Dad's Stories

Dad's Stories

Dad always used to tell stories. Well, he used to say all sorts of things; he was a bit of a loon, but it was the stories that stood out. He’d tell stories about before the hard times, he said there was time before people lived in the wastes; before the Izibeth were murderous psychopaths and before anyone feared the monsters that roamed about the land. He used to go on about the ‘Shining City’; clean rivers, clean skies and a society that had everything and wanted for nothing. Dad was born into the same survivalist shithole that I was, so I have no idea where he got it from; but he talked about it with a twinkle in his eye, almost nostalgic, that made it seem like he’d seen this magical civilization. If Mum had been around to hear it, she’d have told him to stop filling my head with such nonsense, I’m sure. There was a time when I believed in it, believed in his stories of a magical utopia. I was young, impressionable and foolish. Soon enough, reality set in; there was never such a place, just the violence of raiders, scavengers and the wildlife, the freezing winters and burning summers, the fact that everything – human, animal or nature itself – was out to get you.

I was worried that I might have been a little lost. I couldn’t have strayed too far north though. It couldn’t be that far, there were still patches of grass. Sickly, drying grass barely clinging onto its own wretched existence, but there was still grass. If there had been naught but sand, then I might be have been in trouble. I’m still not sure what would be worse; death by dehydration in an uncompromising and uncaring desert: an endless, barren expanse of sand and desolation, or being caught by what were supposedly the inhabitants of that harsh place. Dad told me a story once; the fact that he didn’t have that look in his eye made me think there was a slight chance he wasn’t making things up. He told me about the Roo; beast-mean that leapt on massive, muscular legs, had teeth and claws that would give any bugger unfortunate to cross paths with them a very bad day, and an attitude that would put even the toughest, scummiest cold-blooded bastard to shame. The worrying part is that they were meant to be smart. Not very smart, mind, but smart enough to organize and claim the Great Endless Desert for themselves. ‘They can have it!’ I always thought; I mean, who would want to live out there in the most inhospitable part of this inhospitable hellhole, let them have their domain. Of course, according to Dad they also had their eyes on the lands further south and had gone as far as to call the northernmost scraps of the Wastes as theirs, too. It was scary to think of an army of barely-sentient beast-men declaring war on humanity; they’d probably win. I’d never seen even one of these monsters, and most people I’d met on my travels hadn’t either. Either way, of all the crazy bullshit Dad spoke, I figured it wasn’t worth dismissing. The desert was death with or without the Roo and besides; there were enough psychopaths just a little further south anyway.

If I got really lucky though; maybe I could kill one. That’s what I thought. If they were so big and strong there would probably be a decent cut of meat on them. I was so hungry out there that I was fantasising about fighting a giant killing machine, putting my life at an even greater risk than usual, just for a bloody meal. Too far away from the traders’ routes and who knows if there were any settlements that far out there; if there were, I bet they would have been hostile. Well, more hostile than usual. I was so hungry. I’d stocked up on supplies last time I was in Bury, I’m pretty sure the guy running the stall swindled me too; but food was a necessity and hunting wasn’t always possible, or advisable. I’d lost it all to a gang of damned Izibeth thugs. To keep them from stringing my guts across the back of their truck, no doubt; they were known to do awful, awful things to anyone who so much as looked at them funny. Or was it whoever they looked at funny? Probably both. They were the only thing that gave credence to Dad’s stories about the Roo. They believed that their destiny was to wage a war against the Roo, defeat them and somehow inherit an empire stretching from the depths of the desert all the way to the ‘Laide itself and beyond. I suppose if anyone could conduct a war against a brutal race of beast-men, it was the insane, violent psychopaths that made up the Izibeth. You could hardly call them a ‘people’ or ‘tribe’ in so far as they held no common loyalties or values, they were an assortment of bloodthirsty maniacs who roamed the wastes in their salvaged or stolen trucks, attacking anyone they crossed and looting anything that struck them as valuable. The especially brave (or stupid) would gather together bands of warriors and venture out into the Great Desert to start their ‘destined war’. I’d never heard of any of them returning victorious; I imagine that whether it was the Roo or the desert itself, there were a lot of dead Izibeth out there. Arguably, the Izibeth were the craziest of the nomads that wandered the wastes and easily the only people that in my experience out-crazied Dad.

So there I was, lost, hungry and way too far from anyone who wasn’t going to kill me. I was meant to be headed to a wreck I’d been tipped off to. You see, I was a treasure hunter of sorts; the wastes were full of old vehicle wrecks. Some were just burnt out hulls, and others long since looted, but occasionally you’d find something. Trucks full of preserved canned food brought in good money, as did machine parts and the occasional cache of weapons. There were traders in Bury on the lookout for everything. Some people took the risk of travelling into the ‘Laide itself and salvaging whatever they could to sell to Bury traders. The traders would then sell to whoever they could convince to buy; you would be amazed at the kind of profits Bury traders could make out of complete junk. The holy grail of treasure hunting was water though. Pure, clean, uncontaminated water. Preserved, hidden in the wastes in its protective metal sarcophagus for countless years. A large supply of clean water would make you a king, provided you could hold on to it. All of the other water supplies were contaminated. Most were drinkable, but it would slowly kill us all. The contamination was in everything, the food and water which kept us alive would condemn us all to early graves. Lost and hungry, and to make things even worse; darkness was falling.

Darkness was the greatest enemy of all in the wastes, packs of wild-dogs, snakes, hellish creatures warped by radiation and the survival of the most vicious, and above all; the bitter, stinging cold of night. Nature itself was yet another enemy to face off against. I had a torch; everyone who travelled out into wilderness carried some form of illumination. But batteries were scarce, and the few I had managed to acquire were running low, I had to be conservative. So the falling darkness was all around me; soon to be thick, oppressive, impenetrable. It was getting darker and darker and I was hungry, and no less lost than I was hours before. Had I seen that rock before? How many times had I passed it? Was that it? Would I die out there, starving or killed by some beast out in the wastes; out on some forsaken treasure hunt? I hoped not. But what could I do? Sleep. If I slept the night, I wouldn’t attract attention. No chance of crossing raiders, no one was idiotic enough to travel at night, despite the heat; daylight was always, always safer. I would be still, and quiet. If I slept, I would survive the night. This was my hope. I was travelling light; I had no serious provisions for nightfall. I’d been dropped out in the wastes as a favour by a trader caravan headed west, and I’d expected to be closer towards the settlements by dusk. I laid my rifle down; it was an antique, all guns were, but this was especially old. I imagine it was old even in the days of Dad’s utopia. It was his, passed down through the family, he said. He gave it to me, along with a stockpile of ammunition one day when I was young. That was the last day I saw him. He was no less crazy about it than he was about everything; ‘Safeguard this with all your might, and it will safeguard you with all of its’. It was always crazy stories or talking in prophecy and crap with Dad. I set myself down beside a rock, and pulled my cloak over me as a blanket. Not particularly comfortable, but it would keep me warm enough; and perhaps make for acceptable camouflage. I hoped I would be able to find something to eat in the morning, when it was safer.

I awoke with a start. I reached for my rifle. But all I grasped was air. I was vertical? It took a moment for the drowsiness of sleep, uncomfortable and restless as it was, to wear off. Oh no. Someone had found me. Someone was crazy enough to travel into the wastes at night. Someone had found me and strung me up, tied to something. Still dark, I couldn’t see. Who had found me, tied me up and carried me away without my noticing? I was still so very hungry. Hopefully they wouldn’t try any of those wonderful torture tactics like starvation; I was already half way there. My captors, whoever they were, were chanting. A flash of light. Torches had been lit. I could see that I was not the only person in this predicament. I was part of some grotesque procession. There were at least ten of us held up in the air, out bodies tied tightly to large planks of wood. Our arms were free, but we had been tied so tightly and thoroughly that escape was impossible. We were moving in time with the chanting. And the drumming; there were drums thumping an ominous rhythm. DUM dada dadadada DUM dadadadadada. How had I not noticed them immediately? There was something guttural and vicious about the chanting, gurgling like mud, but harsh like sand. I had a vague inkling of who my captors were, but I did not have the courage to look downward at them.

Screaming started. Other prisoners started to wake up. There were some violent and surprisingly creative expletives; there were Izibeth among us. I partially hoped it was the ones who had robbed me. I took another look at my fellow captives; there were a number of Izibeth, it was strange to see them stripped of their weapons and tied up; in fact it was strange to see them stripped of their weapons. Taking prisoners and mistreating them was usually their expertise. A few wanderers too, by the looks of it, solemn and silent and quiet; taking in their fate much as I was. I noticed a family, also. Travellers passing through the emptiness of the northernmost wastes, skirting along the edge of the desert to avoid the more abundant raiders that little bit further to the south. I wonder how many people suffered a similar fate in trying to take the safer route. The young children and the mother were sobbing, the father and the older girl were stony faced and silent. They had seen terrible things in the wasteland before, I imagined; but had they encountered something this ghastly?

The doubts slowly started to fade in my mind. I knew, deep inside i knew who had plucked me from the wastes and taken me into captivity. Deep inside me, I knew who these chanting barbarians were. Still, I did not dare look and confirm the horrible truth of my situation. We continued to travel, strapped to poles, at the rhythm of the drums. I desperately wanted to pass out, there was a smell also; the virulent odour of cold fear, tears and involuntary expulsion mixed with another thick rancid stench that I suppose belonged to our captors. Though there was always the chance that the Izibeth among our number were the source; bathing wasn’t exactly high on their priorities. Between the smell and the sounds of terror, anger and guttural chanting, nothing outside a blow to the head would spare me the experience. Time began to drag on and become meaningless, I had no idea where I was because I dared not look down at risk of my nightmares becoming manifest.

Eventually, day broke and finally the procession of screaming and waling came to a stop. I heard a loud thump. One of the poles had free-fallen to the ground, taking the unlucky person bound to it directly into their hands; or claws. I didn’t want to think about the possibilities. It was followed by another thump and another disappeared prisoner. I soon realised I would soon be face to face with them. The terrible, terrible truth would be revealed. I heard a voice, deep and rough like the chanting, but speaking in a more conversational tone. At least as far as conversational goes in the language they spoke; it sounded like a man drowning in a sea of glass shards; like flesh being torn from the bone.

I hit the ground; hard. The unconsciousness I had desired hours, or minutes earlier finally met me with force. I awoke, to my relief, unharmed. Well, as unharmed as I was before my fall. I was in some kind of prison, crude bars of metal and rough cuts of barbed wire; crusted with blood. It was more of a pen, really. I was penned in like some kind of animal. I was right. We had been captured by Roo. They were every bit as frightening as dad’s stories made them out to be. Snouted faces full of wicked-sharp teeth, bulging muscles and their fur patchy and mottled with scars and tattoos. I still wasn’t sure if that rancid smell was them or some of my fellow prisoners.

So here I sit: trapped in a cage, awaiting my doom. I thought I wasn’t too far north, too far lost; clearly I was wrong. The only thing they hadn’t taken from me was a collection of paper scraps and an old, worn pen which I kept on my person at all times. So I sit here writing my story to pass the time. I gave a scrap to the girl, the older girl I saw among the travellers. She was mute. Apparently those others weren’t her family. She was not an older sister keeping a strong face for her siblings, she was their prisoner. They were cannibals. Dad told me a story about cannibals travelling the wastes and tricking the lost and the gullible. Dad told lots of stories; what scares me is how often he may have been right.