The Ouroboros - Chapter 1
#1 of The Ouroboros
I'm trying something new here, so bear with me; I'm not used to writing sci-fi at all but the subject was something I've wanted to do for a while now. Also, please be gentle about any spelling or grammar mistakes that show up in the story. I went over it several times and had a friend look it over but I'm not perfect. ;)
Enjoy!
He had been stumbling around for days, searching open fields and empty towns for any sign of life. His stomach growled with the ferocity of a caged animal, and his only relief came from the occasional well or water pump he came across as he passed from farm to farm.
Every where that he had been was the same as the last. There was nothing to be found, save for dilapidated, decaying buildings and the sound of the wind kicking up dust and dirt. At night, there were no crickets, and during the day, no birds or insects could be heard. To the man that stumbled around in tattered cotton rags, it all felt so surreal, almost like a dream. But then his stomach would cramp up due to his hunger and he'd double over in pain.
If only it were a dream.
The man couldn't remember where he'd come from. He couldn't even remember his own name. The only thing on him that identified him was the number "23" stitched onto the chest of his stained, white t-shirt. The only thing 23 knew was that he had to keep moving. He didn't know where he was going, and he wasn't even sure if he'd find anyone before he eventually dropped dead from starvation, but he knew he had to keep going. Something drove him forward with such urgency that he feared what would happen if he stopped.
When 23 came upon yet another farmhouse, he was tempted to not look inside. After all, if the last dozen farms hadn't had a single sign of life, what were the odds that this one would?
His stomach cramped again, and he realized he'd need to check in case there was some food to be had. He'd have settled for anything at that point, even a can of cat food.
23 approached the house with a calm demeanor. He'd stopped being cautious days ago, and he no longer felt it necessary. There was never any people or animals to threaten him. Why waste time by being slow and cautious? As he came up to the door, he had to climb over a fallen, rotted out log. It was covered in mold and mushrooms, and it reeked, causing 23 to cover his nose to ward of the stench. The front door had fallen off its hinges, and he could step inside without having to break in. It was a small relief to him, as he feared he simply wouldn't have had the strength to manage such a feat.
Broken glass and dirt covered the floor, and the carpet was torn up and shredded. The smell of decay still hung in the air, and he was amazed that the log outside had such a powerful odor. He walked into what he assumed was at one point the kitchen, and began to sift through the cupboards and drawers in search of anything he could eat.
He was in luck. A can of... something. He turned the label over and squinted to read the faded text. "Peaches and Cream Corn." He went back to one of the first drawers he searched to retrieve a can opener he had seen and began to pry it open. The smell that sprang up at him from inside the tin barely managed to trump the stench of decay from outside.
Doesn't smell like corn, he thought to himself. He didn't recall ever eating corn in his life, but even so he knew it smelled off. He lifted the can up to his mouth and drank from it like a cup. Texture is off too... why do I know this?
As he began to guzzle down the rest of the corn to sate his hunger, he heard a shuffling around coming from behind him. He set the empty can down and listened. Yes, he thought, there's definitely someone here.
"Hello?" he called out. No response. "Is anyone there?" Still nothing.
The shuffling of feet only got louder as the person approached him. 23 could see the silhouette of a tall, lanky human stooped over and standing in the doorway. He continued to wordlessly shuffle towards him.
"Oh sorry, I didn't mean to intrude. You see I'm a bit lost and--"
23 cut himself off when the shape came out of the shadows. The man's skin was a faded grey-green with black pustules dotting his arms, face, and chest. A part of his face was missing from his cheek, showing off his rotted blackened teeth. His leg was bent at an awkward angle, as if it had broken in several places. The sight horrified 23, and he backed away slowly, keeping his distance from the frightening man.
"Look... I'm sorry I ate the food okay?" 23 said. The man kept advancing on him at a slow, yet determined pace. He backed into a wall and banged his head against something hanging behind him. "I'll just go, and leave you be, okay? How's that sound?"
What is wrong with this man?
The man let out a low, unearthly moan that had 23 on the verge of wetting himself. Every instinct in his body told him to run, that this man would be the death of him if he didn't run. However, he'd backed himself into a corner. There was no where to run except through him. 23 quickly glanced behind him to see what he'd bumped into. A set of pots and skillets hung on the wall, covered in a layer of rust. Without hesitation, he snagged a cast-iron skillet and swung it around at the other man, whom didn't even make an effort to dodge it as it slammed full force into his head. The resounding \ **spang!** of the frying pan and the crunch of bone and flesh echoed in the bare room. The man fell to the side along with the force of the blow, and ceased to move. A sickly, black liquid seeped out of the wound and coated the ground. 23 gave the body a tentative few nudges with his foot, but the man didn't move or make any further sounds.
Oh god, I killed someone... what have I done?
* * * * *
It was always quiet in the city after sundown. Tyson Grants liked it that way. He liked the silence and the solitude, because it gave him time to think. There was always plenty of time to think in the safe zones, where loud noises and evening entertainment were disallowed. Curfew would begin in about an hour, and by then everyone would be forced into their homes.
Until then, Tyson was content to prowl the streets while he enjoyed the last bit of fresh air he'd get for the day. The bear reached into his vest and pulled out a metal tin. He opened it and plucked out a cigar before tucking the tin back into his pocket. With a struck match, he lit it, then tossed the match aside as it fizzled out before it hit the ground. With on long drag, he inhaled the smoke into his lungs, let it warm him from the inside out for just a moment, then exhaled with a contented sigh. The thick clouds hung in front of him for a second before they rose and dissipated into the night air.
With the world as screwed up as it was, Tyson lived by only a few rules. One of them was to ensure that he always enjoyed the little things. He never knew when he would get the chance to enjoy them again.
They called the safe zone Haven, and though it was safe for the moment, the only thing they had going for them was the enormous stone walls that encircled them. The outlying farm lands, though well protected and the source of the food necessary for Haven's survival, were barely protected by huge chain link fences and a compliment of soldiers. In the event of an attack, they'd have a large warning, but it would be the end of Haven if the farmlands fell. Because of that fact, Tyson had a hard time accepting that Haven was safe. It was anything but safe. So he did the best that he could to live life as well as he could.
He took a puff from his cigar and blew the smoke out in rings in front of him. I wonder what I should do when I get home... he thought to himself. The majority of the books he had were coil-bound and printed on 8x11 sheets of paper, mostly training manuals and emergency plans that were hastily drawn up by the government bodies that resided in Haven. Tyson had a small collection of novels that he'd either found or been given, but he'd already gone through their yellowed pages several times in his short life. There were a few rich people in town that had things like televisions and video game consoles that they had purchased from scavengers, people who left the safe zone to rummage through the ruins of old cities. Tyson wasn't so fortunate.
He was truly at a loss for what to do. He wasn't tired and he wasn't hungry. To Tyson, the life he had inside Haven was boring. Outside of the combat training he underwent once a week to stay in shape and to stay ready in case of an emergency, there was little enjoyment to be had.
But at least we're alive right? Tyson pulled the cigar out of his mouth and spat on the ground before putting it back. Yeah, right. Rather be dead at thirty than live a life of boredom. Tyson wasn't suicidal, but he knew that a life that wasn't enjoyable wasn't worth anything. It was just uselessly existing without any sort of meaning.
Maybe if I still had someone... Cliff... A tear rolled down the side of Tyson's cheek. He wiped it away with a finger. No, don't think like that.
The lights in the houses were starting to dim or go out altogether as the inhabitants in Haven settled down for the evening. Even the street lights were systematically being shut down. Had it not been for Tyson's enhanced vision, he would've been blind in the pitch-black night. He walked around for a bit more before he decided it would be best to just turn in and get some sleep.
I'll just wake up early and get a head start at the shop.
As he was heading back towards his home, there was a commotion near the gate. Heavy, booted feet stormed down a street on the other end of an alleyway, and he could hear the metallic clunking of rifles being carried with them. It was very rare to see the soldiers mobilize within the city limits, which only made Tyson more curious. He decided to check out what was going on, and followed the soldiers to the eastern wall.
There he found a small gathering of soldiers arranged in a semi-circle facing the gateway, with their guns pointed at it. No, Tyson corrected himself, they weren't pointed at the gate, they were pointed at a man standing just on the other side of it, with his hands cuffed behind him and held firmly by a pair of burly looking guards as they led him into the city proper.
What is a human doing here? In this part of the country?
"What are you doing? Please, I need help!" the man begged. He wore tattered white clothing that had been stained by dust, dirt, and sweat. His hair was a mess and Tyson's nose wrinkled as he caught a whiff of the man. On the chest of his shirt was stitched the number 23.
"Shut up, human," barked one of the guards, a lion, that was escorting the man. "You have a lot of balls to come here when it was your kind that brought the infection down on us!"
The man was confused, and he looked around at the scowling faces. "Infection? What infection?"
Everyone around him laughed, and Tyson would've joined in too if he had thought it was a joke. But the man was frightened. His face was blanched, his body shook and trembled, and his voice was wavering. Was it because of the guns pointed at him? Or was he genuinely scared and had no idea what was going on?
"Don't play stupid, you furless meat-bag!" the lion tightened his grip on the man's arm, and Tyson could make out the big cat's claws digging into the skin, drawing blood. "We'll have you executed for trying to steal from our farms. That's all your kind deserves!"
"This isn't a joke! Please, you have to believe me! I have no idea what's going on," the man shouted, panicked, looking from face to face to find someone sympathetic to him. "I was lost and I don't remember anything!" Tears streamed down his face and he sobbed. "Please, don't kill me!"
Please, don't kill me! The words were like a knife in Tyson's chest. He'd heard them only once before, and they still haunted them in his sleep. His fists clenched at his sides and he fought back the tears that were trying to come to the surface. He stepped forward and pushed his way through the line of soldiers, ignoring their gasps of surprise and their protests.
"Let him go, Sargent," Tyson said firmly, speaking to the lion who had been admonishing the human. He looked to the other guard that held him. "You too."
"This isn't any of your business, fat ass," spat the lion. The other guard said nothing, while the human looked at Tyson with tear-filled eyes, pleading for his help.
"You're right, it's not my business," Tyson said as he took the cigar butt out of his lips and flicked it at the lion. "But I'm making it my business."
"You son of a bitch!" the lion dropped the human and roared as he charged at Tyson. The guns clicked as they were cocked and pointed at the bear. Tyson ignored them. He'd been at gun point before, it wasn't nearly as scary as the first time.
Tyson grappled with the lion, neither trying to over-power him, but not letting himself be over-powered either. "Let the human go. He's scared, he didn't do anything." The lion just snarled as he lifted a clawed hand and swiped Tyson across the muzzle. Blood dripped from the wound and over Tyson's lips. "I won't ask again. Let. Him. Go."
"Sargent Keti, enough! All of you, put your guns down," bellowed a voice from the other side of the crowd. "That's an order!"
The lion immediately backed off and saluted, "C-commander Nailor! Sir!"
"Causing trouble again, Tyson?" Nailor asked as he stepped forward. The tall wolf moved with a great deal of confidence, his tail moving hypnotically from side to side as he walked.
Tyson shrugged. "I've never caused trouble in my life, Commander."
"Is that so? Mind explaining why you'd step in for this human here?" Nailor didn't speak with any sort of aggression in his voice, and his eyes watched Tyson intently.
"He's scared, Commander. This whole display..." he swept his arms around, indicating all the armed soldiers that stood watching the scene play out, "...it's too much." He stepped over to the human and pushed the remaining guard away, then stood between the man and everyone else. "At least give him a place to stay and a warm meal, and perhaps question him, before sending him away."
"And what of his theft? What do you think should happen for that?"
Why am I being interrogated now? Tyson was annoyed by the Commander's line of questioning, but he did his best to hide it. "He can work it off."
"You seem so certain. And since you feel like sticking your neck out for him, you can be the one to look after him."
He shrugged his shoulders. "Fine by me."
"Good." Nailor turned to his soldiers. "All of you, back to your posts."
As the soldiers dispersed, the human turned to Tyson and thanked him. He wiped the tears away and dried his face with the dirty sleeve of his shirt.
"Don't make me regret it," Tyson said. Though it was a threat, he made sure to speak calmly and without any irritation in his voice. Why scare the man further? "Come, let's get you cleaned up and some food in you."
"T-thanks," the man repeated as he was led to Tyson's home.