Ruins in the Desert

I do a lot of thinking when I'm traveling. Then again, I do a lot of traveling, so I guess you could say I just do a lot of thinking.

Thinking is really all I can do. There's nothing out here in the desert; nothing I've seen, at least. Sure, there are probably ruins and ancient strongholds deep in the dunes, maybe even little trinkets half-buried in the sand, but you just don't see all that when you're walking in the desert heat. You just see the dunes, and when the entire world is just one big desert, you start to stop expecting something new over every crested hill.

I've been told the world hasn't always been this way. They say that there was a Fall, eons ago. They say that things actually used to be pretty good, that there were oceans, forests, gleaming cities. I find it hard to believe. When you spend your entire life living in desert, only sand and rock, the only hint of something else existing solely in your imagination, you begin to think that there was always desert. When you can only see the spindle forests, the vapor farms, the fortresses built in empty husks and hollowed-out mountains, it's really hard to imagine that there could have been anything else.

Could we really have screwed up enough to turn our entire world into this? Sometimes I don't think so, that humanity couldn't really be that cold, but then I remember the things people have done to another simply to survive, the things I've done just to see another sunrise.

But I know that there was something that came before. I just came from a village formed in an old fallout shelter, buried deep underground. I stayed in the ruins of some kind of building only a few days ago, ravaged by the sands and the passage of time, still holding some old relics of the past. I walked the halls of the place, its original purpose long-forgotten, and through the sounds of my footsteps and the lonely moan of the desert wind, I could almost hear the murmurs and shuffling of long-forgotten people, back when this place was still alive.

As I strode through the ruins I began to think of what had happened to it. What it had seen, in all the years it stood silently watching over the sands, a lonely reminder of an ancient people. Was it really important enough to have had to endure these countless years? Or was it simply just some twist of fate that allowed it to survive until I came? I wanted to know the story of this place, and yet I knew I never could. All I could add to its history was a night or two of rest, silently moving through its corridors and letting my imagination run wild, like I have done so many times before, as it had seen so many others do before me.

I guess you could say that this is why I keep traveling. I live for places like this; I immerse myself in them, losing my sense of the present as I try to learn whatever I can about the past. By thinking about why these buildings are still here, I wonder why I'm even here to see them in this state. If there had really been an End, why were there still survivors? If everything was always like this, who had come before to build this lonely place in the endless dunes? Smarter people than me have said that we can look to the past to understand ourselves, why we are, who we are. As I wander through these ruins, I know exactly what they mean.

Maybe I'm just looking to define myself here. Maybe that's all anyone ever wants to do: understand and define themselves. They just go about it in different ways. Exploring these places is really all I can do with my life. Nothing else could ever seem to compare.

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Another Rachel Aensland story. I read an article about the appeal of post-apocalyptica, and got inspired to write about why my favorite wasteland-wandering gunslinger is wandering in the first place. I imagine this takes place while she's still traveling to Dahn.

Dahn

I walked an unmade path to the town of Dahn, two full weeks from anything else. Dahn could hardly be called a town. It was a gathering of cracked clay huts, numbering less than ten, surrounding a structure made of wood and nails. I wondered where they brought that in from; there couldn't have been trees this far out in the Sea of Dust.

It was no surprise to me, however, that this wooden building, the best-constructed in Dahn, was the bar.

The townspeople, few that there were, greeted me with curious indecision and heavy guardedness. They stared at the tough leather duster that hung over a tawny leather vest and a worn white shirt. Their gaze lowered to the holstered revolver that lay at my left hip, over black hide pants. Their eyes were caught by the reflective gleam of the bandolier strap I wore over my chest, also serving to keep my backpack securely fastened.

Perhaps what most astonished them was that I was a woman. Apparently they hadn't seen any female wanderers lately.

Ignoring the stares, I made my way to the saloon, black boots stirring up dust on the ground, more than whatever breeze that could reach this town. The bar couldn't have looked more generic, but was welcoming enough. A faded crimson sign hang over the main entrance, declaring in a yellowing script that this was indeed the saloon. Echoes of slow piano music drifted out on the lonely air, voicing how desolate and alone this town was in its subtle harmonies.

My right hand reached out and pushed one of the swing doors open, the groan alerting the few people inside that someone new had come to town. Card games stopped and the music slowed to a halt as these simple townspeople debated in their minds whether or not I was about to disrupt their afternoon. I spared them no glance as I walked over to the bar and sat, the wooden stool creaking from my lean build. The bartender eyes me suspiciously as he asked, "What'll it be?"

"Whiskey," I stated. I didn't really like the taste of alcohol, but one has to keep up appearance with this sort of thing. I didn't think this guy had any tea in stock, either.

The bartender, balding and slightly plump, nodded once and got the drink ready. There wasn't much of a selection on the back wall; mostly half-finished bottles arranged in no particular order. I crossed my arms on the counter and leaned forward, looking out the window until I sensed something come up on my right. I glanced over to see a younger man, barely over 18, with curious but hard brown eyes darting over my figure. His clothes showed that he was a man not unaccustomed to hard work.

"Howdy," he said, trying to be casual. Hard sun-baked hands wrung in his lap. Despite his attempts at seeming cool and collected, we both knew that me being here was just about the most interesting thing he had seen in months.

I responded by glaring back with azure eyes. The bartender returned with my glass. I broke eye contact as I brought the smoky glass up and tasted the cool alcohol. It, like all others of its ilk, took an effort to down without gagging. Ice clinked as I set the glass down on the bar again.

"Lady of few words, ain't ya?" The kid started again.

I decided to humor him. Not like I wasn't doing anything else. "Yeah."

"What's yer name? I'm Kale."

"Rachel," I replied, downing more whiskey.

"Where didja come from...Rachel?" His voice ran over my name as if it would bite if he said it incorrectly.

"Dustshore. East of here."

"Never heard of it," he began, before his face suddenly turned to realization. "You crossed the Sea by yourself? How didja do that?"

"I walked," I said, taking another sip of the terrible whiskey. I noticed that I was rather hungry, having only eaten dried jerky and whatever small game I hunted and cooked on the walk. I set the glass down as I asked, "Bartender, what do you have in the way of food here?"

"We've got salted beef and dried fruit. Depends on what you're willing to trade for."

I reached into a belt pouch and pulled out a thin silver coin. Tossing it onto the bar, I asked, "How's that?"

The bartender didn't even give it a glance. "What do you think we'll be doing with that?"

"Caravans still come out here, don't they?"

"We ain't seen a trader here in almost two years, girl. They've just about forgotten about us."

"The Alliance..." I started.

",,,hasn't done shit out here. Nearest Alliance settlement is three weeks by horseback. They don't care 'bout us, this deep in the Dust Sea. That silver ain't going to buy you anything, sweetheart. Now, if you were offerin' your...charms...."

I adjusted my wide-brimmed hat, a lock of long black hair gliding to my shoulder. I remained silent as I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a tiny bundle of thickly-wrapped leather. I unbound it on the bar table, revealing five small, obsidian seeds.

"Rockfruit seeds. They come from far to the northeast, and can grow anywhere. Give them a little water every few weeks and you've got enough food to feed everyone in this town."

The bartender picked one of the seeds up, examining it. Kale looked on in astonishment. "...Looks like you got yourself dinner, little wanderer, maybe even a room for the night," the former said, "I would even offer you one of the whores, if'in you, ah, would enjoy that."

"The meal and the room will be enough, thank ya," I replied, flatly.

The older man dropped the seed onto the others. "But, ah, if these aren't...fertile..." he started.

"They are," I glared back.

"But if they aren't..."

"...I won't be leaving this town alive."

"Smart one you are, girl. I'll get your meal ready," the bartender finished. He moved to the far side of the bar and called for the piano player to get "something" ready for me. The musician - an old, wispy man - slid off the piano bench in an exaggerated motion and crossed into a back room.

Kale continued staring at me. "What is it now?" I asked.

"You, uh, you've been a lot of places, ain't ya?"

"Yeah," I replied, taking another swig of the half-forgotten whiskey.

"Where are you going now? Can't've come all the way out here to see this shithole!"

"No one's been to the far side of the Sea of Dust."

"Of course not! It's just endless dunes past here, nothing but sand and dirt!"

"Has to be something out there."

"But...why would there be?"

"Because the world doesn't just end, Kale. There's something out there, because there's always something out there."

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This stars Rachel Aensland, probably one of my favorite self-created characters. She's a post-apocalyptic/Western gunslinger in the fine tradition of characters played by Clint Eastwood, because I am actually surprisingly not that well versed in Westerns. This is probably the first part of a longer series of stories starring Rachel. One of these days, I might write a sort of self-introduction, to show you where she came from.