The Worn Blade's Reckoning
A man and a boy travel through a post-apocalyptic wasteland, where the man must reckon with his past sins.
Rook surveyed the clouds of dust filling the horizon. The hot desert wind blew the storm towards them. He hoped it would change direction. The desert stretched as far as he could see, nothing but sand and a small settlement in the distance. He couldn’t make out whether it was occupied or not. This close to the Dome, he couldn’t risk going near it.
The boy hadn’t said a word since they escaped.
Rook glanced down at him. The boy trudged forward in the sand, staring ahead, face blank. A gust of wind scattered sand over his black hair, and he blinked it out of his eyes without a hint of annoyance. He seemed somewhere between 12 and 14 years old. His true age was… complicated.
He was grown in a tube. Engineered to be the perfect soldier. Rook had no idea how long the boy had been alive.
“What should I call you?”
The boy didn’t respond. Rook tapped his shoulder and he looked up.
“Do you have a name?”
The boy frowned.
“I’m Rook.” He placed his hand on his chest. “That’s what my… friends called me. Did you get a name?”
The boy looked back to the path ahead. No name, not even a nickname. Rook surmised they wouldn’t have allowed nicknames this time. Nothing more than a number, individuality more efficiently removed.
Rook was determined to change that. Unfortunately, creativity had never been his strong suit. Or people.
They continued on – a man and a boy, trekking through the desert, putting as much distance between them and the massacre as possible.
The wall of sand grew taller, and the wind hadn’t changed. Rook set his jaw. They would need shelter, and quick. His gaze locked onto the settlement. It was closer now, but he still couldn’t tell if it was occupied. If it was, they would immediately know where he was from. What he was. His suit and armor were a dead giveaway.
That wouldn’t end well.
But if it was abandoned, they would be safe. The sandstorm wouldn’t offer that option.
He pointed to the settlement. “We’ll take shelter there.”
The boy squinted, then nodded.
Rook considered losing his armor and gun. The dark carbide armor was strapped on in segments: a chest plate, pauldrons, vambraces, cuisses, and greaves. He could take it off, leaving only the black suit underneath. If they ran into anyone, it would still be obvious they were from the Dome… but maybe they wouldn’t realize what he was. What he’d done.
He pulled the magazine from his assault rifle. Almost empty, and he had no extras. The rifle would surely be recognized as from the Dome – newly manufactured. But was it wise to leave behind his only weapon? Even if he wasn’t recognized, Wastelanders were hostile. Savages. Survivors.
Hypocrite.
He dropped the rifle in the sand and started unbuckling his armor. The boy looked at the gun then raised an eyebrow at him.
“If people don’t view us as a threat, we can avoid a fight.”
The boy nodded.
As they walked, Rook removed each piece of armor. He took the chest plate off last, ran his thumb over the rough bullet marks, and dropped it. Wind-tossed sand hit his chest and he shuddered.
They arrived at the settlement’s gate – what remained of it. Stepping over the door’s splinters, Rook led the boy in. Wood and metal barricades surrounded the opening courtyard. Makeshift-fortifications, set up for cover. And around them, bodies. The shapes of bodies, covered in sand from previous storms.
Rook should have known. No settlement so close to the Dome would be untouched.
The boy surveyed the area, his face blank. Rook couldn’t tell if it was forced. He grabbed the boy’s hand and led him through the courtyard and into the streets. One of these buildings would serve as suitable shelter. A flag flapped wildly in the wind. The sandstorm loomed in the distance, almost upon them.
Ahead, he saw movement – someone stepping into view, head turned away, the silhouette of a gun.
Rook and the boy dove into an alley and pressed themselves against the building, Rook in front. His heart pounded, but he kept his breathing steady.
A figure stepped into view: a woman, covered head to toe in beige and brown cloth. She held a bolt-action rifle.
He could take her down, weapon or no weapon. But was that the best course of action? He’d been trained to fight. That’s all he knew. That’s all the boy knew. That would serve them well out here, but it would only get them so far.
Her gaze scanned the buildings. She hadn’t noticed them yet.
Perhaps Rook could get lower, crouch and sneak deeper into the alley, avoid being noticed. He set a hand on the boy’s shoulder and moved back.
The woman’s head twitched and she whirled around, raising her rifle. “Hey!”
Rook grimaced and raised his hands. “Stay behind me,” he whispered to the boy.
“Step out slowly, where I can see you,” she said. “Who are you, and why are you here?”
He complied, eyes on the end of the rifle pointed at him. Part of him wished he had kept his gun, but the other part knew that if he had, they wouldn’t be talking. “We’re only here for shelter,” he told her.
“We? Who…” She gasped. Her gaze locked on something behind him – the boy. After a moment, she pulled it away and looked them up and down. “You’re from the Dome.”
“Yes.” Rook hoped she didn’t realize the rest. “We left. We can’t go back.”
He could almost see the gears turning in her head as she decided whether or not to trust them. The wind whistled louder, kicking up the sand around their feet high into the air. Slowly, she nodded. “Sounds like we’re here for the same reason. Shelter. So, you don’t hurt me, I don’t hurt you. We can all get out of this.”
“Deal.”
She narrowed her eyes. “One wrong move…”
Rook swallowed. “I understand.”
“Good.” She lowered her rifle. Rook noted that she kept her hands in a position ready to fire. Rook lowered his arms and grabbed the boy’s hand.
She nodded down the street. “After you.”
Staying behind them. Clever.
They started down the street, looking for a building with intact windows, or better yet, none. The more of the town they traversed, the more nervous Rook got. It had started with an itch in the back of his head, and the more he saw, the more it grew.
He’d been here before.
The wind had turned into a roar. The sandstorm was almost on top of them. Rook spotted a building with shutters still intact, though split and cracked. “There.”
The woman nodded. “That’ll do. You first.”
Rook opened the door and the trio entered. It was a simple living area: a table, chairs, and a furnace. Two doorways led into darkness. Rook nearly choked on the air.
It was rancid, tasting of dust, sand, and maggots. Blood drained from Rook’s face.
The woman gestured with the rifle towards the chairs. “Why don’t you two take a seat?”
Rook frowned. He was already at a disadvantage without a weapon. Sitting down would put him in a worse position.
But if she wanted to shoot them, she would have already.
They sat and the woman unwrapped her face, freeing a braid of tangled blonde hair. She wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. This whole place… it’s a bad omen. Just one thing after another.”
Rook stayed silent. Billows of wind battered the house with sand.
“I suppose now we get to know each other,” she said. “My name’s Bronwyn. What’s yours?”
“Rook.”
Bronwyn smiled at the boy. “And you?”
He frowned at her.
Rook said the first thing that came to mind. “His name is Callum.”
The boy turned his frown towards Rook, who fought to keep his face neutral. Memories unbidden flashed in his mind: a bloodstained lab coat and splattered glasses. The doctor was one of the good ones, and the memory stabbed his heart like a blunt blade.
Creativity had never been Rook’s strong suit.
The boy turned back to Bronwyn and nodded. Relief flooded through Rook’s veins.
“Nice to meet you, I guess.” She grabbed a chair and sat, rifle in her lap. “At least I’m not bored. What brought a Dome-dweller and a kid into the wasteland?”
“There’s… not much to tell,” Rook said.
“Maybe not, but I’m curious.” She put her fist under her chin. “What made you leave your life of luxury?”
“That’s not how I would describe life in the Dome.”
“Then how would you?”
Rook looked away. It wasn’t like he knew what average life in the Dome was like. He rarely saw civilians. But it was best to tell the truth – part of it, at least. “Confining.”
“I can definitely see that. What made you decide to leave?”
“We…” He glanced at the boy – Callum, now. “It was the military.”
Bronwyn’s eyes widened. “So, it’s true? They take children and run experiments?”
Blood pulsed in the back of Rook’s head. He winced and nodded.
“Monsters.” She shook her head and sighed. “Are you brothers, then? You look so alike.”
Close enough. “Yes.”
“What happened to your parents?”
“Never knew them.”
“Ah. Sorry.” Bronwyn leaned back in her chair. “What do you plan on doing next?”
Next? When they escaped, Rook had no plan. They needed out, and that’s all there was to it. How they would survive in the wasteland didn’t enter his mind until they were in the middle of it. “I have no idea.”
“Maybe you could stay with us?”
Rook’s head shot up. “What?”
“You’d have to work for your keep, of course. We all do. No one can survive out here on their own.”
Rook’s jaw went slack. She was offering to help them. To join their community. Him, a Dome-dweller. Would she, if she knew who he really was? She hadn’t realized, but would her people? Could he take that risk?
Bronwyn shrugged. “It was just an idea.”
Rook leaned forward. “No, I… I mean, yes.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“We would be very grateful,” he said. “Thank–”
With a crack, the shutters fell apart and a wave of sand sprayed into the room. The trio stood, coughing and blinking, stepping away from the window.
“Dang it,” Bronwyn muttered. “Come on, in here.” She started towards the black room.
“No, wait!” Rook exclaimed.
She stepped in. Her hand went to her mouth and stifled a cry.
Callum peeked in. Rook grimaced, waved him away, and stepped in.
Dried blood covered the ground. A body slumped against the wall.
The body of a child.
More flashes. Tears streaming down the child’s face. Finger on the trigger. Lowering the gun.
One shot from behind.
The blank face of his fellow Enforcer.
“Monsters,” Bronwyn whispered.
Rook couldn’t help but agree.
They retreated to the second room and said nothing more as they weathered the storm. Callum fell asleep. Rook tried, but memories became nightmares, and the expressionless faces of his brothers tore ragged wounds in his heart.
The storm died and they hurried out of the settlement, Bronwyn leading them through the Wasteland. She was part of a band delivering goods from one settlement to another, and they’d been separated while she was scouting. They had a rendezvous for such occasions, a hidden outpost.
Bronwyn had been kind to offer them solace. When they escaped, Rook had no plan, but he knew this was Callum’s chance. With every step, his heart panged.
The outpost was in an ancient subdivision, a residential area from the old world. Rows and rows of houses and fences, knocked down, caved in, burned.
“I’ll go in first,” Bronwyn said. “Let them know about you, then we’ll bring you in.” She left them a few blocks from the outpost and vanished between the houses.
A bicycle lay in the brown grass of a yard. Callum crouched and examined it. Rook watched the street. Five minutes passed. Ten.
Something was wrong.
Bronwyn returned with five men. Five guns, all pointed at Rook.
“On your knees!” the leader yelled. “Hands on your head!”
Callum shot up, fists raised. Rook sighed and shook his head. Callum furrowed his brow.
“Do it!” the leader yelled.
Rook complied.
Bronwyn took a deep breath. “Who are you? No lies.”
“I…” Rook tried to swallow, but his mouth had gone dry. “I never lied.”
“Like heck you didn’t,” the leader spat. “You’re no normal Dome-dweller. That’s an Enforcer uniform.”
Bronwyn raised her chin. “Who are you? Is Rook even your name?”
He swallowed. “No. It’s a nickname.”
The leader growled. “Don’t get smart.”
“I don’t have a real name.” He took a deep breath. “I have a number. E2-199. I was an Enforcer.”
“Then…” Bronwyn grimaced and looked away. “I can’t help you.”
“I know. Thank you, for–”
“Quiet!” The leader advanced, rifle zeroed in on Rook. “There’s nothing you can say to save your life.”
Rook nodded. “I know. I deserve it. But please, take care of Callum.”
The man stopped. “What?”
His heart pounded like a stampede. “The boy. It’s not his fault, what they did to him. Kill me, but please, take care of him.” Rook met Bronwyn’s eyes. “Please.”
The man looked back at her. She nodded. With a grunt, the man nodded to one of his men. He approached Callum and reached out his hand.
Callum jerked away, ran, and jumped in front of Rook. “No!”
The breath caught in Rook’s throat.
Again, Callum screamed, “No!”
Rook grabbed Callum’s shoulders and turned him around. Tears glinted in the boy’s eyes.
“Listen, Callum.” Rook’s voice shook and he didn’t bother hiding it. “They are going to take care of you. Go with them. Don’t fight. It’ll be okay. Don’t look back.”
A tear trickled down Callum’s cheek. He turned to the leader. “Please.”
The leader looked from Callum, to Rook, then back again.
Bronwyn put her hand on his shoulder. “Pa…”
The leader cursed and lowered his gun. “You better thank God the kid is cute. He just saved your life.”
Callum whirled around and hugged Rook. Rook wrapped his arms around the boy and felt the wounds in his heart beginning to heal.
This short story was inspired by one of Scoot’s Flash Fiction Friday Supernova Challenge prompts!
