Bad Seed

Dust everywhere. It raced around Amos, a whirlwind of coarse brown flour. Each breath was a burden. The dust filled his lungs, and the thick fabric protecting his mouth and nostrils did little to shield him from the worst of the storm.

He could barely see the horse and wagon beside him. He wiped the powder from his goggles with a dirty knuckle and caught a glimpse of the mountain road, an elusive strip of tar stretching upwards. A moment later brown once more coated the wide plastic lenses.

His old mare, Pippa, baulked as a strong gust buffeted her side. She danced away from him, taking the wagon with her, and he heaved on the lead to draw her back. He pulled her big caramel head closer and rubbed her muscled shoulder in reassurance. He needed the mare calm. Without her unwavering sense of direction Amos was lost, more likely to walk off the side of the mountain than make it to the top.

The path steepened on the final part of the winding ascent. Pippa scrambled and strained up the last stretch, pulling the heavy wagon behind her. Amos urged the horse on, shouting encouragement even though the roaring wind snatched his words the moment they left his mouth.

They crested the saddle and gravity’s drag eased. Amos increased their pace as they followed the ridge. The wind changed direction, almost between breaths. The dust dissolved before Amos’ eyes and the ferocious squall, which had dogged them for days and battered their ears, faded.

Blessed calm.

He whooped in relief, uncaring that it was a thin, wheezing sound. “You beauty! We did it.”

Amos tugged the scarf from his face and lifted his goggles to rest on the leather cap covering his tufty grey hair. He brushed the fine powder from his beard and tried to cough up the dirt on his lungs. He spat wads of gunk onto the cracked bitumen at his feet.

“Sweet light, I’m tired,” he told Pippa.

Amos took out his canister and used the last of the water to wash the taste from his mouth and the grit from his eyes. The crossing had taken its toll on his body. He felt every one of his fifty or so years.

“I’m too old for this.”

The mare shook her mane and sent a fresh cloud of dust into the air.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said, stroking behind her ear. “So are you.”

Amos loosened his hold on the lead and lifted his stinging eyes to the valley before him. This evening, he had a view unobstructed by haze or smoke. Tall gums spread like a crinkled blanket, coating the jagged ring of mountains and the lowlands in a canopy of dull green strokes. Deeper into the basin, the trees disappeared and the terrain levelled into neglected farmland. Old decaying homesteads dotted these denuded flats. A tight cluster of buildings formed an abandoned town. In the distance there was a hill. It stood alone, a defiant peak on the dry grass plains.

“Enjoy the view, Pippa,” he said. “You’re looking at the closest thing to paradise in this broken world.”

The valley—even drought stricken, even burnt out from bushfires and violent storms—was an oasis in an endless sea of sand and shattered cities. Its remote location kept it safe from roamers and gangs and if distance didn’t work, the barren Dustlands over the ridge were enough to keep all but the hardiest explorers away.

Amos sought the ridgeline on the opposite side of the valley. Storm-worn peaks cut ragged lines along the brown horizon. These mountains were the furthest thing from paradise, but the closest thing he had to a home. While those on the surface established vulnerable villages and towns, his people lived underground, tending to secret settlements within interconnecting cave systems. Once the right conditions prevailed, this tiny kernel of civilisation would bloom.

Of course, not everyone was equal in this underground society. Some lived in dank canyons, while others dwelt in luxurious light wells. That was just the way it was, and would always be, until the Chaos released its hold on the world, and a worthier generation left the darkness to begin again.

Amos might not be one of those worthy people anymore, but that didn’t mean he would settle for living at the bottom either. He was going to drag his niece and himself from the darkness into the light, one piece of junk at a time.

“Come on, Pippa.” He set the mare to walking on the crumbling mountain path. “Come, come.”

The groaning wagon swayed side to side, its bright-coloured panels and carefully painted images hidden beneath a thick layer of dust. The wheels strained under the weight of the junk within. If they made it to the bottom without a broken axle or wheel it would be a miracle.

The dust-filled sky changed from pale yellow to bright orange. The colour told him night would soon claim the valley. The air crackled with electricity, the first sign a dry storm was on its way. He wanted to go faster, but the steep angle of descent made his bones creak worse than his journey up the other side.

They turned a corner and reached the halfway point, a rusted red station wagon with its nose buried under several tonnes of collapsed rock. Amos slowed the mare down.

“Alright, Pippa. Take it nice and steady.”

The car’s awkward position forced his wagon closer to the edge. His gaze fixed on the sheer drop and the valley leaped up at him. Amos swayed with vertigo. Pippa picked up on his anxiety and missed her step. The wagon jolted and skidded to one side. Black tar pebbles scattered and tumbled over the cliff. The wagon leaned.

“Whoa! Easy,” Amos said.

Pippa struggled to keep the weight behind her under control.

“Easy, girl. I’ve got you.”

Amos guided her back from the brink and finally admitted the wagon was too heavy. More than a week ago, he’d junked an old school in the Dustlands over the ridge, its exterior half hidden beneath a shifting sand dune. He’d scavenged everything he could: books and fabrics, science equipment and old machines.

The extra junk had slowed their journey to a crawl, but he’d convinced himself the additional time spent on the surface would be worth it. He’d imagined his niece, Elsa, and how her eyes would light up when she saw the treasures within. He’d also thought of the profit they’d make and, more importantly, how they could spend it. Now, watching Pippa scramble in clumsy, panicked steps, he knew he’d made a mistake. Greed had overridden his common sense.

“I’m sorry, girl,” he said, once the wagon was safe again.

She nickered, accusing him of carelessness, and tossed her head. Amos slid his arm under her caramel cheeks and stroked the soft white stripe on her forehead.

“We’re too close to give up now. Get us down the mountain and I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”

He ran his calloused hand down her neck, over and over, until she settled.

“That’s my beautiful girl. One step after another. There’s no need to rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”

Pippa breathed out hard, a sweet puff of air that smelt of grassy meadows and sounded like disbelief.

“Sure we do,” he told her. “The storm will hit well after we make it to the village. We’ll even have a chance to do a bit of business, you’ll see.”

He got her walking again and Pippa, loyal and sweet, went without any more complaint. Her trust humbled him.

“We’re almost there,” he told her. “Just a few more bends and we’ll be at the bottom. We’ll find a place to lay our heads for the night and a nice hot meal.

The steep slope softened on the final leg of the mountain path. They descended below the tree line. Tall trunks enclosed him like a hundred long white fingers. The trees thickened. Branches overlapped creating patches of dark shadow.

Amos directed Pippa down a gloomy trail. The wagon’s heavy metal wheels flattened the yellow grass growing over the path. Woody scrub scratched the dust-streaked side panels and branches slapped his face and snagged on Pippa’s legs.

She sighed and he ran his hand along her back. Sweat lathered, frothy and white, beneath the carry bag and along her flanks.

“We’ll be at the village in no time,” Amos soothed. “See, we’re already at the trail.”

Pippa lifted her drooping head and her ears twitched.

“You recognise this place, don’t you?” His own excitement built. “We’re close. Dulwa is just through those trees. Maiya Walker will be there. She’s a mean woman, but she makes a satisfying pie, if you don’t ask questions about the filling. And Warrain, he’s good with a hammer. We’ll do a fair trade. I’ll sharpen his farm tools, then he’ll have a look at that shoe that’s been bothering you. We’ll find a nice place to wait out this storm and I’ll give you the best rub-down you’ve ever had.”

They moved along the uneven trail. The surroundings changed from white gums to tight bundles of ironwood. Their slender branches and long wispy leaves draped along the path. Up ahead, a watchtower sat wedged in the fork of one of these solid trees. The squat tin-shed reminded Amos of his old childhood playhouse, with its rope ladder, two square windows and narrow-lipped veranda.

“Hello, Hello!”

Amos slowed his approach.

“It’s Amos Jefferson,” he said. “Uwan, are you up there?”

He stretched onto his tiptoes to see into the lookout and caught a flicker in the shadows.

“Tirri Bonner, is that you, kid? Shame on you playing jokes on an old man.”

He strained his neck and listened for a muffled giggle or whispered word. A leafy branch scratched back and forth along the tin roof. In the distance thunder rumbled.

Uneasy, Amos clicked his tongue and guided Pippa around the watchtower. The woods turned to field and again he halted the wagon. Pippa nickered.

“I know, girl, I don’t like this either.”

The people of Dulwa village were a private, surly group, but they were hard workers. Whenever Amos passed through this settlement, he found them toiling in their fields, fixing their houses or doing whatever else was needed to survive in this harsh, hot environment.

He scanned the vacant paddock and fought off the heavy sensation in his stomach. A wheelbarrow sat to one side of the road, half-filled with rotting onions. There were shovels and hoes left discarded among limp stalks and dried out weed piles. The village’s few animals—scraggy goats and mournful cows—had vanished from their carefully maintained pens.

Amos moved his hand to the carry bag slung across Pippa’s back and felt for the familiar shape stored there. He scanned the fields and the tree line behind him, then he squinted at the houses across the stream ahead, peering past the ironwoods dotting the banks.

Only the flies moved. They rose from the dry grass to take advantage of Amos’ stillness. Pippa’s tail swished at the ones hovering around her rump and dislodged those clustered around her eyes with a quick shake of her head. More flies settled on Amos’ sweat-damp neck and crept to the corners of his mouth. He blew them away.

“Argh, let’s go,” he said, his hand waving before his face. “Better death by raiders than these blasted insects.”

He ventured towards the bridge and crossed. Pippa’s iron shoes made a loud thud on the wooden planks. His wagon followed with a rumble, just skimming the edges of the narrow passage.

Houses lined the empty street before him, single story buildings that had been patched and re-patched so many times they looked like one of his socks. Amos scanned the corrugated iron rooftops for at least one smoking chimney. He watched the hessian sacking covering the windows and doors, alert for the smallest movement.

Warrain’s workshop sat a few houses down. The double doors were open. His hearth, anvil and tools were visible from the street, but nothing seemed to be missing or out of place. In fact, Amos could find no evidence to suggest an attack on the village—no signs of struggle, no bodies or damaged property—rather, it seemed the villagers had just up and left.

“I don’t understand it,” Amos said to Pippa. “They’ve stuck it out for so long. Why would they abandon Dulwa now?”

Amos peered down the road. A hundred yards further, it widened to circle an old park at the heart of village. Dry grass and prickles carpeted the ground beneath a metal swing set and a brick barbeque. The villagers had even dug a well. He could see it now from his place at the bridge, a tin bucket balanced on its stone rim.

“Come on, my beauty,” Amos said. “You’ve earned a drink and a rest. We’ll figure out this mystery after.”

He clicked her on, but Pippa pulled up sharp. The rope jerked through his hand, so the fibres burned his palm.

“Whoa.”

He tugged her head down and searched for the source of her fright. Amos found it over his shoulder.

A boy balanced on the edge of the bridge, his bare toes curling over the side. The skinny child had a mop of unruly black hair and wore loose shorts and a grimy t-shirt. Stripes and swirls in dried mud patterned his pale face and highlighted his strange grey eyes.

Amos hunted through his mind for a name, but nothing came to him. He didn’t remember this child from the village, though it was hard to tell who he belonged to with the thick muck distorting his features.

“Hello there,” Amos said. “Everything alright?”

The boy straightened from his crouch.

“What happened here?” Amos asked. “Are you alone?”

A young dark-haired woman unfolded herself from the shadows of an ironwood tree and padded across the bridge. Amos judged her to be around eighteen, maybe older. She wore patched brown pants and a singlet in grey, and her bare arms, chest and neck displayed the same mud patterns as the boy. She reached the boy’s side and placed a protective hand on his shoulder.

“Is this your older sister?” Amos asked.

When he got no response, he ducked his head to seem small and unthreatening. He addressed the young woman, “No need to worry. I’ve a niece about your age. I’m not here to hurt you.”

Amos had hoped to reassure them both, so the girl’s smirk surprised him.

“I know,” she said and gestured to the street ahead.

Amos pivoted. A young man had snuck up behind him and now blocked the road. He wore rolled-up pants that slung low on his hips even with the addition of an old woven belt. One hand rested on the knife hilt peeking from the crude leather sheath at his side. Amos could see this youth was tall and healthy, with a lean muscular body showing nothing of the deprivation common to those of his generation. Muddy swirls and crosshatches also marked his bare chest and streaked his short blonde hair.

“You’re not welcome here,” the young man said.

Amos bristled. He may not have been in his twenties anymore, but he wasn’t an easy target. These kids didn’t scare him with their war paint and knives.

Pippa didn’t share his self-assuredness. Her ears folded back and she shuffled sideways. Amos stroked his hand from her head to her shoulder. He left his palm there, resting on the trembling muscle.

“What happened to the villagers?” Amos asked.

“Your friends are gone,” the young man said. “You should worry about yourself now.”

“I’m not seeking trouble.”

The young man studied him with cool, blue eyes. “You’re still not welcome here.”

His confident tone irritated Amos. In fact, the whole situation scratched his temper. This past decade he’d had a cautious truce with the people of Dulwa. He wouldn’t have gone so far as to say he liked them or trusted them, but he’d appreciated them. They’d never asked him nosy questions about his origins, and he’d never upset their daily routine. Their disappearance destroyed that balance and forced him to waste time negotiating with this tiny band of scavengers.

“You really think three children can hold this village? I’ll give you a few days before someone stronger comes to take it from you.”

The young man smiled, revealing straight, white teeth. “We’ll hold it,” he said. “And not just the village, we’ll take the valley too. This is our land now.”

Amos pulled a revolver from his saddlebag, the restored weapon loaded with homemade ammunition.

“See, I have a problem with that.” Amos showed him the gun. “I’m a fair man. I may not like that things have changed here, but I can work with it. I’ll let you claim the village, but that’s it. You can’t have the valley, ‘cause you can’t possibly hold the valley. And since you can’t hold it, you’re just going to have to share.”

The young man was as calm as Amos was striving to be. He cocked his head to one side. “You’re not from the village?”

“No. I’m just passing through.”

The young man straightened. “Passing through to where, exactly?”

Amos snorted. “I need the valley to go where I need to go, the rest is none of your business.”

“Are you willing to sacrifice your life over a trail?”

Amos laughed. “I don’t think I’ll be sacrificing anything today. Gun beats knife. Understand?” Amos thumbed behind him. “Now, ask your girlfriend and the boy to come over to this side of the road where I can see them.”

The young man stared at Amos, defiant.

“Show me some smarts, son. Do as I say.”

The young man called to the others. “You heard him, Ysolde, Finn. Come on over.”

Amos kept his revolver on the young man, since he seemed the most likely to do something stupid. He heard the others moving around his wagon and felt Pippa’s nervous twitch beneath his hand as they approached.

“I understand what you’re trying to do, son, I do,” Amos said. “You’ve got to take the opportunities as they come, but I’m not an opportunity. One day, you’re going to meet a man who’s not as fair as I am and someone’s going to get hurt.”

“Is that so?”

Amos nodded. “Find yourselves a populated settlement, that’s my advice. I’m sure a healthy youngest like yourself would have skills to offer. You’ve got the girl and the boy to think about. This is a rough and dangerous world, and they need protection. You three shouldn’t be out here alone.”

Blue eyes narrowed on Amos. “Three, huh?”

The young man whistled and three became a dozen. The others emerged from the surrounding houses and dropped from the ironwoods along the stream. They moved with unnatural grace for ones so young, and watched him with cold, predator eyes. Each youth carried a weapon—a bow, a knife or a sharpened stick. They formed a loose ring around his cart. The blue-eyed youth smiled as he pulled the knife from his belt. His grip was steady. His blade well-maintained.

“Nuts,” Amos said.

Too late, he realised his mistake. This wasn’t some harmless rabble of scavengers taking advantage of an abandoned town. These kids were organised.

The dark-haired girl from the bridge stepped in front of him. Amos noticed her stare was harder and meaner than the rest. She focused on him and blinked slowly. When she opened her eyes again the grey irises glowed. Amos felt his insides turn to water.

“You’re right to be afraid,” she said.

Her hand was around his neck in the next moment. She jerked Amos off his feet, choking him, and held him high above her. He forgot his revolver in his panic. It fell to the ground, a useless piece of metal.

Amos kicked at the space between them. He tore at the young woman’s fingers and scratched at her arm. She tightened her hold on his throat in response, until black dots appeared before his eyes.

His last thought was of Elsa and how she was waiting for him.

The brown world faded.