When We Shed Civilization

Chapter 28

Her knee hit the target she had aimed for, and Burt folded up.

She didn't look at his fallen form and strode away from the fire, turning her back on the whistles and calls of the gang members.

The gate they had come through was closed now, and Beth doubted that they'd let her leave. But she didn't want any further attention. So she withdrew to a remote corner of the square, where the wall barring the street met the long building. There she sat, her back against the rough brick.

Burt picked himself up from the ground, one hand on his groin. He faced her and raised a finger.

At least one member of his was still able to stand straight.

Ozzy brought him a cup of something, and the two men returned to the fire.

The rest of the evening was a blur to her, a mosaic of the firelight, music, and dancing she watched from her lonely perch.

Later, when drunken stupor brought the night's debauchery to an end, Whitesnake went into the shack and returned with a stack of blankets. She tossed one to Burt, who wrapped himself in it and lay down.

"That's fer you," the woman shouted in Beth's direction and dropped another one to the ground next to the fire.

Beth waited until all revelers had either left the square or seemed to be soundly asleep. Then, drawn by the tempting warmth, she returned to the fireplace.

~~~

The dreams kept her slumber short. When she woke again, the flames had died down. A faint mist had invaded the square, manifested by ghostly tendrils in the first traces of dawn coming in from the East.

No more than one handful of people rested around the fireplace. Burt lay across from her, on the other side of the ashes, snoring gently.

Yes, he had been drunk, probably too drunk to recognize her resistance for what it was or to assess what he had attempted to do. But none of that would justify his deeds.

A man's true character swims best in alcohol—that's what she always had thought.

Burt's true character wasn't one she wanted to share time with.

She got up, moving carefully and avoiding all noise. Praying that no one was awake, she walked away from the fireplace, heading towards the gate in the wall.

A massive metal bar ran across it, held by brackets. She pushed it from one side. First, it didn't budge. When she used more force, it moved a fraction of an inch, making a grinding, metallic noise.

Beth froze.

One of the sleepers mumbled over at the fireplace, dream-drunken syllables lacking all meaning.

She let go of the bar. It wasn't safe out there, anyway. But she didn't want to be among these people, nor with Burt.

The uneasy sleeper muttered more words, stirring and grasping for wakefulness, and he made her move away towards the fat tanks of gasoline. She followed the curved wall of one of them, intent on bringing it between her and the others.

Using its cold and rough surface as a guide, she made it to the other side. A sour smell greeted her, the stink of rotting food and latrines. It came from a pool of ink-black liquid.

She had found the Bikers' cesspit and garbage dump.

And beyond it, a wall rose into the dawn sky.

Obviously, the Bikers' compound was walled on all sides—a fortress just like the stadium, designed to fend invaders off.

A ladder led up the side of the tank, its rungs a series of shadows in the weak light.

Hoping to escape the stink, Beth climbed it.

The top of the tank formed a circular, flat expanse of rough metal. She moved away from its edge and looked around. To the East, the sky glowed in a faint, orange tinge. The buildings formed dark outlines against it. To the West, the alleys and streets were filled with shadows and small banks of fog while the larger houses caught the first traces of light. Beyond them, darkness still prevailed.

The river and the bridge had to be out there, somewhere, probably still hours away.

But that would have to wait. Fatigue and echoes of drunkenness made Beth crave more sleep.

She lay down.

It felt good to be out of sight. Hidden. Safe.

~~~

Her head was aching when she woke up for the second time this morning. She squinted into the light of a blue sky.

As she sat, the warmth of the sun touched her back.

Her skin was raw where it had rested against the rough metal.

Someone laughed, harsh and without mirth.

Curious, and gritting her teeth to suppress a bout of nausea, she crept towards the edge of the tank and peered down.

People were assembled around the shed at the remote side of the square. Jethro—easy to recognize by his long coat and his brown, greasy mane—faced a figure with his back against a post—the post where Burt had tried to take her yesterday.

The very same Burt who was now standing there.

The members of the gang had formed a half-circle around him and Jethro, watching in silence.

Burt strained against the post, with his hands behind him. They must have tied him there.

Jethro was holding something up above his head—a pistol. Then he turned his back on Burt.

"See?" Jethro shouted. "Them have got weapons at Seaside, and them have ammunition that still works. Whitesnake heard how it was shot. And I'm sure them have got more of it. More weapons and more ammunition! Now, Burt here will help us to get them."

Beth bit her lips in anger. Weapons—that was all these savages out here wanted. The Bikers were no better than those in the stadium.

The gangs saw Beth and Burt as nothing but a tool for gaining the riches of Seaside.

Jethro turned back to face Burt and said something Beth didn't understand. Then he smacked his prisoner across the face. "Where's the girl?"

Burt shrugged.

She wondered how he felt now, standing against that post. Helpless? Violated?

Jethro hit him once more.

The blow must have been painful. Yet Beth didn't pity Burt. He was no better than the brutes surrounding him.

Still, what she witnessed was an abomination—the law of the jungle, the rule of the mob.

These people reveled in acts of violence and brutality. They enjoyed trampling the last remnants of civilization under their dust-caked boots. Convinced that the future was theirs, they scorned the values of the past.

But they might be wrong.

Her hand went to her pocket. The lighter was still there.