Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 8

The stream is behind me, all of civilization is behind me, and it is only me and Blaze, striking out into unmarked territory, following the arc of the sun and the beacons of the stars. I feel untethered, wild, and free, like a hawk circling overhead, thinking of nothing but the next current of air, the next uplifting spiral.

My mind is empty, open, and there is finally space for thoughts to come of just what is going on.

When I bought Blaze, Chisholm suggested I simply stay near the town. There was an appeal to that, to have the sturdy walls around, the presence of others to share the risk of dangers.

Even Wayra in Jamestown did his part. When the nervous man came in, destitute and panicked, Wayra got him safely on his way. I had no doubt that Zeke would get him back to the main trail, and would get him onto a wagon heading north to the Gate.

If I was set on getting to the gate myself, why had I not gone with Zeke? Why not join one of the caravans heading north and put my faith in others?

For some reason, the idea seems utterly foreign to me. I know it is the right thing to do, to be out here on my own, the guns on my hips, Blaze steadily moving beneath me. I would make this trip on my own terms, with only my own safety riding on my shoulders.

I roll the thought around in my mind. Could it have to do with why I was convicted? Had I been betrayed by someone? Had I found that I could only rely on myself?

Not even the smallest glimmering of an answer comes, and I let the thoughts go, focusing on the path before me. Perhaps a revelation would come once I reached the gate and stepped through it. Perhaps, as some had warned, my chute blindness would be permanent, and I'd have to forge a new life in the outside world once I rejoined it. It might be refreshing, to have a fresh start at making my way in the world.

By the time the sun is easing toward the horizon I reach a small stream crossing, just past the Rusten Slough. The clerk at the general store had warned me of what came next – a hard slog through nasty terrain. I give Blaze a fond kiss on the nose before setting up camp for the night. We would need all the sleep we could get.

It was, if possible, even worse than what the clerk had warned about. Long stretches of leg-grabbing mud. Vast armies of black flies and gnats. The sun chooses today to bake down on us with a last gasp of summer, and I talk to Blaze constantly, encouraging him, praising him, keeping his spirits up. I know the running dialogue is really to keep myself going, but Blaze doesn't seem to mind.

Another day, and the black flies have called for reinforcements. There isn't an inch of my body which is free of welts or scratches. My shoulders ache, my legs are wobbly, and even Blaze's head hangs a little lower. And yet we keep at it, one foot in front of the other, a breath in, a breath out.

Then, at last, there is a shimmering darkness before us which grows in size with every passing minute. I knew Devil's Lake was large from seeing it on the map, but here in person it becomes overwhelming. Even as we approach its banks I cannot see the distant shore. It seems a cauldron of ebony, sucking in the light. Pulling the world heartlessly into its maw.

A deep sense of foreboding fills me, and I half consider retreating south. Perhaps we should sleep where we are not in sight, in reach, of this massive presence. I shake off the feeling as silly. With all we have faced together, Blaze and I could take on one lake, no matter what watery spirits lay within it. Still, I withdraw over a rise so we are down in a valley, protected from it, before setting up camp and starting a fire.

Ebony blackness is all around, and I fumble in the dark, searching for something – anything – to give me a bearing.

Green eyes appear suddenly before me, watching me, studying me. And then, just as suddenly, they are gone.