The king had more faith than Cam. His dream moved, and now he was flying above a town surrounded by a bog, one with mud-wattled huts and dirt roads. There were people outside pointing to the sky, where tiny particles of ash floated.
He tried to scream at them, “Don’t breathe.”
But he was simply a ghost and drifted on.
There was something awe inspiring and terrifying as he floated as if a cloud over a land turned gray and yet streaked with hot red and purple. Like pulsing veins that flowed from a giant beating heart.
And that heart was huge. He coasted over the rim of a giant raised crater and saw the bubbles rising and popping. A pulsating thing that filled him with a horror he didn’t understand.
Ding-a-ling-a-ding-a-ling.
The strident chime of bells woke him, and he sat straight up in his bed, a misnomer for the thin layer the blankets made on the floor.
The night remained quiet. Too quiet.
Had he truly heard the bells ring, or was that part of his dream?
Awake, he couldn’t just go back to sleep. He chose to peek out the window first. The starlight didn’t illuminate much, but he had a light. It took more cranking to power it enough for it to glow. It showed him nothing but white all over. Which was odd because in the daytime the ash appeared gray. Could it be the fabled frost he was seeing? He noted his breath huffed from his mouth in a cloud and the inside of the tank had chilled overnight.
But the cold wouldn’t have rung the bells. He kept cranking and looking for signs of the ash being disturbed. Saw nothing. The rear viewing port and side ones didn’t appear to have any steps in the dust outside. He thought about waiting for dawn to head outside, but honestly, the lack of raining ash made it easier to see. He suited up and headed out into the still landscape. His steps left distinctive tracks in the ash. The only tracks.
The line of bells remained circling the tank, the ash beyond it still lying in the valleys and swells where it drifted. Nothing disturbed the air, and yet he felt watched. He hefted the big gun he’d brought with him. Big enough to blow a hole he could shove his fist through. Useful when confronted with locked doors and big baddies.
He stayed out for a few minutes, pacing around the tank, seeing nothing. When he finally returned to the inside, he couldn’t sleep, so he started Burton’s engine. Cam drove the rest of that day, noticing when the road curved in order to divert around a mountain, which, according to his map, would soon turn into dozens of jutting hills and peaks with valleys in between. He wouldn’t be climbing any of those mountain tracks yet. He had a few more towns he wanted to look at.
But every village he found was the same. Abandoned. Empty of bodies or clues. A layer of dust and ash on everything.
The day proved to be a wash. When night hit, he was deep in another dead forest. He didn’t like all the trees so close to the tank. Hiding spots for predators. Yet he couldn’t find an open spot, and he knew it was past time he rested. A man couldn’t drive forever.
He tried to sleep. Unlike the previous night, it didn’t go well. He’d strung the bells again as best he could. However, the branches of the dead trees stretched over the warning line in several places, and there were too many to hack down, meaning something that could climb would be able to bypass his alert system. Assuming anything out here could climb. His caution seemed misplaced, given he’d yet to see a single living thing.
Didn’t see and yet would swear he wasn’t alone. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched. It followed him even inside the tank and its secured walls. Lying down on the floor, wrapped in his blanket to combat the chill, he was all too aware of every single creak. He jumped up more than once to peer out a window, convinced he was about to be attacked.
He couldn’t help but remember the little boy who’d had to survive in the Wasteland, frightened by every noise, using that fear to fuel his bravery. Except back then he had a reason not to let cowardice win.
That reason was back in Eden, and as the night deepened, he and paranoia became close friends.
When dawn arrived, noticeable by the return of the ash and that dull haze, his eyes burned, gritty with fatigue. He put the truck into gear and followed the road, wondering how long it would take for his tracks in the dust to be erased by fresh ash and wind.
It occurred to him by the end of the third day of driving—and two more abandoned villages—that he had no idea what he should look for. Sure, Roark and the others had given him some ideas; look for a volcano, a crevice spewing gas, and Titan’s joked, Maybe it’s a portal to Hell. The ancient humans had believed in a place called Heaven for those who lived a righteous life and Hell for those who’d sinned.
There was definitely no portal to Hell, which was supposed to be full of demons and brimstone and fire. This place was more like nothingness, the absence of all.
He’d seen no sign of life. Nothing overtly spewing smoke. No glowing at night. It meant no true direction for him to follow, so he kept going along a road that became increasingly hard to discern, the ash drifting deeper than before.
That night, he didn’t go for a walk. He slept with the helmet tucked by his side and his gloves on. Surrounded by the ghostly fog, more than ever he would have sworn he heard it whispering when he turned the engine off.
Turn back.
Come outside. You don’t need that helmet.
Death.
Run.
Stay.
Those imaginary voices fucked with his sleep, meaning the following day, he nodded at the wheel, not paying attention like he should have. He never saw the edge of the precipice.
As Burton’s front end began to dip, the motion jolted him enough that he slammed the machine into reverse. With a lurch, it began to creep back, which, in turn, caused more of the cliff’s edge to crumble. He turned off the engine and held his breath.
The tank stopped moving. He couldn’t see down into the crevice and stood to get a better view. Bad idea. It appeared the ass of the tank wasn’t as heavy as the front. It seesawed.
“Fuck me!” Cam dove out of the driver’s seat to the cubicle for outside, which was of course when everything just had to go to shit.
He bobbled the helmet, recovered, and shoved the protective headgear on his head. He twisted until he heard the hiss as it sealed to the neck of his suit. His gloves were tucked into his belt, but there was no time. He grabbed a big gun instead before he shoved himself into the tiny chamber. He didn’t bother to seal the inner door before he opened the outside one.
He had to move fast. There was no time. Burton was rocking on the edge.
The ramp had barely hit the ground when he threw himself out of the tank. He hit the ground hard, not hard enough to crack the face shield on his helmet, but his hands were definitely abraded as they plunged through the ash to the hard ground underneath.
Not good. But at least he’d held on to the gun. He dropped it now and rolled to his back as he fumbled at his belt for the gloves, trying to not think of the particles coating his skin. He slid them on and tried to pretend he didn’t hear his sister saying, “Dumbass.”
He should have been wearing them, but after days of nothing, he’d gotten complacent. And it cost him. His hands burned like they were on fire. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d suffered. He knew how to handle the pain.
Pushing to his feet, he kicked the ash to locate the gun he’d dropped, only to find himself distracted at an ominous cracking sound. He whirled to stare at where Burton should have been parked, only it wasn’t.