Estranged: Book 1

Chapter 1

Kota

The sun is already climbing by the time Tristan Harris finishes repairing the current fence. Dust clings to his boots. Sweat darkens the collar of his shirt. Somewhere beyond the fields, an oil truck growls along the highway toward town, its engine fading beneath the endless chorus of insects and wind. It is the sort of morning he spent ten years building for himself. It is quiet, predictable and entirely forgettable.

The wire holds firm beneath his hands. Finally the old stuff works. Tristan looks up, allowing himself to look out across the farm. The pasture stretches toward the distant hills of Kota, golden beneath the early light. No towering skylines. No surveillance drones. No orders waiting on the other end of a radio. Just land. Most days, that is enough.

Down the long dirt track, a cloud of dust grows larger. With it, a sound of an old motor bouncing its way from the tree line. Tristan sighs, dunking his head in the bucket of dusty water. The Luke warm water runs down his neck, tickling his thick disheveled hair, after he sakes his head. When the old truck pulls up to him, he swings his old button shirt over his shoulders. His dog tag catching his chin, with a hard pinch, Causing him more pain. But no more than it usually does.

"Tristan! Found you some old wire." The driver says hanging his torso out of the window. Paul. The towns scavenger and scrapper. The Kota district is the last to use old wire. Actual wire, braved, twisted. Most of it is old and rusty. With the lasers from the city. The higher tech that keeps cattle or other animals away. Just isn't used here. Here it's still physical and Tristan wouldn't have it any other way. "Where did you get it?" Tristan's asks Paul. Who slams the door twice before it opens and he slips from his seat.

Paul's left leg slams the gravel first, Tristan already there catching him. "Christ, be more careful!" Tristan says in a panicked voice. "Please, like this leg feels anything anymore. That would be the day!" Paul laughs. "Maybe you should go to the cities. Get a proper replacement. It's a joke at first, then Tristan feels that cold shiver along his spine. How easy it is for the cities to replace you. Piece by piece. "Pfft! Like to seem them try." Paul laughs, standing up straight.

The two men wobble to the rear of the truck. Pulling down the back to drag the old barb wire from its place. "What will you do when this old shit runs out?" Paul asks. "What do you mean?" Paul laughs at the deflection. "It's only you on this farm. You've no animals, no business. Why do you keep wiring it all up?" It's a good question. One Tristan doesn't know the answer to. It could be several things. Boredom. Restlessness. A task to complete by each night, especially during the long days. "It keeps me busy." Tristan replies. Paul knows better than to question him further on the matter.

Paul stays for some time. Longer than necessary to deliver the goods. After a while he even helps a build a new fence line. "Town is getting quieter!" He declares, to abruptly after a few hours of silence. At least from Tristan. "Hmm." Is all Tristan mutters. "More people keep moving on. Moving out. This district is barely useful anymore." Paul adds. Trying to find something Tristan will connect with. "Won't be too long until the cities build up to us."

With that Tristan's pliers drop. A ripple echoing up the lines, left and right of him. Carrying the whisper across the fields. "You hear how big Yorkington is now?" Paul pushes a little more. "I hear a lot about Yorkington. Rarely anything real." Tristan sighs reaching for the pliers. The sun way past midday now. Burning them with hot hue of orange. "Or anything good, if it is." Paul finishes the sentence. Tristan swallows the rest of his bottle. Even his supplies telling him it's time to call it quits. "Kid, let's call it a day!" Paul says excitedly. Almost trying to pep talk Tristan's expression. It works. Which is a surprise to them both.

Paul spools the wire, his gloves saving him from the worst of the scratches. "Hop in!" He instructs as Tristan makes his way to the truck. The ignition starts after too many trials. But not too long after, they follow the track back to the house.

The house is old. There's no other way to put it. Loose wooden panels, boards and beams. The white paint chipped and grey. The roof being the best part of its exterior. Even the windows are lifeless. Some are dusted beyond recognition. Others have been reclaimed by Ivy. When they finally enter the fly door and into the threshold of the house, Paul gasps his way to the kitchen. Downing two cold beers before Tristan has even dropped to the couch. "At least you've got good taste in booze!" Paul's cackles to himself. A smirk reaches Tristan's face, even if tiredness steals it back.

It's dark outside now. And the men drink into the evening. Sharing a few gossips of the district. Even with what little there is. It's an escape for now. The Kota district is full of city runaways, deserters and other residents. Old farmers with no jobs left to pay them. Machines do most of it now. Tristan has kept locals busy with what work he can spare. Using what savings he has. But even that is beginning to dwindle. He knows time is running out. And his exile won't be sustainable much longer. Despite this neither talks of the future. And where they can they avoid the war, the police. Their service. But all roads lead there.

Tristan lays chest first on the couch. Defeated by the bottles. His tag clinking on one below him as he cradles it. Paul keeps an eye on Tristan until he stirs. Finally at rest, as much as he's reluctantly permitted for himself. There are no blankets here. Not in the living room. It's too muggy to light the fire. But the nights get cold enough, more so when you're away from your senses. Paul wanders the first floor. Searching for a cover, a blanket, even a jacket. But whatever Tristan does down here. Living isn't one of them. Stealing the final beer from the fridge he climbs his way to the second floor.

Past the loose bannister, are three rooms. A bedroom, a shamble of a study which was once a bedroom, and finally the bathroom. Paul goes straight to the bedroom at the furthest end of the hall. The door kept to by a self engineered system. Never letting the door shut or open entirely. Tristan's room isn't untidy. But there's no sense of ownership either. No photos or posters, no certificates of honour. Most of the room is containers. Boxes full of clothes, practical gear and tools. Under the domestic wreckage Paul diggs up a shawl.

He makes his way back to the stairs. But is frozen in awe at the study. Just like a tactical research expedition. Lines of coloured threads sprawling across the maps. Articles half torn, with blotches and highlighted phrases. Paul refuses to read any of it. No good comes from information. Most days ignorance is his only bliss. But he hears a weak signal on the old radio. With not much else to do, Paul squats in front of it. Fiddling with the receiver until the ultrasonic waves become steady. But the radio doesn't send a voice. Beside it all is a bed. A single. Made and kept neat. Paul smiles at it. At what it allows. A daydream of reunion.

By the time he declines the stairs, Tristan is fast asleep. One arm streaked over the couch, his knuckles against the flooring. Paul limps his way around. Pulling an old shawl over his friend, Paul sits back heavily into the chair. Finishing his last beer before sleep befalls him too.

A shrill ringing tears through the silence.

Paul jerks awake so hard his empty bottle tips from his lap and rolls across the floorboards. Tristan doesn't move at first. Trapped somewhere between exhaustion and instinct. Then the ringing comes again. Louder this time, even more insistent. The sound isn't coming from the kitchen. Or the living room.

It's upstairs. The study. Paul is already struggling to his feet as Tristan pushes himself from the couch. His dog tag swings from his neck as he takes the stairs two at a time. The old house groans beneath him. The ringing continues.
The study door is still half-open. The sound leads him straight to the desk. Then to the bottom drawer. His stomach sinks. Only two people still have that number.

Eban.
Or her.

For one brief moment he closes his eyes. Please don't be her. The ringing stops. Then immediately starts again. Paul appears in the doorway behind him. "You gonna answer that thing?" Tristan yanks the drawer open and grabs the phone. "Hello?" Silence. There is no static, nor even a bad connection. Finally a breathe is inhaled on the other end "Tristan." A deep voice of a man answers.

Eban.

Something in his voice turns Tristan cold. Overshadowing the brief relief he had felt. Paul hears it too. The room suddenly feels smaller.
"What happened?" Tristan asks. Another pause.
Long enough to confirm his fears. "I'm at the hospital." Tristan's grip tightens around the phone. "Why?" A breath crackles through the speaker. "It's about your brother." The words don't make sense. His brother. The phrase circles his head without landing. He hasn't spoken to his family in years.

"What brother?"