Into The Wasteland - a dystopian journey

Chapter 9

I breathe in deeply, the gentle light of morning against my eyelids, and a feeling of peace descends on me. The gnats and black flies have been left behind. A fresh breeze blows through our camp. A kindling of hope fills my heart.

I walk up to the top of the rise and face the sun to the east. I do my morning ritual, greeting the sun, and am pleased that the scar at my right hip no longer gives me any trouble at all. The twinge at my calf is an old friend, a reminder of some long-lost encounter.

Done, I clean up the camp and give Blaze a fond pat. His brown eyes are bright, alert, looking forward to the day ahead.

I hold up my hand, looking at my fingers. Five more days. If my calculations are correct, the gate should only be five days from here, even at a gentle pace. And then all of this will finally be over. I have ammo, I have supplies, and I have Blaze by my side.

We trek contentedly to the west, following the edge of the lake, and around lunchtime we stop for a bit of fishing. I'm delighted to catch a trout, and I grill it over a fire while Blaze munches contently at a patch of fragrant clover. Then we are in motion again.

As I had hoped, we soon spy a settlement up ahead, perhaps thirty or so buildings of various shapes and sizes. The town is without walls, and for some reason it reassures me. The dangers of civilization are behind us. Up here, it's a simple outpost where the humans band together against snowstorm and wolf pack.

There's a stables immediately by the entrance to the town, and as it appears it's probably the only one, I step within. A bald, thin man in burgundy robes steps forward. "Welcome, traveler, to Arrondir. Staying the night, I hope?"

I nod, and he smiles, motioning a hand toward a well-kept stall freshly strewn with hay. I guide Blaze within, removing his tack and gear and laying them on a nearby bench.

The man fetches a pail, pouring fresh water into Blaze's trough. "One bullet covers you and your fine steed for the evening, room and board," he states. "The hotel is right across the way."

I hand over the bullet, and he places his hands together at his chest. "Sleep well."

"And you," I respond, and give Blaze one last look before heading across the quiet street.

Nearly every person in the lounge and bar are wearing burgundy robes, and I find a quiet corner in the back of the room by the fire. An elderly woman with grey curls comes over, her robes clean and freshly pressed.

"My name is Mary."

"Hawk," I answer.

"Welcome to our town, Hawk. What shall you have, dear?"

"An ale, and whatever stew you have ready."

Mary nods, bustling off, and is back in a few minutes with my food. It is simple but filling. I have some trouble deciding what the meat at its core might be and finally settle on raccoon.

The conversation is a low murmur around me, with discussions of the coming of winter and the state of the lake. There is a glance or two in my direction, but the locals seem merely curious, not hostile.

When my bowl is empty Mary comes to take it away, and I sip at my ale, running a hand along the worn wood of the table. A log settles in the fireplace, sending off a small shower of sparks.

My eyes go to the wood plank walls, and to a row of portraits which circle the room. Each person wears burgundy robes, and their eyes are uniformly serene and spiritual.

Mary returns with a second mug of ale, removing my empty one. "Those are the ones who were called," she murmurs with pride.

"Oh?" Apparently this is a religious area of some sort. I take a long sip of my ale. I'm curious if they brew this here or if they ship it in from further south.