Ben (Excerpt)

Chapter 1

Everyone was either dead or dying.

Though it was a fundamental truth about life, that fact took on a new meaning for Ben. For the 60-something-year-old, everyone he had known and loved was indeed dead. Those that remained faced an impending and early death. The War had taken much, and its greed for human life had not yet been satiated.

A dog barked excitedly nearby, dragging Ben back to reality. Not everyone he loved was dead, he reminded himself. At his feet - wagging her tail excitedly - was Day. The Shepherd-Husky mix had brought him a stick.

Ben wondered if he had thrown the stick in the first place. Where was he anyways? A quick glance around reminded him. He was north of the border in woody forest land. Golden rays of sunlight pierced the sparse canopy, lighting the area in warm shades of red, brown, and green. The undergrowth had already begun to shrivel and die, another consequence of the War. At least it made the terrain passable.

Day whimpered at Ben’s feet, nudging the large stick she had brought him. Panting, she made eye contact with her master. Ben smiled despite himself, the dog looked like she was grinning. To be an animal, where your greatest cares were a stick and your stomach.

Ben picked up the stick and threw it far into the dried brush. Day took off in a blur of beige and black after her makeshift toy.

Shaking his head, Ben wondered who had given the dog such a stupid name. Day was no name for an animal. Who had even adopted this dog, he never wanted a pet. Where were Day’s owners?

Barking. Ben blinked, Day was at his feet barking and whimpering. A nearby branch, gnawed and damaged, looked somehow familiar. The sun was setting, casting long shadows throughout the dying forest.

What had happened? Ben shook his head. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

“Sorry girl,” he said, rubbing Day between the ears.

His furry friend gave a last whimper and licked his hand. She was hungry.

“Sorry,” Ben said again, unsure where the dwindling afternoon hours had gone. “We’ll sleep here.”

Setting down his heavy hiking pack, Ben went about preparing camp for the night. His first chore was to feed Day. A can of military rations emptied into a rough wooden bowl provided his companion with supper.

Ben thought about his own dinner, but his stomach felt rock hard. He had no appetite to satisfy this evening.

Instead he rolled out two foam pads, one each for him and Day, then set about starting a fire. His lighter had run out of fluid weeks ago, so he made due with some finely shaved wood and a sharp piece of flint. Ben’s calloused fingers were covered in scabbed cuts from his early experiments in the field of primitive fire making, but by now he had gotten the knack of it and soon had flames roaring and sparking into the now-dark night sky.

Exhausted and full, Day bedded down for the night on her foam mat beside Ben. She was soon asleep, and the middle-aged man was left alone with his thoughts.

Questions rose to his mind, the same questions that plagued him every night. How long had he been alone? Who had he lost? The answers strangely eluded him.

One thing was sure: Ben was dying. He felt it in the pit of his stomach, in his gaunt, lean frame, and creaking, weak bones. He had the same sickness that was claiming those that survived the War. A sickness manifested even in the vegetation that surrounded him.

The world was dying, Ben along with it.

What had killed the planet? Fallout from the use of a potent organism dubbed H8-3L - Hael - was the scientific answer. But Ben knew better. Earth had been killed by an ancient plague of a far more insidious nature.

Greed.

Those of opposing ideologies had greedily wanted the planet for themselves, and so humanity had stubbornly and willingly marched into the furnace of total war as they had so many times before. Only this time no one would survive to do it again.

Sure, the war was over. But the earth was poisoned. She had rejected her children, finally through with their petty squabbles.

“They didn’t deserve to die,” Ben said, surprising himself.

Suddenly, the memories came. His wife, his daughter, the ruins of Seattle. The images filled Ben with an overwhelming sorrow, but he did not weep. No, tears no longer flowed from his eyes. They hadn’t for many years now.

The ghosts of Ben’s past lingered in his mind for a few more minutes. His wife, still beautiful into her middle-age, was teaching their daughter how to play the piano, while Day slept beneath them. The memory was so vivid, as if Ben could reach out and touch his wife’s long black hair, or hug his teenage daughter who looked so much like her mother it made his heart ache. They were playing a classical piece, Claire de Lune. The notes were haunting in their beauty, the piece always reminded Ben of dreams and their fleeting moments of hope. In the memory, his daughter made an error as the song climaxed, and the two girls laughed, turning to Ben to share the moment. He opened his mouth to tell them that he loved them.

And just like that, the memory flitted away.

Ben was alone, in the dark. Embers glowed in front of him where there had once been a fire. Day snored gently beside him as he tried again to remember what he had lost, but it was like grasping at clouds far above him. The memories were simply gone, and Ben was once again a man alone with his dog in a dying forest.

***

Dawn came too soon. But Ben obliged its prying rays by waking and stretching. His every joint ached, which was supposedly normal at this age - one thing he could not blame on the War.

Day grudgingly got up when Ben moved to roll up her mat. She groaned and yawned, flexing her legs before trotting off into the bush to relieve herself.

Ben clicked his tongue at the dog once he finished packing the small camp, and the two of them set off for the day’s journey. A quick glance at a salvaged compass confirmed their heading, north by northwest. Thankfully Ben could still remember their destination: a refugee camp east of the ruins of Vancouver. There they would resupply and head for the coast. After that, who knew what lay in store for them. Maybe they would find their way to the islands, if they lived that long of course.

The morning was bitterly cold, though the sun shone brightly through a clear blue sky. Ben retrieved a toque and fingerless gloves from his pack, cinching his jacket closed while they hiked. Day watched him curiously, her fur an obvious advantage to her human master’s clothing.

Ben grunted ruefully and ruffled the dog’s head. Neither companion broke their stride, crunching through brown and burnt-orange leaves and dead growth.

The forest was eerily quiet. Ben could vaguely remember a time when walks through natural settings were accompanied by a cacophony of animal and insect sounds. But insects had been the first creatures to fall victim to the fallout, causing the natural food chain to fall apart in short order. Whatever animals that still survived were themselves poisoned and dying.

Ben wondered how much time humanity had left. Babies were still being born, they had seen many at outposts and enclaves scattered along their journey. No doubt the human lifespan would grow shorter and shorter until the species ceased to exist. Maybe a generation or two until the end, Ben estimated. Those that lived through the War probably wouldn’t survive long enough to find out.

How long had it been since the fighting stopped? Trying to remember frustrated Ben, and so he stopped. His mind was still sharp enough to realize his memory loss was not a good sign. The sickness was encroaching on mental pathways that made Ben who he was, throwing everything he had known into doubt. The only thing certain was that his time left was measured in months and weeks.

Day paid no mind to her master’s sour musings. With a burst of energy she dashed playfully through the rust-coloured undergrowth, weaving this way and that ahead of Ben. She seemed happy and healthy, the old man thought while watching the dog amuse herself. How old was Day? Ben couldn’t quite remember, he knew the War ended years ago, and his family had been killed…

No, we are not going there. Not this time.

Ben whistled and Day instantly quit her frolicking and rushed to her master’s side. She looked quizzically up at her master as they continued to trek through the dying forest, but Ben was not in the mood to explain why play time was over. It sickened him that he was so knotted up inside he couldn’t even stomach another living thing enjoying their life, but it was what it was for now. He would make it up to Day later.

As late afternoon bled into evening time, Ben and Day arrived at their destination: Zone 17 North Refugee Camp. A high chain link fence topped with razor wire separated the old man and his dog from the encampment and so they made their way around the southern boundary towards its main gates. Beyond the chainlink, curious and at times frightened faces peered out at Ben and Day from among the green tarp tents that made up the refugee camp. Ben glared back at them. He must have cut an intimidating figure at over six feet tall. His unkempt greying beard and weathered face, complete with heavy brows made him appear downright feral. It didn’t help that his olive green jacket and navy cargo pants were so worn, stained and torn he may as well have been wearing a collection of rags.

Before long, soldiers were shadowing Ben’s movements from the other side of the fence. They kept their automatic rifles pointed away from him, but the threat of violence was clear nonetheless.

By the time Ben and Day reached the camp’s gate, a sizable entourage of armed men waited to greet them.

“This how you greet guests?” Ben grumbled as two of the soldiers approached and patted him down.

He made sure to keep his arms high and away from his sides, wary of the weapons pointed at him from the gate. Day growled at a female soldier as she moved in to check the dog. Ben clicked his tongue at his companion and she quieted.

“Clear,” one of the soldier’s growled once the pat-down was completed. Ben moved towards the gate, but the soldier put a hand on his chest to stop him. “Next time just use the main road, old man. No need to scare the ‘gees by prowling around in the forest.”

“If I was prowling you wouldn’t have seen me,” Ben replied.

He could see his reflection in the soldier’s wraparound sunglasses. The trooper was dressed in camel-coloured camouflage, suggesting experience in one of the War’s desert theatres. But this man wasn’t old enough to have seen any fighting, was he?

“What’s got you guys spooked?” Ben asked.

“Bandits. Now move along.”

“You seen combat, kid? Nevada?”

Ben could see the soldier’s incredulity even through his opaque sunglasses.

“How old you think I am? I inherited these regs from someone who fought and died in your war old man. They don’t make new uniforms anymore on account of the mess you people made. No move along.”

The soldier motioned with his gun and Ben knew the time for conversation was over. But not before he had glimpsed another memory. The battle for Nevada, his mind had dug that one up from somewhere. The details were a little fuzzy in his mind. He remembered sand. And glass. Had he fought there? No, he wasn’t an ex-soldier. So what was the significance?

They are still there.

Who? No, they couldn’t be.

“Did you hear me, you old coot? Get a move on!”

“Mind your manners kid,” Ben said, snapping to. Where had his mind gone just then?

Brushing past the soldier who had spoken, Ben entered the Zone 7 North camp through a set of high chain link gates and an array of chipped concrete barriers. Soldiers dressed in ratty greens, browns, and blacks watched him as he passed, no doubt hoping for some violence to break up the drudgery of guard duty.

They should count themselves lucky.

Ben grunted in agreement. Their lives would be short, but mercifully free of the horrors of war. There was no one left to fight.

The camp itself was much like others, full of worn, nondescript military tents for housing, and larger open air tents for the mercantile presence that accompanied every human settlement. The residential tents were wide and spacious, but not quite tall enough to stand erect in. Worse, they never seemed to dry completely, even on the hottest days. Life in an Alliance refugee tent was damp, cramped and smelled of mold. The merchant and official tents on the other hand were little more than giant tarps kept aloft by rusting metal poles. They all sagged in the centre and leaked when it rained.

Camps like Zone 7 North were virtually all that remained of human civilization. Conventional cities had either been wiped out or rendered uninhabitable by the war. Many of the towns and villages that had been spared were abandoned soon after as the Hael poisoning spread quickly behind the cessation of fighting. Places like the one Ben found himself in, dying as it was, were still faring better than where the fighting had been fiercest.

Pitted gravel paths broke up the massive sprawl of tents making up the camp. Ben took the largest path in the centre, it would lead him to the person he came here to see.

The camp was strangely quiet as Ben and Day crunched along the treacherous path. These places were generally overcrowded and choked with children. If there was one thing Ben knew about kids, it was that they would not normally sit quietly in their tents. They should be out playing, fighting, and screaming for no reason. A few children poked their heads out of their tents to stare at the old man and his dog as they passed by. But none came out to investigate, those who weren’t immediately yanked back into their abodes by unseen parents and guardians. Something was up. Something more than just the occasional bandit crew.

“Ben!”

A voice jerked Ben’s attention away from the misery of the tents.

“My goodness you look horrible,” a soldier roughly Ben’s own age and dressed in black said as he trotted down the path toward the man and dog.

It’s him.

“And you haven’t changed,” Ben croaked, grasping the man’s hand and pulling him in for a hug.

Kill him.

What? No, Ben thought, I am not going to kill the man who is just about the only friend I have left on this dying rock.

“It’s been too long, Roger.”

“You’re telling me!” Roger said. “Last I saw you, you and Day were all the way south at Zone 2 East.”

“Bonnie Town,” Ben said, remembering the sad collection of tents in the desert.

“Yeah, yeah,” Roger said, looking down as he thought of Bonnie Town.

Though he was the same age as Ben, time and sickness had not done him the same disservice. He was still quite handsome, with a sharp jaw that matched his quick blue eyes and slicked back silver hair.

“You know it’s gone, hey Ben?”

“What, Bonnie Town? How?”

“Buried. Sand storms off the Glass Sea. Never seen anything like it.”

Ben shook his head. Why did the Glass Sea sound so familiar?

You know why.

“No I don’t,” Ben muttered.

“Don’t what?” Roger asked, his eyes becoming concerned. He was ruffling Day’s fur between her ears, but the dog was staring intently at her master.

“Sorry,” Ben replied quickly. “I didn’t know about Bonnie Town. What do you call this godforsaken clutch of tents anyways?”

Roger’s eyes grew deeper with concern, “Ben, you been here to Vanish Point before.”

“Oh yeah, these places all start to blend together,” Ben brushed off his friend’s concerns. Had he really visited this camp before? If so, he didn’t remember the inhabitants looking so forlorn.

“Yeah, yeah I get that,” Roger said, clasping his old friend on the shoulder. “Besides, we’ve grown quite a bit since you were last here a few years back. Got over 50,000 ‘gees stuffed into this little slice of heaven. You believe that?”

Ben took another look around. Fifty thousand refugees, where were they all?

“No I don’t. Barely seen any of them.”

Roger nodded knowingly, “A shy bunch. Bandits got the ‘gees cowering.” The old soldier paused thoughtfully before continuing. “Come on, old friend. Let’s get you some rations and find out why you decide to grace VP with your presence.”

Roger turned and made for a large central tent, beckoning Ben and Day to follow. The dog wagged her tail and whined, eyes on her master awaiting his approval. Ben nodded and Day took off at a sprint to catch up with Roger.

Ben sighed. Something was amiss here. But it wasn’t his problem. He was here for one thing only. After that, he and Day could ride off into the sunset and the rest of the world could go dark for all he cared.

He trotted off after Roger and Day, his thoughts once again intruded upon by a part of his mind he did not understand.

Leave. Just like you left them.