Thomas Harpy checked his wristwatch and saw that it was well past noon. He glanced up at the blazing sky, a vibrant blue streak framed by the walls of a bleeding orange canyon that buried the sun. Through his binoculars he hoped to catch a glimpse of July Mundane, his childhood friend, returning across a barren desert plain, but all he saw was dust swirling though the air. Mountains loomed beyond a horizon lined with ghoulish withered trees that bordered a great metal ruin, some collapsed building, a shell from a time long since forgotten.
Thomas hopped from his hood of the Jeep, a rusted 4x4 that quite frankly he was surprised had carried him this far, it was in terrible condition and neither he nor July had much clue about how to look after it. Still, the Jeep hadn’t failed them yet, after so many journeys across The Valley, and it kept them alive day after day, in a desolate wasteland where it seemed only machines and madmen had the audacity to survive. Tom stretched and rolled his aching shoulders. The metal shell of the car had become too hot to touch. Fifteen more minutes and it would return to the shade of the canyon.
Thomas owned a German Shephard who now smiled at him from the back seat of the Jeep, panting with his tongue lolling from his mouth. They had named the dog Biscuit because that’s mostly what it ate while in the safety of the bunker—they were all a bit iffy about wild meat from the wasteland, even to use as dog food. And while Biscuit was not the most creative of names, when they first rescued him as a puppy by luring him close using an old bag of dog biscuits, they couldn’t really think of anything better.
“He’s late, again,” Thomas said to the dog. “I suppose we should go after him. What do you think?”
Biscuit let out a complacent bark.
“Right,” said Thomas.
The sounds of an old Creedence Clearwater Revival CD rang from the car’s stereo and echoes eerily through the canyon. July enjoyed music, and the CD collection stored in the cardboard box under the passenger seat was his prized possession. There used to be cassette tapes but they had all degraded. Thomas returned in the driver’s seat, took a mouthful of water and wiped the sweat from his forehead with a dirty sleeve. He nodded slowly to the rhythm of the music and turned the volume up. Better to distract himself than try figure out his dilemma. He was almost certain that July knew what he was doing, and he trusted that man more than anyone. Besides, July had asked him to wait at the base of the canyon for an obvious reason—if the Church discovered that there was a working vehicle nearby, topped with supplies… Well, Thomas never liked dealing with the religious types.
A wave of static erupted from the short-wave radio on the dash and Tom immediately thought of July. He turned the knobs. Loud crackling sounded for a while, a strange buzzing noise, silence. A voice, stern and demanding. Not July. But Thomas recognised the voice. Words were strung together like poetry. A sequence of messages that had been broadcast out of Sanctum for the past few months. The message said:
“We do not expect you to feel a sense of security as a result of our actions in the following days to come. We urge you, however, to consider the safety and stability that we have to offer. As the new leaders of the Royalist Regime we assure you that we will no longer turn our heads from the fabrications that have been poisoning your minds, ruining your freedoms, and trampling on your rights to live as human beings.”
The speaker was the leader of a political faction and military power that held a lot of sway in The Valley. Thomas had been keeping an ear out for their messages, but generally speaking he and July had no ties to any groups in The Valley, political or otherwise.
Biscuit leapt from the back of the car and stood tall, ears pointed towards the mountain. Tom leaned over the steering wheel and stared, but struggled to see anything significant. His suspicion, however, was that July had finished his business with the Church, and was on his way back.
The radio broadcast continued to play:
“My father may have been close-minded enough to ignore the treachery that festered in this valley of ours, but no longer will injustice be tolerated. To the leaders of the five factions currently operating in The Valley, we have tried to resolve our differences peacefully, however many of you have been reluctant to adhere to our proposals. Do not think that our desire for peace has unarmed us.”
“What is it boy?”
Biscuit let out a bark in response.
Nothing other than dirt and shrubs spanned the area before them, although, after watch for a while, a mutated desert rat sprang from a hole in the distance, its giant hairless body scurried over the sand and disappeared behind a shrivelled bush. Tom fell back into his chair.
“Just a rat.”
He turned his attention back to the radio, which continued to play:
“As expected, in the face of great change, conflict is always inevitable. To the people of The Valley, do not let yourselves be preyed upon like sheep to the wolves. War is coming. Do not look to your god for salvation. Do not give in to the hope that your leaders can protect. Do not hide in anarchy. Do not hope to save yourselves. Only those we deem worthy will be saved. The villainous, the deceivers, those who prey on the weak and exploit the masses—fear us. You will not escape.”
A low rumbling shook the desert plain, pebbles rattled, a cloud of dust engulfed the base of the mountain, and Tom reached for his binoculars as a figure emerged beyond the shimmering horizon. Behind the figure a convoy of a half-dozen armoured cars roared out from the dust. A bulky man in a dusty leather coat leaned from the passenger seat of the leading car and pointed his rifle to the sky. Tom lowered his binoculars and started the Jeep.
“Damn Templars,” he murmured.
The figure bounded frantically towards the canyon, a constant scream raking from his lungs, and Tom whistled for Biscuit to jump in the back as the Jeep’s tires scraped over coarse sand.
July ran for his life to escape the emerging dust cloud, his face red and hot with a sheen of sweat, his hair matted with dirt. Under his arm he carried a small brown package. He stumbled and a desert rat shrieked and bolted away. Then he spotted Thomas and yelled: “Run!”
“What the fuck did you do, July?”
Tom revved the Jeep harder until he reached his companion, turned sharply to the left and slammed on the brakes.
“No time.” July dived onto the passenger seat. “Go. Go!”
A rifle shot cracked over the roaring engines behind them and the bullet tinged against the side of their car. Tom’s eyes were set on the entrance to the canyon as he pressed the car to its limits. Biscuit whined and pressed himself against the seat.
July’s heart thumped with adrenaline as he held the package close, and Tom glanced at the little square box unnervingly.
“July, what is that? I thought we agreed that—”
“Will you shut up and drive.”
July set the package aside and with trembling hands climbed into the back with Biscuit. From under the seat he retrieved his 45-70 and took aim at the lead car’s driver. The uneven road had their vehicle to bouncing and sliding—it was impossible to stay still let alone aim a rifle. July fired and hit the bonnet of the lead car, which swerved aside and drew back. Two lighter vehicles on either side of the convoy sped up. A passenger fired a few pistol rounds and July took cover. He took a deep breath, focused on the left car and fired back, shattering a window—the driver swerved and collided with a boulder, the car crumpled, spun out of control and flipped.
“Christ!” Thomas glanced through the rear-view mirror at the mutilated remains of their pursuer, then at the remainder of the convoy as it slowed to a stop. One small vehicle continued the chase.
“We’ll have to lose them in the canyon,” Tom shouted. “If we keep this going we’ll end up dead.”
July held onto his weapon and climbed back into the front. Two rocky walls protruded on either side as they sped past the area where Tom had been waiting. Shrubs and stones whizzed past and the 4x4 slid over the loose gravel.
“Are we losing them?” said Tom.
July turned and scowled. One car remained, the driver’s face hidden beneath shredded rags and goggles, the passenger aimed a gun out the window. July pressed himself back against the seat.
“Not quite.”
They came to a fork in the road and Tom accelerated and spun the wheel to the right. July braced.
“Left! We came from the left.”
“Don’t worry,” Tom assured him. “It’s a shortcut. They’d be mad to take this route.”
The road sloped up. July’s heart fluttered and he yelled: “What’s that say about us?”
He knew what Thomas was about to attempt. The road widened and they hugged the left wall. An endless expanse of hard-baked sand opened up beneath them—the central valley, the wastelands. The pursuing car slammed on its brakes and, enveloped in dust, grinded to a stop. Tom kept going, his eyes glued to the path.
“They’re gone.” July pressed both hands against the dash as they neared the edge. “For god’s sake, Tom, slow down.”
Tom slowed and turned full-lock to the left. The car drifted, its right wheels kissed the edge and launched rocks to the desert below. They steadied and ended up on a narrow ledge, just wide enough for the vehicle. Biscuit let out a series of barks. Tom breathed heavily, his face pale, but he managed a grin.
“Oh my god, we almost died.”
“You do that again I’ll kill you,” said July, but he laughed.
“That’s for getting me into this mess.” Tom eyed the package. “Why are they after us?”
July tapped the brown wrapping paper and said, “It’s actually a funny story.”
“What is it?’
“A bible. Authentic. Pre-war.”
“You what? You stole the Bible—from the Church? Are you insane? I thought you just wanted to talk to the Bishop?”
“I did but it was just sitting there. I couldn’t resist. Do you realise how valuable this is?”
“Not worth dying over. If the Templars find you…”
“Find us,” July quickly corrected.
The road became more hazardous as they descended, thinner, more uneven. Tom struggled with the wheel at times but managed to hold them steady. He stopped talking. The way down had been abandoned for decades. He just hoped—
The right wheel plummeted where a piece had broken from the road. The vehicle jolted and swivelled.
“Shit…” he tried to brake—too much momentum.
They found themselves sliding sideways down the slope as the gravel gave way beneath them. July barely had time to brace before they flipped. His head bashed against the dashboard. Glass shattered. The Jeep tumbled, a horrid blur.
Tom and Biscuit had been thrown from the car. Tom’s body ached as he lay face-down in the hot sand, a terrible ringing in his ears. He raised his head and reached for July, then rolled onto his back and groaned. If it weren’t for Biscuit whining he may have passed out. The sound of the dog kept him tethered to consciousness. He propped himself up on his elbows, the car was a crumpled mess, Biscuit seemed to be nudging one of the wheels.
“Stop…” said Tom. “July… where…”
His eyed widened. How had he not heard the screams until now? Everything came back into focus and Tom scrambled over to July, writing in pain and tears streaming down his face. Blood soaked the torn garment around his leg, crushed, while his thigh and upper body protruded from under the wrecked Jeep.
“Shit. Okay, don’t worry. I’m… I’ll get you out of there.”
July’s screams quieted down and became an anguished, sobbing laugh.
“Any time now… would be nice.” His skin paled, his eyes sunken, his hair matted with sweat and sand. “Dig…”
Tom and Biscuit immediately dug out the sand beneath July, eventually taking handfuls of blood-soaked mud. Then Tom held July under the arms and pulled him out, with a considerable amount of screaming. The broken leg had a large gash below the knee that tore through to the bone. It was messy. Tom swayed with nausea.
“God…”
He had to think. Stop the bleeding. He removed his belt and tightened it around July’s thigh. A good start.
Apparently July couldn’t raise his head. He placed his arm over his eyes to block the sun, his chest rapidly rising and falling.
“Don’t you dare lie to me…” he mumbled, and winced. “What… ugh… How bad?”
Tom swallowed and tried to talk. His mouth was dry. “It’s not good,” he eventually said. “It’s broken, and… I gotta get you out of here.”
A pause. A hot gust of wind swept over them.
July groaned. “Am I going to live?”
Tom anxiously rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes.”
“You hesitated.”
Tom didn’t say anything else, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the butchered leg.
“We gotta go,” he said again.
But they had no vehicle, no way to escape, they were far away from any safe place. The Templars were still after them.
ns 172.70.126.81da2