Anthills

By Daniel Cotton

     An old fable tells us of the ants and grasshopper; the ants pass the summer toiling in preparation for the winter, while the grasshopper sings and plays with little thought to what is to come. In the story, the grasshopper is turned away when he comes begging for food, in some versions he is forced to play music to earn it. What would really happen once winter arrived, would the grasshopper truly let himself go hungry?

     The world as we know it has died, but as they say ‘life finds a way’. It is now a world of tremendous abominations, an existence of ants and grasshoppers. Young Gillian Parker is alone in this world, on a mission, taking a leap of faith in search of something that may or may not be there. Whatever the outcome, she is willing to do anything to see her quest to completion; she has nothing left to lose.  

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Cotton
• Release date: Sep 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781540102805

Book preview

1

Desolation. Grass sprouts from aged, cracked asphalt; life finding a way. The only movement is from the weathered garbage, long abandoned food packages and newspapers dancing gently along the streets like tumbleweeds in this ghost town. Storefront windows are broken in, a sign of scavengers long gone.

Exhaustion. Food is scarce. If one wishes to eat they must lower their standards, or hunt. Animals are still around, in short supply. None are to be found today, the whine of a single engine frightens the skittish critters away.

The rider knows that even though desperate eyes have examined this place, not so obvious means of survival have been overlooked. These items of use have already been moved by the lone biker on a previous visit. Today isn’t about hunting or gathering, familiar roads are being used to reach a new destination. A town was plotted on a map from the blind dropping of a finger. South of her home, and much further than the rider has ever ventured. Though this journey was supposed to be a leap of faith, the map was turned slightly, a second attempt was taken, and the same southern town was chosen. Kismet.

Foreboding. The blue bike, built for racing, leaves the town and enters uncharted territory. Once on the highway it accelerates. There will be no stops on this trip; strange towns are left behind, cataloged for future exploration. The bike pushes towards Destiny, Louisiana.

***

The town of Destiny looks like any other, a sad reminder of the world as it once was. The people who once lived here are gone, or hiding. Those not fortunate to discover a means of survival are but bones on the streets and sidewalks, picked clean by scavengers and left to bleach in the sun. Depressing.

Before the area can be searched the rider must look for hidden signs of life, warnings of living souls. The motor is killed in the middle of the street, merely a block deep into the foreign land. The claustrophobic helmet that the rider finds oddly comforting is removed. She shakes out her short, unnaturally red hair. Born with blonde locks, she has taken to coloring it with berries and salvaged powdered drink mixes. The unevenly trimmed hair is moved away from her ears as she listens for movement.

Sweltering, she thinks. The air is so hot and humid it labors her breathing. No matter how hot it is she won’t remove the thick motocross armor she wears until she returns home. The young woman wipes her sweating forehead with the back of her hand, waiting in hope that she doesn’t hear a rustle. Those who still live, the ones who may wish to harm her, are not subtle about their desires. They would crawl from wherever they hide like spiders investigating a fly stuck to their web. She hears nothing.

The girl scans the scattered refuse, praying not to see fresh trash among the weather beaten rubbish. She spies for fresh excrement, and walls stained with urine. Those who remain and wish to stay hidden would hide such things. The savages on the other hand aren’t concerned with discretion. She sees nothing out of the ordinary amid the usual decay.

The bike is walked deeper into the town, guided around abandoned cars whose tires have long flattened under the vehicles’ own weight. The young lady needs to investigate every angle before she begins to enter any of the buildings.

At the town’s center the road splits at a crossroad; the streets on either side of her are full of hotels and tourist shops, the center road leads up an incline. A few markets populate it before Cypress trees are all that can be seen. At the crest of the slight hill an object gleams on the fading centerline.

The girl marvels at the constant white spark, becoming drawn to its shine. As the heavy bike is walked towards the mystery object the thing on the ground takes shape. A clear glimmering cylinder, the sunlight becomes trapped inside casting a rainbow onto the scorched blacktop. Standing before her on the tar is a bottle of water nearly a foot tall. She has the urge to drop the motorcycle and dash to it, quench her heat induced thirst. Her good sense stays her feet, it makes her glance all around her suspiciously, screaming the word, trap!

She waits. Nothing. The bike is set upon its kickstand, the thirsty tourist stalks closer to the unlikely offering after drawing her 9mm from the holster under her arm. The bottle calls to her, taunting her through a layer of condensation. Within the fluid is a frosty pellet of ice. She knows someone has set it there, recently.

The area is devoid of movement. She snatches the bottle and scrambles back to her bike. Crouched below her vehicle, safe from at least one angle, she cracks the seal. Her heart flutters when the bottle gushes its cold contents over her hand, erupting like a volcano. She laughs at her own jumpiness, expansion. The ice had formed, increasing the volume of the element she covets.

The first sip is glorious, never before has she found the tasteless drink as delicious as she does at that moment. It is pure and cold. She tries to remember the last time she had seen ice and comes up inconclusive. She sloshes the fluid around in a circle, smiling as the iceberg within dances. She drains half the bottle before she deems herself sufficiently hydrated. She wonders, if this is a trap, where’s the predator. She recaps the bottle and stands.

The traveler peers up the road flanked by gnarled white trees. At the end stands a house, even from her vantage it looks to be massive. A word pops into her head to describe it, plantation. The same force that compelled her to the water bottle beckons her to this dwelling. She can’t explain why, but she swings her leg over her bike and drives the nimble vehicle away from the heart of town, towards the enormous structure.

2

The engine is cut two thirds of the way to mask her arrival; she lets it coast to a wrought iron gate affixed to a high stone wall that surrounds the property. Through the rusty bars she can see the front entrance of the white home, a large set of double doors on the wrap around porch. Among the thick pillars sits a man.

Peculiar. The gentleman sits out in the open, rocking slightly in his chair. In one hand he holds a beige fan that he waves periodically at himself, the other waves to the girl, beckoning her closer.

Apprehensive. The startlingly red haired girl touches the gate; it opens with the slightest of pressure. She expected it to squeak with age and rust but it makes not a sound, and smells as if it’s been oiled recently. She enters the property slowly, walking the expanse of land as if in a dream. The silent gate swings closed behind her under its own power.

The distance is reduced between her and the stranger. She can see details of the middle aged man; what’s left of his hair is gray, surrounding his scalp like a horseshoe. He wears all white except for a tiny black bow tie and black suspenders. The man uses a cane to stand when the hesitant girl reaches the stairs to the porch. Her hand rests on her pistol.

At last! he declares in a thick southern drawl. You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for this day, Miss Gillian. Please, let’s go inside and escape this dreadful heat.

Gillian is stunned as to how this man can possibly know her name. He smiles kindly at her from where he holds the door open to his house. She is uncertain of his intentions. The man leans on his cane for support, in his other hand is a stout glass; ice cubes clink together gently where they float, accompanied by a wedge of green fruit.

We haven’t much in the way of time, he tells her. They will be here soon enough.

Gillian draws her weapon before following the seemingly kind man inside. Cold dry air meets her once passed the breach; it’s such a sharp contrast to the sauna outside her sweat soaked body shivers. Another contradiction is the state of the manor, she has entered many homes, and none have been this immaculate. Most houses and businesses are a mess from looters, neglect, and decay. The hardwood floor they tread upon glistens in the light allowed in by the windows. The traveler doesn’t see a speck of dust upon the furnishings or decorative pieces.

I think my sitting room will do us nicely, I have a lot to tell you. he says, leading her down a hall. Gillian hasn’t heard another human voice, aside from screaming, since her mother died. She finds his accent soothing.

The gentleman’s siting room is a large enclosure of glass. The man rounds a small table and lowers himself into a chair with a groan. The visitor sits across from him, laying her handgun upon the tabletop. A metallic tub of ice and a bowl of lime wedges serve as the centerpiece for this unlikely tea party. She watches the man reach to a side table for another glass and a frosty pitcher of something yellow.

As I recall, you didn’t much care for my Gin and Tonics. This is lemonade that I squeezed this morning for you. He slides the girl her beverage. For my money, nothing ‘hits the spot’ like a cool Gin and Tonic on a day like today.

Behind him, through the wall of windows, Gillian can see the backyard. Several trees grow in straight rows bearing yellow and green fruits. She is about to pose a question after a sip of her tangy yet sweet beverage, he holds a hand aloft, "Where are my manners? My name is Alabaster, you are about to ask me how I can possibly know your name, and why the devil I’m talking as if we’ve met. Now, I’ve had a lot of time to consider how to explain this to you,