Primal Gambit

Chapter 30: Shift's Respite

Columns of exhaust smoke cut upwards through the fog – runoff from overworked power plants in the distance. Morning sunlight began to paint the brown fog in dense brightness. The haze hung low, bits of ash from past storms drifting across the land. This was the part of the world that the eyes did not see. Odor from various chemicals plagued the junk. A howling pack of wild dogs could be heard in the near distance – barking with vague intent. The wasteland of refuse stretched on for miles.

Shift stumbled over piles of debris, his empty shotgun weighing down his limp arm – nearly dragging across the earth. Left rattled and shell shocked by the savagery of the chop shoppers, he mindlessly reached for the rounds on his bandolier; his hands fumbling to find that he had none left. His face was scorched, blood burned onto his cheeks and nose. One of his eyes was swollen to the point where he was unsure of the direction in which he walked. Meandering forward with a numb leg proved difficult enough – the man was broken. He wished he could be a boy in Malta again, before the world spiraled down into war and overpopulation. Surfacing thoughts of a time when people did not take what they were given for granted served as Shift's respite.

The boy was no older than eight. He sat around a wooden table with his mother and younger sister. The evening birds sang as a cool breeze wisped through the dining room from open windows. Sounds from the compact, cobblestone town had become white noise to the family that called it home. The savory aromas that emitted from the tight-spaced kitchen were powerful enough to make the boy salivate from blocks away. When the scent of homemade minestrone and flatbread permeated his senses, he would abandon his childhood friends in a hurried dash home.

Like any child, Shift took his father's presence for granted when he was still alive. It was not a meditated act of indecency for the boy to say his thanks and continue about the day as if the sacrifices his father had made did not mean something. The boy did not expect the world of his father and was grateful for the contributions his father did make – clothes, food, and housing among other necessities. When his father died, however, the young child found a deeper respect for the way his father built a life for his family. It was this sacrifice that made a young Shift recognize the vulnerability of the things he thought would last forever.

The family held hands, ducking their heads and closing their eyes. The mother, who also spent her later years making sacrifices for the children, whispered a verse in native tongue under her breath. Every prayer the family made forced tears from the daughter. She was too young to understand the meaning of death and as such her green eyes would well every time she heard the prayer – every time what was left of her family would clench their palms together. To her, every prayer was a vow of respect for everything their father had done. As her mother finished the lines, she lifted her head and opened her eyes – smiling through tears at her family.

When Shift opened his eyes, he was met by the smog of a desolate land. He picked himself up from the ground, inhaling deeply from collapsed lungs and trying to see through blurred eyes. Nightmarish howls began to sound from every angle, and as the vicious wild dogs descended upon him – he finally felt as though he was ready. He swallowed anxiously and drew his knife.