Inner City Page 7

  Chapter 8

  Callen dressed the dirty rags from the bed over his clothes. He wanted to blend in as much as possible. He packed his backpack tight and tied it to his rope to pull behind him as he worked his way down the tunnel. He reached the opening and lay watching for movement. There was none.

  The moon was quartered and dulled by drifting cloud and pollution. Callen emerged from the tunnel head first, reborn into the Outlocked world. He held onto the shale that coated the cliffs and managed to stop from sliding. He pulled the rope, hand over hand until his backpack came from the passage. He removed the rope, looped it neatly and placed it into his backpack, severing his ties to the world of the city. From this point, he would be alone.

  Callen took his time descending the hill. He kept looking around to make sure there were no signs of life. Rushing his steps made the rocks slide, while slow, sure steps left the shale undisturbed. His descent took a full ten minutes. On reaching the level ground and using large rocky outcrops as a shield, he walked deep into the wilderness.

  The night was the perfect companion to go unnoticed. He walked over rolling hills, one after another. He continued for hours without seeing a sign of life. Then, at the top of a hill, he saw smoke. A small fire flickered in the distance. Callen skirted what looked like a camp. He spent the rest of the night making a large arc around the site until he found a vantage point with a clear view of the walled enclosure below. He took out his digital binoculars. There were animals and some primitive shelters within a simple, but sturdy wooden fence. The pairings of guards stood around watching the barren land.

  The sunrise was magnificent. The light grew stronger, helping Callen make out more detail, more people. He zoomed in with his binoculars and began a detailed inspection. These people seemed far from nomadic barbarians. Within the walls of the small fort, people were starting their day and performing chores.

  From a distance, dust could be seen rising. It was a rider on horseback coming at a gallop. The first guards met the rider and exchanged words. The main gate to the enclosure opened. The horseman entered. There was a commotion as others gathered. Then the rider disappeared underground as those he’d spoken to waited. Callen made a mental note of the clothes the rider wore. They were the clothes of his attackers from all those years ago.

  It wasn’t long before the rider emerged with others by his side. There was a short conference in the open courtyard before one ran to the far side of the camp and pulled hard on a rope. A bell pealed. Within moments dozens of men and women were standing in lines. A lone figure on a platform made an address before the group split and headed towards the gate.

  Something important was happening. Most of the camp headed out. Callen was delighted. If they had an emergency, he’d be free to explore without concern.

  The Outlocked leaving camp split into groups of four and headed in every direction. Two groups were heading straight towards Callen, and it suddenly dawned on him he may be the emergency.

  Callen loaded his binoculars into his pack and set off at pace. At the summit of a large hill, he stopped and retrieved his binoculars to check on the progress of those from the camp. He couldn’t see any sign of them and relaxed for the first time in hours. As he moved on, he carefully checked his surroundings at each new elevated point. It was a slow and steady journey that lasted hours. Around him, the land began a slow metamorphosis. First, a stringy looking shrub stood out. Callen dismissed it as an aberration. He remembered studying the lack of natural vegetation in the Outlocked lands in his history classes.

  As he walked further, he saw more and more of the same type of bush appearing. The ground became less sand and more earth and flowers. Weeds were becoming common place. Atop a large hill, he looked onto a distant forest of green. In places it was sparse, but it was anything but the desolate wasteland he’d learned of in school.

  Callen walked for another three hours and found himself lost in growth from all sides. He trod upon the rich brown soil that crumbled to the touch. He looked at healthy trees and bushes growing in abundance all around him. As he walked further, he could hear the echo of water and assumed it a sewerage outlet from the city. The sound grew thunderous as he neared. From a small clearing, he spotted a high solid rock wall that corralled the white rapids of a river far below. He stood in awe of the sight. It was something he’d never dreamed he’d see in a lifetime. He slid and hopped his way down a steep shoulder, littered with pine needles. The slope made an uncertain footing. After a few near misses, he slipped, losing all traction. His pack broke his fall but didn’t slow him. Peering over his shoes, flat on his back with his head raised to see what was coming, he slid over one hundred metres. It was as if nature had designed the slope and covering of slick pine needles for this exact purpose. As he grabbed at anything to try and stop his slide, the dried pine needles found flesh and bit hard into his skin as he passed. No matter what Callen tried, he couldn’t slow down. He stared in horror below him. The trees thinned. An outcrop of rock, smoothed by aeons of exposure dropped away to nothing. Callen screamed as he grew closer to the drop. His scream echoed as he sped over the lip of the high cliff. His grasping fingers flicked the slick granite edge and clutched at air as he screamed louder, heading down through the air. His arms and legs flailed. He twisted his head, desperately trying to see what was coming, his balance no longer his to control as his whole body flipped and rotated. His scream met deathly silence as he plunged into waters below. Callen disappeared under the white, rolling, rapids. A moment later he resurfaced with a gasp, desperately throwing his arms at the water, trying to stay afloat.

  His backpack kept him above water, allowing his head to bob out from the rapids as they battered and swept him along in the current. Bubbling white water had him in its hold. Callen used his arms to try and steer away from rocks that were sticking above the surging water. He lunged for a rock at the surface. The rock was smooth and slick to touch. He couldn’t get a grip and his hands brushed by as the torrents swept Callen further downstream. The rapids showed no concern for his safety as he fought for air, desperately trying to keep his head from smashing into rocks that gave the rapids shape. His body was bruised and battered by the time the river returned to a quieter flow. The dissipating suds that lingered on top of the swirling clear water were the only sign of turbulent waters.

  Further on, the river took a bend. The flow carried Callen to the shoreline. He felt the smooth river rocks beneath him as he struggled to crawl ashore. He flipped himself around to lie face up, his pack supporting his head. He caught his breath. The river delivered him deep into the forest. He lay exhausted, sucking in deep lungfuls of air and marvelling at still being alive. He closed his eyes and lay panting until his breathing slowed. Each side of the river was a natural amphitheatre of high stone. It was awe-inspiring and beautiful. Callen was pleased he’d seen it.

  On the hill opposite a football sized rock began a tumbling journey towards the river. Callen had heard the movement before he saw it. His eyes quickly picked up the rock as it danced and leapt through the undergrowth. It hit a tree with a thud, changing direction with a slide, before cart-wheeling further down the slope. There was a loud click as it kissed the top of the cliff and propelled itself into the air, diving into water with a low, pleasurable plop; drowned in a great depth. Callen looked to the slope. He followed a cloud of dust up the side of the mountain. He couldn’t pinpoint the origin as the first faint puff was now travelling upwards through the trees on the other side of the river.

  Something had set that rock in motion. He stayed looking intently, watching for movement in the trees. He felt around in his pack for his binoculars. Bringing them to his eyes, he began to search in earnest, tree by tree. The rippled bark became an ocean. He was the only spotter looking for something without identifiable marks. He didn’t know what he was looking for and had no idea if he’d already passed over whatever set the rock rolling. On the ground lay large tree branches. Any one of them could have dropped on the rock
causing it to leap out towards the river.

  Twenty minutes had passed before Callen took the binoculars from his eyes. The sun was low, and he was tired. He didn’t like the idea of being surrounded by higher ground, but a lack of sleep was taking its toll. He moved away from the river bank, off the uncomfortable river rocks at its edge and found a flat piece of ground. He laid out his micro sleeping bag and put his head on his pack.

  His eyes were heavy, as he settled to sleep. Then he glimpsed movement. It was lower down, but close to the spot he’d searched for so long. Suddenly he was wide awake as he swivelled and opened his pack again, grabbing his binoculars. Again he searched. Again he saw nothing. The grey of dusk played tricks with even the simplest forms in the forest. He looked to the woods one last time and convinced himself the unfamiliar surroundings and being so tired were making him see things that weren’t there. Callen rested his head on his backpack. This time there were no images glimpsed in the forest above, this time his eyes closed peacefully and in a short time, he lay sleeping.

  Callen startled awake with fire in his eyes. Wooden torches, ablaze with liquid fire, dripped and sparked, lighting up the darkness. There were shrill screams from a dozen warring Outlocked. They wore rags as he remembered and they attacked and terrified as he remembered. They came from all directions. Callen was helpless. He lay, without a struggle, held down. They ripped his sleeping bag away, rolling him onto his stomach. His arms harshly twisted high up his back. A rough length of twine secured his hands. They rolled him over to lie face up. Bound and helpless he tried to get a better look at his attackers.

  A male in his early twenties came forward and tore away the rags Callen wore over his clothes. He ripped off Callen’s shirt in a display of complete domination. With a laugh the Outlocked man put the shirt on, treating it as a thing of wonder and curiosity. He was showing immense pleasure in his prize. Callen’s crystal hung around his neck. The leader of the Outlocked studied it and then tried ripping it away. The polymer-carbon thread held firm, wrenching and biting into Callen’s skin. The disgruntled young leader lifted the crystal pendant over Callen’s head. He handed it to one of his tribe, before taking a healthy handful of Callen’s hair. With no other assistance, he lifted Callen to his feet.

  The young leader stood a good six feet. He deliberately studied Callen’s face. He took a hand and roughly framed Callen’s jaw, digging his fingers into the surrounding flesh and stressing the muscles and tendons at the jaw’s hinge. He pushed his hand hard into Callen’s face, forcing him back to be caught and shoved forward by others of the hunting party. They shoved him back and forth, cheering at the sport. The group held Callen fast as the young leader came forward. He’d taken out a bone, sharpened to match any steel knife. He walked menacingly, bringing the knife to Callen’s throat. Callen pushed backwards into those holding him. His terror delighted the group’s leader who smiled and slowly lowered the blade to rest at Callen’s heart. He pushed the tip of the blade into the soft skin. Callen’s eyes grew wide as the tip of the knife pierced his skin. He began to shake.

  “No, please,” he said. The leader snickered before dragging the point along Callen’s breast, making a violent red welt. The wound drew the slightest trace of blood. Callen felt like the world’s biggest fool - his quest for answers would cost him his life. When he was seven, these people showed him sympathy but fully grown they were as terrifying as any story ever told about them.

  A hessian bag, carrying the smell of dampness and mould, was placed over Callen’s head. The bag was tight around his neck. He glimpsed the ground through a small gap where the cloth was bunched up by the twine holding it in place. He could also see the faint outline of shapes through the material, but this would be all he’d see for the next two days.

  They led Callen like an animal, hardly fed and only letting him drink small mouthfuls at a time. He complained bitterly about needing to go to the toilet. His captures ignored his requests. Finally, with no other choice, he relieved himself in his pants. The Outlocked laughed and taunted him. Those leading him pulled him harder by the leash around his neck.

  They made him walk in his filth for hours. Eventually, they came to a deep pool along the river. They threw Callen down the bank where he collapsed on hands and knees in the water. He rinsed out his putrid clothes as best he could. The long piece of twine anchored him to the bank, and it was quickly tugging him out of the water. As he emerged, he struggled to bring his pants back to his waist. They were still around his knees when he reached dry land. One of the more charitable Outlocked, a young girl about Callen’s age, took pity on him and pulled them up before fastening them around his waist.

  Nightfall came. The Outlocked tethered Callen to a nearby tree. The moment he fell asleep they cruelly woke him with a heavy log thrown hard at his shins. Callen cried out. It brought laughter from the Outlocked seated around their campfire. The night continued in this frustrating manner, Callen desperate to sleep and not being allowed as the Outlocked ate and traded whispered chatter that Callen could never quite make out.

  The Outlocked were torturing him, keeping him awake, wearing him down and removing his will to fight. When morning came, Callen was close to tears. He was exhausted and wanted rest, but they gave him none, pulling him to his feet and dragging him along for his second full day as a prisoner.

  The twine dug into his wrists as they dragged him forward. The Outlocked forced him to pick up the pace. The ordeal no longer terrified Callen; he’d reached total submission. He wasn’t worried about what came next. His mind was preoccupied with what he was already enduring. At one point he stumbled and fell, badly grazing his already bruised arms. He lay on the ground panting, unable to get up. When they tugged at his leash to force him to his feet, he jerked his body back defiantly.

  “Just do it!” he yelled with the last of his strength. “Why are you waiting? If you’re going to kill me, then do it! Why do I have to keep going?”

  Callen needed sleep. He was a beaten man, with no fight or curiosity about this world left in him. He regretted coming back to this land to chase answers, and if he could ever find a way to return home, he would, and he’d never give the Outlocked another thought. He’d be a good citizen; he’d study and work hard and stop complaining. He’d be thankful for the life the city gave him. The city and its unseen leaders had become Callen’s Gods to worship and bargain with over his future. He swore if he could somehow escape the Outlocked he’d obey every law, be a loyal consumer and a grateful member of society.

  They made camp for the second night. Callen had endured another long, humiliating and exhausting day. The Outlocked made fire and cooked dinner, but rather than leaving Callen tied as they’d done the night before, they made him the focus of some bizarre sport. He was pushed and shoved from one to the other, occasionally choked in a wrestler’s hold to cheers. His grazed skin oozed blood and bruises formed on his skin. By the time the torturous session ended his hatred for, and fear of these people had risen to a level he never thought possible. He was openly crying, not in fear, but in exhaustion. Every time he was dragged back to his feet his knees gave way, and he slumped to hands and knees. He was dragged and pushed and held up like a trophy by three or four of the Outlocked as if they were posing with their prey. Callen’s head flopped back under his hood. He groaned in pain. He protested and screamed for the sadistic game to end, but it continued until the call came to eat.

  Only then did they leave Callen alone. He was tied up as the group settled to eat by their fire, but his hopes of resting disappeared when they made him stand, something Callen wasn’t sure he’d be able to do for long. Twice he tried to sit and twice an Outlocked ran to force him to his feet. With nothing to do but think, Callen began to test his restraints. He hadn’t noticed until now, but his wrists had more room to move. He could swivel one hand almost completely around. His hope gave him renewed energy. The twine holding him captive had worked its way loose during the Outlocked’s bazaar game where he was taunted
and jostled from one to another. Within a few minutes, he’d managed to work the bonds off his wrists. He took a gamble and tilted his head forward to get at the twine holding his hood in place. Callen felt a surge of adrenalin charge through him when none of the Outlocked seemed to notice his small freedom.

  He crouched slightly, lifting a foot to undo the rope around his ankle. A few nervous moments later and Callen was free. With the Outlocked eating, he slowly turned and walked into the night. The moment he left the light of the flickering fire he ran. He ran as fast as he’d ever run in his life. The ground underfoot was sandy, like a dessert. The same ground he’d seen when he began his journey. All Callen could think about was escaping this land and returning to his home, his city.

  A cry went up from the Outlocked. Callen didn’t need it explained; they’d discovered their prisoner missing. Would his head start be enough? He decided to hide and let them pass. He had no idea where he was or where he was going, and he rightly assumed the Outlocked would know the land better. He squatted behind large rocks, jutting from the ground in layers, like fallen books. He peered into the dark as the Outlocked followed his trail. Some held flaming torches, but most used the moonlight to search. Callen didn’t think they’d bother with him as a prisoner again, this time, for the trouble he’d caused, he was sure he’d earn the ultimate penalty. The Outlocked screamed. Callen could hear the pounding of their feet running, coming closer, then passing. Relief flooded over him. He relaxed and took measured breaths for the first time since his escape.

  His respite ended quickly. The Outlocked swarmed back towards him. They had lost none of their numbers. Callen held his breath. The Outlocked listened; alert to every sound coming from the stillness. Callen didn’t dare move; he was like a human mobile, balanced perfectly in position. The Outlocked came closer - searching. Callen knew he was about to be found. He bounced up from his hiding place and ran. Again he was chased, but this time without his healthy lead he was quickly overtaken. The hunters swung around in front, cutting him off. Callen changed course in a desperate attempt to stay free. They cut him off a second time. He chose a new direction, sprinting across an almost flat expanse and this time he stayed ahead.

  He came to the base of a steep slope and with the Outlocked closing in he had no other choice but to climb. The surface was loose underfoot. The ground moved with every step. The surface was shale, loose and hard to climb and he instantly knew where he was. He looked up and there it was, right where it should be; his tunnel, the window to his world peering out from his mountain. He was looking at the entrance to the old man’s cave. He slowed as the screams from those chasing grew louder. A couple of the Outlocked began to climb. Callen stopped cold, staring at the tunnel opening above. His mind had cleared and made a stunning realisation. He turned to look at the savages threatening him from below. He watched them chant and scream and throw spears that whistled by without ever seriously threatening. He watched the few trying to follow and noticed their progress didn’t match their extreme physical effort to climb. Callen remembered how easily they’d passed him only moments before. Any path he’d chosen but the path that led to this point and they were on him. Now he’d arrived, after a day’s walk out and two torturous days back, exactly where he began. He’d been chased by people who couldn’t possibly know his starting point without being organised.

  Callen couldn’t believe how far they’d gone to make him believe their savagery. It almost worked, but he’d been right about these people, he knew it now and fuelled by an arrogant revenge for all they’d put him through, he was willing to risk his life to prove it. He sat down, looked to the charade of a chase going on below and began to catch his breath. He watched those chanting and the few still trying to follow him up the slope. A spear hit to his side and then clattered back down the hill, sliding on loose rocks. The shrilled screams of the Outlocked rose. The two following up the slope, dug in with their hands to pull themselves up the hill. They slid back as much as they climbed. Callen broke into the faintest of smiles. His pride, his sense of self and an odd smugness came over him. He was right. That incredible idea about these people had not hatched from his imagination. A volley of spears sailed through the night and hit all points below and to the side of where he sat. Callen sat still as the spears clattered and bounced back down the slope like kindling.

  “You’re not very good with those,” he finally called out, provoking one final shrilled and terrifying effort to scare him back home. Callen didn’t flinch. He sat quietly showing no concern and eventually his stillness wore his pursuers down. Their cries trailed off in an uncoordinated manner, like the end of a cheer from a crowd. The spears stopped coming. The Outlocked stood, bewildered, glancing uncertainly at each other, first in dismay, then confusion. Silence reigned. They had no plans for this.

  “I’ve been here before. When I was younger,” Callen called out across the sea of staring faces. He had their full attention. Every Outlocked looked with concern.

  “I was hurt. Someone here stitched me up. When I got home, they told me I’d dreamt it, that my stitches were from a city doctor, but they’re not city stitches.”

  No one said a word; both sides just waited for something else to happen. The Outlocked watched Callen who suddenly had control. He’d played his trump card and won everything. The group turned in on themselves. They spoke in hushed tones, occasionally their heated debate rose in volume, only to be brought back to a more private, conspiratorial tone. They only ever broke ranks for an occasional glance towards the young man sitting quietly on the loose rocks above.

  Eventually, the circled conference broke and the leader of the group, still wearing Callen’s shirt, turned to him.

  “You can’t stay,” he said in a strong, commanding voice.

  “You can talk,” Callen said with a smile, “So this whole thing, the last few days, all an act?”

  “Go home.”

  “Why?” Callen asked.

  “Go back to your city,” the leader said sternly. Callen sensed his demanding tone, but he wasn’t feeling at all sympathetic towards giving him what he wanted.

  “I came to get answers. Once I’ve got them, I’ll go. Not before.”

  “You’ll get no answers here,” the young man said, regaining some of his authority. From behind him, the young woman who had taken sympathy on Callen at the river tapped her leader’s shoulder. The man swung around. They launched into another hushed discussion. The leader looked to Callen and then back to his entire group. He nodded his head and pointed to two of their group. The two began climbing the hill as quickly as they could. Callen almost laughed in disbelief.

  “We’re past that, aren’t we?”

  “Yes,” said the young man and before Callen realised, the two moving up the slope had almost reached him. Callen had dropped his guard.

  “Don’t let him get to the opening,” came the forceful order from below. Callen was confused. He didn’t want to get to his tunnel, but the two coming at him were no longer putting on a show. Strong hands grabbed him and dragged him down. All three slid to the foot of the hill in a rolling dusty heap.

  Callen extracted himself and stood eye to eye with the Outlocked. It was his first chance to look at them closely. They looked back at him with equal curiosity. The young leader took off Callen’s shirt and handed it back. Callen wasted no time putting it on.

  “I hope you don’t regret your answers,” the young leader said, before walking off in the direction of their camp. The group surrounded Callen in a show of force, but they didn’t touch him, they let him walk freely - as long as he followed their leader.