Bones of the Land (prologue) (Patreon)

Prologue.

1982, Northern California, in the hills not far from Susanville, a year and a half after the Big One.

The dry landscape surrounding the cracked road stretched into an endless row of hills shaded gray and brown. Ash from the wildfires was at this point indistinguishable from ash formed by the eruption until you got it in your eyes. John adjusted his goggles, then dug his fingertips under the edge of the mask to scratch his irritated skin. Though the wind wasn't bad today, digging through wreckage always stirred up the bad stuff.

"Make sure your mask is on tightly, kid." Bernard gave John a clap on his shoulder that raised a cloud of dust. "Your lungs' gotta last you a long time."

"I know. It just itches." Like everyone else, John wore layers of cloth over the M95 to make it last longer. It also helped keep it on when driving. These days, a motorcycle was the best way to get around the frequent cracks and rockfalls. He might only be fifteen, but he was tall enough to handle one easily. Nobody cared if he hadn't got a license, it wasn't like the highway patrol had remained behind when everybody fled to safety.

"If you weren't so proud of that scruff you call a beard, it'd fit better." Stanley had pulled off his helmet, optional in the way that masks were not, but he'd always been the cautious one. "Where's Pablo? I'm getting worried."

"Think he's coming back." Bernard pointed at the approaching cloud of dust, the lone motorcycle carefully making its way downhill. "What are the odds that he's found something?"

"Pretty good," John said, trying to focus. "He's going fast; he's excited."

"Or running from something," Stanley muttered as the bike sped closer, but he made no attempt to reach for his gun. The blasted landscape was open enough that any pursuers should already have come into view.

They weren't alone here, but it had been weeks since the last time they encountered hostile locals. Still, they had decided on larger scouting parties for now. One or two people could be picked off; four was a force most people did not want to mess with. The tattoos and painted designs on their jackets and bikes helped. Looking like you were ready for violence meant that you didn't have to use it as often.

John made sure his shotgun was loaded all the same.

"Hey, I found something!" Pablo screeched to a halt, tires slipping in the ash. "Just up the road. Worth the gas to get there."

"Gonna hold you to that. We're running lower than I'd like." Bernard started up his bike, shaking his head at the sound of the engine. "Going to have to take this baby apart tonight from the sound."

"Five cars and a van." Pablo gestured up the road. "Untouched from the look. Gas in at least one of the tanks. Might be able to get some parts as well."

"Anything else in there?" Stanley pushed the visor down, hesitation shrugged off for now.

"Just smelled for gas," Pablo shrugged, "didn't give it a thorough search. Wanted some backup first."

"Any bodies?" John recognized the voice as his own though he hadn't planned to voice his misgivings out loud.

"You've seen bodies before, kid." Bernard's face wasn't visible under the goggles and wraps, but John could hear the smile in his voice.

"Doesn't mean I want to see more," he admitted with an embarrassed shrug. 

It had been worse in the immediate aftermath, back when the bodies had been fresh and recognizable as people. Now they were skeletons and dried-out husks; even the fresh ones were marked by living in this desolate landscape. John could hardly remember how things used to be. It felt unreal, like a dream he had woken up from and desperately tried to recall. It couldn't have been real, could it? Days of warm sunshine and soft skin, of white smiles and football practice? 

There was nothing soft about him now; you didn't last long here if you were. The days of unending California sun were long gone. These days it remained hidden behind unending clouds, the chill in the air unlike anything he remembered from before the eruption. But the biggest difference was the lack of people. No more throngs of shoppers, clogged highways, and voices screaming together in the audience. He wasn't sure how many people remained on the west coast these days. He wasn't even sure if he counted himself among them.

Some days he hardly felt human. You were supposed to have hopes and dreams and ambitions, and right now, his only ambition was to find enough food and water to get him through tomorrow. This was no life. What if he really had died? What if his body was just too stubborn to stop moving, like when he crawled from the wreckage of the bus?

Maybe he hadn't survived. Maybe he had just not realized he could stop yet.

The road removed those doubts like it always did. With the bike underneath him, John felt like he was going somewhere. Progress. Change. Even with much of the vegetation dead or burned, the bones of the landscape provided interest. A corpse could be beautiful in its own way as long as you didn't see the memories of the human that once occupied it. It was the same with the scenery. As long as he forgot about firs and grass, he could appreciate the stark beauty of his surroundings, the reddish soil exposed where the ash had been blown away, as beautiful as rust on sheet metal.

Flowers of a different sort.

Pablo had been right, as he usually was. Around the bend were a group of cars trapped by a landslide. There might have been more vehicles originally, but if so, they had been washed into the shallow ravine below and covered by the unforgiving mudflow that followed.

They parked their bikes, heading over to the cars. The van lay on its side. One of the cars had been smashed by a boulder, and the others looked like they had been trying to back away from the scene before the road behind became blocked by another slide. It was only thanks to their bikes that they had been able to edge around the rockfall.

"How long have they been there, you think?" Stanley carefully approached the edge of the ravine, making sure the ground wouldn't collapse under them. That happened more often than John wanted to think about, the roads were treacherous and undermined, and the hills filled with material that only required a rainstorm to turn into vast, all-devouring mudflows.

"Months?" Pablo suggested, struggling to pull open one of the dented doors. "A year? Hard to say. Maybe they've been here since the Big One."

"Most likely." Stanley headed back towards the car. "I doubt this road has been traversable by cars since the quake."

"Traversable?" Jake frowned. It sounded familiar in the way big words sometimes did.

"Being able to drive on, kid." Bernard had grabbed a crowbar and was prying the van open with Pablo's help. "That's why we've got the bikes."

"Thought that was because they were easier to fix?" It wasn't that he was stupid, John knew he had more thoughts than that were technically good for him, but he never even got to start high school before his world fell apart. And football had always been more fun than books.

"That too," Barnard grunted, muscles straining as he fought the doors. "Fucking ash. Gets in everything."

"I'll start siphoning the gas," Stanley said, getting the empty cans. "Check the engines, John. There might be something we can use."

"Sure." John carefully approached the cars, but there was no sign of bodies. The drivers had probably survived; other than the crushed car, the vehicles weren't badly damaged. Maybe they had tried to walk out of here. Maybe they had even made it. If the road had been blocked during the initial quake, they would have had time. If it had happened closer to the eruption, probably not. That's when things started to get really bad.

He didn't remember much. That was what he told himself. He'd been away over the weekend with the rest of the team when the quake had struck. An unfamiliar motel room, being jolted awake in the dead of night with drywall raining down on him. He had escaped outside in his jammies and spent the rest of the night in the bus with the others, watching distant fires spring up around them. It had felt like a nightmare, but the real one came the next day when the coach had told them they couldn't go back to Eureka.

That the town was gone. 

John hadn't understood it at the time, how the ocean could destroy a whole city, but that didn't stop him from imagining it. The water creeping ashore in the darkness, swallowing people and houses. His house. His parents. It still didn't feel real. He had not even got to finish all his Halloween candy.

Maybe that had made the eruption easier to accept. Another nightmare of soot and ash, in the bus, on the way to one of the shelters. Black rain. Skidding tires. The world turned upside down, 'round, 'round, lights and flashes, and he crawled through a broken window and didn't listen to the screams. He had to get home. He had to find his house. His parents. His candy. 

Instead, he had found Bernard's truck and spent the next few days coughing with eyes as swollen from ash as from tears. They had been together since.

"Hey!" Pablo's voice yanked John back to the present, and he blinked furiously behind his goggles until the stinging stopped.

"What?" Shouting back was a relief, his cracked voice no different than normal.

"I've found something! Cargo!"

"Cargo?" Bernard abandoned the trunk he had been working on. "Anything good?"

"I dunno. Help me drag the boxes out." Pablo coughed; whether it was cigarettes or ash, his lungs didn't work right. Few things did anymore.

It didn't take them long to unload the boxes between the four of them, several large ones filled with what looked like lab equipment. The fragile objects had been broken in the crash; they hadn't been stowed well. To John, it looked like the boxes had been packed in a hurry. Maybe whoever had been driving the van had been trying to evacuate. The final box was small, metal instead of wood, and this one was still intact.

"Huh." Stanley leaned down, pulling up a binder that he started to leaf through.

"This looks weird." Pablo picked up one of the plastic cases, revealing a row of glass ampules. "Survived the crash, though."

"So what is it?" Bernard looked down into the box. More cases stacked on each other, encased in packing foam. "You getting anything from the paperwork, Stan?"

"I've never seen anything like this." Pablo held up one of the ampules against the overcast sky. The liquid was a pale yellowish color and slightly opaque. "It looks like piss. You think it's drugs?"

"Doesn't look like any I've ever seen." Bernard held out his hand, and Pablo handed over his price. "Though I'll admit I'm no expert."

"Guys. Guys." Stanley's voice had gone hard, demanding obedience. "Step away from that. Right now."

"What?" Bernard put down the ampule and stepped back. John did the same. "Is it toxic?"

"You might say that." Stanley waved Pablo back as well before approaching cautiously. "Were any of them cracked?"

"I don't think so." Pablo wiped his fingers on his pants. "What is it?"

"I might be wrong, but I think this might be the Hero drug."

"What? Like that superpower shit? For real?" Pablo laughed, which led to a violent cough.

"Looks like a government contractor van." Bernard kicked the side of it. "Could track. Was probably doing secret experiments somewhere. Maybe they were coming from Area 51. The 395 is not far from here. Before things went to hell, you could get to Reno real easy, and then it's just south."

"It's a regular black van," Pablo groaned, "and if you wanted to check on aliens, you'd go from Vegas. Not from up here."

"I don't think I'm wrong, though." Stanley ignored their bickering and picked up the lid of the container. Numbers were stamped on the inside. "It looks like the hero drug. The shipping manifest matches the label."

"Who the hell would put documentation in an illegal drug shipment? You'd go to jail for that." Bernard shook his head.

"Someone who's not concerned about getting caught," Stanley said with a sigh.

"White people then," Pablo chuckled.

"The government?" John suggested cautiously.

"Or the military," Bernard said, unable to decide between his two favorite enemies. 

"Should we grab it?" John couldn't read the mood. Was it valuable or dangerous? Maybe both.

"Of course." Bernard gave Stanley a hard look before he could protest. "But hurry up and finish searching this place. We have got to get back before the wind picks up. I don't like the look of those clouds."

---

Back at the garage, the wind had picked up, rattling the windows. It was their latest base, but the pickings had turned leaned so they would have to move on before long. John would miss the place. It was the first time since the quake he had felt safe falling asleep. Solidly built, on high ground, all they had to fear was the wind or other people.

"Not a bad haul." Jude went through the collected parts; they had been added to what the others had been able to find. In total, the group counted eleven people, all men, all with various reasons to remain behind instead of attempting to evacuate.

"Have to think about moving on, though." Bernard was grunting over his bike, cleaning filters and checking for more damage. The abrasive ash destroyed engines fast if you didn't keep on top of things. "Pickings are getting slimmer, and we were lucky that the latest hiccup didn't blast any ash our way."

"If we want to keep heading south, we need to get closer to the shore if we want to avoid being coughed on." Pablo had lit up a cigarette, narrow face worn by the day's exertions. "The big bastard is between us and Mexico."

"I don't understand why you don't want to go to San Francisco." César was their latest addition, picked up two months ago on the side of the road. "I heard they have camps there for evacuees."

"I heard those closed months ago." 

"If they even existed, the whole coastline sunk the way I heard it." Jude rolled his eyes, and John looked away and tried not to think of Eureka.

"None of us know shit." Pablo took another drag. "We just have to accept that."

"But they said on the radio..." César protested.

"I'm not going back to jail," Jude snapped. "Or  get stuck in a refugee internment camp working for food and board."

"That's just rumors." But César sounded unsure. These days all they had were rumors.

"Is it?" Bernard looked up from his work. "You think they're not gonna use free labor when they've got it? How many got evacuated from here? How many died? You think they're gonna get a cozy housing unit in New York and not get stuck on a southern plantation somewhere raising crops they can't afford to eat?"

"You know they wouldn't..."

"Do I? You know the kind of shit the government gets up to." It was not a new argument. By now, nobody was contradicting Bernard on the subject. Those that did, didn't last long.

"Guys," Pablo interrupted, still nursing his cigarette. "I think we should take it."

"What?" Bernard snapped. "You were as dead set as we on remaining here?"

"I meant the hero drug." He gestured to the small box on the floor, resealed and innocent. They had explained what was in it when they returned, and it was almost a relief that someone finally brought up the elephant in the room.

"Oh." Bernard looked at it as if he only just remembered. That was a lie; John had seen him look. Just like everyone else.

"No way," Stanley protested. "You know what that shit does to people."

"Gives them superpowers." Pablo shrugged, smoke drifting through his nostrils.

"The ones they don't kill! You know how dangerous the boosts are. I can't let you kill yourself."

"You really believe that bullshit?" Pablo got off his chair, dropping the stub on the ground, grinding it out with a habitual motion of his boot. "Next, you'll tell me you believe that weed is the devil's lettuce and will turn you into a drug fiend."

"You know I don't, but..." Stanley gestured helplessly because, at this point, other people were paying attention, moving closer.

"But what? You really think that this shit kills nearly everyone that takes it just 'cause the government tells you so? You don't think that shit's in any way suspicious?"

"He's got a point." Bernard wiped his hands on a rag. "It ain't like they want us to have superpowers any more than machine guns. Just because someone shot the fucking president."

"But..." Stanley sounded like he was close to begging.

"And so what if it kills us?" Jude joined Pablo's side, and John could see others nod in agreement. "We're gambling with our lives every day. It ain't like there's some paradise even if we make it to the Mexican border. We'd be a bunch of refugees. We'd have no rights. At least here, we're in control."

"You're not wrong," Bernard agreed, picking up the mood of the room. "Is it really that lethal, Stan?"

"I... don't know for sure," Stanley admitted. "But if there's anybody in this room that knows anything about drugs, it's me, and I'm telling you I don't feel comfortable with taking the chance."

"You don't know anything about drugs," Jude groaned. "You worked at a Walgreens, for fuck's sake."

"I'm a licensed pharmacist, and if it wasn't for me, you would have lost your fucking arm months ago," Stanley snapped.

"Stop. Both of you." Bernard stood up. He didn't have to raise his voice for the others to recognize his authority. "Nobody is forcing anybody to do anything, and that goes both ways. That's how we've done things so far. That's what freedom means."

"Are you actually entertaining this idiotic idea?" 

"I am. They've got a point." Bernard gestured to the room. Everyone was listening intently. "We're circling the drain here, we can only get so far by looting, and every time the big bastard belches, everything gets buried deeper. We've been lucky we've not been caught in it so far, but if he goes big, we're toast. We need to get out of here. We need an edge."

"I'm not arguing that." Stanley took a step closer, lowering his voice. "And I know it's slow going, but you know the ash makes a mess of the bikes. We can't push too hard, or they're toast. We need filters. We need oil. We need masks. Pablo is coughing up blood as it is. We don't need unproven drugs to make everything worse."

"You don't have to take them," Bernard assured. "You just have to show us how."

"By injection, I think. But I'm not sure if it's intramuscular or intravenous..."

"Take a guess."

"I don't know! And I don't know the dose. Just because it's an ampule doesn't mean that's the intended dose. It might be packaged that way for transport. Even if it's not as lethal as rumored, you can overdose."

"That ain't no different from not knowing how pure your shit is," Jude added helpfully. "Just start small. Nothing happens, we'll up the dose until we feel the kick."

"I suppose that makes sense. Maybe subcutaneous, then? I've helped with enough insulin injections in my day. That'd give a nice slow uptake. Should help smooth things out."

"Better get your kit ready." Bernard gave Stanley a clap on the shoulder.

"We're doing it tonight?" César sounded scared but excited.

"I don't trust some people with waiting."

"What?" Jude took a step away from the box he had approached. "I'm curious?"

"I know you. Don't want you to sneak up in the middle of the night and chug the whole box.  Or steal it. What we don't use now is valuable as hell. That could pay our way once we get to Mexico."

"Don't worry. I'll behave. I'll even wash my arm." That brought a laugh from the others.

"For the record, I am against this. I still think it's too risky." But Stanley had caved; even John could tell that. "Selling it is one thing, but..."

"If we're wrong, we'd get shot for selling bad shit. If it works, we're the best advertisement. And this is probably army shit, for super soldiers or some shit like that."

"It is fine if you don't take it. We need someone sober to keep an eye on things. Same goes for the kid." Bernard gave John a look.

"Hey, I want to be a hero too!" The wave of indignation was surprisingly strong, and John could feel himself take a step forward. He had never challenged Bernard's authority before, but he had thought he was one of the guys. 

"If this works, maybe." Bernard stepped close, placing a hand on John's shoulder. They were the same height, but John fell dwarfed all the same. "Sorry, kid, it's for your own safety."

"I'm glad we agree there, at least." Stanley's voice was hard, but he had retrieved his bag. "Wish you'd have that consideration for your own life."

"We're all adults. Everyone here is responsible for their own safety. Nobody else can make that decision for us."

"I'm pretty much an adult," John muttered, but at this point, nobody was listening. Instead, they had started unpacking the box. There were five cases in it, with twenty ampules in each. Plenty for everyone. Except for him.

"Settle for the maybe," Pablo whispered, breath smelling of smoke and excitement. "That's all you're gonna get for now. You know how the booze discussion went."

"Yeah, and I won that one in the end." John wasn't sure it had been worth it, the whiskey had tasted terrible, but it meant he was one of the guys. This was different. This was superpowers.

"So be patient and find better arguments. Until then, make sure the doors are secure and keep an eye out, alright?" Pablo winked. "Since I'll be busy."

"Nobody left here but us," John grumbled, but he knew a lost argument by now. "But fine. I'll check the back. Just don't use it all." 

"I'll keep an eye on Jude," he promised with a laugh. "Now get going."

---

There had been nothing out back, just like John knew there wouldn't. The wind was strong tonight; no survivor would poke their head out until it died down. It felt good to be behind solid, concrete walls. No creaking wood. No cracked plaster. He hadn't trusted buildings since the quake, and the many aftershocks were a constant reminder. They had been staying in a diner early on to keep out of the rain, and the ash collected on the flat roof became heavy enough to bring it down on them. Only luck that nobody got seriously injured. 

Had they overstayed their welcome? John felt like the land itself was telling them to get the hell out, and still, they didn't listen. Bernard had saved his life, but he had also led them away from the ongoing evacuation efforts. Couldn't trust the government. Couldn't trust the military. Everything was their plan, the quake might have been a subterranean atomic bomb, and the eruption certainly was man-made to create... create what? John had never understood that. It felt like a waste. Who would willingly destroy the world?

Who wouldn't want to try to help rebuild it?

John hadn't protested at the time, but he felt uneasy about many things they had done. People they had taken stuff from. People that didn't fit their gang. Sheep, not wolves. Did they survive without their water? Their gas? He bit his lip and rolled over on the other side. Around him, the rest of the guys slept heavily, each in their own little secure corner. If there had been an effect from the injection, it hadn't been immediate. John could hear a quiet moan, but that was just César. He always had bad dreams.

He shifted again, unable to fall asleep. At the other end of the room, he could see a faint glow, was someone using their flashlight to read? That was stupid. Batteries were a limited resource like Stanley always reminded them. Or was someone changing? Turning luminescent? Getting superpowers? Unlike him.

Pulling off his blanket, John quietly crawled over towards Bernard. He was sleeping deeply, like the dead. No movement but the faintest twitching of his hand, caught in dreams he would never admit to. Next to him rested the box. John held his breath as he opened the lid, reaching down to remove an ampule. A groan escaped Bernard's lips, a low, horrible sound, and John froze, certain the man would wake up. One second, two, and then the twitching stopped, and Bernard seemed to sink in on himself, back to sleep. John quickly scurried back before he was noticed.

The ampule felt fragile in his hand as he got to his feet, heading for the back door. A glint of eyes shining in the dark caught him, wide and scared, and John whispered, "Just going for a piss," and escaped before he could be questioned. 

What was he doing? He looked down at the ampule. The light through the dirty window was faint, the moon was full, but the clouds obscured everything. If he hadn't been used to the darkness, he wouldn't have been able to see anything, but the ampule almost seemed to glow with a faint light. Maybe he imagined things. Maybe he was dreaming.

The top cracked easily, as if it was made for breaking, made for his hand. It didn't smell much, a vaguely chemical odor, sharp and tickling his nose. Back in the main room, someone had started to cough and wouldn't stop. Shit. Pablo, most likely. If he had woken up, he might notice John was gone once he stopped coughing.

But he didn't. He kept going. It sounded bad. Wet. John almost moved to return, but the ampule was cracked open in his hand, and he couldn't just throw it away. So instead, he chugged it. Like the whiskey, it tasted bad, but this was the sweetness of flat soda gone rancid, with an undertone of turpentine and rotting meat that made him gag and... no. That wasn't the empty ampule. The stench came from the main room. Someone had started to scream, wet, bubbly, memories of corpses they had come across rose at the back of John's mind. Walking corpses, Bernard had called them, people who had breathed too much ash and were drowning in their own fluids.

Oh, Pablo, John muttered to himself, making his way back. The darkness wasn't as heavy. The glow that had been mild when he left was bright now, a sickly green emanating from a convulsing body on the floor. Someone was screaming in a corner, a shrill, desperate sound as what looked like long, sharp needles erupted through his skin from the inside. Pablo lay in a pool of blood and pus, his body cracking with each breath. Was it... growing? Swelling? 

"Bernard!" Stanley's shout tore John from his dreamlike fascination. He was trying to rouse their leader, shaking the body on the ground, but it was stiff and unresponsive. Not limp like a dead body, but hard, as if Bernard had been switched with a lifelike statue of himself.

John swallowed. The unfamiliar sweetness bubbled in his stomach like curdled candy. His skin was itching, and he scratched his arm absentmindedly as around him, the room descended into hell. They were all dead, weren't they? The screams were as familiar as nightmares, the smell of torn skin and fresh blood and offal. You weren't supposed to smell people's insides, and if you did, you were supposed to forget you ever had.

Forget. He had forgotten how it felt to crawl over someone broken, to hear their screams as he got tangled in their body. He should have helped. He could have helped.

But he didn't. He had crawled and ran and fled, and now he watched someone being turned inside out as the smell of burning flesh drifted through the room. 

Helpless. Stanley was screaming at Bernard, then at John. At him. Screaming. Like everyone else. The light was intensifying, and he could feel the heat on his skin. See the skull through Stanley's face as he stared at him.

Oh. That wasn't good. They should go.

Decision made, John turned to run, Stanley coming to the same conclusion a second later.

A second is a long time.

It took them five to reach the door. Another six to run aimlessly into the ash, and then the ground heaved beneath their feet, and John felt himself falling.

Falling into the dark and the dirt.

Away from the screams.