Dawn

In this chapter I wanted to introduce the protagonist. He is just returning from a short search for food which proves to be quite eventful.

                Well, that’s that,

            A small trail ran along the ground in a wavering chaos. Dirt and gravel pushed together and made a predictable neutral static to the wild highway. It was the most western thing in the entire landscape; a dirt trail.

            To either side of the trail were alien things. There were fields of dry dusty coral and crusty skeletons. Some of the skeletons were human, some fish. The lucky traveller might spy the towering bones of a once great whale, or a great white shark. The more obscure remains could be king crabs, lobsters, or even squids. It was the bottom of the ocean, was. Whatever aquatic nature that existed in this place had long gone. Lichen and green weeds began to sprout around the endless waves of white carcass in what could only be described as a beautiful monument to a place once free of man.

            The traveller took this familiar sight in with a long sigh. It was as comforting as a far stretching forest is to a north-man, or a sandy plain of an easterner’s homeland. Things had been this way for a very long time, he knew, and they would stay this way. Mankind was slow to accept the consequences of the ever-dire fuel crisis, and his new home was living proof.

            An old dirt-bike coughed to life underneath him. At first it began kicking and struggling but quickly it calmed to a smooth rumble. The chain-saw like roar of the engine echoed across the plains, through the yellow air and past the rolling hills of rock and pebbles. It met with the cries of vultures somewhere high above. He clutched the acceleration, pushing forward down the narrow dirt trail as the hollow eyes of a thousand tiny skulls judged his demeanor.

            Not too long now, half a day’s ride.

            The sun lingered above him, glowing and hot. The weather was unpredictable this far off the old-coast, a mixture of continental winds and ocean storms made the plains an unsafe and hap hazardous place to travel.  Though the same crisis which caused the recessing shoreline made travel by daylight near-scorching, the visibility made it worth the discomfort. He’d seen far too many disasters in his day; men driving right off the edge of great chasms and drop-offs, wheels popped on bones and coral miles from civilization, ambushes by rogue refugees, and worse of them all, conscription. If a man wasn’t careful he could be brought home to the old world. For those who adore paved roads and easy living this wasn’t a bad fate. It was the mandatory military service, and poor wages which drove men like him to find peace in the ‘new world’. To him there was nothing new about it, mankind clearly took it’s time reducing the great oceans to naught but a mausoleum.

            He continued down the dirt trail. It was patted down for miles with the tracks of cars and busses from when people were less adaptive. As culture began to accept the harsh realities of the craters the tracks of compact and extreme vehicles finished the job. ATVs, dirt-bikes and jeeps were common sights in this new and very dangerous society, and aircraft were invaluable. Only those with organized alliances were safe enough to protect and maintain working helicopters and skiff planes. He didn’t always like the look of air travel but he knew it was one of the only things keeping the economy here stable. Without the wealthy pilots there would be no fuel for the trailblazers, that much was true.

Some tried to walk, and others even thought that horses and mules were a good idea. Sadly not a single one of these earthly innovators survived a single voyage through the new alien highway. What food is there for a horse in the deserted remains of an ocean? Camels were a very rare exception to the rule, but were hardly seen far from the old-coast. A camel’s ability to survive on a low amount of water made them highly useful for those who thought to cultivate the frontier. Farms were rare, but not ineffectual. Were it not for rogue refugees and convicts finding their way into this new place, they would surely grow in number, and flourish.

He was no farmer, though. He was nothing of any kind of sort. Some took to engineering, escaping the civilized world with the skills they gained. Where they would have been stuck as soldiers and military personnel, they could find independence here. The plains allowed all people that opportunity. Even if he didn’t have any note-worthy skills he still had purpose and virtue. Spirit was a rare commodity in this age as well. Many people had lost faith ages ago, turning to the more simple ‘gods’ of reason and logic. What puzzled the traveller the most about these people was their one-sided approach to their belief. Reason and logic left no room for positivity and humanity, with the rare exception of those who saw charity as logical. It also left room for capitalism, and the use of clever tactics to undermine those with spirit. Another reason he came to this place was how cruel the reasonable dictators of the world had become. “How could it have ever come to this?” He would often wonder in his brief moments of respite. A question he might someday receive the answer to, though he would sooner let the people of earth hear it first.

He gripped the handles of the bike, veering slightly to the left as a great wide curve developed in the road ahead. As he drifted forward great bumps and gashes appeared, rocking and beating him about above the seat of the bike. He hopped about, keeping his feet locked on the peddles, keeping a keen eye on all the surrounding terrain. Part of survival was a trained eye, and the knowledge of what to do when it spots an obstacle. Early in his days of riding he would fall from his old four-wheeler in a foolish learning curve.  There was no need for a license in the wastes, nor a practical way to learn the essential skills. You were on your own.

 

Around the long bend revealed a great flat plain, littered with the remains of once great sea-beasts.  He took a moment to think over how they met such a fate, reasoning that most creatures died as the earth did around them. The thought quickly vanished when his eye spotted a black figure on the horizon, no more than a mile down the plain. He could not slow down and lose his momentum, fuel was precious and speed could mean life or death. He`d meet this stranger soon, though, and by the looks of it he was headed right past the traveller. Dust surrounded the distant driver on all sides, a harbinger of a tempest too dangerous to ignore.

His heart began to race; brave as he was he could not welcome death comfortably. The decision of whether to draw his 6-gun instantly drew his head into a deep strain. Guns were the safest protection, but also the most obvious. A rider wielding a gun for safety can often trick a peaceful traveller into thinking he too is under attack, spurring a conflict based totally on miscommunication. Instead many riders took to placing great planks and bats upon the back of their bike or jeep. If painted to match the vehicle, no wise opponent could expect to be struck from their vehicle upon passing. It was a dirty trick, and violent, but he was scared. He fell into the daze that too many men felt when confused and powerless.

The rider drew close enough that the traveller could catch a glimpse of them. He was pleased with what he saw, a brown-leather jacket, clear visor helmet, pads, and a quickly dying cigarette. The sun shined off the half dozen zippers lining his ragged attire, and beamed off his visor like a target.

Everyone knows that smoke couldn`t last two seconds in these winds… Still, no gun.

The traveller decided it was time to initiate contact, he thrust his hand into the air. His fingers formed a peace sign composed of the middle finger and the ring finger, a sign that he was open for trade and assistance. The other rider began to squint, seconds dwindled as they quickly bounced toward one another on the bumpy, barren road. The rider then flashed his own hand, a similar signal, meaning they would indeed stop. No doubt the rider was as curious, and terrified, but they both drew their composure as the wheels scratched to a halt on the dry salt and sand.

The rider took off his helmet, revealing a long and greasy head of brown hair. His eyes were deep and dry, many wrinkles surrounded the bright white and green slits. His eyebrows were frazzled and black, a small beard surrounded his long cracked lips. “Bonjour, my friend, might I see your wares? “

A Frenchman was an uncommon origin in such a harsh and alien world. It ‘took all kinds’ in this place, however. “Greetings friend, I have little, but it’s of interest to a fellow rider.”

“Well than, what are we waiting for? Come than, show me these rarities before I regret stopping.” The man coughed with impatience. His brow became furrowed, he knew that “interest” meant expensive, it meant valuable. This man could very well be poor, and desperate. The traveller was also going through difficulties though, and trusted in his instinct.

            “Feast your eyes, this belt has served me well for many years. Just recently I found one in an old cache in the middle of the plains, fits my small frame pretty well, and I’m looking to sell this one. It has room for three holsters, one shotgun saddle, some ammo pockets, and the buckle is solid silver. What do you think?” He asked the man, not expecting him to appreciate the more practical things in life. He had an eye for the usefulness of things, his new belt wasn’t nearly as flashy, but it was carbon fiber. It was harder to burn, harder to snap, and it could carry a heavier gun.

            “I see you have an eye for leather, Mon Ami.” Muttered the man in a snide and begotten tone, “It is a fine piece though, and hardly worn. You are a careful man? Bah, forget it, I offer you this fine piece of ordinance.” He remarked, with a grin. He pulled out a very old, very large landmine from his pack.

            “Fear not! It’s unarmed, I will show you how to work one of these things, maybe even let you keep one for your pretty little belt. What do you say, cowboy?”

            The traveller was caught off guard, a landmine. With as many lunatics roaming this desert as there were rotten carcasses, he could see no harm in some caustic protection. But a lesson in explosives here in the blazing sun, few things as strange happened in his lifetime.

            “Consider it a deal, but don’t you get us killed. If I hear so much as a rattle coming from that thing, I’m gone.” The traveller said, pulling off his own helmet having forgotten his manners. His hair was a dirty blonde, with hints of red. Thin bushy eyebrows arched over his rigid, fixed blue eyes. A sharp jaw lined his dull, plump mouth, shadowed beneath a broad nose. His skin was paler than his new acquaintance, but they looked like brothers playing with discs in the open sunlight.

            “Okay, come here, help me kick these bones out of the way, we need some clear turf if you’re to see clearly” Said the rider, with a new clarity. “This could save your life someday, or end it if you’re stupid, got it trailblazer? Now come, kneel.”

            He sat there in the hot sand listening to the slick and honeyed words of the foreign man. Echoes of simple and plain instructions filled his thoughts as he analyzed the metallic shell. It was simple, a red LED light was fixed atop a round metal case, inside of which lay a thick mortar shell, a fuse, and some light circuitry. He did not know what origins the device had, but he shuddered to think what foul industries would specialize in such a cruel weapons. It was necessary however in this dark time.

            “Friend, you are not so bad to talk with, would you hear one last lesson?”

            “I’m listening,” Clicked the traveller.

            “This mine is old, ancient. Many can be found on the old coast, or the ruins of the more difficult to reach ships. But beware, many models are not so… mild? What I mean to say is that some are of a nature most foul. They do not just blow a man’s leg off, they melt his very body with nuclear fire. It’s a horrifying thing, I hope you never deal in such things. You can keep that old rust-bucket. Try not to step on it, cowboy.” And with that, the rider donned his new belt, fitting into it a pearl handled gun, and lowered the visor of his white helmet.

“You never told me your name.” said the rider.

“It’s Flynn. But they call me Flint at camp. What do they call you?”

The stranger smiled and coughed a short laugh. He had a name, not a real one, but still a name. “They call me whatever they like.”

 The stranger turned away and twisted the bike to life. His bike kicked forward, quickly weaving into the bumpy road in steps and jumps. The traveller reflected on the encounter briefly, relieved that he wasn’t attacked on the spot. He was glad to have met a good man on the road, however strange he seemed.

            The sun was hovering above the horizon as he climbed atop his bike once more, its red paint shining in the golden light. His helmet became more of a burden at this hour because its visor was a transparent black. Concealment and secrecy was a valuable asset not to be taken lightly. It was a shame it came at the cost of better eyesight, he would hate to need to lift the visor and bare the dust and salts of the hot desert. He had to take his chances; and with that he was off down the long trail.

            The larger bones began to fade into obscurity as the landscape became more moist and lively. Short flowers and weeds ran in veins along the dirt alongside his tracks. He felt the harmonic feeling he only felt when life was surrounding him. The greenery gave way to hopeful sentiments, the kind that made long trips and dragging hours seem like fleet minutes. Comedic thoughts of irony and oddity flooded his attention, tempting him to give way to carelessness and forget the focus he had on the road. Focus was what kept men alive, though.

            Almost there, can’t stop now.

            His thoughts rang in his ears like lessons, with an almost childlike attention to success. But this was it, the zero hour. He could already feel the comfort of his friends and the simplicity of camp. The shakes wouldn't leave his hips for a few hours, but he would calm down eventually. Travel on this turf drove most people crazy, so most of them needed to display their trauma. All that bouncing and buckling was not just uncomfortable, it was flat unbearable. Most got tattoos, or piercings. Some would occupy their thoughts with new ways to emblazon their jackets and helmets. Many people of the wastes became colorful and spirited this way. It wasn't only the tedious nature of travel, but it was the deathly landscape too. The entire world as they knew it warped their spirits into very dark and creative things. At camp he knew his eyes would feast on their magnificent boots, and gloves dotted with precious rocks and spikes. They were a people who chose to externalize their pain and boredom so that it would not dwell within them.

            A great chasm opened to his left, giving off a cold wind from below. Many boulders and long smooth rock beds dotted the slope along the chasm. He shuddered to think how many innocents had fallen over its sharp decline. Now wasn’t the time for panic, he told himself. Fire and smoke could be seen in the distance, and glowing figures of people surrounding its hearth. Cold winds from the chasm and an early nightfall drove the campers to prepare fire well ahead of time, with supplies to keep it going.

            He took one last glimpse of the chasm, forgetting to focus on the road for a brief moment. Over the ledge and far below he could see the faint glimmering shine of water.

Reviews

[LauraMarieAlways]

There should be no comma after "Well, that's that", but rather a period. You would only use a comma if you were connecting two statements, but since the next sentence that follows it is not a continuation of the first, then no comma is necessary.

"It was the bottom of the ocean, was." should be "It was the bottom of the ocean--was." or something similar. The comma doesn't really add that dramatic effect you are looking for.

"...brave as he was he could not..." should be "brave as he was, he could not".

Wow, you are exceptionally good at describing things! You really knew how to use the setting to affect the mood. Superb job!

[Nicholas McCoy]

Thanks for the review! Many of my friends seem to browse over things and just give me a load of good news. It's nice to hear a bit of friendly criticism, especially in regard to such a huge issue these days. Comma misuse is actually a big problem where I grew up. I'll try and remember the rules next time I lose myself in a story, it's hard to keep track of it all when the words come flying out. I'm also very glad you like my descriptions. Many teachers I've had over the years have urged me to tone down the language and just get to the point already. It's nice to be able to just be myself and not cut corners though, I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[LauraMarieAlways]

You're quite welcome. And everything else was up to par; it's natural to make a few mistakes here and there- I do it all the time :)

[Monster ^.^]

I really loved how you built the feeling! The introduction was just splendid, and you didn'y let me down right in the middle parts! The atmosphere is definitely right for the setting! Keep it up :)

[Nicholas McCoy]

Thanks Eli, you'll be happy to know that the setting is only a small chunk of a very large and very eventful world. Chapter 2 is nearly ready, just a bit more editing is in order :)

[Monster ^.^]

Oh my! Can't wait! :D

[Phil61]

I was there ! When I stopped reading there was a hint of salty dust at the back of my throat , more please . Wonderful