Page 53 of Dustwalker
He returned his attention to the book. Though he could have read the entire page with a single glance, he forced himself to slow down, to analyze each word.
It doesn’t look like they’re going house to house yet, which is probably the only reason I’m still here to write this. Pretty sure the Joneses and the Ortegas were down there. I didn’t notice anyone else that looked familiar, but I wasn’t about to press my face to the glass and show them where I’m hiding.
Night’s already falling, but everything is bright across the street. The fire’s still burning. I’m glad the wind is moving west, or I’d have to smell them.
The page ended there, with the bottom half blank. Ronin turned to the next.
Found out from Mandy Weiss earlier this morning that the shit show in the park was because THEY wanted part of the city cleared out. Said it was THEIR right to inhabit that part of Cheyenne, as it’s their kind that’s kept it running. People here have been scared for years, since well before the damned world ended, and there’s nothing beyond the city but dust and radiation. Where the hell were those people supposed to go?
She told me the leader of the robots gave the humans a day to pack up and leave their homes. Most stayed. When 24hours passed (ex-fucking-zactly 24 hours, down to the second) those tin bastards started going into the buildings and dragging people out.
It’s only a matter of time before they start clearing out more of these homes. I’ll have to keep my ear to the ground.
Ronin’s brow furrowed. He’d been to places where humans and bots lived apart from one another, but the separation usually seemed to be a matter of comfort and practicality. Flesh and bone had different needs than metal and electronics. He couldn’t recall hearing of such open, brutal hostility between the two groups before.
At least the entry gave him a probable time frame. It mentioned people had been scared since before the world ended—that had to be referring to the Blackout.
He continued reading.
Realized I haven’t been dating this. Guess it doesn’t really matter, though. Probably won’t be anyone left to read this in a few years at the rate we’re going. God, we made mistakes, but did we really deserve all this?
Been three days since they burned the bodies. It’s mostly been quiet, though Mandy told me there have been a few brawls amongst the other people left in town. Lots of tension in the air. I went down to the bar on 19th to see for myself. They still got booze. A week ago I would’ve said that was the only reason a place like that could be so busy, but I think that’s wrong now. I got the sense that there were so many folks there because everyone’s scared and nobody wants to be alone right now.
This town took enough of a hit when the armies rolled through the first time. We weathered the worst of it. Hell, who the fuck would bother targeting Wyoming, apart from the oil? We’ve maybe had it too easy. Sounds like it’s gone toshit everywhere else. Every now and then someone drifts up from Colorado or wanders in along I-80 from further west, and none of them have good stories to tell. They say Denver’s a radioactive crater.
Now we’ve got these robot sons of bitches coming in and telling us what parts of town we can’t go into anymore. How the hell is that acceptable? I bet some of them were even part of the group that came through during the war. For the most part, they left the city alone. Most of the fighting was at the old Air Force Base. You can still see the smoke from there sometimes on clear days. But there was still damage done here.
People were talking down at the bar like we’re all going to get together and do something about this. Gather weapons and force them out. Sure, there are bots that aren’t causing any trouble, but nobody seems to care about them now. They’re all a problem. It was them that fought in the war, them that was killing women and children.
All those idiots already forgot it was us that started dropping the bombs.
I’m getting myself all worked up. Got to stop. I’m likely to do something stupid when I get this way.
Ronin stopped, placed his finger between the pages, and closed the journal around it. Was there any analysis he could perform on what he’d just read that wouldn’t result in more confusion?
Human perception was filtered through a lens of emotion. He knew that firsthand, thanks largely to recent experiences. The journal’s writer even alluded to it in his entry, perhaps after having noticed the steady degradation of his handwriting, the increasing pressure of each pen stroke.
Ronin paced back and forth slowly before the window, mindful ofhis steps. This spot was directly above Lara’s room, and he didn’t want to wake her.
What would she say when he told her what the journal contained?I knew it, ordoesn’t surprise me, or perhapsyou fucking buckets-of-bolts bastards?
Or would her lips turn down and her eyes glisten with sorrow he couldn’t comprehend, sorrow for the memory of long-dead people she’d never known? For people who’d been taken from their homes, from this house, and killed?
He halted and looked out the window again, taking in the scene anew. The view must’ve been familiar to the man who’d written the journal. Familiar and horrifying.
Ronin ran his optics over the blankets and magazines on the floor, the jars of food in the bookcase, the table with its single chair.
What would it have been like to be in the place of the writer?
He reached through his memory, accessing data from his many forays into, around, and beyond the Dust. Almost every night had been spent alone, and he’d never given that fact any thought. He’d encountered plenty of people out there, and he’d left most of them dead or deactivated in the dirt.
The Dust favored the quick and the ruthless. There was no camaraderie to be found out there.
Yet hadn’t he encountered, time and again, bots and humans who ran in groups? He’d come across duos and trios, across gangs of half a dozen or more, all eager for supplies, for food, and for the imminent, violent confrontation with Ronin that was likely their only social interaction outside their small groups.
Somehow, that thought chain brought him to a new realization—maybe hedidn’t have to go out alone. Lara was a survivor. Like any human, she had her weaknesses, but there was strength in her beyond his ability to classify and measure. What would it be like to walk the Dust with her? To converse with her over the long days and nights, to have an extra pair of eyes watching his back?
To have someone to look out for other than himself.
