A Savage Life

I didn’t care. I just pushed them over and bolted out the door. I ran out onto an airway and carjacked a guy riding a motorcycle. I didn’t stop till the motorcycle ran out of gas and then I knew that I was in trouble. It was nighttime and I had no idea where I was. And if the people of this time had been experimenting with animals, who knows what laid in the shadows. I kept walking, ignoring the fear in my gut, till I found a small underpass underneath a dying tree and I rested there and thought out a plan in my head, even doodling it out into the small patch of clay in front of me.

I knew that it’d probably be less than a day before the cops were on my trail for carjacking a guy and escaping some sort of scientific facility, so it was probably in my best interest to remain anonymous. Second of all, I don’t know anything about the wild fruit of this place, so I don’t know what’s edible and what will drop me after I complete my snack from nature. Third, I need supplies and a gun. I’m on the run and I need food, water, a frying pan, can opener, and a tent and blanket to survive. Maybe not in comfort, but it might pull me through the night. Which means I should probably hit the market and steal a book bag and some supplies (I have no money, and I don’t know what the currency is) without being seen, which sounds impossible given to the technology I’ve seen so far.

But first, I might want to ask someone where I am and get to know who’s on my side or not, if anyone at all. But who can I trust? It’s not like I have much of a choice, and I doubt this post-apocalyptic scene is gonna contain merry, rosy-faced cherub impersonators holding hands and dancing to songs that never quite leave your head, but who, and how?

In Alaska, generally, you could trust your neighbors, and maybe those darned wolves that tried to steal your chickens and eat your garbage. Not many people are two-faced, but then again, not many of them were desperate for survival either, like it’s going to be like here. Desperate to eat. Desperate to breathe. Desperate to betray me because likely, the people in that scientific facility had money, and from my experience, money makes people crazy and stupid, so I’ll be on my best guard and never let it down. Or so I thought.

And thus I soon found myself walking on and on through the spooky darkness of this accursed wasteland with its haunting sounds that kept my adrenaline on a treadmill the whole time, until I finally saw the life-giving, sigh-of-relief lights of a town.

The town looked very rundown, and you didn’t have to stand in it to tell. The entrance to the town looked like it could fall at any second, the walls gave me splinters just looking at them, and there was no sign attached to this nameless town. Regardless I didn’t wait around for a parade to carry me there like some king; instead, I made a desperate dash towards the exterior walls of the town and slowed my pace from there.

As I walked through the splintery, creaky, almost-tipped-on-top-of-me, somewhat archy entrance, I saw shacks as big as a large garbage truck that looked like a slight breeze could destroy them, the lawns and roadways were only a thicket of potholes and dirt, and the only real buildings were the motel and a market that looked like a Walmart that was burned down by an angry riot of dissatisfied customers.

People as pale as vampires peeled out of their houses to watch me walk down the road. Some had a scowl, some sympathetic, others just stared blankly. I’ve never felt comfortable with eyes on me, but their eyes only made me walk stiffer, my composure threatening to leave me as my adrenaline played jump rope with my heart. Quickly, I scanned around and found a place to escape their eyes. I walked to the musty motel, some four miles across town, and stepped upon the creaky, hole-filled steps that was my red carpet to the worn, nearly broke-in door crawling with some Katydid/Mantis hybrid that made my skin crawl as I knocked on the door. I heard a man’s voice call me, and are, once again, blinded by lights as I stepped inside.

“Can I help you sir?” asked the male voice again. As soon as the lights stop blinding me, I got a good look at the man. He had dark hair, with a dark mustache and pale blue eyes, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, and have ever had put me on edge, and his clothing looked like he’d just popped out of a haute couture magazine of the 1940s.

“Where am I?” I asked him warily.

The man responded concurringly, his smile dropping only a little, “You are at the Desperado and Fox Inne.”

“No, I mean, what is this whole place?” I pressed.

“You’re not from around here are you?” asked the man with a raised brow.

“No I am not.” I sighed impatiently.

“Welcome to the Outskirts, a land where survival skills are necessary,” said the man as if he’d just won the lottery. “Currently, you are in the town of Ferris. I’ll offer you a room for free tonight, but every other night you must pay an approximation of $150.00. Tomorrow, if you are looking for transportation or citizenship of Ferris, talk to Mayor Candell.”

This was helpful, but Ferris reminds me of Farris, my youngest son. He was always an eccentric young boy. I miss him so much, as well as my other children. And Lana. My sweet, sweet Lana.

I soon found myself being led upstairs to my room with the man blabbering on about his weird obsession with Mayor Candell and his daughter, and about eating pasta at midnight in the shower and a lot of other weird things that made no sense, and how big he smiles, which struck a nerve because I thought of this even more, and I said this out loud too (As an intentional accident), “Is everybody here in a smiling contest of some sort that I don’t know about?”

The man turned around with a grim smile and replied, “Oh sir, I did not mean to adhere to your alarm. It is protocol of all business personnel, and not citizens, to have “Service with a Smile” according to the 560th amendment to the Rewritten Constitution.” Well, at least he was honest about it. “Rewritten Constitution?” I asked slowly. And immediately I could tell by the man’s face that he was beginning to pick up on the fact that I was somewhere I didn’t belong. Not good.

“What colonized planet are you from,” he asked.

I looked at him in disbelief and sputtered, “What?”

If any questioned had ever weirded me out, that was the answer.

He peered at me closely, as if trying to make something click in his mind, never once dropping the smile, never once unfurrowing his eyebrows. He sighed and gave me a list of races, “Are you the Derzzal from Jupiter. The Ice-Monds from Saturn, or the Taslites from Pluto, or are you from one of the human colonies?”

“Let’s just say I’m one of those nomadic wanderers.” I answer, and immediately the guy backs off the alien thing and gives me the most curious look ever. Not one of studying, just of curiosity. I felt compelled to tell him that it’s not best to make friends with me, but withdrew from the idea. He eventually explains deeper about why he smiles and the way things work around here, which lead into a history lesson about The Constitution.

Apparently the Declaration of Independence and Bill of Rights were on purposely destroyed because George Washington and John Adams had no idea what they were talking about and newer, more perfect amendments had to be made. So they made them while ostracizing our forefathers who built this country and writing down random responsibilities like smiling at people in the creepiest manner possible and that hairdressers are assaulting their clients if they pull on their hair, or taking into literal account that customer’s never lie, and haggling is illegal because you are trying to steal from the wise, or my personal favorite: “Anyone attempting or pertaining to illicit any criminal behavior must bear a smile whilst doing so. Failure to comply is an automatic death sentence.”

So when I rob a guy on a subway, I better darn well look like the Joker or else pay the consequences.

“One last thing, may I have your name?” I asked. I don’t know why I asked, it’s just that I felt that I needed to know for no particular reason I can even think of. Even I myself am shocked that I even asked such a thing. I’ve never been known to be the sociable type.

“Sabine Ducklan.” the man answered. I shook his hand and he opened the door with a bent in key that looked ages beyond ancient. I stepped into my room and closed the door, a bit stunned at what I saw:

My room was basically a yellow, moldy toilet and an old, holey mattress crawling with dust and a thing, see-through, moth-ridden blanket with an old, beat-up crate as a nightstand. The room was collaborated in dirt, and the only light there was was a small lamp that sat in a lonely corner, surrounded by spider webs for company. It wasn’t much, but it was somewhere to rest. I just hoped Sabine wouldn’t give me away, doing his, “Service with a Smile” Rewritten Constitution thing.

In the morning, I had to thank the man, as he did, after all give me a place to stay, even if he might be a traitor. And that thought made me wonder why I even closed the door. Sabine didn’t lock the door immediately as I was free to come and go as I pleased. Then again, he might be waiting for me to go to sleep so that way he can shut the door and lock me in there until the authorities come. And it was this suspicion that caused me to explore for any easy way out of my room if I had too. There was none. There was no window, or wobbly brick piece, or dirt under the bed, so it was basically just an old cement cell block.

I paced a little; thinking of what I would do tomorrow and what to do tonight should something happen while I was asleep. Nothing came into my tired mind. A little rest will do, so I gave myself a little relief and went to bed. Then I don’t know what came over me, but as I laid onto the bed, I fell unconscious with thoughts of my family dancing in my head. I wanted home, and I would find a way, oh I would. Then I realized that these thoughts were a cold comfort. And then they turned nightmarish.