

  “I do.” Kechua felt no thirst, and he proceeded as carefully as he would with an Usher. “What do you need to be rescued from?”

  The sonorous laughter rumbled into Kechua and tickled his aching legs. “Up, from here! Are you a scout at least? Maybe military—something like that?”

  “No, sorry,”

  “Were there others here? You mentioned . . . ” Kechua wrapped himself in the coat and propped his head against the pack.

  “Yeah, but not really,” he grumbled. “Only doer left at least. More at first, more doers and more people. Now, all of them are holed up in the library. About ten I think. Never did a headcount before they started blocking up in there.” A marked bitterness grew in his voice as he spoke. “Long as they’re safe, I guess. I can ‘introduce’ you tomorrow,” he said with a pointed sarcasm. “But you, you’ve been walking out there. How long have you been out there? How far does it go?”