Exiled

By R. J. Tatum

It's been fifty five years since the fall of the civilized world. Those who survived learned to live with what remained.

Every September in Roan Oaks is the same.

The Relegation.

Dallas Gibson, along with four other eighteen year old's, have spent the past year preparing for their impending exile from the safety of their commun

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. J. Tatum
• Release date: Aug 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088132968

Book preview

Exiled

DALLAS

ONE

I sigh in the overwhelming afternoon heat. It can get so hot here sometimes that I forget I am grounded to the Earth. I imagine myself circling the sun, or the outer layers of hell, hypnotized and drawn into the suffocating heat.

Even after almost ten years of coming here, I’m still not sure which one this feels the closest to.

My best friend lays stretched out across the soft red clay next to me. A smile toys at the corner of my mouth as I glance over at him. He is a masterpiece of defined muscles, bathed in a deep bronze tan from too many years laboring the land. His worn and tattered cowboy hat is tipped precariously over his eyes, his chest rising and falling with a slowly and steady pace—he must be asleep.

I shake my head, suppressing a giggle, and shift my focus back to my thoughts and my gaze back to the bright blue afternoon sky. The sun is high in the sky, standing proud and unshakeable, beaming with delight as it has once again taken its rightful place in the sky. My imagination runs wild as I imagine a whimsical battle unraveling above me each day between the sun and moon; neither willing to succumb to the other, but both bound to rise and fall in tangent together.

Both unwillingly bound to each other for eternity.

I am lost in thought, drowning in a whirl of nothing and everything. I always feel so small when surrounded by the magic of lying out here. This place brings me comfort I long for these days. The shadows of tree leaves dancing across the ground and flickering over my face, oblivious to their intrusions, help settle the discontent growing in my soul. It is a sort of uneasiness that has recently grown louder and more intrusive with each passing day. The lyrical lapping of flowing water against rocks and wood always lulls me into a blissful state of existence, the world I am bound to quietly slipping into the background, producing a brief escape from the burdens I did not ask to carry.

In these short moments my curiosity wanders, exploring questions like how life was before the great war, how life could have been for me then, and what is out there now.

In just three days, my entire world will change.

They call it the Relegation.

Each September, everyone who has reached the age of eighteen during the given year is cast out of our only home.

Forcefully exiled from Roan Oaks.

They say it’s to prove our worth, to teach us our value as we grow into noble men and women, and to contribute to the continuation of our community.

I don’t know if I truly agree.

For the past year of my short life, I have spent countless days in a tiny classroom. No longer am I forced to learn useless facts and master skills of the fallen world. Instead, I have spent the last year learning survival skills, skills that will supposedly maximize my chances of surviving the Relegation.

I’m not all that great at it, quite frankly, but what choice do I have? I have poured every ounce of my being into learning how to make it back home in one piece. My parents deserve to have at least one child to return home from their Relegation.

As far back as I can remember, I have watched the annual Relegation Ceremony. Even as a small child clinging to my father’s leg, wide-eyed in awe of their bravery, I watched as the Relegates marched through the gates without ever looking back.

Each year, a hand-full go through the mammoth steel gates. Most years, nearly everyone makes it back home. Sometimes, though, only a fraction of them return. No matter the situation, those that make it back are changed, wild eyed and hardened from unspeakable experiences.

They become men and women, loyal to maintaining our community and devoted to never going through those gates ever again. Perhaps even more odd, they become committed to an unspoken rule of silence, never sharing more than vague details of what transpired during their time outside the gates.

That serious? I hear him rise, pushing himself lazily off the red clay that cradled him.

He pulls his hat off and brown hair falls lazily over his deep green eyes, one eyebrow raised at me curiously. He runs his hand through his unruly hair before replacing his old hat back on his head.

I grin, reach over, and punch him in the side. He laughs, a small snort escaping his lips, and smiles. As usual, he is unfazed by my assault. I know my feeble attempt at pain infliction was in vain, but hey at least I tried.

Just contemplating the greater meaning of life. You know, being all deep and broody and such, I answer playfully, a wide smile pasted across my face.

This is why Rhett is my best friend— I don’t have to pretend to be anyone with him.

I’ve known Rhett since I was five years old.

We went to school together, and he lived a few houses down from me. I didn’t really know anything about him until he showed up on my parents’ doorstep one night, drenched from rain and gasping through ragged breaths. He ran through the rain and the mud, frantically pounding his little fists on every door he passed until one finally opened. His dad was away for a few days, volunteering to help with some sort of project at the time.

That was the night his mother died.

I remember sitting with him while my parents went to his house after he told them she fell. I was only six, utterly baffled why he was so upset over a fall. His face was red and blotchy, streaked with tears that were mirthless in their flow. His wet hair was matted to his forehead, and I tried my best to comb it with my fingers as we sat there silently. I spent the whole night trying to comfort him, unsure of what to say, but determined to fix him in some way. At some point I gave up, resorting to holding his hand quietly as his cries turned to strangled whimpers peppered with hiccups.

I remember being so confused when my parents returned. They were pale and solemn as they helped Rhett into dry clothes and made him a pallet on our couch. When my mother sent me to my room, I stomped my feet and refused, only settling down when I was tucked in opposite of Rhett.

The hushed flurry of commotion in the kitchen as people shuffled in and out of the back door that night was enough to understand that something wasn’t quite right.

The next day at her funeral, he clung desperately to my side, so tightly it was as if I were the only thing holding him to the ground and holding him up at the same time. After that, we were pretty much inseparable.

Please, Dallas. I know you better than that. He reaches over and pats me on the head. I wince because his pat is a little harder than I expected.

You’re hiding something from me. I might just have to pick you up and throw you in that creek if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.

I scowl at him, my suppressed grin creeping slowly back in and thwarting my attempt to look mad. You wouldn’t dare!

Oh yes, yes I would. He leans, as if to push himself up, and I give him my best ‘don’t test me’ face.

His face goes straight, his mood suddenly turning serious in an instant. Are you worried? You know… About the Relegation? There’s only a few more days. He rubs the back of his neck as he speaks, his eyes burning deep with unspeakable emotions—and fear?  Is that what you’ve been thinking about?

I’m all knotted fingers and twisting stomach. I look down at my hands instead of at him.

I’m not sure how I feel right now. I’m worried, and a little terrified, and it’s very confusing, but yes, I can’t quit thinking about it, I say.

Don’t worry about it, Dallas. You’ll have me to protect you if anything happens. It’s not like you’ll be out there all alone or anything. He forces a crooked smile at me, his eyes still burning rich with words he is unwilling to speak.

But what if I do end up alone? I mean, then what? All the lessons in the world won’t be able to help me then.

I feel myself getting anxious now, the fear is starting to set in, and I can feel it festering deep within me.

I hate the idea of being alone out there.

I hate being alone, period.

Rhett just shakes his head. He looks down for a moment, contemplating what to say, and then looks up again, a certain confidence glowing like hot embers in his eyes. I won’t let that happen. I promise. You’ve always been there for me, now it’s my turn.

I sigh heavily and drag myself to my feet.

If we keep sitting here talking about it, it will only feed the fear that is growing, and I can’t handle that. I need to pretend it’s not going to happen.

I need to ignore it until it is staring me in the face.

Until the day we walk through those gates into the outside world.

Until I have no choice but to face my inevitable doom.

My inevitable death.

Come on Rhett, we need to get back to the town before people start wondering where we are. I half smile, trying to suppress the wavering in my voice.

He pushes himself off the hard clay, dusting himself off swiftly as he rises.

I admire Rhett for a moment. He really is quite the catch for some girl, just not for me. I see past his strong arms and defined jawline.

I can remember how he was before he was deeply tanned defined muscles, with the grace and confidence of a stallion. Back when he was nothing but elbows and scrawny legs, awkward and uncomfortable with his own body.

Even before then, I remember when he was a wild-eyed little boy with a snaggle toothed grin who loved leading me into all sorts of trouble.

He catches me looking at him and smiles, a wide and crooked Rhett special smile. What is it?

I suppress a giggle. Ah, you know, just admiring the view. That creek sure is something to behold. I rock from foot to foot, hands knotted behind my back, and grinning like a fool. I can feel the color creeping into my cheeks.

He rolls his eyes at me. Yeah, the creek… Right. He raises his eyebrow at me, and I know I have been caught in my lie.

He saunters over to the old truck we drove here, slides into the driver’s seat, and shuts the door. I open the old squeaky passenger side door and slide in smoothly. When I pull the door to shut it, it slams a little harder than I expected, causing me to nearly jump out of the seat in surprise.

Rhett bursts out laughing as he cranks the old truck, shaking his head as his wholesome laugh resonates and echoes within every inch of his body.

I turn to look at him, scowling as hard as I can muster and smack him hard on the thigh. He recoils a little from the blow and shakes his head again, still smiling.

You know, one day you’ll stop trying to hurt me. He feigns being hurt, rubbing his leg overdramatically.

One day you’ll stop laughing at me too! I stick my tongue out at him as the truck lurches forward with life.

We drive down a worn dirt road. It’s red like most of the roads here. It’s a small road, so narrow you can only fit one car at a time. There are trees lining both sides, hanging over the road in some places to form a canopy. There’s the smell of honeysuckles and wildflowers all around and I absolutely love it. I close my eyes and lean back into the worn-down seat. Between the smells, and the sound of tires bumping along, I am lost in myself.

What will happen when they open the gates in a few days?

I really am terrified, even though I don’t want to admit it out loud. I’m afraid someone will return bearing the news of my demise to my parents, and I just can’t handle that thought.

My parents are far too damaged to handle something like that.

And what about the people who live outside of our tiny community?

Most don’t speak more than vague whispers of their Relegation when they return, but I have heard stories about savages, people who were damaged by the war and survive by hurting or hunting others.

What if I have to hurt someone?

Even though we have been taught how to deal with these things, I still shudder at the thought of hurting, or even killing another human being.

I push the thoughts back deep within myself and open my eyes. I blink a few times, the bright sun blurring everything until my eyes finally adjust.

When I have had time to focus again, I’m surprised, we’re nearly back home. We’ve already passed back through the broken-down fence and are rolling down a bumpy paved road that will eventually lead to the center of the community.

I glance over at Rhett. It seems he hasn’t paid me any attention, his eyes glued to the road ahead instead.

I admire the tension in his features as he focuses on navigating. The way his jaw is clenched, eyes slightly squinted in concentration makes him look older than eighteen, I realize.

He has truly grown into a man, I think to myself.

When he stops outside our community’s ‘hospital,’ I hop out and close the door, a little gentler this time.

See ya Rhett, thanks for driving. I smile at him, leaning in through the window.

He nods. No problem Dallas, I’ll see you later, ok? I’ve got to help my dad finish picking crops. He fakes his enthusiasm with a small fist pump into the air and I laugh. God, if I hadn’t known him my whole life, I could see us as more than friends.

I step back and watch as he drives away.

The truck doesn’t look that bad. It is charcoal gray with a mixture of rust and faded paint from years of sitting abandoned in the sun. Someone found a bunch of cars and trucks one year on a relegation trip and brought them back to the community. Rhett’s father is a prominent man here, and he was given one to haul his crops with. He lets Rhett drive it sometimes, as long as he brings it back in one piece.

I turn on my heels and make my way inside the hospital. It’s really more of an old row of buildings pressed together so tight they nearly touch. There are five of them, each three floors tall with a small alley between them.

The first one from the left is the hospital.

Then there’s a store where food is given out each week next to the hospital. It works like a ration system, everyone contributes in some way to the growth of our community, and food is provided without payment in weekly increments. We call it the Exchange.

Beside the Exchange, there is another building where our appointed leaders work, doing whatever a government has to do. My father works there. He over sees the development of things like our power and water supply and works as a sort of second-in-command to our appointed leader, Samuel. It’s called the Concourse. I’ve only been inside a hand full of times, usually to deliver something on behalf of my mother.

On the other side of the Concourse, there’s a dusty old store called Garbs, where everyone picks up their clothing and shoes. It works similar to the food system, with an allowance set per month, per family. It’s a simple life here, with no monetary system like the fallen world before ours. Everyone works in unison, because there’s nothing to gain from competition, and it’s worked here for fifty-five years.

The last building is where I spent my last thirteen years, going to school to learn about things from the fallen world, and basic skills like math and writing. We only went to school twice a week, and I enjoyed school. I felt a certain passion towards books, striving to learn everything I could. The building looks tired now, the paint is chipping, and the wooden window frames are splintering from years of neglect.

Once I’m inside the hospital, I follow the stairs to the second floor where I know my mother will be. This is where they bring the injured. She loves tending to people, which is why this is the perfect place for her to contribute to the community. I work here with her because that is just how things are.

Once the children turn eight years old, girls work alongside their mothers and boys alongside their fathers on days they do not have school.

There’s no choice on what you do before the Relegation, but once you return you are considered an adult, and are free to choose a profession of your own.

I don’t mind being here, but I don’t feel like this is where I belong.

Perhaps that is one thing I will gain from the Relegation, learning where I belong.

I see my mother standing inside a tiny cubicle in the far corner of the room. She smiles as her eyes catch sight of me and nods slightly. She is a very reserved woman and I respect that about her. I ponder how she came to be that way, but I already know the answer.

My father is a very loving man, but he expects us to behave a certain way in public.

Reserved and respectful, he says.

He is always wary of how our behavior reflects on him as a member of the modest group of leaders that make up our meek governing system. Even after the end of the civilized world, our founders felt some form of leadership was necessary to maintain our humanity.

Once I reach the cubicle where my mother is sorting through medical supplies, I grab a white jacket off the wall and pull it around my shoulders, sliding my thin arms inside. Even though this is the smallest jacket, it still feels like it’s much too large for me.

I give my mother a half smile, a pleasant smile I should offer up to a total stranger, not my mother. She stands, a quaint smile and nod in acknowledgement of my approach. She is a humble, yet beautiful woman. Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail, wrinkles from years of frowning and smiling carved into the softness of her skin. Her eyes are warm, yet tired, a dull brown that aches to say things I can only imagine. I admire the faded freckles speckled across her face, traveling down her chest, and spilling over onto her arms. It dawns on me that these subtle things I love about her are things I should have spent more time memorizing. My chest clenches as I realize I may have run out of time to commit such comforting details to memory before I leave for Relegation.

We only have three patients today Dallas, so it should be an easy evening for us. Did everything go okay with Rhett? She is digging now, wondering why I had to help Rhett ‘unload his father’s truck.’

Truthfully, I wanted to spend some time escaping the reality of my life. Truthfully, I find more comfort outside of the fence than I do within. Rhett only adds to that comfort, his presence the one constant, stable thing in my life. Maybe it’s the combination of knowing we can come back in and Rhett’s company that makes being outside the fence so freeing to me. When I linger too long on the notion of the Relegation, anxiety seeps into every fiber of my being. What a peculiar reaction, considering I find the most peace outside of that encircling fence with its enormous silver gates.

I straighten, preparing myself to lie to my own mother like I have done countless times before. Yes ma’am. He had some old wood he needed Rhett to move around the farm and we got it all taken care of for him. You know, mom, you should go visit Mr. Bailey. He’s getting older now and he’s losing his strength. Maybe you could help him with something from here. I wave around to the medical supplies threatening to burst out of the cubicle.

She ponders for a moment—her prodding questioning distracted enough to be lost, and places a long, thin finger to her chin. I do remember reading something about some strength building exercises for the aging in a book not too long ago.

She turns from me and reaches for a clipboard. Here is your assignment list. I will take beds 1 and 2, and you will take number 3. I also need you to restock the supply cart, check the clean linen cart, and take the dirty linens downstairs to be washed. Understand?

She hands me the clipboard and I nod, eyeing the name on the box labeled ‘BED 3.’

Mason Rogers.

Great.

This is my last full shift before the Relegation, the last thing I want to do is spend it taking care of another Relegate. I had hopes of being able to steal away to an empty room and submerge myself in dusty old medical books. One thing I admire about my mother is her passion for caring for people, one of the few traits we share. If—no, when I return from the Relegation, I think I will find myself drawn back to this tiny hospital, caring for others with what I hope is a fraction of my mothers’ compassion.

I linger for a moment at the cubicle, brushing my fingers over piles of papers, chewed pencils, and worn-out books. Imagining myself outside of the fence is easy. Perhaps I should take this time to realize what I could bring back to this community, what contributions I could bring back to my mother. A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth as I imagine her delight as I return, older, stronger, and more confident. I envision her excitement as I present her with literature, stethoscopes, and medical supplies. She will be elated when I hug her and tell her I plan to join her at the hospital full time, that I adore her selflessness.

Pulling myself from my thoughts, I turn on my heels and head for Bed 3, prepared to spend the evening talking with Mason. If I’m going to spend my last time here with a patient, it could be worse, I guess.

TWO

By the time I get home, my watch reads 11:32 p.m. I am utterly exhausted. My feet ache, but my heart is full after spending hours chatting with Mason about life and nothing, with not a single mention of the Relegation from either of us.

I climb the stairs of our humble two-story home and stumble through my bedroom door. I fall ungracefully onto my bed and sink quickly into a deep sleep, too tired to even remove my shoes. My dreams quickly consume me, aggressive with their vile grip.

I am wandering through a thick forest, alone.

I feel like I’m looking for something, but recalling exactly what, is just beyond my reach. I hear the snapping of twigs as I walk timidly, through the forest. A shiver crawls across my skin as a faint strange growling echoes and unfurls all around me.

I am terrified but I force my feet to continue moving forward, wrap my arms tightly around myself in an attempt to contain the wave of fear threatening to spill out of me. It almost feels like I am trying to form a barrier between myself and whatever unknown that is lurking just beyond the shadows.

It’s starting to get cold as I now wander both with and without purpose. I can feel something inching closer to me. I can feel its wicked presence closing in on me, pressing me farther into the darkness. I pull my arms tighter around my small frame, a futile attempt to retain my own body heat.

There’s a sudden warmth that rhythmically caresses the back of my neck—breathing, I realize. Hot breaths licking across my skin that nauseate me and leave me paled as the fear spills over and coats my skin with its ghostly mark. I stop, frozen in my tracks and squeeze my eyes shut as a growl slides across my skin and licks vehemently against my brain. It vibrates down my spine and lands in my core like a rock. I imagine this is what it feels like to be touched by death itself.

I turn around shakily only to find nothing is there. Confusion tangles itself in my brain, pulling my brows together tightly. I can’t move, and gasp as I realize it is not from fear, but because my boots are stuck calf deep in the fresh mud surrounding me. I search my brain for an indication as to when I wandered into mud, only to come up empty handed.

Panic is beginning to set in. My heart is pounding rapidly against my ribcage. My palms are sweaty causing me to lose my grip as I desperately pull and pry at my boots hastily. I can feel myself starting to sink deeper in the mud with each tug. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my ears, a dizzying sensation that fights for my attention.

The forest is growing darker by the minute now. I can sense the darkness growing as well, its monsters lingering just beyond the shadows ready to swallow me whole.

I wake with a sudden jolt ricocheting through my limbs. I gasp for air as if I’d just emerged from nearly drowning, the fear induced adrenaline still lingering in my blood.

I sit up slowly, my heart still pounding hard against my ribcage, the rapid lub-dub throbbing in my ears. My clothes are completely drenched with sweat, the only visible indicator of my distress. The suffocating fabric clings to me, making my nerves harder to calm. I try to take a deep, cleansing breath.

It was just a dream. I remind myself, a mantra I repeat over and over until my heart rate and breathing slows and I