“Again,” he says when he hands me the pitcher.
I take small sips so not to cramp up my stomach, and take off again. For the next three hours Devlan makes me run the course, only allowing me to take the occasional break for water and crackers. After my last lap he goes inside and begins to cook breakfast while I hobble into my room. My feet hurt and I can feel blisters trying to form on the tops of my toes, but they never appear. I throw my sweat-drenched clothes into the hamper in my closet, wrap myself up in my robe, and head to the bathroom to take a shower.
The water is warm, not hot, but comfortable. I stay in long after the soap has gone down the drain not wanting to leave. My stomach begins to growl. I quickly dry off, put my robe back on, and join Devlan at the cracked, blue Formica dining table.
Breakfast this morning consists of dry wheat toast and oat squares.
“I need you to go to the Refuge for me and pick up something.”
“You’re kidding, right?” I snort as I place my spoon down and pick up a glass of powdered orange juice.
“No, I’m not.” His tone is serious, as is his demeanor.
I stare at him for a moment, anxiety welling up, fear taking over. I see the face of the man, who kidnapped me all those years ago, which causes my pulse to increase. Sweat breaks out on my palms and forehead. My voice lost for moments as I tremble with panic.
“All right,” I finally respond, my body shaking.
I don’t bother to finish my meal since my appetite has vanished. I place my dishes in the sink after scraping off the remnants into the trashcan by the back door, and head to my room. An old hunting knife I found a while ago buried under years of mud and sand, sits idle on my nightstand, so I pick it up and throw it, watching as it slams into the chipped drywall above my bed, sinking to its hilt.
I feel angry and betrayed at Devlan’s request.
He has always forbidden me to go to the Refuge when he makes his monthly trips. He has drilled into my head that it’s a risky place for people of the Wasteland to travel. The name is polar opposite of its true nature.
I dress wearing nothing but black, including my calf high boots and leather jacket. This attire will cause me to burn up on my trip as the full sun will be blasting down on me, and the baked desert ground will radiate it back up, but it’ll make me easily forgettable. I remove the knife from the wall, place it back into its sheath, and tuck it in my boot.
Devlan is out front, moving my motorbike out from the small shed a few yards from the makeshift driveway. His truck is still parked in front of the house from his visit to the Refuge two days before. This strikes me as being greatly out of character since he always keeps the truck a mile away.
Each city has their own spy satellites that sweep over the Wasteland looking for people to steal, so if we keep the truck away from the house it won’t be associated with belonging to a specific residence. He doesn’t want anyone to notice the house is inhabited, despite it falling apart in places. But he’s drawing the cities to our home with his truck being left visible.
How can he be so careless?
“Why am I going to the Refuge when you were just there the other day?” I ask as I tie my hair back into a ponytail and don my helmet.
“I got a message that something I requested several weeks ago has come in, so I want you to go get it since the truck is not working properly and I can’t ride your motorbike.”
I question his excuse in not going. His truck has always run fine, and I find it odd that he is so willing to let me go.
I straddle the bike, turning the key in the ignition.
“Who do I ask for when I get there?”
“Go up to the bar and ask for Rena.”
I acknowledge him with a nod, place my foot on the back bar by the rear wheel, roll the handle forward, and take off down the long dirt covered driveway. I turn right onto the crumbling asphalt of the highway long extinct and head north.
Chapter 2
The Refuge is known to be the most dangerous place to go in the Wasteland.
People have been known to disappear here or die here. It’s a recognized hangout for the Collectors: bounty hunters who scour the Wasteland taking people to be sold to the cities or other unknown locations. Since no one is sure who is a Collector, everyone risks capture whenever they go to the Refuge, but it’s the only place to get supplies in order to survive.
This fact is one of the reasons I’m so upset that Devlan commanded me to go. The thought of being collected sends shivers down my spine. The more I think about the possibility of being taken, the sicker I feel.
I doubt my knife will be enough to fend off a Collector.
I approach the turn-off for the Refuge and spot another vehicle approaching from the opposite direction. The small car is caked in red dust. The windshield is missing, exposing the two passengers in the front seat to the harsh elements. I doubt they can see me as I’m over a mile away. My vision has always been exceptional, as are my
