“They say He lives in Tibet,” she told me. She was still digging in the tan, dusty ground with her hands, even though we hadn’t found another turnip in almost an hour.
“Where’s that?” I asked. The shaded tree bark felt cool and good on my back. My shirt was thin. It was a weathered t-shirt I’d discovered on the floor of an old drugstore, the design faded and unrecognizable, and already had a deep-red stain on it by the time I found it. Thin, but heavy with sweat. We’d risen with the sun and only walked a few miles before my new companion — Tree, she told me her name was — had spotted the withered leaves of a turnip stalk.
“Dunno. Somewhere. Not here.” she replied.
“Is it far though?” My eyes were closed, soaking in the brief reprieve I had in the shade of the giant tree. It didn’t have any leaves on it, of course, but it was thick enough to provide protection from the sun.
“Dunno,” she answered again. She stopped digging — either giving up or taking a break, I wasn’t sure — and joined me under the tree. “Lots have dreams of finding and killing Him you know. Nobody been able to do it, so don’t get any smart ideas.”
“Wasn’t.” I said. But I was.
Everyone dreamt of killing Him, I supposed, though most wouldn’t admit that they also dreamt of taking His place once he was dead. No, we all said that if we were Him, we’d let everyone have their fill of His riches. I’d pour the wealth of the world back onto the people if given half a chance, we’d say.
But that was a lie. Probably we’d take it all for ourselves and become the new Him. That is, until another came along and killed us, too.
“How’d He get it all, anyway?” I asked.
“Dunno that neither,” she said, standing up. She put her hands at the small of her back and bent backward, groaning as she did. “Com’on, let’s get going.”
We walked more, though I realized I no longer knew what we were walking toward. Hadn’t in a while. Didn’t matter though: anywhere else was good enough, certainly better than here.
“Think we’ll find an Angel Station soon?” I asked.
“Dunno. Haven’t seen one since three days ago, and no food except that squirrel.”
“Don’t know that either, huh. Well. Don’t seem like there’s much you do know.”
She stopped shortly. Little puffs of gray gravel dust clouded around her feet, then hung there like smoke from a tiny fire.
“Hey, you want to be on your own you just say so.”
I looked at her. Her mussed-up hair was in the same position it had been when she woke up, dirt smudged around her left cheek, but she still looked healthy. Like she’d been surviving better than most. Better than me, probably.
She visored her hand over her eyes, squinting in the oven-warm morning sun, and looked at me as she waited for my answer.
“No. No, let’s keep going.” I said, and started walking. After a few steps I realized I could hear the crunch of gravel under my own feet, but not hers. I looked back and she was still there, squinting as she looked over the vast plain — mostly gray with gravel dust, and brown where it wasn’t — scanning past it to the treeline off in the distance.
I’m not sure what she expected to see. Maybe she was scanning for a better option. Anything else would do, probably. But she found none.
She looked back, started walking toward me, then kept walking past.
“Well, let’s go then,” she said over her shoulder, “there’s probably an Angel Station soon, let’s keep going.”
We walked in silence for a while. Didn’t really notice the quiet until something broke it.
I hadn’t heard a crow in a long time; it took me by surprise. I looked up to the bright, clear sky and saw the black outline of a bird against the blue.
“What do you think it means?”
“Dunno” she responded. I could feel her look at me, waiting for me to make another comment, but I said nothing.
“Think that means there’s food around here.” I said, not sure whether I meant it as a question or a statement. Either way I waited for the same response she always had: Dunno. Dunno. Don’t-know don’t-know don’t-know.
Instead, she said “Could be. Could be a corpse though,” she paused, then, “could mean there’s an Angel Station around here.”
We continued walking down the gravel road. I kicked an orange soda can, squished and faded from the sun. She picked up a stick she found and swatted it a couple times at the air before throwing it back into the brush. Later she stopped and listened, turned, stared at some bushes before picking up a rock and throwing it into them. Nothing came out. We continued on.
“How do you think He got it all?” I asked her again. I was old enough to remember talks of others wanting to get Things — for me it was a bike, for my parents a house — and that there was still a small chance that you might have some of your own Things someday, too. But by the time I was a young man that was all over, and He ended up being the last man standing. Winner takes all.
She didn’t respond immediately, just looked down at her feet for a while as we kept walking. I thought that she might test me and respond dunno one more time, but she didn’t.
“They say He made it all, so He keeps it all,” she finally responded, adding “at least he gives us the Angel Stations.”
“Yeah. Yeah, He probably deserves it anyway.” I said. Then added, “Man, I hope we find an Angel Station soon.”
We went silent again and kept walking. Hoping.
For what, I don’t know.
Caelin Beaty is a professional Graphic Designer by day and an amateur writer by night. He’s written several articles in publications such as Gamewire Magazine, and won a 2012 story contest for Microhorror.com. He lives outside Atlanta, GA with his wife and dog, Ripley.
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