Chapter 3 Zahra

Zahra searches for a home.

An insipid gray landscape stretches around me as far as the eye can see.

The only break in the lifeless view comes where the sky kisses the earth in the distance, dove meeting steel, broken only by a muted fiery orb. A protest. The sun’s fury at being choked out by dust and smoke for months on end.

Not that it mattered.

My journey toward the coast began weeks ago, a search for safety, acceptance, maybe a life even? Somewhere I don’t have to worry about the essentials humans need to survive. I don’t want possessions, mind you. Material things don’t satisfy the almost feral need to eat or drink that sometimes overwhelms me, as it does most of the people I’ve met out here. The gray wasteland, one layer of gray atop the other.

How many synonyms exist for the shade? I don’t have a dictionary, and my mind is fuzzy with hunger and thirst, so there is no way for me to determine the answer. Not that it matters. It won’t change the ever present slathering of ash on a canvas so wide and tall the human mind finds it impossible to fathom.

Gray. Dove. Silvery. Heather. Iron. Lead. Oyster. Pearly. Slate.

I recite the words in my head. It’s a game I play sometimes, something to entertain a mind consumed by a form of roadway hypnosis. Except, this malady is strictly wasteland related. Born of weeks of lifeless, parched earth. Dry grass. Scorched trees lifting soot-covered limbs skyward begging the heavens for a drop of rain.

At least the trees bear an alternate hue—a dingy sootiness—evidence of the inferno that had ravaged most forests a few years ago. Wildfires followed the drought that began the year of my twelfth birthday, and now, at the age of twenty, I can see the devastation firsthand when my frame of reference evolved from travelers’ lore.

Reality is much worse.

“Come on, Boy.” I whistle to the shaggy mutt who claimed me days ago when we met at an abandoned convenience store.

Dog or Boy were the best names I could manage in a pinch since he answered to both, so it didn’t really matter what I called him. The shaggy brindle mutt with soft brown eyes and a penchant for roasted rabbit wormed his way into my heart the moment I met him. We make an odd pair–two lonely souls bonded through simple shared acts of compassion, searching for somewhere with only hopes and dreams to guide them. My offering was a few scratches behind his ears and a kind word. He gave me a constant supply of rabbits and silent, steadfast love as only animals can.

Now a dozen yards away, my friend pauses, head turning toward me, tilting as he studies me. His tail wags in that lazy circular way that says we’re friends. And thankfully so.

Dog’s presence adds a badly needed sense of security to my life. Whereas before my head was constantly swiveling to search for signs of danger, food, and water, now I find it easier to let my guard down, let my companion assume the watcher role for a time. It is a privilege few are afforded.

Instead of returning as expected, he trots off into the distance, his form merging into the haze as he undoubtedly searches for game.

“Dammit, Dog!” I shout in the direction he disappeared. “You could have warned me.”

It isn’t that I need the animal with me at all times. I’m more than capable of hiding if raiders or other undesirables appear on the horizon. Something about Dog’s calm presence soothes the frazzled nerves that come to life whenever I see skeletal human remains, trashed encampments, or burned out automobiles. Raiders mean only bad things. They pillage and rape and murder. Then there are those dealing in the flesh trade.

Maybe I’m too fond of the heart that beats fiercely. The thing buried in my chest that reminds me to survive somehow.

Dust stings my eyes. I knuckle it away, refusing to admit any weakness, turning back to the track leading west.

Dog appears in front of me, tail wagging frantically, hesitating. He thinks I’m upset. His soft whine clearly communicates his message. Am I forgiven?

“We’re okay.” Slapping my leg while offering encouragement has his tail wagging feverishly.

A scruffy rabbit clutched in his mouth, he ambles closer then drops the carcass at my feet.

“Good Boy!” I murmur, kneeling to scratch behind his ears. “Let’s have some dinner.”

It doesn’t take long to build a fire. My survival skills have improved drastically since this trek began.

The scent of roasted rabbit teases our nostrils while it cooks on a spit over the fire. Dog watches with interest, tongue lolling out, resting by my side on the cold, hard ground. Once the rabbit is done, I rip a piece off and toss it to him.

“Here you go, Boy.” Distrusting as always with food, he retrieves the food, moving some distance away.

We eat in silence. I approach the hot meat cautiously, carefully cooling it off with a few puffs of air while Dog wolfs the sustenance down, demonstrating a survival instinct those who have experienced starvation develop. An impulse I struggle to control.

“Traitor,” I murmur with a frown. “You know I won’t take yours.”

A wary stare communicates his thoughts.

We all have demons to fight. Even Dog.

It feels good to rest my road-weary body for a bit. Camping just off the track isn’t ideal but it will do for the night. I’ve just settled on the worn sleeping bag by the fire when the faint sound of bells tinkling in time with the muffled rumble of an engine has me bolting to my feet.

Two pallid beams of light from a beat up bus illuminate the camp.

The engine wheezes and coughs as it shuts down, shattering the peace and quiet.

Dog joins me without hesitation, his barely moving tail held high, ears laid back as he surveys the bus. A growl rumbles in his chest, teeth bared in warning—it’s us against the wasteland and whatever it might throw at us. My fingers curl around the handle of the knife strapped to my belt. Better to be prepared than not. The small blade is the only weapon I have but it will have to do.

A man steps off the bus with both hands raised in the air. “I have no weapons,” he says, turning in a circle to show me none are hidden behind his back. “It’s just me, the wife, and a few of our grandchildren. Two girls, one boy. All under ten. Worst they’ll do is talk your ears off.”

“Pull your shirt up and turn in a circle. I want to see that there are no weapons.”

He chuckles at my moxy. “Can’t be too careful these days, can you?”

“Stop talking,” I growl. “Do as I say or climb back on that bus and keep driving.”

“You’re a spitfire. I’ll give you that much,” the man says. He pulls his shirt up, turning in a circle. He stops, pulling up his pants legs, and repeating the process. “Do I need to turn my pockets inside out?”

“I appreciate your due diligence, sir.” I fight back a smile. “My knife is the only one I use for skinning rabbits. I’d hate to taint it with your blood.”

The man chuckles, pulling his pockets inside out for good measure. “There now,” he offers. “I’ve done everything you ask. And I have zero desire to get stuck with your knife. Can we join you?” He bobs his head toward the fire. “That looks mighty inviting. Cold gets in my bones which makes these old joints hurt worse.”

An arched brow joins my poker face. “What kept you from building fires along the way?”

He chuckles, lowering his hands and shrugging. “Name’s Thomas. My only axe broke awhile back. That hatchet there looks more than capable.” His head tips in the direction of the item hanging from a strap on my pack. “Sorry for rambling on but you’re the first person we’ve seen in days. The missus will enjoy having another lady to talk to.”

Losing a hatchet, or even worse, the knife, would be a crippling blow to my journey.

Heat is essential since nighttime temperatures hover near freezing at night.

“Not looking for any company.” My voice is hard, laced with a warning he should take. One I hope my traveling companion will support.

Instead, Dog walks over to him, sniffing his feet and legs before giving a little yip of excitement and bounding up the bus steps. A few squeals and peals of childish laughter ring out seconds later. Dog’s friendly growls meld perfectly with the delightful melody.

My heart softens.

I’ll trust in my four-legged friend’s judge of character yet again given he’s never led me astray.

“You and your family may as well join us, Thomas.” I tip my chin at the fire, relaxing slightly. The corners of my mouth lift for the first time in months, not quite a full smile but close, when Dog races out of the bus with three children fast on his heels.

It feels good. Really good.

Maybe this is the good omen I’ve been searching for–the family appearing in a haze of dust in a rusty old bus wheezing its way along, Dog’s acceptance of them. Folklore is rich with tales of canine friends sensing untrustworthy people. Dog has never led me astray.

The decision is made—I’ll trust the family.

Something I’ve been incapable of since being orphaned when my parents died fighting the wildfires. Emotion threatens but I shove it into the deepest recesses of my mind. My focus must remain unwavering in the event Dog’s judgment is flawed.

An older woman wearing a faded blue dress dotted haphazardly with patches exits the bus leaning heavily on a cane. Just like Thomas, her face is gently lined with wrinkles, gray hair knotted in a bun atop her head. Soft blue eyes lit with warmth settle on me.

“I’m Mary,” she murmurs. “Thank you for having us. We’ve been on the bus forever it seems.”

Mary makes me feel instantly at ease, the same type of comfort one would get from a warm blanket or sitting by the fire with a mug of hot chocolate.

“The children seem to like Dog, and vice versa.” I take her offered hand and revel in the silkiness of her skin. “Sometimes I call him Dog or you might hear Boy slip out. We found each other some time ago, and he adopted me for some odd reason. We’re headed to Grimm.” Our easy camaraderie is the only reason I blurt out the destination. My voice falls to a near whisper, as if I’m asking for trade secrets. “How do you keep your hands so soft?”

Mary chuckles, leaning toward me as she shares her secret. “Just slather your hands in grease before bed and put on a pair of old mittens or gloves. Works like a charm.”

Grease? The thought is revolting. “What kind of grease?” I ask incredulously.

“Any sort of animal grease will do. Just stay away from the sort that mechanics use. Stains your nails and skin. Tough to get off unless you scrub them with sand and no one wants to rub their skin raw.” She beams at me, eyes twinkling with mischief.

I don’t have the heart to question the story or the fortitude to test it out. The thought of any kind of willingly rubbing grease on my skin makes my stomach roil. I silently return Mary’s smile, grateful when her husband interrupts our conversation. .

Thomas appears with a trio of battered folding chairs in hand which he sets up around the fire. “Join us, dear,” he offers. “I’ll gather more firewood before nightfall but for now let’s rest.”

“I’m Zahra.” The name feels strange on my lips. A lifetime of having been called ugly names by an endless string of foster parents more intent on making money than caring for their wards has done its damage.

It took a couple years after leaving the system for me to work up the courage to leave Big City, as it was named after the Last War ended. The war the government launched against its people, at least those without important names or power, manipulating weather in an attempt to purge the world of those they deemed unfit. But just like cock roaches, we survived against all odds, some burrowing deep into cave systems or old mines while others fled as far from the capital as they could.

Big City became the capital’s name. The corrupt cesspool where the government and rich people rule supreme. With no regard for the poor. The hungry. Definitely not the orphaned or abused.

The very reasons why I left in search of Grimm.

Mary and Thomas don’t seem to notice my moment of distraction, or if they did, they elected to pretend otherwise. They sat leaning forward, gnarled hands outstretched toward the fire, basking in the companionable quiet. Our peaceful silence was broken occasionally by giggling children, or Dog playfully growling, and sometimes all of them racing in circles around us.

“Where are you headed?” I ask, silently chiding myself for not returning the natural curiosity one stranger has for others.

Both of them look my way, smiling, cheeks rosy from the warmth. “Somewhere safe,” Mary murmurs, falling silent as her eyes glisten in the dancing light from the flames.

“We heard there’s a ship on the coast,” Thomas continues. He reaches out for Mary’s hand, gnarled fingers intertwining, giving it a faint squeeze. “One that will take you to safety. Back there, where we came from, things aren’t good. Robbers and murderers and rapers. All sorts of nasty ones ruling over the peaceful ones who just want to make a way in this world.”

The children stop running, encircling the flames, their chests heaving as they suck in lungfuls of air, no doubt drawn by the lowering of our voices. Human nature at its best. Ears perk up when secrets are revealed in near silence. Dog sits by them, head tilting quizzically as he whines in an effort to bribe them into more playtime.

“Big City.” Thomas hasn’t revealed where they were, but the name slips out in a harsh growl. A latrine of the humankind I never want to see again.

My jaw tightens as I grind my teeth together to keep myself from saying more. It’s easy to launch into a diatribe given what I experienced and witnessed there.

“How did you know?” Mary whispers, eyes wide, a solitary tear slipping free.

“I once lived there.” A tip of my head toward the dark track leading west emphasizes the next revelation. “We’re safer in the wasteland than in a pit of vipers.”

“Well said,” Thomas agrees with a sigh. Mary silently adds her support to the statement with a faint bob of her head. “Will you join us, Zahra? The children seem to have formed fast friendships with your Dog. Would be a pity to separate them.”

A sharp pain in the center of my chest reminds me that my heart isn’t frozen solid. I press the heel of one hand against it. One day the ache of loneliness will fade.

“I know about Grimm but I’ve heard nothing about a ship out west. Are you certain it’s safe?”

My concern for the family’s safety is real. The dregs of humanity filtered from Big City into the wasteland when rumors of enclaves of survivors filtered through the walls surrounding the cesspool. It is dangerous here, but not nearly as much as it is there, within the city’s walls.

Mary and Thomas shrug in unison.

“What choice do we have?” Mary murmurs, staring at the fire.

“Give Grimm a try. At least you’ll know one person.” My voice is tinged with hope. Thomas, Mary, and their grandchildren are good people. People worth keeping around.

“Our minds are made up,” Thomas huffs, his chin lifted, shoulders pulled back. “You’re welcome to ride with us to Grimm tomorrow. It’s the least we can do to repay your kindness. The fire has eased the ache in my old joints.”

“You’re the first person we’ve had the pleasure of conversing with,” Mary adds. “I love my family but we all crave creature comforts we didn’t know we’d miss until the Last War ripped them from us.”

“You’re welcome. It’s nice…doing normal, everyday things I’ve taken for granted.” My companions nod silently in assent.

We fall silent for a time, enjoying the silence which is broken only by the occasional melodic chime of chattering children and Dog’s yips of joy.