Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 6

The afternoon sun shines warmly down on me, sparkling off of the twisting river which runs merrily along to my left. I am heading upstream, along a narrow deer-path edging the running water, skirting the occasional bramble bush or washed out gulley. I move my hand occasionally to the leather pouch hanging around my neck, to the wealth nestled between my breasts. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel hope.

A smile comes to my lips. As long as I can remember. The feat is probably less impressive than it might be for most people.

My stomach rumbles, and I spot a flat slab of granite up ahead, slightly overhanging the water, with a blackberry bush up alongside it. I amble over and sit on the smooth stone, tugging off first one boot, then the other, then both pairs of socks. I stretch my toes in bliss, enjoying the warm breeze that tickles through them, before setting up a stick and a line with a fat, juicy worm on a hook. Then I lean back to start picking through the berries while I wait.

Time seems suspended. The clouds drift overhead, long, stretched-out sheets which could be pulled wool waiting to be twined into thread. They are translucent white against a shimmering cerulean blue sky. The water ripples and turns, ever changing, and my mind fades from view. There is nothing but now.

A tug, and the stick spins as something catches on the line. I swipe at it, hauling in, carefully guiding the fish in to shore. It's a catfish, maybe twice the length of my hand, and I smoothly gut it before setting up a small fire on the center of the rock. A few small starter sticks, a larger branch or two, and the blaze is soon sizzling away at its flesh. The rich aroma sets my mouth watering, but I wait patiently until it is cooked all the way through before starting the feast.

As I eat, I give some thought to all that has come until now. This seems to be the first time I have had the luxury to give thought to my experiences - to seek some order in the chaos which has been my short stretch of memory-held life.

My skill set does not point to a quiet, studious college student. In the chute, I knew the gun's feel when it was handed to me. When that metal door had slid open, I understood what was required to stay alive. I had felt no compunction in killing those who had fired on me.

I roll that thought around in my mind as I take a bite of the catfish's meat. Was I an assassin of some sort? A gun for hire? Is that why I had been caught, bundled, processed, and spit into this wilderness prison?

The hit man image doesn't seem to fit. In the tire-fire clearing I had done what was necessary, certainly, but I felt no joy in it. There had been no sense that I would seek out that task again.

And when Ragnor had been killed ...

I pause for a moment, my mouth in half-chew.

Ragnor had been taken down just when he was about to stab me in the back.

A succulent dead bird had arrived on my doorstep just when I desperately needed a meal.

I had come across a stash of silver just when my journey might get more challenging.

I shake my head and swallow the bite. I seem to believe in fate, certainly, and in a sense that those who strive hard for a goal are more likely to reach it than those who passively wait. And yet, there comes a point where random chance seems a less likely scenario.

Was someone lending me assistance?

I give thought to the pine-green eyes which shine in my dreams, to the rich, resonant voice that even now I can hear tumbling in the water. To the sense of soul-deep comfort that comes with them.