No One's Land

Chapter Eleven

I wake up for what feels like the hundredth time and don't feel groggy at all. In fact, I feel as awake as I've ever felt in my life. No sorrow, grief, rage, depression.

I feel good. Whatever I injected myself with was something of miracles. But what exactly was it? As if in answer, an address flips across my mind's eye:

EZ Mart, HWY 151, Chesterfield County, South Carolina 29718.

As soon as I register the address, I know exactly how to get there. Muscle memory, almost. So I guess... I have to go. It might seem hasty, but what else do I have left? I can sit here until I die, walking around the same town collecting supplies, or I can go and get answers to this quickly unfolding mystery.

There's only one real choice.

"HELIOS?"

"Yes, Helen?"

"Anything important to take?"

"Let's see: road maps, food, water, and presumably weapons?"

Food and water are a given. I don't think I'll need a road map, though, I already know where I'm going due to whatever the cocktail in the syringe was. As for weapons? Not sure. I should probably take at least something, considering I have a stronger, but still weak leg and a severe knowledge deficit of hand-to-hand fighting. Not that that'll help anything, considering animals are my only enemies anyway. Luckily for me, East Main street is literally just around the corner, and it's the largest commercial boulevard in both Athens and the surrogately named county. My hotel was right on it... our hotel. I drag myself off the floor of the office and I'm itching to get ready. So I peel off my only moderately dirty, grimy clothes in exchange for some only moderately moth-eaten, dusty clothes, pack more in a suitcase from a closet, and place it on the bed. I find another suitcase and load it with canned goods from the kitchen, leaving it half-empty for more extravagant canned goods from Walmart. I leave it on the bed, too. And I'm ready to head off.

"HELIOS?"

"Yes, Helen?"

"You'll stay with me outside the house too, won't you?"

"I believe so. My programming and engineering dictates that as long as I am fed stable electroneuronic energy from your brainwaves, I will remain active."

"Good." Still weird talking to someone. I go over it again in my mind...

Attacked by a dog: cool, normal I guess.

Waking up in the private home of a millionaire technology philanthropist: wow. Okay. Sorta crazy. Lotta questions there.

Robot in my head(???): no comment.

Seeing a repeat playback of me pulling myself into the house: some questions answered. More raised. Quite a bit more.

Injecting myself with a serum that contains the address of a gas station in South Carolina, and who knows what other information: okay admittedly not the weirdest thing that's happened but still pretty out there.

And now, I'm on my way to that same gas station with absolutely no motivations for going there besides a hunch, the kind detectives from the 1930s have in the movies. Yeah. This... this is my life.

Anyway, I drag myself out of the murk of my thoughts and get to leaving the house. The suitcases stay, as I need a vehicle to carry them, and me, for the journey ahead. So I do finally leave the house, and make my way down the suburban offshoot street with its fading, ivy-covered houses and garages. I turn the corner into East Main Street with its fading, ivy-covered gas stations, fast food places, and shops. A short walk and I pass Walmart, not intending on stopping there yet. I'll be weighed down by cans when I leave the place, so it's better to hit up my first destination: the Tractor Supply located at the end of a sort of strip mall right before East Main becomes just highway. For the first time, looking up the embankment between the road and the mall's parking lot, I'm forced to notice the grass.

We don't pay much attention to grass, even when it's overgrown and intamable, but for some reason this parking lot was hit harder with it than most of the others. Only grey flashes of pavement show through the green and gold of this symbol of life's perseverance, like dark clouds encroaching an otherwise cloudless and sun sunstruck sky. Beautiful.

I make my way to the weather-worn double doors of the Tractor Supply, attempting to push them open. I'm unsuccessful. Shrugging, I pick up a stone and back away, chucking it at the window to the left of the doors. It shatters loudly and the crystals fall with the sounds of sparkles you hear in kids tv shows. As I move towards the window, a glint catches my eye. Metal reflecting sun. It's a sign on the door.

PULL

I sigh.

Inside, it's cooler and drier than I'd anticipated, though my window shenanigans will ensure that this will only be the case for another week or so. I make my way immediately to the firearms section of the store. There are quite a lot of guns here, small pistols, large pistols, and rifles to name a few. They're all locked behind protective glass, still looking pristine and elegant... and deadly. I'm not a firearms expert, so I pick out the one I saw the most in military and police shows. The Glock something I think. I don't have the key, but luckily, Tractor Supply sells hammers as well. Easily enough, I break the glass and reach in.

I touch the gun, and my mind is flooded.

The Glock 17 is a highly reliable semi-automatic self-loading handgun, invented in the early 60s and perfected over the decade by Gaston Glock, who'd made his company by producing high-quality trenching equipment during the later stages of World War 2. When the Austrian army had moved on from their former military handgun, they sent out a call to arms, and many heavy contenders responded. Sig Sauer, Colt, and then some. This prompted Gaston to produce his own handgun, and he took several inspirations from the standard Colt M1911, such as the over-under barrel, which tilts each time the action draws and a shot is fired to allow interior ventilation, and an interior hammer of his own design. The key aspects of the Glock 17 that set it apart from anything else in the market were its lightweight polymer material and its astonishingly simple design, with an astounding less than twenty moving parts. The gun was called the Glock 17 because it was Gaston's 17th invention. The fact that the magazine held 17 rounds was nirvana. So, when the gun was placed against Colt's 1911 and Sig's P210, it performed with flying colors. It was quickly adopted as Austria's standard military handgun and even sees use on the police field around the world. Since then, the gun has seen over sixty variations, tailored for anything and everything a combat encounter might require. This model is standard, chambered in nine millimeter.

I recoil back from the gun, shocked but not frightened.

"HELIOS, was that you??"

"Yes, it was. I wasn't speaking, but directing information from my database into your mind."

I nod. "I'll ask next time, yeah?"

I feel HELIOS's approval of my request. I pick the gun up. It's relatively light, but I suspect it'll be heavier when it's loaded. I leave it on an unbroken section of the counter, realizing that I'll need something to store excess ammunition in. I leave to find wherever duffel bags are kept.  As I exit the gun aisle, I'm drawn to a hip holster, and take it off the rack, putting it next to the gun.

It seems now that I have limitless knowledge. Fun stuff.