Walking the Ruins

Spying, and a thief in the night

When I catch sight of them again, the villagers have almost reached their dwellings. For a short time, they stand together, talking. Then they disperse. Some of them enter the houses, while others go off into the fields on the other side of the village.

For a while, I observe what's happening at the houses and in the fields. But, in fact, nothing much is happening. The people in the fields are apparently pulling weeds, an activity that makes me shudder. My mother sometimes made me do that kind of work in our garden at home, on Saturdays. I never enjoyed it, firmly believing that every plant had its right to live and that I, myself, had a right to read a good book on our most comfortable couch on Saturday afternoons. And when I did pull weeds, I usually worked myself into a killing frenzy and murdered anything that looked even remotely weedy, also the sprouts of the flowers that my mother had planted so lovingly. And that led to unpleasant discussions, which further alienated me from the art of gardening.

Not only the work in the fields but also village life looks incredibly dull. Two women sit in front of a house, peeling potatoes, another activity that I hold in deep abhorrence.

Some chickens wander about in a pen, clucking and pecking the ground listlessly.

Someone opens a window of one of the houses, then hangs a piece clothing from it.

Two kids, maybe around the age of ten, leave a building, walk silently down the central alley, and enter some kind of barn.

It's not long before I'm thoroughly bored. So I return to the bunker door in the rock, hoping for some more action there. I approach it stealthily. There is no one in sight, and the door is still closed. The rounded, fat concrete structure surrounding it is clearly of military origin. I don't see any windows, nor is there any apparent way to open the door from the outside.

Should I take up a stone, like the longhaired man from the village did, and bang it against the metal? I shake my head. The blond general and his pals are unlikely to give me a friendlier welcome than the one they offered to Steve and Jenny.

I stare at the door. It ignores me. And nothing happens.

I spend the next hours observing the village and the door in turns. And neither offers anything of interest. The door remains closed, and the doped villagers are not good for any surprises, either. The peak of activity of village life seems to be shortly before sunset, when the workers return from the fields, briefly bid their farewells, and disappear into their homes.

The smoke from the chimneys rises through the shafts of light of the evening sun. The smell of cooking makes my mouth water.

A cool wind comes from the valley. Turning my back to the houses, I walk towards the river in search of a place to spend the night.

I find a hideaway in a ruin close to the riverbank, about a quarter of an hour's walk from the village.

Later, when preparing a cold and paltry dinner, I realize that I have nearly run out of provisions. Digging through my pack, I find a few dried fruits and my last piece of dried meat.

I don't dare light a fire. Slowly, the cold starts to seep its way into my clothes. The air is heavy with water, the ground damp from the river close by.

I grab a piece of wood lying on the ground beside me, probably some useless fragment of former furniture, and swat it against a wall. The rod splinters.

What kind of hell is this? After all these months in the ruins, we have finally found people. But what are they? A load of junkies living in shabby huts, and a bunch of pale, military rockworms hiding in a bunker. And the rockworms have bludgeoned Steve and dragged him and Jenny into their hole. Like stone age cave dwellers, or some gollum'ish fiends in their Moria.

Yes, I had a dispute with Steve and Jenny, but they do not deserve this.

I have to do something.

I could kidnap one of the villagers. They seem easy prey, slow as they are. I could then trade him for Steve and Jenny. But I doubt that a kidnapped village junkie would leave a lasting impression with the rockworms, with the general and his pals. I remember the obvious contempt in his face when he talked to the villagers.

Or I could join forces with the villagers and lead them into a revolution against the guys from the bunker.

Leona and her army of dopeheads fighting the military zombies of the mountain caves.

Sounds so hopeless.

The cold wakes me before dawn. This suits me well.

I make my way back to the village. When I reach the clearing, I study the houses in the predawn light. Everything seems quiet.

I don't think there were any dogs around, yesterday, at least I didn't see any. I leave the safety of the forest and sneak towards the houses.

Yesterday, I saw a structure that piqued my interest, some sort of outbuilding, basically a mound of earth with a door in it. When I reach its entrance, I test the door and find it, to my great relief, unlocked. Entering the dark interior, my nose confirms what I have suspected. It must be a storage house. I cannot quite place the rich smells that the air carries, but they are promising and make my mouth water. My hands reach out to find a crate filled with objects that have the distinct shape of apples. A few steps further in, I find some leathery, longish things that my nose and tongue classify as jerky. Quickly, I start filling my backpack with whatever I find in the dark.

Then I leave the storage house and approach the closest building. In the pale light, I see a spear standing against the wall. How convenient, this is just what I need after having dumped my own into the river, during my balance act yesterday.

On a bench beside it, there is a stack of furs. Thanks again, I whisper quietly, loading them onto my arms.

Heavily laden with booty, I make my way back into the forest. Then I turn towards the river, towards my hiding place.

Whatever quarrels were between Steven, Jenny and myself, I will not abandon them here.