The Wasteland Saga

She swung gently at the end of a rope in the shifting mists of dawn.

Chapter 52

He remembered later.

Later that afternoon. He remembered screaming. Running toward… and screaming.

Why wasn’t I on Horse?

He couldn’t imagine himself running.

He sat in the shadow of a dune. Dense fog had run across the bay and into the dunes. The dunes just like where they stayed that night after the village…

He remembered the sound of the rope. He remembered the villagers coming out. They were crying too. He screamed at them… like an animal. Like the bear. Like the lion.

They were crying like children.

They lay down in the street and wept, begging him for forgiveness in a language he didn’t understand. Begging him to let them grieve for this horrible thing that had been done.

How can I ever sleep again?

It wasn’t her anymore.

She was stiff and cold.

He held her, hearing the sound of his pain as if from far away.

Knowing it was he who made that sound.

Knowing that Sergeant Presley could not help him anymore.

Knowing that the world was cruel and made of stone.

Her grave was beneath the sand and the sea grass.

He watched the grave, and what was once the cold of a foggy afternoon and wan sunlight became night and fog.

He watched.

He watched.

He watched.

Who am I now?

HE DIDN’T SLEEP.

Revenge.

He saddled Horse and thought of his revenge.

Don’t do this, Boy!

Why?

He hears the creak of the rope that…

That…

The “who” of his revenge was easier to think about than the “why.” The “why” was too painful. Much too painful.

He saw the face of the leader who came to take her. He was the “who” of his revenge. The object of his revenge.

And in fact…

He saw Sausalito. Their little walled city. Their wall.

All of them behind that wall, they were the “who”…

Of his revenge.

This is how everything went wrong, Boy. Don’t you see? Revenge. Hatred. Fire. Boy, there is no good end to this.

Revenge.

He left the fire burning near her grave.

HE RODE UP through the sea grass to the old western road. The One.

He could see her fire burning in the fog.

Let it burn forever.

In the east the sky was light and the fog was turning white.

This ain’t a way to go, Boy. Forget this and live. Live. That’s all you got to do in this world now. Keep on livin’ until humanity gets a chance to start again. You do this and you’ll set it back. Hell, you might even break it altogether. The world can’t take much more.

Revenge.

He turned and the fire near her grave was gone, swallowed. Lost to the fog.

Who am I now?

Revenge.

Chapter 53

It was night when he moved down among them and their camps at the southern end of the bay.

The Psychos and their bare chests. Their war paint and muddy hair. Blood and Mohawks.

The Boy had watched them from the low hills all day, their boats and rafts taking shape, wood and oil drums dragged in from the ruins.

They would attack tonight.

He had watched them for three days. The mood—their mood was grim, and in the last hours before night the fires started and the dances began.

They’re working themselves up to attack, Sergeant.

Don’t do this thing, Boy.

I have to.

No. You don’t. You want to, but you don’t have to, Boy. There’s a difference.

He patted Horse.

There’s enough grass and water from this stream. If I’m not back tomorrow you’ll pull that stake up and go. Take yourself off somewhere high into the mountains. Find wild mustangs.

In the dark he walks down among them.

He was painted in blood. His own.

The long hair that once hung straight down over his left eye, the weak side, was gone, shaved. Only the wild strip of the Mohawk stiff with mud rose from his scalp. Among the tangled hair, a broken feather.

They drank and rioted in their twirling, bumping dance. There were drums all along the shore.

Hot liquid gushed from a skin and burned his throat. The stuff was raw and as he coughed, he couldn’t catch his breath. When he did he screamed at the world because he was still alive. The wild-eyed Psychos, leering and toothless, gaped happily at the Boy’s reaction.

The men feasted on torn game, greasy and dripping on spits. Women laughed wickedly as they drank and worked the Mohawks of their men into spikes hardened by mud and shining with the fat of slaughtered animals roasting nearby. Their babble was little more than cackles and grunts. Occasionally the Boy detected a stray once-word. A “gunna” or a “sump’in’ killah.”

Amid the pressing throng, wild with delirium, he asked, “Where are you now, Jin?”

I feel more alone than all those winter nights in the bear cave or cold days on the road.

Or when the lions chased me.

Where are you now?

At midnight the moon was gone and the wind was warm.