Dead Land, Character Introductions, Page 3

“Boys, the Dead Land is all there is.”

  “But...”

  “People come this way every month,” he continued, “Usually from the west, occasionally from the south, sometimes even from the bear country up north. They hope Phoenix’ll still be here, but it ain’t, not really. We got bombed and blasted and shook up, same as everywheres else. You understand? It’s all dead. East, West, North, South. Dead. And then folks either turn right back around or lie down and die themselves.”

  He paused, then added, “Y’all might want to consider doing the same.”

  Hatch felt his heart sink.

  “Which one?” asked Mick, his eyes narrowing.

  “You boys on somethin’?” the man asked. “Cause I ain’t dealin with no tweakers.”

  “Excuse me?” Hatch asked.

  The old man was looking carefully at Hatch’s face.

  “Nuthin,” he then coughed, “We can trade, but I’ll only deal with him.”

  The man pointed at Dusty.

  “You other two gotta wait out here.”

  Hatch and Mick looked between each other.

  “I really don’t think—” Hatch started.

  “If it ain’t the white boy, then y’all can just git,” the man said, more firmly.

  “Don’t worry, guys,” Dusty said confidently, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Hatch and Mick were speechless as Dusty strode past them and into the shop, the metal door clanging shut behind him. Even a hundred feet away, Hatch could hear the strange man snickering from his cave of debris.

  Left to his own devices, Hatch sat and wondered how it was that Dusty’s pale complexion had granted him access, while Mick’s and his had not. Hatch speculated that the old ones of Phoenix, if there were such a group, might believe dark complexions a sign someone was sickly, perhaps even spaded. If this were indeed the case, he realized Mick would have great difficulty indeed in Civilization, even though he was clearly not ill in any form. Mick’s skin, after all, was very dark brown, and he had black hair that grew like a bush all along his head and face. Hatch’s own skin was coppery, and his hair dark and straight, though unlike others from Shelter 303 he was somehow unable to grow hair from his face. Dusty’s hair was red, and his skin light and pinkish, and in the peak of day he burned easily.

  After a few minutes, their pale friend emerged from the building and asked for some more of their belongings; specifically, anything metal. Hatch asked what they would be traded for, with Mick harshly indicating punishment in the event of failure, but Dusty merely insisted it was all good, and that they had to be quick about it. Hatch parted with any extra metallic weapons and tools he had, save for his flashlight, axe, and the hatchet that was his namesake. Mick did the same, keeping only a select few of his favorite knives. Hatch then made Dusty promise not to trade the shotgun or its precious ammunition before he darted back inside.

  Eventually, he returned looking very proud and carrying a large wooden box. The door crashed shut behind him. A series of locks shucked shut.

  Hatch and Mick examined the contents of the box with great interest at first. There was a gallon of water and a little food, but the majority of the box contained an array of colored fluids or pills in transparent, labeled bottles. Mick began screaming at the very sight of it, while Dusty kept proudly insisting that the items in the box would save them just as the rock fruit had done. That was when Hatch noticed that the shotgun was no longer anywhere on Dusty’s person, and Dusty had to explain that he had, in fact, traded it. Then Hatch and Mick were both screaming, and Dusty began to doubt the extent of his bartering skills. Hatch could not remember exactly how things descended from there, but he was fairly certain that Mick started banging on the trader’s door just before a patch of sand exploded near Hatch’s feet.

  “The next shot’ll be higher!” they then heard the old man shout from inside his building.

  They all froze, and it took the group several seconds to realize that the wiry old man had just fired at the ground with the same shotgun that they had traded him. Having shot at many things, but never been shot at themselves, none of the men were immediately clear on what they should do.

  “Git outta here!” the man shouted, and then fired at the ground near them again.

  The situation was suddenly much more clear for everyone, and the three men took off running down the path, a harsh cackle directed at them as they passed the rubble cave.

  Hatch discovered later that there were many more people in the City of Old Phoenix than he had first assumed, and that almost none of them cared for his existence—or for any outsiders, really. He would attempt to talk to people as the occupants moved about their daily business, which often entailed either scavenging or trading amongst each other; at night hunters returned from the plains with game, and, in places, agriculture happened, often in the partial shade of a half-gone building. At best, he would learn a little more about the world and its working. At worst, he would have rocks thrown at his head. He was very appreciative of the knowledge, however arcane or incomprehensible—or at least he was more so than the rocks.

  Ultimately, the most important thing Hatch learned about Civilization from the people of Old Phoenix was that nothing that was both tangible and useful was ever given away for free.

  They were hungry, and rapidly running out of water and supplies. Eventually, as rations dwindled toward nothing, they were forced into eating more and more of the rock fruit, and even though Dusty insisted that his acquired “supplies” would get them far, there was simply not enough real food to support that plan. The group settled into some unclaimed ruins, within the crook of two buildings that had once collapsed against each other, and attempted to plan their next move and gather resources for the journey. Sadly, no matter how much they picked up through observation and conversation, they were simply not as adept at the scavenging lifestyle as the locals. The surrounding desert itself had been picked clean of anything remotely valuable. The only water came from a shallow bed, which the locals had not only the audacity to call a river, but which they also charged a steep price to draw from.

  Soon Hatch forgot about an excursion westward entirely, and after he had exhausted his real-food rations his mind become enveloped in a dense fog, but he could vaguely visualize the night that things fell apart, when the notorious box came back into discussion.

  Dusty had tried to trade the non-food contents of the box back to the city inhabitants many times to no avail, and as the rations dwindled he began to experiment with them. Mick had never lost a sense of rage over the whole affair, and, that evening, in his ranting, had tried to get Dusty to experiment with the substances that appeared the most harmful. Hatch still regretted not intervening in this exchange, but the rock fruit had been keeping him awake for the last three days and the whole of his consciousness was fading in and out of the scene. He fell asleep, again dreaming of the ocean, and woke to the sounds of a violent struggle.

  By the time he was on his feet, it was already over. Mick, knives in his hands with an empty glare, turned and ran as Hatch rose. Dusty lay on the ground—lifeless. Blood flowed from wounds everywhere.

  Hatch was too dumbfounded to even think of giving pursuit; he simply stood over Dusty for a time, and then turned to the box. Many of the contents were missing, especially the pills, consumed by one of the other men, but well over half the items had been left untouched. Looking at them, he had a sudden desire, a deep need to end his hapless existence; he took some of the vials of liquid in his hands and delicately consumed them. When he had waited a moment and found that they had no effect, he downed some more. When that did not seem to work, he swallowed a whole container of pills, labeled Body Boosters, and chased them down with more of the mysterious liquids. It felt like he had sat there at least an hour, though in retrospect, Hatch realized he may have devoured the remaining contents of the box in as little as a few minutes.

  Then, as if that were not enough, he went for the rock fruit. He ate Dusty's ration, the rati
ons that Mick left behind, and then his own.

  All of it.

  The more Hatch ate the more empty he became, his soul drifting on a tether somewhere over his body. If he was arriving finally at his chosen fate, it was a cold greeting.

  …….

  -Malachi and Sebastian-

  MAN ON THE MOON

  By Kalju Lee

  Sebastian sat on the hood of his car, looking up into the black sky at a pristine Earth, a ball of blue and white and green and violet, filling the sky, whorling slowly through the darkness. He sighed and lay back against his car's windshield. It was peaceful. From where he sat atop the small crater rim, he could see the dim lights of Turbine City West, and the dark strips of the abandoned airfield beyond that. Scattered ruins of buildings formed in lunar cement told of early Moon history: A proud moment still for Moonlings. Sometimes I wonder why we want to leave all this, he thought to himself.

  One of the more immediate reasons, though, had just parked behind him. “Hey!” The greeting came loud and angry over the speaker in his helmet. “Hey, motherfucker! Where’s my money?”

  Sebastian turned in EVA suit and saw someone getting out of an open-top buggy: Frank, his bookie; a solid man with broad shoulders, an emerging paunch and a jet-black receding hairline, so high it was nearly cut out of his helmet’s face panel. Like Sebastian (and a majority of Moonlings), Frank was mostly of Chinese descent, though several generations on the moon had already muddied his cultural ancestry and, in turn, his old earth-bound identity.

  “Hi! Frank! You must be looking for my brother, Sebastian. I bet he owes you money again, eh?” Sebastian slid off the car hood to the far side, placing an obstacle between himself and the angry man. He wasn’t good with confrontation; in fact, aside from lies and jackassery, Sebastian didn’t have a knack for much else than getting himself into gambling debts with the wrong kind of people.

  “Let me guess, you’re not Sebastian?”

  “Heh, nope. I understand how you might get us mixed up. Happens as much as you might think.”

  “Funny how half the time I run into you, you don’t remember the other half.”

  “Well, you know, I’ve got a lot going on, and I am the weaker-minded of the two of us. They tell me I ate a lot of moon dust as a kid.”

  “Or maybe you think I can’t tell you apart, and you can keep giving me the run-around, pretending to be someone else!”

  They started a delicate dance, as Sebastian tried to keep his distance without incriminating himself, and Frank tried to get close without over-exerting and popping a suit-hose.

  “I’m offended that you would say such a thing! I’m an upstanding citizen, I’ll have you know, and would never mix myself up in this business. Now if you want me to take a message to Sebastian, I’d be glad to.”

  “How about you come with me and we go see him together?”

  “Ah, I don’t know about that. He’s got some bad mine-lung going on, and I wouldn’t want you to get infected. See? Would Sebastian care about your health like that?”

  Sebastian had maneuvered over to the driver’s side door of his car, and could clearly see Frank’s angry visage glaring at him through the passenger side.

  “I don’t care which one you are, I’m taking you both and I’m getting this sorted out and I’m getting my money.”

  “Maybe I’ve got some money in here,” Sebastian replied as he unlatched the car door.

  “Unless you’ve got six thousand in there, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “Six? What happened to five and a half? I mean, what my brother said was—”

  “That’s it! Get over here!”

  Sebastian’s car was a black-market ‘74 Chevy Nova Redux series, converted to moon-use with an electric engine and