Story #343 - Blast Zone

Blast Zone

“Yep, it’s broken.” Ollie Ross said to no one in particular. The fact that he was alone in the wilderness increased the ridiculousness of the statement, but he had to say something out loud, had to vent his frustration somehow. Of course, for Ollie that was just a small spraying of words rather than a full-on rage or tantrum; he had always been too calm for his own good.

Going back to the settlement wasn’t an option, since Kevin and his men would be waiting with pistols leveled for his arrival. Ollie should never have taken the younger man at his word, never had believed that he would share responsibility for the camp of refugees that they had led from the city. Since their first meeting Kevin had been aggressive, unstable, and Ollie had known something was wrong. The others listened to the younger man, however, and were impressed by his passion as much as they were comforted by Ollie’s calmness. Together, they had given the thousand they led a chance at survival outside the blast zone, but Kevin had become increasingly erratic, increasingly paranoid.

Two weeks ago an old man appeared at the compound’s front gate, claiming to be from another camp nearby and looking to speak with those in charge. Ollie had been ecstatic – the more survivors that could be housed in one place, the safer they all would be from the strange creatures that had been forged in the blast and come crawling out of suddenly opened pockets in the earth’s surface. The meeting had gone well until Kevin began accusing the man of being a spy, of seeking to steal supplies to bring back to his fellows. Before Ollie could stop his co-leader, Kevin murdered the man with bare hands, taking him by the throat and driving him into the hut’s dirt floor.

Instead of hide his guilt, Kevin pulled the body into the compound’s central square and announced what he had done, told all who would listen that they were under attack by others who had survived the blast, miscreants who were not to be trusted. Ollie objected but was shouted down – the survivors needed a way to channel their anger, a target that they could heap their fury upon, and Kevin was more than happy to provide.

At first, no other contact was made with the man’s supposed group and Ollie began to hope that he had been lying about other survivors or that they had simply moved camp. By the end of a week, however, skirmishes were taking place and three more were dead – two from the other camp and one from his own. Kevin was furious and spoke day and night about the “sins” that others had committed and the role of “his children” in helping to cleanse the world of its “infection”, an infection that had only been made visible thanks to the blast and its “holy light”.

Ollie kept to himself, kept his head down and his mouth shut but that didn’t stop Kevin and his new lieutenants from coming to him, demanding that he endorse their version of reality and help convince all those in the camp that they must strike out in force and destroy those who had done them no harm. Such calm rational had only infuriated the young leader and Ollie found himself running for his life, pursued by many of those who claimed to honor and his words and value his opinions. A steep tumble down a rocky cliff had broken his leg in the fight and he found himself alone in the wilderness, hunger or Kevin’s goons his likely causes of death over the coming days.

A sound caught his attention and he tried to stand, but pain forced him back to the loamy earth as a gasp of pain slipped through clenched teeth.

“Who goes there?” The voice was high-pitched and unsure – a man, but not one much past his first shave.

“I do.” Ollie said loudly. There was no point in pretending he was a tree. “My name is Ollie Ross.”

A young man crashed out of the low bushes, hand gripped tightly around a small pocket knife. His face was pale and he suffered from the same kind of malnutrition Ollie had seen in his own camp followers.

“You!” The young man screeched. “I’ve heard your name. It’s your camp that’s been terrorizing ours, that’s been seeking us out. You are infidels – our leaders say as much.”

Ollie sighed. Madness seemed to be catching in those that chose to take on the burden of leadership. “My people have been pursuing yours,” he said, struggling to breathe. “But not at my direction. They have been twisted by the other leader in my camp, Kevin.” Pain swan in waves up his leg and Ollie watched as the corners of his vision grew black, then brightened at ever-increasing speed.

“You –“ the young man started again but Ollie did not hear the rest of what was said, head slumping forward onto his chest as agony overtook him.

***

He awoke in small room, the young man that had found him standing guard, posture rigid. Ollie quickly discovered that both of his hands were bound to a crude wooden chair, though his legs had been left free and his broken foot secured with a small splint.

“Welcome to our camp, Mr. Ross,” a deep voice said, and Ollie forced his eyes to focus on the speaker, an older man with wild eyes. “You have been brought to us by the Gods themselves as a reward for our faith, as a testament to our fight against your Kevin’s infidels.”

“Hold on a moment,” Ollie began, keeping his voice deliberately low, “those are no longer my people. They have disowned me – your man found me on the run, broken in the woods.” He glanced up and the young man nodded. The older man waved a dismissive hand.

“How you came to us is of no moment. What matters is that it was predicted. Rest here, gather your strength and then your will be presented to our Gods. They will determine if you live as an example or die as a sacrifice.” The man turned and strode out of the hut, followed by the young guardsman.

“Well, I’m screwed,” Ollie said to no one in particular.


- D