The Dirt Eaters

Chapter 10 - The Devastation

THIS IS THE WAY OF THE BLOOD DRINKERS. ON THE THIRD DAY OF THEIR THIRTEENTH YEAR, THEIR EVERY TOOTH IS FILED AND SHARPENED, THEIR EARS CUT OFF AND BURNED AT THE ROOT, AND FROM THAT DAY FORWARD THEY ARE SUSTAINED BY BLOOD.

-THE WAR CHRONICLES

AS THE SUN CASTS its last light of day, Roan starts climbing the trail up Barren Mountain. All around him are delicate amber blossoms. Their sweet fragrance entices, but it is a deception, for these are flowers of the deadly Nethervines. He rides with care. The touch of even one of the black thorns can be fatal.
Roan doesn't stop until he reaches the summit. By then, storm clouds have rolled in over the peak. He scans below. There's not enough light to see through the downpour. But the rain will erase his tracks, and maybe wash some of the evidence of his crime from his clothes. He tilts his face into its wet sharpness and allows the impact of what he's done to penetrate him. He has drawn blood. He has attacked another person in anger. In one blind moment, he lost all self-control, broke every rule he had ever been taught, and mortally wounded another human being. He's become one of them. They are all the same monster.
Tomorrow he'll enter the Devastation, and he'll probably wander there until he dies. The worst that happens, he'll deserve.
Soaked, Roan pulls the bloody hook-sword from its sheath. He winds back his arm to hurl the weapon over the cliff. But the cricket stirs. It scurries out of his pocket, leaps down his arm, and sits on the sword.
Roan tries to coax the cricket off, but it doesn't move. Finally he surrenders. He wants to throw the sword away so he can forget what he's done. But the cricket seems to be telling him to keep it. To remember.
Pulling a blanket from his pack, he throws it over the bike, creating a shelter. Under the makeshift roof, he wraps himself in his bedroll. Trembling with wet, cold, and terrifying emotions, he waits for dawn.
He runs through it again and again. The feeling of the sword in his hand when it struck Saint. How easily it cut through his flesh. And Saint falling. Did I kill him? I hope I killed him. Roan feels his finger. Saint's ring. He's revolted at its touch, but then he thinks, I should wear this. To remind me of what I did, what I am. He wants to cry, but his rage stops the tears.
When first light breaks, Roan gets up and looks over the precipice at the lands below. In the distance, riders. The Brothers. Like a swarm of mad hornets, they'll be after him, hungry for vengeance. His trail will have been washed out by last night's rain, so they'll have no leads. He feels sure they'll head to the other side of the river, to the Lee Clan lands. They'll suspect he's joined their enemies there. But once they've scoured the Farlands, they'll try the Devastation. How long does he have? A week, maybe two if he's lucky. Nothing more.
Roan walks the bike to the other side of the mountaintop. Eventually he finds not so much a trail as a sliver of a dried-out creek, water-eroded stone. He kick-starts the bike, plummets over the ridge, and bounds down the scarred, rocky path. It's still morning when he reaches the annihilated valley. There's not a tree in sight, not a bird. On either side, steep charred mountains. Before him, as far as the eye can see, are festering craters filled with a putrid blue-black froth. Roan's been told stories about this place. Here, the last of the Resistance had its secret camp. They were well hidden, but also trapped. The planes that came dropped poisons as well as explosives, turning lush meadow into moonscape. Every last member of the Resistance was massacred, and the land was made toxic. No matter where Roan looks, he sees the twisted skeletons of long-dead rebels. No one could enter to bury the dead and survive.
But someone has come back, and recently, for scattered throughout this abysmal graveyard are tiny, ragged shrines of ripped fabric and dead flowers. Someone cherishes these people, he thinks, keeps their memory alive. He hopes the visitors are friendly.
There's no time to pay his respects to those who died here. He once knew their cause, but what was their fight for? Simply to oppose the City? It's not clear to him anymore. So he accelerates. The craters go on, the stench grows worse, and Roan's anxiety increases. The sun is past its peak in the sky when the motorcycle sputters to a halt.
At first Roan refuses to believe it, trying again and again to turn over the engine. Finally he has to admit it to himself: he's out of fuel. From this point on, he'll have to go on foot. There's nowhere to hide the bike, so he strips his gear off it, pushes it to the edge of a crater, and rolls it in. The brackish waters come to life, crackling and bubbling. Saint's cherished motorcycle dissolves into nothingness.
By the end of the day the last fetid crater's behind him. The air smells better. Grass grows on the flats. He turns, searching in the twilight. Listens. No one in pursuit. Not yet. He searches for a protected place to settle, eyes looking everywhere. The ground suddenly gives way under his feet, but the fall is shallow and the cavity just deep enough for him to lie down in. He'll be difficult to spot from a distance. He lays out his bedroll, sips some water, eats a bit of Feeder's goat jerky, and opens Plato's Republic, a vision of a perfect society and the philosopher-kings who reluctantly rule it, scanning its first few words in the fading light. Roan hopes that his escape cancelled the final sacrifice, that his erstwhile friend is still alive, though Feeder would never forgive him for ruining his claim on eternity. Straining to keep his eyes and his mind on his book, he drifts to sleep.
THE RAT'S BLACK EYES MEET ROAN'S. "YOU'RE TROUBLED."
"I KILLED SOMEONE."
"AND IF ONE PERSON DIED SO TWO COULD LIVE?"
"IT'S MURDER. HIS BLOOD IS ON ME."
"NO NEED TO FEAR. HE STILL HAS MANY LEFT TO KILL."
"YOU MEAN HE'S ALIVE?"
"THAT'S SOMETHING YOU MAY REGRET."
Roan snaps awake as the sun breaks through mud-yellow clouds.
Saint alive? If he is, nothing will stop him, nothing.
The snow cricket, nearby, feeds in the turf. Slipping the precious book safely into his pack, Roan lifts himself from the cavity and surveys his surroundings. To the west, the orange-tipped grass goes on for miles. Behind him, Saint and the brethren are sure to appear. His only hope is to gain as much distance as he can. He moves swiftly, packing up his bedroll and obscuring any trace of his presence. After he eats and drinks a little, he cups the cricket carefully into his pocket and ducks into the cover of higher grass. The going won't be easy, but he'll be well hidden.
By early afternoon, the valley opens into a great plain and he sees smoke. A village? Should he risk shelter? The cricket, agitated, wriggles in his pocket. Roan looks again at the smoke. It's moving their way. Dust. It can't be his pursuers-they'd be coming from the opposite direction. Taking no chances, he dives into the long grass and waits.
Within a few minutes the ground's trembling. Fast approaching is something unlike anything Roan's ever seen. The creatures, completely hairless, have hoofed feet, short curved horns. Their hides are sagging, blistered, and scabbed. Eight of them are stampeding in his direction.
Then Roan hears a shrill whistle. Coming up behind the beasts are half a dozen men on horseback. As they draw closer, he sees their skin is waxen, their eyes pink. Their mouths hang open, revealing sharp fangs. None of the men seem to have ears. They are a vision of horror. Albino riders, swinging weighted ropes over their heads.
With a screech, the riders throw their ropes. The rigs make a hissing sound as they fly end over end through the air, entangling themselves in the beasts' legs. One by one the creatures topple until the entire herd is lying in the grass, panting and wheezing.
The ghoulish riders are immediately off their horses and upon the exhausted animals. Roan shudders with revulsion as he watches each man pick a beast, place his arms around its neck, and sink his fangs into its throat. The attackers gulp mouthfuls of blood as the animals lie heaving, eyes bulging.
One of the Blood Drinkers is so close Roan can see the scars where his ears once were. The man sucks intently on the trembling animal, then raises his head, blood splashed across his torso, his mouth a gash of red. He sniffs the air. Roan, perfectly still, thinks nervously of his own blood-splattered clothes. But after an excruciating moment, the drinker goes back to his meal.
Finally, the riders are sated. They go to their horses and pull large plastic bottles out of their saddle bags. Roan knows bottles of that size are hard to come by; it's been many decades since the last plastic was manufactured. Unless the Masters of the City have found a way.
The fanged men drain more of the animals' blood into their bottles. The beasts passively accept this further insult. Then the men untie the beasts, return to their horses, and head off. The injured animals slowly get back on their feet and walk unsteadily away.
Roan waits until both riders and beasts are long gone before he dares move again. He is deeply shaken by what he's witnessed, and the sight of the blood-sodden ground fills him with pity.
Keeping as fast a pace as he can, he travels until his feet are sore, his eyes so exhausted from constant vigilance that he has no choice but to stop. Tomorrow, he promises himself, he'll parcel out his energy more efficiently.
Scouting a place to camp for the night, Roan trips over what he assumes is a log. But where would a log come from, when he hasn't seen a tree for miles? Warily, he bends down and peers through the grass. It's the desiccated remains of a man. Noticing the puncture wounds on the victim's neck, Roan guesses that the vampire riders have an appetite for two-legged prey as well. The dead man looks about the same age as Roan's father.
Without warning, all that Roan has been spared overtakes him. He pictures his father's anguished face, imagines what he must have felt as he watched Saint and his fevered brethren sack the village, then turn on the houses. Did his father hold himself over his weeping mother, attempting to shield her from the death blows that rained on them? He sees his friends, Aiden, Rolf, Esta, and the others, run screaming from the masked intruders, but they find no escape from the Fire Hole. This was the Visitation. Saint's Holy Quest. Roan feels a hate so dark, so rich, he can taste it. As it rises from his stomach, he hears his father's voice.
That's not our way; that way is for others.
But I am other now, Father, Roan thinks. My hands are stained with blood. I can never return to what I was.
Roan finds a soft place in the tall grass a few yards from the dead man. He lies down and closes his eyes. He will sleep with the dead. The dead are his brethren.
"ROAN! ROAN!"
STOWE IS FAR DOWN THE ROAD, ON A HORSE-DRAWN WAGON. SHE'S LOOKING FROM SIDE TO SIDE, SEARCHING FOR ROAN. ROAN RUNS TOWARD HER, BUT THE GROUND TURNS TO QUICKSAND, SLOWING HIM DOWN. HE HEARS STOWE CALLING FOR HIM.
"ROAN? MOMMY AND DADDY ARE DEAD. THE BIG MAN KILLED THEM, DIDN'T HE, ROAN? DIDN'T HE? ROAN?"
ROAN TRIES TO SHOUT AN ANSWER, BUT HIS MOUTH IS FILLED WITH SAND.
"I KNOW YOU'RE THERE, ROAN. I CAN SHOW YOU. TOGETHER WE CAN DESTROY THE BIG MAN. WE COULD KILL HIM, ROAN. WE COULD KILL HIM."
HER WAGON BEGINS MOVING.
"ROAN...ROAN?"
SAND RISES IN A WAVE, CARRYING THE WAGON AWAY.
"ROAN? MOMMY AND DADDY ARE DEAD. THE BIG MAN KILLED THEM, DIDN'T HE, ROAN? DIDN'T HE? ROAN?" SHE CONTINUES SAYING THE SAME PHRASES OVER AND OVER.
TROUBLED, ROAN OFFERS NO RESISTANCE AS THE WAGON AND HIS SISTER, HER CALLS BECOMING MORE AND MORE MUTED, DISAPPEAR FROM VIEW.
Roan wakes in a cold sweat. It's still dark. The moon's a burned husk in the sky; even the darkness seems charred. Roan sits up and listens. The snow cricket is singing. Roan can't understand why he's crying, but tears keep falling and will not stop.
I never buried my father. I never buried my mother. But I can bury you. Roan sits in the bleak darkness and mourns the dead man. For all they both have lost.
When the muted light of predawn comes, Roan looks for stones to cover the man, but there's only grass. He takes the hook-sword, cuts into the ground, and pulls up sod.
Roan takes his father's shoe, places it beside the man, and rolls the sod over him. He kneels to say the prayer that choked in his throat at the Fire Hole. The Longlight prayer of passing. For this man, for his parents, for his people.
That the love you bestowed might bear fruit
I stay behind.
That the spirit you shared be borne witness
I stay behind.
That your light burn bright in my heart
I stay behind.
I stay behind and imagine your flight.
Then it's time to walk.
All that day, and the next, and the next, Roan stops only to eat, drink, or relieve himself. When he sleeps, he dreams of the drowning sand and his sister's anguished cries. Always, he is consumed by dread.
At the eighth sunset, he reaches the end of the grasslands, glad to see the sun go down. He's been told that once autumn days were cool, leading into winter. But since the Abomi­nations, the climate's unpredictable and extreme. The heat often continues late into fall, making first snow impos­sible to predict. Today the sun burned hot. But the weather is bound to turn. Roan squeezed out the last of his water this morning, his food the night before. A sudden blizzard would finish him. He wonders how long he's got.
He's been using meditation to control his thirst, but Roan is grateful to arrive at a low, moss-covered stream with a few trees growing at its banks. The water runs a little, a promising sign. Roan puts his nose close to the surface and smells. Fresh and delicious. The luscious water is just a trickle, which is good, because he's parched and might drink too fast. He rests his face on the muddy bank and sips, luxuriating in the cool liquid's flavor. Better yet, he sees it's safe to rest here, hidden by the sloping banks.
In this tranquil state, Roan loses track of time. He's dozing when he feels the first bite. He bolts upright and slaps his neck hard. An insect tumbles to the ground. Roan looks down. A black-winged fly, its wings still beating. He groans with pain as he feels another bite, on his hand. Ten more bugs swoop down on the same spot. He's being swarmed. Hun­dreds, thousands, of slow-flying, black-winged flies.
Roan runs, flailing at his ears, his eyes, but there are too many of them. Biting and biting again. Half-mad with pain and fear, he trips, landing in the stream. Mud fills his mouth, and he gasps for breath. Then he realizes the mud is his salvation. Frantically digging into the bank, he covers himself with it. It soothes his wounds, stops the biting. And when the hole is big enough, he crawls inside, burying himself until only a bit of his mouth is exposed.
Cocooned in his mud tomb, Roan worries about the snow cricket. He thinks he feels it wiggle in his pocket, but can't be sure. It could be one of the black-wings that got into his clothes.
Roan guesses where the flies have come from. The out-of-season heat probably hatched them from eggs in the stream that's protecting him now. They emerged at dusk to feed. Roan's timing couldn't have been worse. His only hope is to wait it out until morning.
Willing himself to stay relaxed, he sips the air slowly and counts each time he inhales. His heart rate descends, and he drifts.
THE MOUNTAIN LION LICKS ROAN'S FACE. ITS SANDPAPER TONGUE IS WARM AND DAMP.
"WHAT'S HAPPENING TO MY SISTER? WHY DO YOU KEEP ME FROM HER?"
"WE KEEP HER FROM YOU. IT IS THE ONLY WAY YOU CAN REMAIN SAFE."
"THE CITY WANTED US BOTH, SAINT SAID. WHY?"
"THEY HAVE THEIR REASONS."
"WILL THEY KEEP HER ALIVE WITHOUT ME?"
THE MOUNTAIN LION IS SILENT.
"WHY DON'T YOU ANSWER ME?"
"ALIVE, YES. THEY WILL KEEP HER. ALIVE."
Roan gags suddenly. A fly is crawling into his mouth. He coughs and spits it out. Have they found a way in? Is he being swarmed again? He listens, trying to hear through the caked mud. Nothing. He calms as he senses there are no others. What would Stowe think of him now, buried alive, stalked by raiders and flies? He falls back to sleep, dreaming of fire and insects and red skies.