Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 4

I follow the river for about an hour north, every sense on alert, attentive to any sign that I am being followed. When at last I am sure I am alone, I strike out east. I know the Pilgrim's Trail is somewhere further west, and I want to stay as far as possible from people if I'm going to take on this challenge. Who knows how large this tracker is, how hard it will be to remove, or how long I will need to recuperate for after it's gone.

I climb up the dry clay of the bluffs, then head out across a low, grassy meadow. Orange butterflies circle over waving flowers of gold and crimson. It is only a half hour before the banks of a large lake stretch before me. Just ahead of me is an island, perhaps thirty feet off shore, thick with trees.

Perfect.

I half-swim, half-wade the channel to get to the island. To my pleasure, I discover a small one-room shack at its center, with a neatly made fire pit out front. I push open the sturdy door to find a rough cot, a low table, and one straight-backed chair. A trio of shelves holds a small tin cup, an assortment of hooks, and a spool of fishing line. A rough but serviceable rod leans against a wall. The place is coated in dust. It seems the owner, whoever he was, has been away for a while.

I drop the bar across the door and draw the shutters shut against the setting sun. The small metal latch won't hold out a determined attacker, but it would at least alert me to his presence.

My stomach grumbles again, but the sun is at the horizon now, and shadowy darkness has fallen across the lake. Food will have to wait.

Red lights flash in my eyes, blinding me, accompanied by the blaring of an alarm and harsh laughter. A sharp pain stabs at my hip, but I hold myself still, knowing that motion could bring death.

The matted hair of the woman swings as she laughs at me, her eyes glaring with hatred. "Red!" she screams. "Red, red, red!"

Then, the softest of whispers, the warmth of breath against my neck. "Shhhhhh ...."

The dream tumbles away.

I stand before my shack in the early morning sunlight, my arms high over my head, soaking in the warmth of the glowing light. My calf still gives its low throb, but for some reason I am absolutely sure it is the sharper stab at my hip which indicates the tracker. If I am going to take this on, I will need to plan out supplies.

I fish for a few hours, ending up with two walleye and a large-mouthed bass. I set them up to smoke over the campfire, then turn to my next task.

There are chokeberry bushes, and I find a mound of the dark green, wide leaves that indicate American groundnuts beneath. I brush the dirt off of one of the small, onion-like roots and take a bite.

Just right.

Next, I track down a fluff of St. John's Wort growing under a stand of birch trees. Certainly not as good as whiskey for what I am planning, but it will have to do. I grind it up into a paste, mixing in some of the clay-mud from the river bank. Hopefully its mild antiseptic qualities will serve me well.

The large-mouthed bass makes a good meal.

I take off my shirt, wet it in the lake, and then go inch by inch through the cabin, clearing out all dust and grime. By the time late afternoon comes, I am satisfied. The place is certainly no operating room, but it will serve.

The hook and shiv get sterilized in the fire, and I am ready.

I lay the smoked fish, berries, and other supplies on the table within easy reach. I prop myself up on the cot, leaning back against the wall, and give one final look down to my hip. The smooth surface of my skin beckons to me, the stillness of a placid summer lake, waiting for that first person to leap in with a delighted scream.