Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 2

Ragnor moans, and I glance toward the woods, searching for movement within the tangle of dense branches. There is nothing – but I know the sniper is in there, patient, waiting for his next opportunity.

"Hang in there," I urge. I crawl my way around an outcropping to the left, then tuck behind the safety of its rock face. I draw a breath and examine the open clearing that holds Ragnor's injured body.

Blood oozes from the wound. The sniper has a steady hand. His shot has gone clean through Ragnor's chest, high and left, and the growing stain shows that the bullet has only barely missed the heart.

Ragnor's eyes flutter. "Had to try," he mutters. "Those who die weren't meant to live."

I stretch out, latch a hold of his left hand, and pull hard, dragging him into shelter. His thin body slides easily over the hard dirt, coming to rest next to me. His eyes raise to meet mine, and a long sigh eases out of him. His gaze unfocuses, dims, and his face stares blankly up at the cerulean sky high above us.

I drop my gaze. He had trusted in me, and I let him down. I had missed the threat. He paid with his life.

My eyes look down his body – and stop.

Gripped tightly in his right hand is a shiv – a short, razor-sharp dagger carved out of a metal spoon. His grip is overhand, as if he had been just about to plunge the makeshift dagger into someone's back.

Mine.

I glance at his cold eyes again, then scan forward into the woods. They are dark, deep, and completely without motion. Not even a robin warbles within their shadowy depths. I drop my hand to my hip, feeling the reassuring weight of the Ruger there. I reach forward, draw the shiv from Ragnor's hand, and tuck it into my pocket. Then I ease my way north, losing myself amongst the furrowed oaks.

* * *

The grass spreads in golden waves before me, white clouds billow cottony in a high blue sky, and a thin brown bird with a glowing orange chest calls out from its perch, balancing on a reed. I have been walking for a night and a day, moving steadily north alongside a thin, tall lake. For some reason "Dakota" comes to mind, and I accept the label without complaint. I have no other glimpses of memory. No sense of my name or background. No idea why I am here, alone, in this vast wilderness.

I have seen no sign of my fellow releasees. There has been no sight of the sniper who had taken Ragnor's life nor of any other denizens of this open landscape. For all I know it is now me and the wild animals which surround me, alone in this place.

My stomach growls, and I once again scan the ground for potential meals. I had been fortunate to find a small wild plum tree earlier in the morning, and gorged myself on the small, vibrantly red berries. But my pockets are now empty, and the sun is slipping lower in the sky. I know soon would come the shimmering violets and deep, dusky greys.

A glimmer comes from ahead, and I pull to a stop, peering across the grassland.

The lake curves at its top, the incoming river dipping down south to form a perfect crook. Nestled within that hollow lies a small settlement, a low wall of stone and wood protecting the front area. My hand drops to the gun at my hip, and I pull out both, checking the cylinders before reseating each one into its holster. Eight bullets left. I'll have to make sure each one counts.

I stride forward, steadily, surely, and the sun eases down as I go. A cool breeze blows steadily off the lake by the time I draw up to the mouth of the wall. A pair of young boys lounge atop it, eyeing me with bored attention, their eyes going to the orange of my outfit. The tow-headed one whispers something to the other, and they both giggle.