Chapter 11
Sasha passes out from exhaustion not long into our flight from the Rakshasa. I drape his limp body over my shoulders and keep going. No way I'm leaving another person behind. Long after the gunfire and flashbangs have ceased, a new sound splits the night: an explosion. But there's no light - no fire or flare. Just a boom that rumbles the earth. I scramble around the side of a dune and set Sasha down. Jaw stays close, his ears alert. Another attack? A trap? Have the Rakshasa caught up with us already?
Silence. The sand settles. Jaw's ears return to normal, and he yawns. I creep out from behind the dune. Nothing happens. All clear. Whatever made that noise is gone. I pick up the unconscious Historyman and run.
At dawn, my strength fails. My knees hit the ground on the far side of another dune. Jaw's panting and my loud, ragged breathing sound like a sandstorm blowing in. I set Sasha down in the pale sand. He's still unconscious, his breath shallower than usual. I allow Jaw and myself one painfully small sip each from the canteen. We'll run out of water before long. If the Rakshasa don't get us first. They may have lost us in the night, but what if their dogs are trained to track? Doubt Ann managed to take them all out. My faith's gone, along with my energy. But we can't stay here long.
The morning sun bathes the Wasteland in pink and orange. The air loses its frigid bite, but I hardly notice. My entire body is on fire, and my abdomen feels like it's been sliced open anew. Under my sliced and stained shirt, fresh blood seeps through the bandages. Must've torn the stitches.
Jaw falls asleep, his snores as loud as a motorbike engine. Beside him, Sasha stirs. The leper's reddened eyes creak open behind his mask. His gaze darts all around and settles on me.
"Are you okay, Mister Roman?"
"Yeah. Just stopped to catch my breath. How 'bout you?"
Sasha sits up and pats himself down. "I don't see any obvious physical injuries. I think I am okay."
"Good. We have to keep moving." I offer him the canteen.
"We are almost to the Temple. So that is good. The walk on the Salt will be brutal without rations, but I think we can do it." Sasha turns away and lifts his mask to drink.
"We have to cross the Salt?" I ask. "Are you mad? No one who goes there ever comes back."
Sasha lowers his mask. "Victoria Temple stands on island, short way into the Salt, Mister Roman. We will not face the full peril of the Great White. We would not survive that." He returns the canteen and notices the wet blood on my hand. He looks down at my reddened shirt in alarm. "Oh my. Why didn't you tell me you were bleeding so profusely? Please, Mister Roman, lie down. I will examine your wound."
"Uh-uh. Can't afford to waste any time. I can make it if we're close."
Sasha huffs - the nearest he's come to anger since we met. "Mister Roman, please don't be an ass. You could bleed out again, and I certainly can't carry you. I need to examine you as soon as possible; otherwise, we are dead."
"Fine. Let's get it over with."
I shed my shirt and lie down. Sasha unravels the bandages wrapped around my stomach. Hot, salty air hits the exposed tissue, and I wince. Under the fresh and dried blood, the wound stretches diagonally from my bottom rib, past my navel, to my opposite hip bone. Much larger than I thought. If Engel's axe had cut any deeper, my guts would've spilled out. If it ever manages to heal, it'll make a nasty scar.
The young Historyman pokes and prods at the stitches. "Just a tear in the sutures. It should be easy enough to fix. Thankfully, you did not lose much blood yet. You will be fine."
Sasha produces a small spool of wire and a curved needle from somewhere in his sleeves. He fiddles with them for a moment, then sighs. When he speaks, his usually calm voice is strained and anxious.
"Mister Roman, could you, uh… thread this for me?"
"I can try." The task takes more attempts than I'm proud of, but at last, the wire slips through the tiny hole. "You a Historyman and an Organic?"
"No, I have just studied medicine. My hands don't work well. Plus, I'm not type of person people typically want to operate on them."
He inserts the needle into my flesh, shakes his head, and jabs the point somewhere else. He does this again and again until his twisted fingers finally hit the right spot.
"I am so sorry," Sasha sputters. "I shouldn't even be doing this. But it is better than bleeding out."
I grit my teeth to hide my discomfort as he works the wire through my flesh with unsteady hands. Never seen him so rattled. Can't just be from the stitches. No, it's everything. It's all gone wrong. Is Sasha replaying the attack in his head, too? Every time I blink, the dogs leap at me. The smoke rises, the flashbang explodes, the trick arrow screams. Ann screams, too. She tells us to run, her voice full of fear. Please! The spark of guilt alights in my chest and burns. So many things I could have done differently. But they all end with one or all of us dead. I run the scenarios anyway, convinced there must have been something I could have done. I shouldn't think about it so much, but it's damn hard to fight alone.
"Sasha?"
"Yes, Mister Roman?"
"I'm… sorry about Ann."
"Mister Roman, I am not going to lie to you. I am sad. And scared. But Miss Andromeda was doing what she felt she needed to do to protect the ones she loved. I would have done the same had I the ability."
"I should've done something."
"All the emotion and self-pity in the world won't bring Miss Andromeda back. Action will. And right now, that action is making it to Victoria Temple. After that, we will gather help to get Miss Andromeda back."
"What if she's -"
"Mister Roman, don't let your fear and sorrow control you. You are stronger than your emotions."
"Do my best," I promise, unconvinced.
"There." Sasha ties off the wire and leans back. "That will hold over until we get professional. I am sure Miss Trace is much better."
"Long as they stay put, they're good enough for me. Thanks."
Sasha nods. I sit up and inspect the Historyman's handiwork. The new stitches are a jagged mess, but they look like they'll hold up. Together, we wrap the old, bloody bandages around the wound. When I stand, my leg muscles spasm, but I force myself to stay upright. We have to get moving. Jaw gets up and shakes the white dust from his fur. He sniffs Sasha's shoulder and wags his tail.
"Come on," I say. Sasha takes my hand and gets to his feet. "Which way to the Salt? Not sure how off course I got last night."
The Historyman pulls out the compass and points to the right of the rising sun. "That way. We are close to the Salt. Once we get there, there is no chance the Rakshasa will follow."
"Yeah, you'd have to be crazy to go out there."
"Thankfully, we have the highest concentration of crazy for miles."
That gets a half-smile out of me. The three of us walk side by side toward the Salt. In the daylight, I feel exposed, vulnerable. My body aches. Our pace is agonizingly slow without a car. My body aches with each step. The events of last night still haunt my mind, but I do what I can to focus on right now. On Sasha and Jaw. On Victoria Temple. We're so close now.
At midday, we crest the final dune. Ahead, sand spills over a shallow cliff that runs left and right to the horizon. Beyond the short drop, flat plains of white stretches across the rest of the world. The Salt. The White Nothing, the Razor Sea, the Bowels. An expanse of cracked earth covered with small, razor-sharp shards. According to the stories, walking on the Salt kicks up tiny particles that irritate eyes and lungs. The crystals shred cloth and tear flesh. The stark white ground amplifies the sun's heat. Even the most seasoned scavengers avoid this place. But here we are - a grounded Road Warrior, a leper, and a dog equipped with five weapons, no food, and less than ten sips of water.
"We need to rest," Sasha says. "It is too hot to continue. Let us hide in shade at the bottom."
I tear my gaze away from the endless nothing. Behind us, the horizon is clear of pursuers. No one stupid enough to chase us into the Salt. But also no Ann. The three of us clamber down the dune and sit at the base of the shallow cliff. The shade is incredible after a day of brutal sunlight. Jaw curls up between Sasha and me. I close my eyes and lean back against the hardened earth wall. My body throbs with each heartbeat. Even relaxation hurts.
"How much farther from here?" I ask.
"Half day. It will be hard, but we can do it, Mister Roman."
"We got this far, yeah?"
My voice sounds far away. A night of running and half a day of walking catches up with me all at once. Exhaustion takes control, and my body sinks into the earth. I struggle to stay awake, but my eyes refuse to open. The orange glow behind my eyelids fades to black, and I slip away.
Rough movement jolts me awake. I open my eyes, but there's only dark. Fabric covers my face. Restraints hold my body in place, but my hands are free. I pull the fabric away, and white light blinds me. The taste of salt burns my throat. The movement doesn't stop. My body sways from side to side as something beneath me plods forward. Without sight to ground me, the motion is sickening. Bile crawls into the back of my mouth, but my instincts kick in to keep the precious water down. I press the cloth to my mouth and nose.
My eyes adjust to the light. Mid-afternoon. Salt surrounds me, but I sit high above the ground in some kind of seat. Strapped in but not tied down. Someone had removed my coat, but the pickaxe and pistol still hang from my belt. My canteen rests in my lap. Beneath the chair is an animal with shaggy fur, long legs, and a hump on its back. Not a horse. A camel? In front of me, someone small sits in another seat rigged up to the beast. A grey, tattered hood peaks up above the headrest.
"Sa…" I croak. My tongue is like a rock in my mouth. I lower the fabric - my scarf - and bring the canteen to my salt-cracked lips. Someone has refilled it. Warm water rushes down my throat, and I try to speak again. "Sasha?"
The Historyman's masked face appears around the side of his seat. When he speaks, excitement colors his voice. For the first time, the Historyman from Ares sounds happy. "Ah, you're awake, Mister Roman Good to hear from you again. We have been rescued! You would not wake, but our friends assured me that you would live. Jaw is sleeping under the jacket on the bags behind you."
I ignore the ache in my muscles and lean over in the seat to get a better look at our surroundings. The Salt stretches out in all directions - not a landmark in sight. Another camel rigged to carry passengers walks in front of ours. Protective fabric and goggles hide the features of the beast's two riders.
"Who are they?" I ask.
"Two Historymen from the Temple. They were on patrol and found us. But more on that later. For now, eat and rest." He leans around the seat and hands me a round, red object that I recognize from Eden: a tomato. "You've earned it, sir."
I tear into the food. Salty air mixes with the juicy, red flesh. Never tasted anything better. I devour it in a handful of bites.
"Now go back to sleep, Mister Roman. You have only been out for a couple hours."
"Wake me up this time if something happens, yeah?"
"I will try."
Fatigue overwhelms by tired muscles again. I pull the scarf over my face and close my eyes. Despite traveling through one of the Wasteland's most dangerous places, I feel oddly safe. Sasha's here, and he's happy. We must be in good hands.
The next thing I know, someone is gently shaking me.
"Wake up, Mister Roman. We are here."
Sasha's bloodshot eyes stare at me through the holes in his brass mask. He has pulled the scarf from my face. Behind him, an enormous, rectangular building stands on top of a steep hill. Rows of intact glass windows are set into the white brick walls. Pre-Fall. Almost Utopian. Patches of grass and some larger plants grow on the hill, impossibly green against the white earth. Late afternoon sunlight beats against the brick and unbroken glass, but our camel stands in the shade of two tall trees with long, wide leaves. The hellscape of the Salt surrounds this place, cutting it off from the rest of the Wasteland.
A familiar, sand-colored snout obscures my vision. Jaw licks my face once and leaps from the camel. Sasha helps unfasten my straps, and I slide from the seat to join Jaw on the sandy ground. Takes a moment to find my balance after sitting so long, but my legs don't hurt nearly as bad as before I slept. I grab my jacket and weapons from the baggage strapped to the camel's back.
"Could you help me climb down?" Sasha asks.
I nod and reach up with both arms. A moment later, the Historyman's feet touch the ground. Only then, as we stand together before the magnificent building, does it finally hits me:
"We made it."
"Yes, we did, Mister Roman. Yes, we did. But let us meet our hosts before we get too comfortable."
Two figures approach from the shade of another tree. They have shed their protective gear and left it with the other camel. Two men, both tall and lanky. One is shirtless and doesn't have a trace of hair anywhere on his body. Every inch of exposed skin is covered in word tattoos like the ones under Sasha's bandages. Broken chains dangle from metal bands around the man's wrists and ankles. Aside from his height and build, the other man is quite different. He has a long, dark beard. His hair is slicked back on top with the sides shaved. He wears a long, open coat without sleeves. Embroidered yellow thread creates simplistic images of animals and people in the grey fabric. The second man's skin also sports tattoos, but his face has been left unmarked. These Historymen look so different from Sasha, who stands hunched and wrapped in bandages beside me.
The bearded man smiles at me and raises a hand in greeting. His deep voice booms like an engine without a muffler: "I see you're finally awake! Welcome to Victoria Temple! A friend of Sasha is a friend of ours. My name's Storyteller. And this here's my brother, Timekeeper."
He bows low and splays his arms. The bald man simply nods.
"Roman," I reply. "Glad you found us."
Storyteller straightens up and laughs. "That's for damn sure! In that shape you two were in, I doubt you could've made it. Now, I'd love to stand around and chit-chat some more, but I think you" —he points at me and grins— "would like to see Trace."
My breath catches. "She's here?"
"She's here."