Dusk Territories: Always Burning (5 page)

This amused Drifter to the point that he almost slipped off of his cane. The little stunt earned a bit of a low chuckle from his nephew, which it quickly receded when he raised his cane. The grizzled man wobbled to an empty seating area, pushed all of the stuff on the table to the floor, and sat down. He nodded for Graham to sit, and he did.

“Your story, son. Tell it.”

Graham gave a sigh, as he quickly retold his story. Recounting it verbally felt as though it breathed life into the situation, once somewhat fiction in his head at the time. Drifter seemed to be oddly intrigued, despite the general briefness of it. Even Wood, a few meters away, looked somewhat interested by the story of a lone survivor of a broken military base. At the end, Graham shook his head. “I—I just don’t have any clue what is going on.”

There was silence for a few minutes as Drifter washed his hands
against the rounded top of his cane.
It was his laughter that broke the silence. “I’m surprised that you aren’t crazy, boy! Waking up like that, finding people dead, having no clue what’s going on.” He laughed some more. “That would have killed this old man.”

“No it wouldn’t have,” Wood remarked, dryly. Drifter shot him a look. Wood, shaking his head, continued looking out of the window.

“But I guess an introduction is in order. Welcome to the Dusk Territories.”

3

Experiment

“In the worst situations, it’s best just to try something. No preparation. Just go.”

Drifter arose to tell his tale, as though he was relaying a ceremonious event behind a podium. He paced around the cramped living space, one hand in his pocket and the other grasping his beloved cane. It was a long tale, one that Graham was sure he wouldn’t have believed if the situation was any different. Every word that exited through the man’s mouth felt like it was spun with lies. But, there was a look in his eyes, one that told the truth. That didn’t mean that Graham entirely accepted it.

According to Drifter, in early 2015, the world was consumed suddenly by madness. A flame sparked between countries, quickly consuming better judgment and peace. From the way that the storyteller told the story, the entire world just went mad. Things escalated fast into a full out bloodshed. It wasn’t World War III per say; but, just a blood bath that soaked the world. No politics, no build up, just sudden and absolute rains of death. New weapons were being used, obtained by some unknown companies that worked the strings in the background. Nuclear attacks, biological weapons, viruses, all reshaped the world into the cataclysmic, highly unpredictable world of today.

That was implausible in Graham’s mind at least. “You’re lying,” Graham accused.

Drifter shifted his weight to his other leg. “Why’d you say that,” the old man asked.

“That couldn’t have happened.”

“No, no. That’s not what I was asking. Why do you think I’m
lying
, son?”

Graham opened his mouth to speak. He quickly closed it, knowing all too well that his accusation was a conjecture. He could point fingers and pretend that what he heard was lies. The caravan leader might have been mad out of his mind, but Drifter had the world as his evidence.

And it was probably the best evidence he could ever bring to the table to back his case.

The world itself had suffered tremendously under the blight of sudden hatred. Countries were reshaped, entire states ascended towards the skies and submerged to the seas. Climate had changed dramatically. He only had to look outside for that. The populous trees and grassy lands were gone in some areas, and thrived hungrily in others. From the small peek that Graham had of Jacksonville, it almost matched up with what the Drifter said. He shook his head, rubbing his temples. “Alright, let’s say these attacks really did happen and the world is really messed up.”

“We’re speakin’ in hypotheticals now, son?” Drifter questioned.

“For now.” Graham knew that he was losing logical ground quickly. Before long, he would have to collapse hard in the reality, the cold reality. “I’ve heard your people talking about demons and mutants. What are those exactly?”

“No one knows much,” Drifter started. He went on briefly, about what he knew about them. “Mutants are the products of the biological weapon known as P-X3, a powerful gas substance fired at the smaller cities. Most people died instantly from it, yet not everyone’s body responded the same. Some went mad and transformed into monsters. Others are…trickier. They can range from pure out ugly to somewhat normal, but still easily recognizable. My boy and Crisium are my heavy hitters,” Drifter said thoughtfully. “There ain’t a mutant that’s the same, my boy. I suppose you can be counted as one,” Drifter grinned. Graham, however, frowned. It was a nerve wrecking thought.

“So these people are…mutated?”

Drifter cocked his head to Wood. The young man was curled up, knees to his chest, sleeping. “Did ya wonder why Wood had green hair and Crisium’s eyes glow yellow?”

“It had occurred to me…” Graham said, sighing.

“Side-effect.” Drifter stroked his chin, “Weren’t even recognizable when I found them.”

“Some of them can transform…?”

“The luckier ones…and I’m guessin’ you’re not a lucky one.”

Graham massaged his temples a little harder, feeling a small portion of exposed bone of his own skull. “I guess I’m not.” He closed his eyes. “Demons. What about those?”

“Oh those, those are much more dangerous. Demon, they look normal. They’ll have dinner with ya and even enjoy the company before they do somethin’ crazy like explode your inners. Powerful creatures, humans who had survived the Z-12. The chemical bombs attacked the body and killed in a slower way, even spread like any
virus. However
, much like the P-X3 there were survivors. Some said there were survivors due to the body creating anti-toxin. Others say it was pure luck. Every survivor, as little as they are, came out with something, a skills and power. They could do anything from decaying men’s bones, healing, to some degree of a magic-like quality. Demons, a mad priest had called them, as he was torn to pieces on radio. I suppose it stuck.”

You don’t say,
Graham thought.

“Yeah. They’re dangerous, alright. Very few in the world. I gotta few, and I mean a few, on the caravan.”

Graham’s fingers tapped against the surface of the table. “These Demons has some sort of superpowers?” He growled, climbing up the thought. “Like comic book shit?”

“Is that so outlandish for a walking corpse with a rifle on his back?” Drifter said, amusingly.

Graham twitched the corner of his lips. Drifter had a point.

“So, you’re telling me the world just went to shit? No explanation. No real reason.”

Drifter gave a bit of a shrug. He approached his water-filled sink, dipping a tin cup into the basin. He splashed the water in the cup for a while, before taking experimental sips. “I don’t remember saying there wasn’t a real reason to this madness.”

“You suggested it.”

“Did I?”

“You did.”

Drifter smirked, his uneven teeth showing. He walked around silently for a moment, sipping at the lukewarm water like a high end wine. He kept his cool for a few seconds, but Graham could see it grow. The smirk grew into a grin, a grin to a smile, and that smile to a dry, mad laughter. He cocked his head back, guffawing until he was almost out of breath. Graham hardly found it to be a humorous topic, but Drifter was taking it like it was some sort of game. Maybe he was winning. Maybe he was losing, and didn’t care. Perhaps he was just so happy to be playing. An unsettling feeling settled in Graham’s gut, this was the standard for people in this new and harsh world. At least, the leader had some morals, some ethics to hold on to. If not, these people wouldn’t have trusted him for so long. Would they?

“We don’t know why the timer was set for the world to implode,” Drifter chuckled, “We just don’t know. Don’t mean that it ain’t one.”

“Countries don’t start wars for no apparent reason; just firing weapons like that for God knows what.” A burning passion settled in Graham’s chest that he tried to suppress throughout this conversation. This didn’t make sense. All this, it just seemed impossible to happen in …a few months, maybe a year.

“Why not?”

Drifter shot him a stare. The answer was cold. And Graham didn’t have a response. It was true. Why not? Why couldn’t the world just decide to off itself? Men were mad. Unclear memories of his deployments, muddled in the course of this lunacy, surfaced. There were no reasons for a lot of things that was done. Men were indeed mad. But, something didn’t make sense. A part of him knew that this wasn’t the entire truth. “Have you ever wondered?”
      

“Why’d ya think I’m here,” Drifter closed his eyes, nodding. “First, I needed to survive. So, I did. But…” Drifter slammed the tin can against the counter. “
You
may find something that I don’t know yet.”

A knock on the door interrupted Drifter from speaking again.

Drifter stared at the door for a while, hearing the knocks. He counted them off, an odd sort of habit. It wasn’t until the fifth one that he opened the door.
He answered it with an empty, but delighted facial expression. “Somethin’ wrong, Raleigh?” Despite the visitors huffing and puffing, Drifter kept his light southern-tinged voice at a remarkably aloof level.

“Drifter, sir! There’s something wrong!”

“I can see that, boy,” Drifter responded amused.

Graham readied his gun. If his host noticed, he made no indication of it.

“Come in, Raleigh.”

Drifter moved aside to let the barrel-chested, blonde haired man enter the vehicle. Raleigh, broad and tall, barely fit into the thin corridor. He was covered in sweat, his oil stained t-shirt drenched. He took a few seconds to get his breath, hands on his knees. He looked up momentarily, when he finally got himself together. His grey eyes went wide at the sight of Graham. He backed up, touching the leather of his holster of his pistol. “W-what is that?” The man pointed his stubby finger at Graham, who in turn, eyed him calmly. “Drifter, there is a—“

“A zombie in my RV? I think I’ve noticed,” Drifter chuckled darkly. “Think I’m
that
senile?”

Raleigh shook off his stupidity, trying to hide it behind a horrible mask of coolness. “Heron and Juvencio have gone missing. They’ve gone into the Plagues and haven’t come back yet. We need to go after them.”

The two men stared at each other blankly, before Drifter just nodded his head. “Well I guess that makes sense,” he said simply. Raleigh gave a confused look as though he didn’t expect that response.

“Really?”

      
Drifter popped him on the head with his cane, causing the young man to tumble forward, tears in his eyes. “No. Do you think it’s smart to go willy-nilly into the Plagues, lad?” Drifter asked. “Nah. It’s a pretty bad idea.”

“But those people…”

“Those people indeed,” Graham said, readying to stand up. It only took a quick snap of Drifter’s cane to bar him from doing so.

“No heroics, now.”

Graham crossed his arms. Two of Drifter’s comrades were lost in some part of the land called the Plagues. From the name alone, the land must have been violent. Assumptions would lead a man to believe it to be a bad place to be lost. No. It was a bad place, period. And here he was about to leave them to be killed or worse in a place that was far too dangerous to be.
He would do that.
The people had too much trust in the old man for him to not at least try. He gritted teeth, but reeled in the rest.

Drifter must have seen the quick flash of anger in Graham, noting it with his eyes. “The Plagues are held by…” he edged on.

Raleigh’s brain, not the most used tool in his arsenal, churned for an answer. “Ragnar’s pack , sir?”

“Right,” Drifter patted Raleigh on the head. Fitting gesture, Graham noted, since the poor sap looked like he deserved some sort of treat. Graham smirked at the memory of a man he once knew; the face was long since blurred. “If my memory serves me correctly,” Drifter continued, “Ragnar has a personal debt to settle.”

“I’m assuming it’s not a friendly sort of debt,” Graham said.

“It can talk!” Raleigh cried out. The blunt crack of Drifter’s increasingly dangerous cane on the side of the head shut him up, albeit almost giving him a concussion.

“Ragnar is a...” Drifter mouthed a couple of words to himself, looking up to the ceiling. “Interesting. No too boring. Unfriendly, too blunt. Vengeful…yeah. Ragnar’s a rancorous man. He blames me for something that happened. I don’t quite remember what.” He turned to Graham. “You mind helpin’ me with this problem, Mr. Marine.”

Now that wasn’t fair.
Yes, it was a reasonable request. Drifter had no reason to tell him any of this, no reason to keep his company. But, he did. Ultimately, asking him to help reached out to the better part of Graham. Besides, Graham didn’t like debts. Debts meant you owed something, and owing something meant power over them. But, curiosity would kill him nevertheless and there were innocent people in trouble. “Do you want me to go to that place…the Plagues?”

Drifter hummed innocently. “I’m
not really
asking. But if you want to,” he nodded, “It would help me a lot. And don’t want to miss Ragnar’s surprise party.”

Good man,
Graham thought. Anyone that knew anything about hostage situations knew what the next phase would be. Taking hostages only achieved two things, reward or distraction. These men aren’t interested in reward. So, it was a trap, a good one. This Ragnar fellow was setting a trap, specifically to get some of the power players from the Caravan out of the way; most likely the stronger ones. Drifter would have to send a mutant, a demon, or a trained platoon of soldiers. But, with Graham added to the mix, he would satisfy two of three of those. Maybe he wasn’t a platoon of soldiers good, but he was good at what he did. “The Plagues,” Graham commented, “What are they like?”

“Dark, grisly, filled with cannibals,” Drifted explained with a yawn. “A Tuesday afternoon, really.”

“How about I go alone? And you bunk down here for the—“