Desolation

When everyone was quiet, he spoke. “A time long ago”—he started each story this way—“I was called Stephen and my wife was called Darla. During that time, I operated a giant bird, which I could control and fly through the sky, faster than the birds of the sky you see today.” He then shot his arms out like wings and made engine sounds, turning his body from side to side. They loved this part. “Back then, we traveled great distances in these flying containers, flying over many tribes to get to other tribes we had never been to before. Then the gods of the sky took all of that away.” He paused and looked at the children. They stared at him with rapt expectation, knowing this story, but almost unable to wait for him to tell it. The eyes of his audience reflected the aurora light above, making it feel like there were a hundred or so pairs of soft green fireflies, flying in formation, their lights flickering with each blink.

“Grandpa, tell us about Grandma and the wars,” Gord said, barely able to contain himself. He could hear about his grandma and grandpa over and over, without ever getting bored.

61. The Promised Land

75 Years A.E.

Colo Territory

When Gord awoke, he was assailed by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation. It was worse than the stench from the waste pond outside his family’s cave on even the hottest of days. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered, but he didn’t dare blink the tears away. Instead relying on his other senses, he listened carefully, unmoving so as to not draw attention to himself. Behind him were the rhythmic sounds of someone sawing through something both solid and soft and a heavy man’s foot-falls on the metal floor; each step caused the heated surface beneath him to shudder. His arms were still tightly bound at his wrists, and his legs were numb from the bindings digging into his ankles.

The footsteps dragged something heavy and dropped it directly in front of him. Therrrump.

The ground shook, and so did his insides. The smells that made his stomach turn somersaults worsened, becoming more pungent. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to confirm with his eyes what all his senses were telling him. He slowly ushered them open, but one held, abated by swelling and his own dried blood. Now his vision suffered the same gut-churning assault. It was a dead woman, her slack mouth wide open and her eyes devoid of all life. Her face was a mask permanently locked in a silent scream of terror and pain. She was naked, broken, certainly abused in ways he didn’t want his mind to entertain, and she had been discarded right in front of him, like useless trash.

The sawing stopped. “No, get that one: the clothed one next to the female. It’s fresher, less soiled,” said a scratchy, almost squeaky voice from behind him.

Gord kept still, feeling a chill, even though it was very hot.

“One day or two days, what’s the difference?” answered another voice right behind him, beefier but gentler. “Ohhh, you mean the one brought in today by Snort and that other bad man I don’t like.”

“That’s the one, Moby.”

Gord felt this Moby grab his feet and drag him sideways across the floor. He had to think quickly. His one eye scanned this odd rounded room with bodies everywhere and small holes in the walls filling the inside with dirty light. His chance, coming up, was a sharp piece of metal stuck up at an angle from the floor. He waited as he was pulled closer, controlling his breathing. When Moby dragged him around some other bodies and toward the side of the structure, Gord pretended to be slightly jarred and let his bound hands be pulled by the floor past his head. Reaching out, he thrust the bundle of twine around his wrists on top of the sharp piece of metal, careful not to cut his hands or wrists, and pushed down with all his might, all the while still pretending to be unconscious.

He felt a great tug from his legs to his arms, and his motion stopped. Gord’s ankles slipped from Moby’s grasp and his lower half hit the metal ground beneath him, causing a deep thud and clanging that reverberated all around. Gord was now face down, his arms over his head. While Moby re-focused on his feet, Gord made a quiet swipe with his bindings at the cutting edge before placing his now-loosened bundle back at the starting point of the jagged metal strut. He waited for Moby to do the rest of the work.

Moby breathed a frustrated sigh and grabbed Gord’s feet again, this time vigorously yanking and pulling at him. With each tug, the binding loosened further, and more of it was slashed by the sharp edge of the metal. Gord felt the big man wrap his arms around his legs and put all his weight into the task. Then his bindings fell away, and the force of Moby’s pull caused both men to become momentarily airborne. Moby let loose as he fell, like the great trees of the dead forest, pitching slowly at first and then faster until his massive frame crashed.

“Gods dammit, watch out,” demanded the scratchy voice. “Moby?”