Beneath a Wrathful Sun

By M. Elliot Lamb

Durante is getting old, and the struggles of age eat at him more than the wasteland he lives in. Scared by the effects age is having on his memory, Durante sets off to the other side of the country in search of his family home, and the memories it contains, hoping it is still there. He finds himself accompanied by two unexpected youths with cont

• Language: English
• Publisher: M.Elliot Lamb
• Release date: Aug 31, 2021
• ISBN: 9781087979366

M. Elliot Lamb

A teacher and student of Philosophy. Avid fan of high-minded science fiction and proponent of the "Rule of Cool".

Book preview

Chapter 1

The first thing Durante thought when he regained consciousness was, Fuck; and the second thing was, This really hurts. Searing layers of glassy sand dug into his uncovered face. Like a billion tiny serrated edges. He was being dragged across a sun-worn hilltop. Coarse rope was digging into the bone of his ankle where his binds were. His feet could have been hanging by strands, chewed down by the pincers of a woven beast for all he knew.

With his hands bound as well, he twisted his trunk around to lay on his back and save the skin on his face. He rubbed his eyes to free them from a plague of sand grains, replacing them with the sand on his hands. The flakes that fell found sanctuary instead in the grey coarseness of his beard, speckling it with color. When he achieved pyrrhic success in opening his eyes, he looked around him at the dry sea of brown acne.

His earthy, long coat caught on something and started dragging under and behind Durante. It pulled his stained shirt with it, exposing his back to what his face had previously been so familiar with. It was then that he looked down his ripped, once stylishly, black trousers at where his feet were bound. He followed the taught rope up to the shoulder of a burly, bald, hunchbacked mule of a man.

Insangu.

The two cultists dragging Durante were from the Insangu, the apex predators of the area. The ridiculous name was just the tip of their degeneracy.

The slimmer man beside Durante’s mule-man turned his head to look back. Swirling iconography decorated each cheek; they were uneven. He squinted his eyes and emphatically placed his hand on the gun holstered at his hip. Durante received the message loud and clear.

The special meat is awake back there, Swirling Cheek told his partner.

Mule Man stopped his endeavor and let the rope go slack. Should I put him back to sleep? If he is special, then he’s probably going to be a pain in the ass.

Nah, let him enjoy the day. Swirling Cheek drummed his fingers on his holster. After all, it’s a beautiful one. Sun is out and everything.

Mule Man turned to his compatriot. If he had any hair it would have physically wooshed. What are you on about? The sun is always out.

I know, that was….never mind. Just keep moving. The convoy is probably regrouped by now and waiting on us. Polyph seemed serious about finding this guy. If we have the right one we’re gonna be set for life.

Mule Man slung the rope back onto his shoulder and resumed his oxen task. This time he held the rope closer to the end, so Durante was violently jerked forward as he was escorted somewhere he did not want to go. Off in the distance, something glinted beneath the all-seeing sun. Durante turned his head to the novelty. Another glint. A reflection. He turned his gaze upward to look at the sun.

Was that east? Or west? Oh, west obviously.

Durante looked back at his forward-facing captors. He eyed them with anticipation. Sweat meandered down his forehead, transporting grains of sand as it went. He tensed and flexed the binding around his hands, loosening it as much as would allow. As he was dragged by a rocky incline, he rolled off the edge. He didn't know that he was about to do that, but the same instant that brought it into awareness brought his body into motion, like precognitive instinct.

Mule Man, much to his credit, kept a firm grip on the rope, his responsibility. Despite his size, he quickly followed Durante down the jagged slope. Durante did his best to control his slide, staying clear of the threatening rocks. Mule Man was not so prepared. He tumbled solidly and thunderously. The obstacles he connected with in his descent surely broke bones.

Swirling Cheek stood on the edge, watching his captive and the captor speed toward the bottom of the incline, some fifty yards away. He cursed and gingerly set himself onto the sand and began sliding feet-first down. By the time he was halfway down, making his way overly cautiously, Mule Man and Durante had settled into the harder ground below.

Durante frantically undid the binding around his feet now that the rope was loose. He got to his feet, expecting his counterweight to be down for the count after the hits he took. Another testament to his work ethic, Mule Man was up and trotting toward his quarry. His previously round head had a noticeable concave in its side, and his right arm was bent at an odd angle, but he used his left to meet Durante.

The punch landed on Durante’s temple, making his body sharp and cold for a heartbeat. The burly fellow wound his hand back for another blow, but Durante countered by slamming his bound hands into the man’s groin. When the man bent over, stunned, Durante brought his clubbed fist down where Mule Man’s head was dented.

Durante took a step back, respecting the power his opponent could bring to bear with his weight alone. Mule Man turned to face him, but his eyes had rolled back into his head. Only the bloodshot pink and white showed. The man convulsed, his body mimicking an ocean wave, and coughed up a cocktail of blood and drool. The distance between him and Durante began closing, and Durante brought his arms up defensively. But Mule Man was not advancing. He was falling. He fell right on top of Durante, who was too weakened to stop the body’s momentum. The gurgling vegetable pinned Durante to the ground. A knife at his waist was just within reach of Durante’s bound limbs. All he had to do was stretch.

By this time, Swirling Cheek stumbled forward from the bottom of the incline and drew his handgun. The material of his black goggles reflected the oppressive sun as he dragged his feet across the crunchy sand toward his prostrated companion. He stood over the sleeveless mass, looking at the two sets of corpse-still legs on top of each other.

Damn, fatass, did you crush the old man to death? Guess his little escape plan backfired on him, Swirling Cheek narrated to himself.

The lean bandit bent down to roll his partner’s body off his prey’s corpse. He gripped the gun in his hand loosely and absentmindedly. As he strained to hoist the torso of his fellow, once he had gotten it onto its side, one of the four legs kicked out at his own. Unprepared and more than a little bit spooked, Swirling Cheek fell forward. He felt a hand firmly embrace his neck. Then he felt a deep, burning cold in his chest. He was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. As he closed his eyes to rest for a bit, he came face to blurry face with the graying hair man. Swirling Cheek wasn’t sure, but the man seemed very angry about something. He decided he would ask when he woke up.

∗ ∗ ∗

When Durante had gathered his senses after his brief melee, he took the time to stretch. With loud, pained groans, he loosened his limbs which had been battered and bound. He got the hurt out now, to save himself some hurt later. With his undernourished body limbered up, he retrieved anything useful from the bodies who no longer needed them. He relieved Swirling Cheek of his gun and holster, and Mule Man of a small sack hanging from his back. A gust of hot wind sent sharp particles dancing through the air, urging Durante to take Swirling Cheeks goggles and fashion himself a shemagh.

With his situation finally mended, Durante looked across the landscape around him. Scorched and weathered debris dug into hillocks of coarse earth, blanketed by a layer of sand with varying amounts of glass content, defined the landscape in every direction.

Shit. Which way was that reflection? West.

It was hard to use the sun for direction. Everything was so bright, like a heater lamp across the sky.

Durante trudged back up the natural obstacle course he had escaped down. When he reached the top, almost out of breath but pretending to himself that he wasn’t, he scanned the horizon again in search of the light from before. He found it, made a mental note of the cardinal directions, and began walking. Rock and sand crunching beneath him and the un-relieving wind were the only noises scoring his trek. The bodies of Swirling Cheek and Mule Man were left baking at the bottom of the incline, at the discretion of the wasteland.

∗ ∗ ∗

Wading through a sea of light brown, Durante never seemed any closer to his guiding beacon. Until he circled around a green-less knoll and found himself strolling into the quiet cadaver of a town. Surrounded on all sides by rocky formations, the ruins sat like the last soggy bits in a bowl of gruel. Buildings missing roofs and walls lined the wide paths where asphalt was drowned by sand. On the same side of many facades were the black scorch marks of intense hellfire.

Greeting Durante’s advance was a bulbous stone monolith. One side was flat, smooth, and covered in attempts to inscribe names. Some were chiseled in, and barely legible. Some had been painted on, but the harsh erosion had torn them letter by letter.

Ma…s n,

J..me,

Wi..l..m,

Tre..v..n

Dozens of names were so forgotten by the elements that no trace remained of their ever having been there. Erased and irrecoverable. Durante took out his knife and tested it against the monolith. He tested if it would leave a clear mark. It did. Like a nervous tic, he pointed the knife up to the wall and back down to his side.

As he ventured into the maze of rubble and unmade buildings, he passed a stone slab half-buried under the sand. Wiping off the layer with his foot, he read, Jasper. A familiar name, but anything beyond familiarity had been discarded long ago, in favor of something more useful no doubt.

As he continued his tour, weaving in and out of the most intact buildings in search of useful salvage, he realized that he had not really made a plan for once he got here. His mouth had gone arid hours ago, and his hunger was to the point that he didn’t feel hungry anymore. As the novelty of exploration waned, a water tower rose from behind a building. How am I just now noticing that? He chalked it up to dehydration.

At the top of the water tower, the view was advantageous. It might even have been beautiful under different circumstances. The tower held up well, except for the wide gash in its side, quelling any hope of aged and mucky water. In the distance, Durante discerned the outline of the Smoky Mountains. He had a direction now. If he had written a list, he could have scratched out the fifth item of importance.

He allowed himself to slide his back down the casing of the water tower, sitting with a thud on the grated metal. It was terribly uncomfortable. But it was more comfortable than standing. He idly listened to the wind rushing past. The soft clatter of sand and earth particles being dashed against defiant walls. The faint growl of an engine.

What the hell?

Durante quickly forgot how uncomfortable standing was, and threw himself up. The sound came from the direction he walked from. The direction of the bodies. Where his foot trail started. The Insangu were persistent when it came to this particular quarry. Soon, a dark roach crept along a distant hillside and retreated back into obscurity. Mere moments later, it was visible again, and closer.

Durante scrambled down the waterless tower and sought cover in the husk of a restaurant. The faint impression of the lettering inside revealed what it used to be, but of course Durante was not concerned with that. In a nook of the smoothed stone, he pulled free his handgun and let the magazine fall out. He tested the various slides and triggers, making sure Swirling Cheek did not get the last laugh because Durante had a gun that didn’t fire. As he clicked the magazine back into place, he heard the distinct sound of a beefy vehicle bursting through decrepit buildings.

Durante’s foot and finger tapped in perfect synchronicity, his foot against the peeling floor tiles and his finger against the slide of the gun. For someone who insisted on surviving, Durante often failed to play it safe. He could have started running in some direction, kicked at the ground to hide his tracks, maybe lost his pursuers in some cleft along the way.

But he wanted that car.

He could either die of thirst, in an arid wasteland, under a wrathful sun; or he could die to a band of brainwashed cannibals. He had no preference in the matter. At least this way, he had something to fight against. Another shatter of metal on stone.

Don’t scratch my car, assholes.

The uneven walls and intermediary alleys made noise bounce enthusiastically. It sounded like it was coming from everywhere. The sound of unscheduled demolition was a more useful indicator of where Durante’s pursuers were. Another shatter. This one closer. The vehicle should soon pass by his shelter. When it did, he would run out behind it and take aim at the driver. As it bore closer, the vehicle’s own cries were sprinkled with the shouting of Insangu hunters having the time of their life. Closer. Any second now.

That second of opportunity never arrived. As the violent siren came to a crescendo, Durante was showered with a hailstorm of debris. The shock of the buggy crashing through the walls was an earthquake. The invisible force sent Durante sprawling across the room. Amidst the haze of demolition, the occupants of the vehicle would probably have not even noticed Durante. The tactic of crashing randomly into buildings was a questionable one, but to their credit, it accidentally worked. As Durante lost all balance, he tensed and tightened his grip reflexively. This included the grip his hand currently had around his gun, which eagerly discharged in response.

The hunters’ vehicle was halfway past the opposite wall when the gunshot alerted them to their prey. A young Insangu, with coarse, curled hair and indecipherable tattoos across his bare chest, darted his eyes to meet Durante’s. The hunter’s expression was adrenaline and unsureness—this was probably his first time leaving the nest. The barbarianism quickly caught up, and the kid jumped from the back of the buggy and charged bravely at Durante with a tape-gripped ax. Durante shot him in the chest as he scurried out through the damaged wall.

Durante heard the buggy scrape as it frantically reversed over the pile of debris it had just made. He had no choice but to get lost in the maze of indistinguishable once-buildings. He hazarded a glance behind him to get a sense of distance. The Insangu buggy, solid bottom half with a top that was entirely roll-bars, was already back onto smooth ground and bearing down on him.

A game of mazes and maze breaking ensued. Durante weaved in between and through buildings, while the hunters smashed through any barrier between him and them. The reinforced, metal plow welded onto the front allowed the buggy to endure such bold maneuvers. Durante ducked into a small doorway, inside of which was an array of small tables still maintaining their ordered positions. As he exited through a wall-less backside, his pursuers clipped through the edge of the building. Once again, he felt the sting of micro-debris pelting against his back and neck.

He was ready for this chase to end. Burning and swelling in his knee told him he could not run much longer. A gamble was his only option.

He forced his legs to pick up their stride and put distance between him and the buggy, currently obscured by a dusty haze. When he heard, and felt, the tires beating down earth as they chased he cut sideways into another building. This one had solid walls. Once he was embraced by the shadowed interior, he stopped. He waited. He would never admit it, but he closed his eyes and brought his arms up; like a child who just heard someone yell, Heads up!

At once, the sun’s malice flooded into the room, and the earth’s hunger rumbled violently up his legs. The pursuing vehicle burst in one side and out the other. The driver and his cohort continued forward for a few seconds before seeing that their prey was not in front of them. By the time they had jerked the buggy around, Durante was kneeling far behind them. His gun was steadied with both hands, and his grip tightened quite intentionally.

The vehicle began its linear circuit again. Durante tightened, breathed out, and was about to squeeze the trigger with the sights square on his target. He stopped short though, his aim and grip being disrupted by sudden tremors in his hand. It was brief, like a chill surging up his nerves. But it forced him to all but start over. He took another breath, pushed down the cough that tried to rise, and steadied his weapon again.

The driver started to put his foot on the brake before Durante’s gunshot tore through his trachea. The buggy sped on, its driver’s foot slowly slipping off. Durante needed only to move out of its way as it crashed into another building. And did not come out on the other side.

Rubble crunched beneath his boots as he stepped through the stone wound, gun ready. Kneeling, blood dripping from his mangy, black crown, was the last of the hunting party. He clutched in his hand a decorated machete—at first glance with the same design on the man’s forehead. The wounded Insangu noticed that he was no longer the predator here, and rose stiffly to his feet.

You are pretty quick for an old guy, eh? he said. I tell you what, old rat. You seem like the type of fighter who appreciates a good scrap, so how ‘bout it? Make this an even fight. You know, for honor, or whatever you old shits wanna call it. Sound good, yeah? Sound honorable?

The man picked up another ax sitting in the buggy and tossed it at Durante’s feet. He stood there, expectantly. Durante shot him in the chest twice.

∗ ∗ ∗

The buggy had plenty of fuel in its tank, and multiple containers of reserve strapped down in the back. It also contained a sizable ration of water and dried meat, which Durante feverishly consumed. After a few bites of meat, he thought about what it had come from and spit it out, almost wanting to make himself throw up out of principle. He would starve before he sank that low.

As he sat in the driver’s seat, relief billowed as the weight was taken off his knees. On the base of the passenger side was also a map. Durante wondered what hell he would have to pay in exchange for the string of luck he was having. He struggled a moment to remember what the name of this place was before finding it on the map. With sore and unsteady fingers he traced a line to Chattanooga and consulted the waning sun to match the direction. Enjoying the simple bliss of sitting down, Durante drove across an expanse of rock and sand.

Chapter 2

The road into the remains of Chattanooga was unmarked, unwelcoming, and unparalleled. Literally. The only feasible path for a vehicle into the center of the city—where survivors congregated—was from the south. All the other major routes had been blockaded by collapsed roads and debris. Many of the buildings facing Durante were open, as if they were being dissected. The whole picture was an anatomy class experiment that hadn’t been cleaned up.

Shriveled and dried bodies hung in the open faces of the buildings. Dotted with spots where the few airborne scavengers had pecked at the flesh. The deaths of those hanging were unrelated to their hanging there but were a refurbished deterrent to visitors with questionable intentions. Waste not, want not.

On Durante’s flanks, in shaded alleyways and structurally unsound interiors, were people not too apart in appearance from the flesh-scarecrows. Every one of them, hungry and tired, kept to the shade like they had caught vampirism. As Durante drove further in, the bystanders looked subtly healthier than their outcast companions. The allure of commerce even found a well of life amid the pathetic inhabitants of this grandiose sepulchre. The unperturbable grasp on survival seemed little motivation to Durante.

What keeps you miserable folk going? What’s your secret? Won’t you tell me?

The buggy coasted lazily into a space between walls, attracting the eyes of various characters lingering in the street. Durante saw this and detached the steering wheel from the dash. The instrument was tucked into the space between back and pack, safe from thieving hands.

Around the corner from where Durante parked was the entrance to a small building. The scuffed, metallic door was elegantly notated with a sign that read StUfF. The awkward lettering was the product of the proprietor’s marketing genius. By his thinking, if people were confused by the sign, they will look at the sign; if they look at the sign, they will look at the store. This eccentric proprietor was also the only person considered Durante’s friend. Or, more accurately, who considered Durante their friend.

It’s me, Durante said as he entered the shoddy interior.

The once smoothly-painted brick walls were now faded and peeled. Just grey and lifeless. Opposite the door was a solid counter stretching most of the building’s width. Where the counter stopped, was a chain-link door with a head-height square cut out. Most unusual about the setup was that this chain-link fencing stretched the entire width before the counter, and was studded with barbed wire and nails.

Durante? replied in a slightly strained, scraggy voice. The speaker was unseen, their voice echoing from a back room.

Ya, Jeff. It’s me. Your gate unlocked?

The fuck is the point of a security gate if it’s unlocked? If you give me two seconds, I will come greet you. I know you’re old and don’t got much time left, but patience is still a virtue.

Right.

Creeping just above the edge of the countertop was a mop of curly brown hair, as tall as it was wide. Around the opposite side of the shank-studded gate appeared a sinewy man between young and middle-aged. Green eyes not quite symmetrical. And legs strapped firmly to the pedals of a rusted, brake-less wheelchair.

I figured you would have died of a heart attack or dementia by now, Jeff said, unlocking the gate.

Not yet, Jeff, he said with hollow relief.

Our dear Durante, a man of the people and favored socialite, found dead and stripped in the harsh waste, from severe dementia which led him to believe he was related to a pack of sand-dogs.

I doubt my end will be so eventful.

Did I say a man of the people? I meant a man of gloom. You may not be dead from some sand-dogs, but you look like you got ploughed by some. The hell happened? You were supposed to be back a day ago, Jeff said, as Durante took a seat on the cobbled-together bench in the back. A bed of cement bricks covered by a layer of dirt and blankets. The dirt made it softer.

Durante did not answer for a few moments. Instead, he leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. He suddenly felt very heavy. Now that his brain knew it was safe, it allowed him to feel how sore and stinging everything felt. He tried to think. He couldn’t think of anything.

Got caught. Got free. Got tracked. Got away. There were a few minor steps in between. You have any water you can spare, Jeff?

For you, my ungrateful and off-putting friend, of course.

Jeff turned his chair towards the back corner of the small office and bent down towards a safe. A brief series of clicks and the safe was open. He pulled a pint-sized metal jug out and passed it to Durante. The weathered wanderer took it eagerly, showing the briefest hint of enthusiasm. When a quarter of the liquid was gone, he lowered it from his mouth.

Thank you, Jeff. I’m grateful. He passed the container back to Jeff, who set it on a small table.

I’m only nice to you cause I want that jacket when you die. The chair-bound man made his soft, maniacal laughter. Durante’s rejuvenated lips curved into a smile.

Consider it yours. On the condition that you come to retrieve it when its ownership passes.

* * *

Jeff sat with Durante until nightfall, when the streets outside were lined with crude fire pits. Jeff told him how the people were doing. The answer to which was, not any better and not much worse. Mostly, Jeff bantered, one-sidedly, while Durante rested and drank. At one point, a few other men who helped and worked with Jeff came by. Being the people person that he is, Jeff welcomed them in for conversation. After all, that was all people could really do with their free time now; talk.

Stragglers roamed up and down the once-street. The buildings were fifty-fifty in their occupancy. Half were made to be used, as Jeff’s shack was, and the other half left unexploited. Durante could not remember what the qualifications were when people decided which ruins to make their homes in.

Find anything good out there, Richard? Jeff asked a man with scraggy brown hair.

I don't know why you keep asking that, Jeff. You know there is less and less worth salvaging every day. The man tried to keep the tone light. It took effort.

Which is exactly why I ask, because every day it gets more important that you do. I have a business to run after all.

Does it really count as a business if you give most stuff out for next to nothing? a sallow-skinned man beside Richard asked.

An altruistic business is still a business. I am profiting, just not in a way you can see, Jeff said.

Sure. Anyway, I did find something. Not something exactly 'useful,' but interesting, Richard said.

The man sat a tattered backpack between his legs and began opening it up. He pulled out what looked to be a binder. Its faded blue cover was torn in places, but the item itself was still whole. From the side, Durante could see the inside was lined not with paper, but with a translucent plastic sheeting.

I found this photo album tucked away in a safe that had cracked open. The thing was wrapped in layer after layer of cloth, but I'm still surprised it stayed in such good condition.

What's in it? Anything good?

It's just like a family album. Lots of pictures of some family or another. I don't know them, but I figured they would appreciate their memories being saved.

How very fucking sweet of you, Richard, Jeff cracked. If I had a smiley face sticker I would put it right over your heart.

Richard dismissed the sarcastic character with a roll of his eyes, long since used to Jeff's caustic personality. The binder started being passed around the group, each head maintaining interest even as the pages left their hands.

Don't underestimate the value here, people love seeing reminders of the past. I wouldn't be surprised if you get people coming by and asking to flip through this from time to time, the sallow man noted.

Hold up, I might can add something to it, Richard said, getting up from his seat and leaving the building at a trot.

He was back a few minutes later, the thud of his heavy boots preceding his advance on the metal door. When he sat back down, he produced a rectangle of folded cloth and a picture of his own wrapped inside. Taking the binder back, he flipped towards the back, where the photos stopped and pages of two by two pockets were waiting for their own material. He slid the photo, a crinkled and washed-out thing, into one of those pockets.

What's the story there? one of the men asked regarding the photo.

Richard's face took on a solemn shadow. It's a picture of my parents. They died when I was basically a toddler, so it's hard to remember them. Luckily, I was able to hold on to that until I was old enough to appreciate what it really was.

There were nods and murmurs of how lucky he was to have a memento.

Jeff, you got any keepsakes? Memories of loved ones? Richard asked.

Jeff's playful face cracked a mischievous smile. "Well I had a