Desolation

Gord forced both eyes open now. With his hands free, he quietly unbound his ankles and then stood on unsteady legs, feeling somewhat weak, but free. The scratchy-voiced man, his back to Gord, was leaning over Moby, who seemed to have knocked himself out. Beside them was a work table with knives and saws and one large thigh bone of a man. Blood coated everything. A tub beside the table contained the freshly cut-up pieces of human flesh and bone. I would have been next!

Gord grabbed an ax, sticky with blood, and stalked over to the scratchy man. There was little time for the man to look surprised, and none for him to raise an alarm. Gord swung with all his might.

Turning to run, ax still glued to his hand, Gord took a moment to search. At the end of this long cylindrical room, by the open entrance, was a pile of bags, clothes, and other discarded belongings. Near the top he found his satchel. After a hasty look inside for his book, he threw the strap around him and sprinted out of the opening.

Looking back as he attempted to put some distance between himself and his captors, he took in the strange edifice. It was round and long, like a massive tree trunk lying on the ground, maybe only four arm-lengths high. It had a smooth, faded, white skin with blue and red colorings on it: letters that read “American.”

“Hey, who are you?” said a voice he passed.

Gord ignored him and others around him and continued running. He was in a village, nestled in a dead forest of tall, round, straight trees that bored holes into the bright sky above. He ran in no particular direction. Then, he realized most people paid no mind to him or his bloody ax. Either they thought him to be one of their own, or they were just plain indifferent to the cruel life around them. With that, he slowed down to a walk, trying to figure out where he was. The mountains poking through the trees looked similar to those he remembered before he was knocked out, yet different, like they were farther away. He just couldn’t get his bearing. He looked for a worn path where many before him would have traveled. That would lead him in a direction where he could get a better sense of where he was.

At a break in the tree line, he found himself at the bottom of a wide, inclined trail. Once he reached the top, he looked to the right where he noticed another large trail, empty of people, and going off into the distance, away from the mountains, to some flat plains. Based on the sun’s position, he guessed it was roughly in the direction he had come from before being knocked out. Looking the other way, in the distance, he saw a set of buildings surrounded by a wall, similar to the one he saw in front of the Cicada sign on the monument of stones. Could it be that easy? He marched along the tall trail, always watching.

He was once again both anxious and excited. He allowed himself to feel a little of the hope that this might truly be the end of his journey. His people were desperate as their water supplies were running so low from the many generations of drought. They needed to find an answer, knowing that their water could be gone in a year or sooner. Gord had volunteered for this journey, offering that Cicada might have their answer, hoping the secrets from his journal were true. He knew how difficult this journey would be. And now the future of all his people, numbering over one hundred now, was dependent upon the success of this mission. He didn’t want to fail them.

In little time, he found himself walking on a smaller trail to the north that went right toward the tall wall, ending at a gate. It was a well-worn passage way, with discarded pieces of other people’s lives tossed aside long ago in the deep depressions on either side of the trail. He was almost upon the large wall and a giant gate, not unlike the wall he had witnessed when he came across the Cicada sign. That was before the man they called Snort knocked him out and tried to make him their meal. This time, he was going to make sure he was on his guard. He approached the wall more slowly.