A Fractured World: A Post Apocalyptic Adventure (Gallen Book 1) (21 page)

Twenty Nine

Shadows danced across the stony ground. The fire crackled and licked stumps of dry crumbly wood

The Cleric stared into the flames, watching them consume. His stab wound was a dull ache. Once clear of the soldiers, he had ordered his men to abandon the highway and make camp. He had washed the wound and burned it shut. He lightly fingered the rippled skin and felt shame at how it had scarred his beautiful body. He took some comfort at the life he had snuffed out but, once again, a deformed thing had escaped him, as at the town of Ford, and the Tongueless Man had been there both times. The man had killed his warriors and the Cleric would carry the burden of these failures. It was a shocking emotion, one he would carefully hide, for to reveal even a glimpse of weakness would risk losing the faith of his tribe.

He leaned towards the fire, wincing at the pain in his stomach, and sliced off a piece of meat.

“What is this?” he said, chewing.

“I don’t know,” shrugged Rodrigo, letting out a burp. “It moved fast and had patchy fur.”

“It is disgusting,” said the Cleric, swallowing it down.

“I know,” said Rodrigo, getting to his feet, yawning. He flexed his cramped arms and legs before taking blankets from the back of the pickup truck. He rolled several out for the Cleric and one for himself. He eased down onto his back and stared up at the black night sky.

“What are you doing, Rodrigo?” asked the Cleric, wiping his greasy lips with the back of his hand.

Rodrigo turned onto his side, propped himself up on one elbow, and blinked at the Cleric through the fire.

“I have driven all day, I am tired, Cleric. Javier is keeping watch. I was hoping for some sleep.”

It was a statement, not a question, and the Cleric spat on the ground, and shook his head.

“I am not yet tired. My mind is full.” He tapped the side of his head. “You will stay awake with me.”

His thoughts continued to be clouded with disappointment, how he had besmirched the long oath he had taken as warlord of the tribe. Inside he yearned to be reunited with the rest of his people. He thought of the wrecked vehicles he had seen on the highway, more of his brave warriors lying dead, a failed ambush of the Tongueless Man. He was acutely aware the black energy was running low and he feared exhausting it and leaving his people stranded so far from home. His heart cried for Bann, his woman, and Ramon, his most trusted of commanders, both dead in that rotten town.

Yet he had no interest in discussing any of this with Rodrigo, a common warrior. What truly pinched his skin and chilled his flesh was not the icy wind, but the dark of the night, and it was gripping him with more urgency than ever before. He needed his tent and more fires and more warriors. He felt something crawling behind him, turned sharply and saw nothing but blackness.

“I have a joke,” said Rodrigo, sitting cross legged on his blanket.

“A what?”

“A joke, you know. I want to share a joke.”

“With me?” frowned the Cleric. “You want to tell me a joke?”

“I want to raise your spirit, Cleric,” he said. “A joke can make you feel good for a short moment.”

His words came out staccato. Before today, he was another face in the tribe. Now, here he was, at a campfire with the mighty warlord of the Blood Sun. He felt privileged, elevated, honoured.

“You want to cheer me up?” said the Cleric.

“I won’t tell it, if you don’t like jokes.”

“I like jokes. Tell it.”

“Are you sure, Cleric, I am only trying to serve you.”

“Tell your joke, Rodrigo, raise my spirit.”

Rodrigo hawked, spat on the ground.

“It goes, it’s this, it’s … what do you call a car that doesn’t need black energy?”

“Hmmm.”

“What do you call it? A car that doesn’t need black energy?”

“I don’t know.”

“A horse,” said Rodrigo, grinning. “A horse.”

The Cleric glared across the fire at him, and then his face lifted, formed a smile, and then came rumbling laugher.

“A horse,” he said.

“A horse,” repeated Rodrigo, laughing. “A car that doesn’t need black energy, a horse.”

“You have raised my spirit, Rodrigo. Tell me another, please, another joke.”

“I don’t know anymore,” he said, scratching his beard. “I am sorry.”

Rodrigo picked up his knife and cut more meat. He handed a piece to the Cleric, and then helped himself.

“This is foul,” he said, chewing. “I would rather eat flesh.”

The Cleric laughed.

“Do you know any stories, Rodrigo? Something to pass the hours until the light reaches us?”

He rubbed his hands briskly together and held them to the fire.

“Tell me a story.”

Rodrigo shook his head, slowly.

“I don’t know any stories, Cleric. I know the words of a song.”

The wind howled through the small camp, sparking the fire. The Cleric wrapped a blanket around his shoulders.

“Can you sing?” he asked.

“No,” said Rodrigo. “No, no, I have a terrible voice. No, Cleric, I cannot sing the song.”

“Then speak the words, Rodrigo, raise my spirit again.”

The younger man finished his meat and licked his lips.

“We make them run, we make them hide, they’re all very scared, of the Blood Sun tribe.”

The Cleric nodded, and smiled.

“We’ll make you mute, we’ll make you dumb, the Blood Sun tribe will tear out your tongue.”

He closed his eyes, relaxed his body.

“We’ll burn your homes, we’ll burn your flesh, we’ll …”

Rodrigo stopped abruptly. The Cleric heard a muffled cry. The smile left his face. His eyes remained shut.

“You raised my spirit, Rodrigo,” he said. “Thank you. I am sorry you have left us.”

He finally opened his eyes and saw the outline of a woman with sun coloured hair, standing over Rodrigo’s body, his throat slit. He recognised her as a companion of the Tongueless Man.

The Cleric clenched his teeth as a revolver was jammed into the back of his head.

“Up,” growled a voice.

He got to his feet, slowly, his tall frame creating a long shadow. His long white shirt was patched with dried blood. He clasped his hands together, He had no weapon. He stood by the crackling flames and a look of surprise crossed his face.

“What has happened to you, Tongueless Man? I cannot recognise you looking like this?”

Stone remained silent, his right hand steady.

“And the woman, you still have the woman? She is not of this world.”

“Shut up,” said Nuria, wiping her bloodied knife on Rodrigo’s clothes.

Emil emerged from the darkness. She stared at the tall man.

“Here she is, the freak. Gallen is not for you.”

“Just shut up,” said Nuria, sheathing her knife and drawing a pistol.

“So, which one of you will kill me first?”

“None of us,” said Stone, handing the revolver to Emil.

A look of concern flickered across the Cleric’s face. He was uncomfortable with the Tongueless Man’s tone.

Before he could say another word, a fist slammed into his stomach, ripping pain through him. He gasped, took several steps back. Stone hit him again, a furious, arcing punch, splitting the Cleric’s lip. The Cleric roared and charged Stone, curling his strong arms around him, lifting him from the ground. Stone head butted him and forced open the Cleric’s grip. He swung a volley of punches, driving his bunched fists into the Cleric’s face. There was a gut curdling sound as he splintered the Cleric’s nose and left him howling on the ground.

Stone grabbed the man and dragged him across the ground. He gripped his head and forced it towards the fire.

“No,” pleaded the Cleric. The heat grew intense. He could feel his flesh burning. He screamed.

Nuria gasped, and stepped back. Emil watched on, emotionless.

Stone lifted the Cleric way from the fire. The man’s skin was singed. He punched the Cleric in the stomach, doubled him over, then grabbed his wrist and thrust his hand into the flames. The Cleric screamed as his skin rippled in the fire. The tall man stumbled to the ground, his breathing laboured, his body shaking. Stone sat astride him and tore open the Cleric’s shirt. He then gingerly lifted a piece of wood from the fire and rolled it onto the man’s exposed chest.

He moved away, and took his revolver from Emil. Nuria stared at him. Despite all she had seen, all he had done, this had shocked her.

Stone nodded at Emil.

She walked calmly to the Cleric, lying prone in the dirt. She knelt down beside his shaking body and looked into his dark eyes. There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to tell him; how his ways had ripped her life to pieces, shattered everything good and kind and loving. He had devastated her home, robbed every hope and dream. And he had walked away from it all, smiling and righteous. And once more he had invaded her life, tore from her someone very precious. There was so much she wanted to say; too much she wanted to tell him but there would never be enough words so she chose none.

Instead, she pressed her hands to his skin, first healing the knife wound Tomas had inflicted.

Her eye rolled shut as her hands passed across him.

“No,” he groaned, flinching. “No, what are you doing? Leave me alone, no. Get her away from me.”

Her hands continue to travel his body and then she stopped, suddenly, and eased back onto her feet.

“I did enough,” she said, looking down at him. “Enough to keep you alive. You won’t bleed to death and you won’t die of shock or fever but you’ll be marked for life.”

The Cleric pushed himself into a sitting position and stared at his disfigured hand.

“What have you done to me? You have cursed me. You have made me one of them. Why? Why?”

He was on his feet. He slapped his chest. Saw the scars the fire had left.

“No, no, no.”

He felt the crumpled skin on his face.

“I cannot look like this. You cannot do this to me.”

Stone opened the doors of the pickup truck.

“Kill me, Tongueless Man. I killed your friend. I loved killing him and I have killed so many of her kind.”

Emil and Nuria climbed into the cab.

“You have made me a monster. My tribe will never accept me like this.”

Stone slid behind the wheel, fired the engine.

“You can’t leave me here … not like this … not in the dark.”

In the mirror, driving slowly away across the rough terrain, he saw the fading outline of the Cleric, on his knees, sobbing.

Thirty

The horizon began to brighten.

Stone wound down his window. The morning air was cool and fresh. The road stretched north, potholed and empty, and banked a bleak landscape of low hills and craters. He would drive until the tank was empty. And then he would walk. And he would keep walking. He had told Tomas he had seen nothing beyond avenging his dead family, the fire would extinguish inside, he would be free to fade into nothingness, but he had been wrong. He glanced at Emil. She was asleep, lightly snoring, her head resting on Nuria’s shoulder, who was also asleep. He savoured the silence and listened to the throbbing of the engine.

He turned onto a new highway, forging deeper into the wasteland. The black energy ran out an hour later. The vehicle stuttered and ground to a stop. The jolt woke Nuria and Emil. The three of them abandoned the truck, collecting packs, head scarves and weapons from the flatbed, and began to walk. The highway cut through a land of rugged hills. On the horizon, possibly four or five days walk, was a range of mountains, jagged peaks reaching into the washed out sky.

“Are we heading for the mountains?” asked Nuria, a black scarf covering her head.

Stone was quiet.

“Do you have a plan?”

Emil glanced at Stone. Goggles covered his eyes and his face showed no expression.

“Maybe you should have stayed,” said Emil, gently.

“Where? In Chett?” She shook her head. “Can you imagine what it’s like there now?”

“No,” said Emil, not really sure what the woman wanted to hear.

“There’s no one left now,” said Nuria, glancing at Stone. His beard was growing through, straggly and wispy. A head scarf covered a fresh layer of fuzzy hair. “They will have to start again.”

“Like us,” said Emil. “Starting again.”

Stone stepped off the road, crouched down and poked at the ground, shifting the dirt with a gloved hand.

He got back to his feet and continued walking.

“Stone?” said Nuria, catching up with him. “Where are we going?”

Once more, he ignored her question. Emil, hot and thirsty, was becoming irritated by her.

“Stop badgering him,” she said. “We don’t know where we’re going. This isn’t like your city where everything is neatly put together.”

The three of them stopped, in the middle of the road.

“Where are we going?” said Emil. “What’s the plan? Are we going here? Are we going there?”

“There’s no need to mimic me,” said Nuria, quietly.

“Either stick with us or go back,” said Emil.

Stone lifted his goggles. His eyes were rimmed with tears.

“I was thinking of Tomas,” he said.

Emil bit her lip. Nuria looked away.

“Two people,” he said, wiping his sleeve across his face and pointing. “At least a day ahead, judging by the camp I found.”

He lowered his goggles and strode forward, leaving the highway, his boots finding a way across the hard sand, his long coat flapping in the wind. Nuria and Emil said nothing and followed behind him.

A few hours later, they found shade and rested, finishing off the water and half of the  rations Nuria had stowed inside Stone’s backpack. As they crossed the barren land, they noticed sparse patches of grass punching through the sand and the rock. As darkness fell, they built a small fire and took turns sleeping. Stone never woke Emil for her watch and left her sleeping all night. In the morning, he stamped on the dying embers of the fire and buried it. Nuria looked back and saw no trace they had been there.

She had seen him at his worst, blasting bullets in the House of Leadership, at his weakest, naked and shorn in the cells, at his most emotional, touching foreheads with his murdered companion, yet still she found him a cold and soulless husk. Nuria realised and understood now, more than ever, how he had earned his somewhat gory nickname. She wondered what type of man he might have become had Gozan never attacked his settlement and murdered his family but that was pointless speculation. Yet, despite all that, she could not take her eyes from him and he was dancing in her thoughts constantly and she wanted to hold his hand and then a rush went through her. She knew it was something she could never act upon. He would cut her down in a hail of bullets. This was his world. She was only a guest.

They crested a low hill, the grass spreading before them, a broad swathe and Emil and Nuria gasped.

“Look at them,” said Emil.

The halk ran, bucked and chased. Tall beasts with narrow powerful legs and spotted brown fur.

The three of them stood for a long time, in silence, admiring, respecting. It was Stone who disturbed the moment, drawing binoculars from his pocket, looking beyond the threadbare grassland dotted with running wildlife. He saw forests and hills and valleys and, further, the mountains, much closer now. He tracked across the face of the forest and saw a man looking back at him from the trees. He was shirtless, his head shiny and bald. He wore dark trousers and boots and a woman with cropped blonde hair was at his side.

Stone lowered the binoculars, smiled.

“The Map Maker,” he said.

The air was much cooler beneath the canopy of trees. Emil’s eyes shone brightly as she looked around at them. Fallen leaves and branches crunched beneath their footsteps as they entered the forest, following one of many paths. Behind them, the halk galloped and played, bent long necks to chew the grass. Stone would bring one down later, so they could eat and would have fur and hide to trade. He knew the Map Maker was close. It was only a matter of time before he revealed himself. As they reached a glade the man bore down on them. Stone saw a woman and recognised her as Sadie, from Ford, Marge’s daughter.

“Not this time,” said the Map Maker. He was armed with a bow and quickly notched an arrow. “Drop all your weapons. This time I’m giving the orders, Stone.”

Emil was unarmed but Nuria tossed her pistol onto the ground. Sadie dashed forward to pick it up.

“Your gun, Stone.”

Stone didn’t budge.

“We’re not looking for trouble,” said Nuria.

“Quiet,” said the Map Maker, straining the bow, switching his aim to Nuria. “Who are you?”

“Nuria,” she replied. “From Chett.”

The Map Maker smiled, and began to laugh.

“The first city,” he laughed. “The only city. How wrong you all are.”

Stone drew, pulling his revolver fast, swerving his body to avoid the arrow. The Map Maker swung the bow towards him, let go, and the arrow thudded into a tree trunk. He lowered the bow and stamped at the ground angrily.

“Please don’t shoot Doug,” said Sadie.

“Drop the pistol,” said Stone, turning his revolver at her.

She threw it down without hesitation and Nuria quickly retrieved her weapon.

“What are you going to take this time?” said the Map Maker.

“Nothing,” said Stone. “Doug?”

The Map Maker nodded.

“That’s right, I have a name. A real man’s name. Doug. That’s me.”

He began to furiously scratch his bald head, turning the skin red raw. Sadie went to him and gently lowered his hands. She was whispering to him but none of them could hear the words.

“What’s wrong with him?” said Nuria.

Stone looked around and saw a small camp, a short distance away, almost concealed by bushes and trees and wild tangles of undergrowth. There was a tent, the remains of a fire and an open pack.

“It’s them,” said Doug. “It must be them. I can show you them. The only city, what a joke. Let me show you.”

The Map Maker signalled for them to follow him out of the glade and deeper into the trees. Sadie trailed behind him. Both Nuria and Emil were unsure of the man. He looked deeply distressed, disturbed even. Stone seemed unconcerned and followed them. He stepped over trunks and swatted away loose branches. He could hear Emil and Nuria talking in low voices behind him. Slants of sunlight came through the treetops, lighting the grass. Twenty minutes passed and then the Map Maker waved them down. Stone crept forward and looked to where he was pointing.

“It’s them,” he said. “They drove them out. Sent them away. One by one they were gone.”

He beamed a smile.

“Who drove who out?” asked Stone.

“Chett, have you not been listening? Why doesn’t anyone understand what I’m saying? They drove them out. Made them exiles. Look what they have become. It’s the second city.”

Stone peered through the line of trees and saw a ploughed field where men and women worked the land. They carried tools and there were wooden carts stacked with food he had never seen before. A long dusty road crossed a bridge where a narrow stream flowed beneath, sunlight glinting off the water. The village was a scattering of mud huts with thatched roofs. Smoke climbed lazily from chimneys. He saw more people and children. He could hear sporadic hammering in the distance. He spotted a pen of scampering ollish birds, a woman tossing feed at them. He saw a group of shirtless men armed with wooden shields and spears, patrolling dirt paths.

“The second city,” whispered the Map Maker. “I haven’t been there yet. We’re planning to go soon and trade with them.”

“It’s hardly a city,” said Nuria.

Emil smiled.

“I think it’s better than a city. Tomas would have loved it.”

Stone nodded.

“He would have.”

THE END