After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) (21 page)

The binoculars had surely made circular impressions around my eyes by now, such was the duration I’d spent pressing them to my face. For the umpteenth time I raised them and watched the shredded tents flapping in the gale that whipped across the wasteland. There were no signs of occupants, no noises apart from that insistent fluttering of canvas dancing about in the wind.

I sat back in the trench, my little hidey-hole, and reassessed my next movements. Initially, I figured I would just walk around the cluster of tents and be on my way. There was no safe place to conceal my passage however, as the terrain was flat on either side for some distance. If they had binoculars of their own, they’d have a very good chance of spotting me. That in turn would necessitate a pretty hefty change of course.

There was the matter of clothing, however. My situation in that regard was becoming a little more dire now. A tear in my trousers was letting in more gunk than I wanted, especially around the region of my wound. My shirt, too, was starting to come apart and I’d run out of spares. Synthetic skin was relatively hardy, but it was not indestructible. Given enough time the sun would eventually break it down, causing it to peel and thin out and then rupture, as it had in several other spots on my body. That in turn allowed more water and grit into the inner workings of my anatomy, causing further complications.

I needed this body to keep working for a while yet.  I needed to look after it where possible.  It was the only thing I had to carry me home to my
real
body.

And that was why I sat here for so long, considering the camp, and the possibility that I might find clothing within. It had been a while since I’d crossed a city or even a sizeable township, and for the moment this rudimentary conglomeration of tents was my best option.

It seemed utterly deserted. As far as targets for exploration went, it was a good option. Out in the middle of nowhere, it was an unlikely spot for someone to occupy. My first guess was that it was either a secluded military outpost or a field hospital that had been erected during the White Summer. But if so, what was it doing out here? Where were the military transports, the supply vehicles? It all seemed a bit haphazard to be anything so well organised. Perhaps it had been hastily abandoned and the tents left where they stood in the rush.

Whatever the case, I wanted to be extra careful before approaching it. During this extended surveillance I’d conducted, I’d been able to assess every tent in turn. They were all in bad shape. There was nothing much they could conceal now in this condition.

I climbed out of the trench and placed the binoculars in the satchel. I stood there in plain sight for a few moments, but no madmen came tearing out of the camp wielding machetes. A promising start.

I closed the distance quickly between the trench and the camp and stood between the ruptured folds of the first tent, peering down the gap of bare earth that seemed to serve as the main thoroughfare.  There were only about a dozen tents in total, some nothing more than errant poles waving around in the breeze, others twisted flaps of green canvas, falling apart and half buried in
sand. I stood very still and listening for a couple of minutes. Nothing. No response to my footsteps across the ground, no mutter of voices nearby. No sentries revealed by my new angle of observation.

Stepping lightly into the first tent, I got to work with my investigation. It only took a few seconds for me to realise I would find nothing of value in this one. A portable folding cot had been knocked over and there were traces of human remains beside it in the sand. Also half buried were a blue plastic water bottle and what appeared to be a very old kerosene heater, rusted and sand blasted by the wasteland. There was a similar story told in the next three tents. One of these contained two cots side-by-side, and more remains spread around than usual. As for items I could use, there were none.

The next tent was slightly larger, furnished with not just a cot but a fold-out chair as well, the flexible kind one might find in a camping supply store.  In the dirt I found a little wooden chest partially buried.  I pulled it out and dusted it off.  Burned into the wood itself was a decorative image of a wintry tree, leafless branches snaking off in all directions.  It was a detailed and yet amateurish depiction, the proportions all wrong.  I turned the chest over in my hands and saw that the joins were ill-fitting and poorly rounded, so I gathered that this was either the work of a child learning the craft or of someone who just didn’t know what they were doing.  Underneath the tree was crudely inscribed:
JB 11-10-77

I lifted the little iron ring on the catch and it opened, spilling dirt inside as I pulled it upward. Therein lay a shard of charcoal and a small brown journal with a stylised owl carved into the leather on the front. I pulled it out and flicked it open. The pages were brittle with age, darkly yellowed around the edges and in places difficult to separate.

Many leaves had been ripped out of the front of the journal, their serrated edges bunched down the spine. I ran my finger over them gently, causing little fragments to shred apart and trickle down the page, and then I blew at them, sending a cloud of dust and slivers of paper into the air.

On the first page were simply the initials
KB
, drawn in thick strokes of charcoal. The next page contained the first entry.

Date - March. I think.

I guess I should thank Mary for this journal up front. She was an aggravating old bitch while she was alive, but at least she turned out good for something. I’m not one to keep a journal myself. Didn’t think to bring one. But what we’re going through out here needs to be recorded. I’m sure of that. Kids who come later, who have it easy, need to know what we went through just to stay alive.

Sorry Mary, but I decided to get rid of the recipes. That would have pissed you off I’m sure, but what the fuck are we going to do with a recipe for chocolate fudge brownie out here anyway. I’m pretty sure I made that clear to everyone - pack essentials only. No clue, some people.

Someone yelling in the kids’ tent.
 
Back in a minute.

There were a couple more entries like this - meandering, disjointed thoughts that contained no real information. I flicked a few pages ahead.

Date - May? Getting colder, not sure.

Our crop yield is going ok so far from our
little veggie patch.  Probably better than I expected.  It’s tight, but
most days we’re getting at least one decent feed. Potatoes especially seem to be doing good. Getting pretty sick of them but at least it’s food.

Been buzzed by gunships a few times, one of them even decided to take a closer look. Landed over by the stream and had some grunts come and give us the once over, thought we might have been a camp of insurgents or something. I told them myself, we’re just people trying to survive. We’re not trouble-makers. The cities aren’t safe, so we left. Simple. I guess nowhere’s safe, not even here. But we have a better chance here at least. They left us alone, anyway. That’s the main thing.

There’s been a lot of cloud cover around lately too. Can’t be helping the crop. Will hopefully clear up soon.

I skipped ahead again. There were some sketches in amongst the entries but they were poorly rendered. I could only make out what was being depicted in the most vague sense. A trio of children, a garden, tents, a cot with someone lying on it.
 
A woman’s face.

Date - No idea anymore. Must be the middle of winter. Very cold.

It’s really dark most of the time now. The clouds won’t go away. What’s happening? Not much is growing at all.

I found Stip trying to connect up to the Grid yesterday morning. Fucker smuggled his flip out here even after I’d told them - absolutely NO Grid capable devices allowed. We need to be invisible out here, don’t they understand that? Completely invisible. I don’t give a shit if they want to know what’s happening back in the real world. The war isn’t over. We’d know if it was. And that’s the only information worth hearing. Till then we stick it out.

He yelled at me and said he was going to leave. Said I didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe he’s right. I yelled right back at him though. Told him to get the hell out, if that’s what he wanted. He stayed. They all stay. There’s nowhere else to go.

The handwriting was becoming more ragged now. I could almost sense the vibe, the desperation seeping out of the page without even reading the words. From here, the ‘Date’ convention had been discarded. Entries were just haphazard scribblings.

We lost two of the elders and one of the kids last week. It’s falling apart. Food is gone. Just all gone, there’s practically nothing to eat. Have to keep reminding them all to drink plenty. Can’t remember the last time I was warm.

I haven’t doubted myself until now. Won’t admit it to them. But now I know. We might not make it.

We almost imploded yesterday. Edd and Schmidt wanted to eat the dead. Cook them on the pit and eat them. Said we’d starve within the month if we didn’t. Don’t think Caz liked the thought of them eating her little dead girl. Not one bit. Threatened to kill them if they touched her. Went pretty close to a full uproar. There’s divisions appearing everywhere. Little alliances. I don’t know who to trust anymore.

I didn’t want to step in. I’ve lost the will. Why did I choose to lead these people? Stupid. So stupid. But I did it. I separated them. I said to bury the dead. Bury them out with the crops. Let them be fertiliser. Came up with some poetic bullshit about how their deaths would give nourishment to the rest of us that way. They swallowed it. For now. It won’t last.

And I know we can’t grow a thing if the sun doesn’t show itself soon, rotting bodies in the field or not.

I continued on to the last entry. It was little more than scratchings, very difficult to decipher. I hovered over every single word as if they were hieroglyphs.

Can’t feel my fingers or toes.  Tips have gone black.  Haven’t shit in a couple of weeks.  Couldn’t make it outside the tent today.

Two walked off last week. Headed into the woods. Crazy. No supplies. Trying to make it back to the city. They’re dead already. I know it.

Can’t blame them. Die here, or die somewhere else. No other choices.

Only three of us left I think. I just

The last sentence was left unfinished. I turned through the rest of the journal, finding page after page blank, and then closed it delicately. I returned it to the little chest and placed it back where I had found it. There was nothing else to salvage in this tent but these desperate memories of a long dead wretch.

The pattern was repeated throughout the camp. Empty quarters, some containing remains, others not. The possessions these people had brought with them were either buried or blown away by the wind, gathered up and made one with the wasteland.

I found the remnants of their fire pit, and within charred human skulls and other bones. It seemed that argument had eventually been settled. Either that, or the last to die had decided to perish in flames rather than wait in the cold and dark to starve to death.

With nothing to scavenge I kept on the move. There would be other opportunities to gather supplies before I got home.

With my compass pointed north I made good progress across some fairly flat terrain.  In less than an hour I could see the outline of something broad and tall on the horizon.  I lifted my binoculars but it was too far away for even the magnification of the lenses to reveal any details. 

I set my sights on it, curious to discover what it was.

23

The closer I got to this thing, the more perplexed I became.

The first thing that struck me about it was its enormous magnitude. Although not as tall as a Grid spire, it nevertheless soared as high as any city building I’d ever seen and was far wider. I initially perceived it as two buildings rising up side by side in formation, however as I bridged the distance I saw that this was not the case. It was in fact a single, vaguely horseshoe-shaped structure, the southern section of the complex smaller and thinner, flaring out at its base and forming a sweeping curve that blended into the larger section on the northern end. This bulkier formation shared many of the characteristics, dominated by long, powerful lines that swept upward, angling inward toward the peak.

But it was the sheer scope of it that was most impressive. It must have been several hundred metres across at its base, and many times that higher. And yet it was stuck out in the middle of nowhere.

Notably, it appeared to be unfinished. Far above in the upper reaches I could see a cluster of monstrous cranes blooming from its summit like thick, rigid hairs growing from its scalp. These were situated on both the southern and northern sections of the tower and looked primed and ready, waiting for the arrival of workers who never came.