That night I rested in a large pile of pine straw. The smell of pine was clean; it smelt like freedom. With it being warm outside, I didn't bother covering myself. We didn't expect rain for at least another two weeks, so I bundled the straw under my head and struggled to slip into as deep of a sleep as possible.
That night I dreamed that I heard something breathing in my ear. Maybe it was the wind or possibly mere exhaustion taking its tole on my subconscious; either way, I stayed as still as I possibly could. It was almost like I wasn't sleeping at all, just hiding --or playing dead.
The next mourning I awoke to a doe chewing on an infant tree next to my left shoulder. She hadn't noticed that I was there since I rolled myself into the straw in my sleep. Between the bare dying tree towering above us and the doe, I slowed my breaths to shallow whispers; it was time for breakfast.
I held my breath as my hand crept towards the skinning knife I kept in the inner sleeve of my leather shirt. With a quick lunge I grappled the doe with my left arm as my right hand ran the blade through the her pulsating jugular; it cut through her flesh like a hand fitting into a glove. With a twist of both the blade and her neck with my arm, she fell to the earth, soaking me and the ground in her warm blood.
I never really liked hunting. It was just a necessity. "Better them than me," I would say to myself to stroke my conscious. I had to eat after all.
I unsheathed the now stained blade from the doe's limp neck and wiped it off on my shirt. As I picked up the hind legs of the young animal, I noticed something odd on the ground. There were animal tracks all the way from where I came and they circled around where I slept. Then I saw a pile of fur near the edge of the drop off. There three dead dogs laid sliced open and left. Then I saw the impression of boots leaving the soft soil where the dead dog's laid.
I assumed they had been tracking me. When the dogs didn't find me, they just cut their necks and left them. I noticed that one had started to eat on the other before its own neck was cut. The bastards must have been starving them.
I knew I couldn't stay there much longer, but I couldn't leave the meat and fur behind, so I used a broad fallen branch to set the animals on and pull them away from the direction of the boot tracks; the branch covered my tracks as I walked.
I walked until the sun set directly over me. I began to feel like I was liquid slushing around in a haphazard limp jar. I had to get out from the heat. I then noticed a small cave near the edge of the trail where I was walking. I cautiously moved towards it. A cool breeze blew from inside it. This is where I was going to set up camp.
I opened the dear and dogs and removed their insides. I took the organs away from the camp and set them down in a nearby stream then rinsed my hands. Is this the rest of my life? I questioned the choices I had made while the red to now pink liquid wisped down the current and caressed the rocks standing in the stream.
When I got back to where I had set the animals, I started a fire and skinned them. I knew all about making leather and jerky. It was what I did for a living back home. Home. It was starting to become an odd connotation that I couldn't make out.
I didn't have any of my equipment, but I hadn't pissed that mourning either. I knew I could make fur pelts and rope with that. I stretched skin out on weed tied branches and set them to firm up in the direct heat of the blaring sun.
The meat was propped by shafts of wood and cooked slowly over a low heat. When it became tough and dry, I cut the strips of it to be set in the hot sun on top of the leather while the breeze from the cave and mountain ran over over it. I could have really used some salt right then. Looking around me, I was lucky to find sprouts of wild onion. This must be my lucky day. I laughed at myself, and then shook my head at the sick humor I was beginning to develop as I went to the stream nearby and rinsed the dirt from the bulb. When I came back the meat I had left for eating was gone.
DAMNIT. I squeezed the moist wild onions in my hands until I noticed the bulbs burst between my fingers. DAMNIT! I forced the squashed bulbs in my mouth and some of the dried meat left in the sun and chewed a long unpleasant grind with all of my teeth at once; the taste was earthy and strong, but I knew it could be the only meal I get for a while. I backed into the cave where the shadows masked me in a cloak of cool darkness; there, I waited and wondered if the thief would strike again. If it was a man, I could could mug him back. If it was an animal, I could feast until my heart's content.
When the sun began to set, light shined into the cave. Through the purple-gold light, I could see that the cave went on for only around seven more meters and sloped down to a hole at the end. Curiously I turned around, crawled forward and dropped a nearby rock down the shaft and waited for a hit. One, two, three, four, and CRACK! I scooted back from the edge of the hole, and stood up. As I did this, I heard a shuffle below.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Monday, October 22, 2007
The Animal Man Ch.2
It was April when they came. Men on horsebacks, garbed in full plated steel armor, holstering .45 Caliber rifles, came into town followed by their black plexiglass tank. The black steel and tank moved together like a rolling black cloud. It wasn't completely necessary to ride horses when they could have easily driven their own solar cars, but I assumed they were just showing off their control of nature; the tank was control of us.
They went door to door. We were required to file an audit with the solar tank's computer system and then pay the required tax. They left each house with either people or money; both fit into the large plexiglass beast; it ran as if it fed on humans and paper alone. Since only the elderly could operate the computers well, many were thrown into the tank for processing back at the city.
Thankfully, I had been one of the lucky ones to live with a man by the name of Guss Rogers; at the ripe old age of 60, Guss could tell you stories of the world over, but his wildly wondering eye made it hard to tell if he was --in fact-- talking to you at all. He said that long ago, all people lived together. Of course some people lived in nicer places than others, but there were no lines drawn; people just went to a place called a bank and sold the rest of their lives over to buy a house someone else had built. I really don't know if either now or then was better, but I knew I had to get out.
I had hardly made any income this year. I mostly hunted and fished near the edge of the safe zone for food; most of us did; the tax service didn't understand this. They couldn't calculate self produced necessities, so they tagged it as a suspicious investment. I had seen it tons of times. You'll see someone look at the same red glowing screen on the computer for about 5 minutes hoping the auditors didn't notice, and then the men on horse back would jump from their steeds and push them into the open door of the tank. If you tried to run, they shot you. The tumbling led would rip chunks of flesh from you and either instantly kill you or amputate a limb, killing you slowly.
Two houses away, I could hear the tank's motor start; it was a buzzing that shook the ground as it edged forward to the next house.
I didn't know my neighbors very well. They mostly kept to themselves and always stared out their window whenever I did yard work; it seemed like they were wondering if I was watching them; I just wanted to get it done before the acid rain came.
A humbled figure stepped out of the front door as soon as the auditors knocked. It seemed like he was eagerly waiting for it. My neighbor started talking to the men, explaining something about why he cut so many trees this year. Then his head sunk low and began to whisper something I couldn't make out. The auditors backed up and pulled out the pistols strapped to their chests --the rifles still snug inside the holster of the horses. They walked inside, and after several moments a woman screamed and I heard a shot go off from inside the house. The man's head cocked up and he ran for the rifle on the horse. As he went to pull it out, one of the auditors stepped out of the front of the door and shot him twice in the back.
I looked to Guss with disbelief. He focused his good eye on me. "You've got to go now boy," he walked to the door and closed it. "Go through the back, they found the paper mill in the Upton's basement, and they'll come here next."
"What?" I stammered on my own tongue, and before I knew it, I was backing myself into the wall. "Why? The only thing they can process me for is unregistered hunting."
"Damnit son, what do you think they'll find when they search this house?" He stepped over to me and grabbed my leather shirt.
"The books..."
"Right."
I stepped back from him with a glance that said goodbye and ran out the back door as they set my neighbor's house on ablaze. Behind the house was nothing but thick woods --woods I had been raised to know before Guss took me in after the zone breach of 46.
I ran as fast I could through the barbs and young trees. My legs were beginning to bleed, but I kept running until I felt safe. That feeling didn't occur until I could barely see the smoke hanging like a small cloud in the distance. I had run through the woods up to the side of a mountain. I looked over to see the black cloud grow larger. I felt a sunken feeling of fear that my house was also burned. It was the last thing I had left of my family. It wasn't until then I remembered that my neighbors had a seven month old son. I couldn't believe this was actually happening. I still can't believe I ran.
They went door to door. We were required to file an audit with the solar tank's computer system and then pay the required tax. They left each house with either people or money; both fit into the large plexiglass beast; it ran as if it fed on humans and paper alone. Since only the elderly could operate the computers well, many were thrown into the tank for processing back at the city.
Thankfully, I had been one of the lucky ones to live with a man by the name of Guss Rogers; at the ripe old age of 60, Guss could tell you stories of the world over, but his wildly wondering eye made it hard to tell if he was --in fact-- talking to you at all. He said that long ago, all people lived together. Of course some people lived in nicer places than others, but there were no lines drawn; people just went to a place called a bank and sold the rest of their lives over to buy a house someone else had built. I really don't know if either now or then was better, but I knew I had to get out.
I had hardly made any income this year. I mostly hunted and fished near the edge of the safe zone for food; most of us did; the tax service didn't understand this. They couldn't calculate self produced necessities, so they tagged it as a suspicious investment. I had seen it tons of times. You'll see someone look at the same red glowing screen on the computer for about 5 minutes hoping the auditors didn't notice, and then the men on horse back would jump from their steeds and push them into the open door of the tank. If you tried to run, they shot you. The tumbling led would rip chunks of flesh from you and either instantly kill you or amputate a limb, killing you slowly.
Two houses away, I could hear the tank's motor start; it was a buzzing that shook the ground as it edged forward to the next house.
I didn't know my neighbors very well. They mostly kept to themselves and always stared out their window whenever I did yard work; it seemed like they were wondering if I was watching them; I just wanted to get it done before the acid rain came.
A humbled figure stepped out of the front door as soon as the auditors knocked. It seemed like he was eagerly waiting for it. My neighbor started talking to the men, explaining something about why he cut so many trees this year. Then his head sunk low and began to whisper something I couldn't make out. The auditors backed up and pulled out the pistols strapped to their chests --the rifles still snug inside the holster of the horses. They walked inside, and after several moments a woman screamed and I heard a shot go off from inside the house. The man's head cocked up and he ran for the rifle on the horse. As he went to pull it out, one of the auditors stepped out of the front of the door and shot him twice in the back.
I looked to Guss with disbelief. He focused his good eye on me. "You've got to go now boy," he walked to the door and closed it. "Go through the back, they found the paper mill in the Upton's basement, and they'll come here next."
"What?" I stammered on my own tongue, and before I knew it, I was backing myself into the wall. "Why? The only thing they can process me for is unregistered hunting."
"Damnit son, what do you think they'll find when they search this house?" He stepped over to me and grabbed my leather shirt.
"The books..."
"Right."
I stepped back from him with a glance that said goodbye and ran out the back door as they set my neighbor's house on ablaze. Behind the house was nothing but thick woods --woods I had been raised to know before Guss took me in after the zone breach of 46.
I ran as fast I could through the barbs and young trees. My legs were beginning to bleed, but I kept running until I felt safe. That feeling didn't occur until I could barely see the smoke hanging like a small cloud in the distance. I had run through the woods up to the side of a mountain. I looked over to see the black cloud grow larger. I felt a sunken feeling of fear that my house was also burned. It was the last thing I had left of my family. It wasn't until then I remembered that my neighbors had a seven month old son. I couldn't believe this was actually happening. I still can't believe I ran.
The Animal Man Ch.1
I felt empty and bare as if all between the inside of my skin had been removed. Covered in crimson stains, I cradled the figure of a lifeless girl; her limp features begged a difference to the look of terror still fixed on her face, yet I held her even tighter. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. But her giggles and screams still echoed within my head and brought with it the terrible hangover of the change. It wasn't supposed to be this complicated. I wasn't supposed to be here. She wasn't supposed to be here. I'm so sorry.
I was a good person once. I had dreams of being a doctor, even though it didn't help that I was from a poor family in a small town outside of modern civilization. We all had dreams of leaving this place someday. The teachers who came into town to give us our preliminary education spoke of stories outside of the safe zones --histories of the past from books saved from The Great Burning. But they were called stories --nothing more.
We were taught the golden rule of men. There were men, poor men, and animals --nothing in between. They didn't call us poor per say, but then again, just hearing the word lumpens put a sour taste in our mouths. If you weren't from one of the cities, you were a lumpen proletariat --nothing in between. We were seen as just dogs begging for the scraps from the tables of the bourgeoisie.
Then again, here, we didn't have to worry about inbreeding to keep the lines clean or starving because we couldn't afford to look human and eat at the same time, and we had books. Since we weren't inside of the city limits, we didn't get bothered much, except during tax season.
I guess that's when all this started.
I was a good person once. I had dreams of being a doctor, even though it didn't help that I was from a poor family in a small town outside of modern civilization. We all had dreams of leaving this place someday. The teachers who came into town to give us our preliminary education spoke of stories outside of the safe zones --histories of the past from books saved from The Great Burning. But they were called stories --nothing more.
We were taught the golden rule of men. There were men, poor men, and animals --nothing in between. They didn't call us poor per say, but then again, just hearing the word lumpens put a sour taste in our mouths. If you weren't from one of the cities, you were a lumpen proletariat --nothing in between. We were seen as just dogs begging for the scraps from the tables of the bourgeoisie.
Then again, here, we didn't have to worry about inbreeding to keep the lines clean or starving because we couldn't afford to look human and eat at the same time, and we had books. Since we weren't inside of the city limits, we didn't get bothered much, except during tax season.
I guess that's when all this started.
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