After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) (22 page)

I kept a good distance at first, wary of Marauder activity, but it was obvious this was not something that belonged to them, or which interested them. They did not have the resources to build something like this, and it certainly wasn’t a base. In fact, there was no sign of life within at all. There was not even a scattering of construction vehicles or building materials at its base. It was as if this behemoth had simply sprouted from the wasteland of its own accord and now sat, unfinished and untended, its only purpose to create an enigma for slack-jawed passers-by.

A chain-link fence marked a perimeter about a click out, and that was as far as I went.  Even at this distance I could hear the lonely sound of a loose pylon banging against the ramparts like a forlorn monk tolling on his bell.  It was indeed, as far as I could tell, an abandoned construction site.  But a construction of
what?
  And abandoned by
whom?

I had no recollection of this tower from my travels, nor did I recall hearing about it before the Winter. Granted, I hadn’t been this way for a long time. This was too far north, too close to home for me to have visited in my time in the wasteland. But surely if this project had been initiated before the Winter it would have been publicised and discussed. It would have been all over the Grid, the place where everyone knew everything about everything. I should have known about it while it was still just a concept, let alone a tangible thing of steel and iron and jaw-dropping immensity.

I began to drift west along the fence, keeping my focus on the tower all the while. Through binoculars I could see more detail, such as the join of steel plating, sections where the cladding had not been finished, revealing uneven jigsaw pieces of the dark interior, suspended scaffolding and platforms clinging to the exterior like cobwebs, and platforms that jutted outward and ended in mid-air.

Perhaps the most intriguing facet of the structure was that it moved away from the conventions of modern architecture. Gone were the glass facades and overly accentuated curves of contemporary skyscrapers. In their place was the almost industrial feel of metal casing and a robust exterior, an altogether more pragmatic design. It gave the impression that whoever built this place had more concerns for its strength than for its appearance.

Or, they wanted to hide whatever was inside.

So the question remained,
what was it?

A few possibilities came to mind. Firstly that it was some kind of walled fortress, but that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. What would be the point of building it so high? Surely there would be more strength in building lower to the ground where a collapse would be less likely to cause catastrophic damage. Perhaps they planned to include offensive capabilities and believed the altitude would give them greater range or visibility for their weapons. I wasn’t a military strategist, but this didn’t seem like a reasonable plan to me. If purely for protection, surely building underground would have been a better option. It certainly would have attracted far less attention.

Could it have been some kind of spaceport, designed to fling refugee ships into space with greater speed and efficiency than through conventional means? Space launches were still a relatively expensive and difficult procedure and perhaps this was seen as a way of conveying more people off-world and to safety in a more timely manner. But where would they to go then? Would they simply be left to orbit the earth until their oxygen ran out? Or were they also building ships capable of longer range flights?

It was then that I recalled talk of plans for a kind of ‘space elevator’, a gigantic tower that would be capable of lifting people and cargo into low space altitude, thereby diminishing the expenses associated with space launches. But those discussions had taken place years before the conflict, and only in a conceptual phase. The specifics of such an enterprise were still being calculated and theorised, and the cost-benefits weighed up to evaluate if it was even a potentially profitable enterprise.

So, could this have been the makings of such a device? I tried to imagine the time and effort required to bring the construction even to this point. It would have been massive. To do this in a short time frame would have required an army of clanks working non-stop for a year. By the end of the Summer, clanks were in short supply, so who would have been left to do it?

In the end, I couldn’t know. I shrugged the satchel higher on my back and, with the sun getting lower in the sky, didn’t even bother checking the compass to set me on my course west.

24

Down the slope, the sleepy little town lay nestled between the folds of hills like a baby tucked away in a crib. The tentative rays of morning light had not yet fallen on the valley and the cluster of houses appeared grey and inert under the scrutiny of the binoculars.

I’d already made up my mind to pass through it. I was so close to home now that I could almost smell it in the breeze that drifted out of the west. I recognised this valley and the one before it too. Another day or maybe two of travel and I was home.

I’d come across the town late yesterday and made my camp here, spending a night of vigilance as I monitored the place. There had been no lights, no campfires, no sound of voices or of inhabitants moving about. And now as morning broke there was still no sign of activity.

The hills on either side of the valley were not a straightforward hike. They were thick with rocky outcroppings and boulders and there was no doubt they would delay my passage significantly. Alternatively, turning back would mean trekking back out of this network of valleys and then heading quite a distance either north or south, probably adding another day or two of travel and increasing my chance of running afoul of the Marauders.

The pull of home was intoxicating.  Heading directly through the town would only take a few minutes.  I could be past it in no time at all and then I would be on the final stretch.  I found that to be a most enticing proposition, and with my impatience growing by the second, I was running out of reasons
not
to do it.  In the end, the best way for me to avoid the Marauders was to take the shortest and quickest route home, and therefore making my way through the town was a good option at this point. 

That was how I rationalised it at least.

Without dwelling on it further, I stood and got on the move.

Padding down the chalky powder of the slope and onto the edge of the first street, I could see that this wasn’t much more than a two or three street town with maybe a hundred houses scattered in the centre and a few other outliers in the shadow of the hills. This was one of those places that had remained in a kind of time warp. While the Grid moulded and stretched at the boundaries of larger cities, ones like this had been left behind. It had probably looked just like this for a hundred years, untouched by the breakneck pace of the world outside, happy to remain a simple place full of simple people. It was also relatively untouched by the Summer, the buildings showing signs of age and neglect, but not the ferocity of the conflict.

I wiped the grime away from a sign that stood by the road. Although rusted, I could still make it out.

Town of Carthen.

Yes, I knew of this place. Home wasn’t far away. Not far away at all.

I stayed off the main thoroughfare and crept through back yards and side streets. Wooden houses, sunburnt and parched, sat with their paintwork peeling away, revealing the desiccated boards beneath. Children’s swings sat glistening with condensation in the pre-dawn light, and swimming pools lurked like pits for the unwary, half-filled not with water but with dirt that had blown in over the decades. Picket fences that had once been a meeting place for neighbours to enjoy a morning chat were now sagging and broken, affording me an easy passage across the way.

Amid all of this was the green of vegetation. Not just the weeds I had seen elsewhere, but grass as well, a broad-leafed variety that grew in thick clumps, making an odd patchwork of the landscape, a mottled green-brown tract that couldn’t decide whether it was a desert or a lush suburban field. I stopped to kneel beside one such clump, running my fingers across it, savouring the texture. Rubbing my thumb and forefinger together I felt the dampness of a light morning dew. Then, allowing myself one moment of indulgence, I plucked a single strand of the grass and crushed it in my hand, breathing in the fragrance. It brought back memories of Sunday mornings and mowing the lawn, of pancakes and coffee and warm sunshine.

Maybe those rolling green hills in my imagination weren’t so far away after all.

Feeling buoyant, I quietly made my way inside the nearest house and moved from room to room, checking cupboards and drawers with a minimal amount of noise. The place was dusty but relatively untouched, and I was able to find supplies in the bedroom: a cotton shirt, two spares, and a pair of dark denim jeans. The jeans were a little too large around the waist, but I cinched them tighter with a leather belt I found in one of the drawers. I continued to search through another bedroom and the living room, avoiding photographs that were framed on walls, not wanting to know who or what these people had once been. Today, in the mood I was in, I couldn’t bring myself to look at those ghosts. On into the kitchen I found the gruesome remains of a skeleton, the white tiles beneath it stained the colour of rust and a carving knife nearby. I decided there was no point searching further. I’d found what I needed, and with these replacement clothes on my back I would at least return home looking like I hadn’t just crawled out of a blender.

Outside I encountered a tall iron fence with decorative spikes adorning the crown. Rather than rip up my new garments I decided to take the time to walk around it. I slid my fingers along the metal rungs of the fence, making a soft drumming sound and enjoying the warmth of early morning. This must have been a nice, quiet little place to raise kids, I thought, the kind of place where everyone knew their neighbours, where people were friendly and down to earth, and where the concerns and troubles of the big city seemed like a thousand clicks away. Maybe it would be a nice place to come back to, one day.

Out on the street, I neared the last of the line of houses and could see the highway stretching out along an incline to the west. The road was firm and solid under my feet, and I’d make good time if it remained intact from here until home. Although that wasn’t likely considering the damage that-

Boom!

The deafening noise, like a peal of thunder in the cloudless sky, rang out from across the road as a fence paling exploded right in front of me. I cried out and fell to the ground, my shoulder striking so hard on the asphalt that it rattled my teeth.

Shit! I’ve been shot. They found me.

My hands grasped at my torso and face, searching for holes or missing chunks of flesh. Nothing.

I hadn’t taken a hit, I realised, just fallen back in shock. Whoever was shooting at me had missed. Barely.

Get up, Brant.

I did.  I squirmed on all fours, keeping low to the ground, all the while expecting another shot to ring out and for my back to explode in pain.  The short journey off the street seemed excruciatingly slow, but somehow I made it around the back of the house.  Sliding my back to the wall I tried to gather my thoughts, tried to figure out my next course of action. 

Should I just run for the hills?

They’ll chase me down on their bikes.

The satchel was lying back there in the dust kicked up from my escape, out on the road.

Leave it.

That was all I had time to consider before I heard footsteps. They were coming after me.

I looked around for somewhere to go. Somewhere to hide.
 
Inside the house? They might corner me in there.

There was one other option.

I got up, moved over to the back of the house and kicked at the door with all my might.  It exploded inward, sending fragments of wood everywhere in a cloud of dust.  Then, as quickly and as quietly as I could, I backtracked a few steps toward the dry and dusty in-ground swimming pool, stepping lightly between clumps of grass so as not to leave footprints, and then dropped down inside and waited, still and rigid, my mind racing. 

My ruse probably wouldn’t fool an experienced hunter, but it might just trick someone who was a little too hasty to complete their kill.

I waited. Seconds ticked away like hours. The serene blue-grey sky above was at odds with my churning insides. I considered the folly of coming this way, wishing I could reverse time to an hour ago when I’d sat perched on the hill trying to decide which way to go. I’d been impatient, and now it might cost me.

No point worrying about that now. Just survive. Make it through this.

I looked around for a weapon, something I could use as a club, but there was nothing. The footsteps were coming closer, and they were loud, inept, not the sound of someone who knew what they were doing. This fight wasn’t a foregone conclusion after all. I had a chance.

They moved past me and over toward the entrance to the house, then stopped. There was silence for a few moments, and then they stepped onto the concrete landing near the house, shuffling forward.