After the Winter (The Silent Earth, Book 1) (2 page)

I wiped my fingers across the window pane to see more clearly, but it didn’t help. I’d need to head outside for a better view.

Hefting my satchel on the way to the door, I immediately recognised that it was lighter than normal. On closer inspection, I found that the brush was missing. It must have been dislodged in the fall or in the mad dash toward the city. I leaned down to examine the familiar gash on my left calf. It was clogged with grit.

“Dammit.”

I moved across the concrete floor toward the bathroom, my bare feet making soft crunching noises in the sand that was spread like a carpet across the room. Rummaging through cabinets I happened upon a frayed white toothbrush with half its bristles missing - a poor tool, but it would have to do. Propping myself up on the basin, I hoisted my left leg into my lap and gently began to flick at the mixture of sand and dirt and mud that had accumulated there. It was caked in pretty tight, but after a few minutes I began to work it loose. The hardest part was extricating the muck from between the fibrous synthetic muscles. I had to be cautious since they’d already begun to fray at the edges, and if I scrubbed too hard I’d only cause damage that I couldn’t repair. The tendons in my ankle were showing the same signs of wear.

In time the dull sheen of my alloy fibula was restored, and soon after that I was satisfied that I’d cleaned the wound adequately, so I hitched my trousers down over it again. I yearned for something that might seal it up more effectively, such as resin or even medical tape, but I hadn’t come across suitable materials in my travels. Maybe my brief stopover in this city might be a good time to search some out. Sand and grit had worked its way upward and was steadily accumulating in my knee joint, and I couldn’t reach it there with my makeshift tools. Walking became more difficult every month, and if it got much worse there was a chance the joint would seize up entirely, a very real concern. I didn’t relish the thought of traipsing across the endless expanse of desert with knees and hips that couldn’t rotate.

The mirror in this bathroom was partially intact, effectively smashed in half diagonally with the upper left corner still fixated in place.  I placed my fingertips on the basin and leaned inward, peering at my weather-beaten skin.  Hair that was once dark was now considerably lighter, partially bleached by the sun, and it was a mess.  I lifted a hand and smoothed it roughly to one side.  Staring into my own blue eyes, I couldn’t help but feel that there was something
lesser
about them.  Something diminished.  There was a time when that blue had been as vibrant as the sky on a clear autumn day, but now, it was as much grey as it was blue, as if the time in the desert had left the fire inside me unstoked, allowed it to dwindle down to but a few faint embers.

The eyes are but a reflection of the soul.

Blinking, I averted my gaze.  I brushed more sand from my face, then traced a finger down past my ear and gently touched the wound on the side of my neck.  It too appeared larger than the last time I had looked upon it.  There was less sand trapped there, but still enough to be a nuisance.  A couple of vertebrae glinted inside, along with more ropey synthetic muscle, and I scraped at them gently with the toothbrush.  The sand made a soft tinkling sound as it fell across the basin.

In the mirror, my skin looked thin and brittle. I couldn’t help but think of the last time I’d seen skin like that - it had belonged to a woman, the last human I’d ever seen alive. As she lay shivering in my arms, unwarmed by the meagre fire I’d lit, she’d lifted a trembling hand to me, and I’d taken it, grasping it tight. It was like holding a fistful of twigs.

“I’m cold,” she’d rasped. Her dark hair had spilled across her emaciated face, and I’d brushed it aside. “Can you...?” Blinking and smacking her parched lips together, she’d gone quiet, closing her eyes. She hadn’t lasted much longer after that.

Her skin had felt like paper, her body as light as a bird.

I didn’t even know her name.

Tossing the toothbrush into the satchel, I hunched over the basin, squeezed my eyes shut, let out a long breath.

“Don’t think about that shit now,” I breathed.

I’d never once thought of synthetics as being superior to humans. Humans were pure creations, sculpted to adapt to this world over millions of years of evolution. And yet, they had died out, and it was the machines who lived on. How was that fair?

Forget about it. Don’t let the doubt creep in.

I headed out to the stairwell.

Once outside I scaled the wrought iron fence again and started up the street toward the downtown district at a brisk pace. I stepped through loose gravel, the scrape of my footsteps ringing out across the empty city and sounding back at me from the gutted storefronts and alleyways. Accustomed to the quiet of the wasteland, it was deafening to me.

I couldn’t linger here long.  I knew that.  The Marauders would be on my heels, as they had been for months.  A quick hunt for supplies was all I had time for. 

It wasn’t easy choosing a target, since names on buildings that had once marked their purpose were faded and torn apart. They’d been through the rampant destruction of the White Summer, and then the freezing cold of Winter, and their scars were plainly evident.

Sometimes I felt as though I was trapped in a giant mouse maze, one that was circular and had been made especially for me. I kept seeing the same landscapes over and over again, the same buildings in every city I came to. That wasn’t the reality, I knew, but that was how it seemed, as if all of the individuality in the world has been scoured away entirely.

I was very particular about the buildings I entered.  Downright fussy, in fact.  I hadn’t lived this long by rushing into every single place I saw.  The place I chose was several stories high, and the facade suggested an earlier industrial period construction, with narrow black windows and a dozen red brick columns running up the street-facing wall.  The edges of the roof showed signs of disrepair, but not enough to concern me. 

Inside it was dim and expansive, illuminated partially by a shaft of sunlight that made its way in through a caved-in section of roof at the rear of the building.  This might have once been the open floor space of a factory, but judging by the mangled clothing racks and shelving that littered the floor it had been converted to a department store at some point in its history. 

I made my way across cracked and chipped marbled tiles, carefully avoiding the bits of garbage that lay in my path. Rummaging around, I located a ribbed, brown leather belt and a replacement shoe that was mismatched with my old one. Not that it mattered. I took it anyway.

On the way out I found a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels stashed in the bottom of a trash can, its label faded and almost unreadable, which I decanted into a dented aluminium canister that lay nearby. I also scooped up a couple of filthy shirts and placed them in the satchel.

The sun was already climbing over the skyscrapers when I got back out onto the street, and the day had warmed considerably.

I listened, sure I’d heard something in the distance. It carried on the wind like the buzzing of a fly, barely more than a whisper. A vehicle?

They wouldn’t have caught up. Not this fast.

I waited but didn’t hear it again. Most likely my imagination.

Some day soon I will break this cycle of fear and ruin.

My boots rang out solidly on the pavement as I secured the satchel over my shoulder. I stamped each foot several times to ensure they were snug, and then my hand ventured to my back pocket, a habitual movement that I repeated a number of times every day. The photograph was still there.

I started up the street at a brisk pace, casting an eye warily over my shoulder to make sure I wasn’t being followed, and tripped on something in the rubble, sprawling roughly on my stomach. Cursing, I rolled over and was about to get to my feet when I stopped dead.

A body was lying in the street next to me.

3

It wasn’t a human body.  Apart from withered remains, I hadn’t seen one of those in many years.  He was a synthetic like me, lying amidst the shattered concrete and dirt, filthy, blending in like a just another piece of trash.  No wonder I’d been tripped up by him. 

He’d seen tough times, that much was obvious. His right leg below the knee was gone, and the left was missing from mid-thigh. From both wounds dangled wires, part of the synthetic's nervous system. Ragged tears of muscle and sinew were also present, as well as the jagged ends of broken alloy bones.

This guy had been blown - or ripped - apart. But this wasn’t the work of the Marauders. They’d have butchered him, taking the valuable parts from the chest and head and even the arms. Come to think of it, there wasn’t much the Marauders didn’t strip from a clank body once they got hold of it.

He was missing a lot of skin from his arms, and on his left hand, only the thumb, forefinger and middle finger were left intact, and they were devoid of skin altogether. The left side of his face was partially caved in, his skull plate having taken a nasty knock near the temple. Here he was missing skin and hair, revealing grey metal beneath, and he was also missing an ear as well as several teeth.

His eyes, open and staring upward into the sky, contained inky irises clouded by a residue that resembled cataracts.

He was garbed in a black T-shirt and denim jeans, ripped off just above where his legs had been amputated. There were scrapes all over him, as if he’d been dragging himself around. That made me wonder if perhaps he’d lived for some time after he’d sustained those leg injuries.

I looked about. If I could drag him out into the open, it might distract the Marauders for a while should they come this way. They’d spend some time dissecting him, and every minute helped.

I placed the satchel on the ground and leaned down, gripping his shirt with both hands.  The synthetic lurched forward, swinging his right arm into my midsection with an audible
crunch
. I cried out in hurt and surprise and stumbled back, landing with a crash on a piece of wooden crate. I kicked and scrambled madly, stumbling again as I tried to get up and put more distance between us. Eventually I stopped in the middle of road, poised to flee.

The synthetic’s milky eyes bored into me from his sitting position on the curb. The good side of his face registered a sneering hostility.

“Get your hands
off
,” he grated. His voice was deep and gravelly. Menacing.

With that, he casually resumed his previous position, slumping backward and staring up blankly into the sky.

“What the hell, man,” I said shakily. “I thought you were dead.”

He offered no reply. Feeling gingerly at my ribs where he’d connected with his fist, I couldn’t help but wince. It hurt like hell. If those had been human bones they’d have cracked for sure. The guy packed a punch.

My satchel was still lying right next to him, and it was something that I didn’t want to leave without. Everything I owned was in there.

“Hey,” I called again. “Who are you?”

It seemed he’d already communicated everything he wanted me to know, for he remained there silent and unmoving, inscrutable. I had to assume that if I got near enough to him he’d take another swing at me, or worse.

I took a few steps forward, confident that he wouldn’t cover much distance in the shape that he was in, but ensured I wasn’t within his wingspan should he take another swipe at me.

“Where did you come from?” I probed. “Did the Marauders attack you?”

He muttered something inaudible in reply but lay unmoving.

“What?” I took a few more steps forward. “I didn’t hear that.” I was close now, and kept talking to let him know where I was, not wanting to surprise him again. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for the 1400 shuttle home,” he snapped. “What do you think?” He got up onto his elbows to regard me again. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

“I will, I just-”

“What?”

“Take it easy, all right? I’m sorry for startling you. I don’t run into other clanks very often, except for the Marauders. You’re the first I’ve seen in a few weeks.”

“This must be a disappointment for you.”

“Uh, to be honest, I’m still trying to figure out what to make of you.”

He lay back again, the rubble below him rustling as he settled on top of it.

“The name’s Max,” he said.

“I’m Brant.”

He lifted a few fingers in acknowledgement.

“Is everything okay, Max?” I said. “Do you need help?”

He laughed to himself. “Well now, that’s an interesting couple of questions. I’d say ‘no’ to both.”

“How long have you been there?”

“A few hours,” he said. “This is where I come to ‘unwind’. Exhilarating, isn’t it?”

I looked about the crumbling street. “It has its charms. I guess good holiday spots are hard to find these days.”

“How about you? You blow in with that storm last night?”

“In a way, yes.”

“Where from? And where to?”