Inner City Page 3

  “Are you following me?”

  “I don’t have anywhere else to go.”

  The old man walked towards him and clicked his newly won lighter to life.

  “What’s in the bag?” he asked.

  “Clothes,” said Callen. The old man sneered and turned.

  “And some food,” Callen added.

  This seemed to please the old man far more and he moved the lighter around Callen’s face to get a better look at him, coming to a momentary stop at his side, which was once again seeping fresh blood.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  Callen nodded. The lighter clicked to black as the old man closed the lid.

  “This way,” he said.

  That was all that welcomed Callen into his blackened world. Callen was simply pleased to be in someone else’s care. He never gave a thought to any danger associated with this old man. After all, without him, there would have been nothing but rest for Callen in one of the world’s largest tombs.

  Together they walked for a long time. There was rubble under foot. Small crushed rock that had been evenly spread by time. Occasionally Callen would stumble as his foot came to rest on a larger rock that wasn’t secured. The old man had designed his shuffling steps to eliminate this distraction. Callen was now some way behind. His side was still seeping blood and he’d taken to holding it firmly as he walked. The pain was causing him to wince with each step, but he quickly forgot about the injury as they turned a corner. Up ahead, not fifteen metres away, was a piece of thin hessian cloth. It was draped over an opening; a small room that was fashioned out of a crumbled wall; a cave that the old man called home. The feature that intrigued Callen more than any other was the light straining to break its way through the cloth door. The old man swept past and was silhouetted, not in darkness, but in light from behind the curtain. Callen reached the doorway and slowly moved the cloth to one side with his hand. The cave was lit. Not well, but enough to see.

  There were two rooms, partitioned by a plastic sheet and propped up with some crates, all in various colours. There was a hole in the far wall with the telltale signs of a recent fire. On the ground nearby was a stockpile of sealed plastics, containing food. A small radio looking extremely antique, sat to one side of the room and a number of badly fashioned pieces of furniture, made from discarded plastic, stood at various points. The partition separated a bed that was raised off the ground. It was difficult to tell if it was made or not as the covers were rags, similar to those the old man wore. The bed could easily have held a dual purpose as a wardrobe. Callen stood watching the man go through a well rehearsed coming home ritual. This was a civilised being with everything but the civilised world to live in. Finally, having placed a number of items on a slightly skewed plastic shelf, he turned to Callen.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked, indicating the wound in Callen’s side.

  “In a park.”

  “How?”

  Callen was now faced with making a quick decision. He’d been educated about the seriousness of concealing knowledge of physical intimacy and he decided to edit the events heavily as he retold them.

  “I got in a fight.”

  “Over what?”

  The old man came and kneeled by Callen’s side, removing the blood soaked towel and inspecting the wound properly.

  Callen paused. The old man looked at him. He knew there was more to be told, but he wasn’t going to force the boy to speak about something that he plainly didn’t want known.

  “It’s alright,” he said. “You don’t want to say, we’ll leave it unsaid.”

  The old man went back to work on Callen’s side. He went to a shelf and found a bottle. He then took a rag that looked less dirty than the others nearby and soaked it with the contents. Callen was watching without worry. The old man seemed to be acting in his best interests and he was quite happy to give him his complete trust. The old man brought the rag to Callen’s side. Callen reacted as if he’d just been branded with a red hot iron. The old man placed his other arm around Callen, now jumping and screaming out in pain. He was held in place and the severe heat and sharpness that the wound had suddenly found, forced him to continue with his fruitless struggle. A fire had been lit in the wound and for some reason yet another person seemed to be taking revenge on him for things he wasn’t aware he’d done. After a long moment, the pain became less intense. It was still stinging and uncomfortable, but Callen was aware the worst was over and his desperation was tempered. He began to breathe normally, but his eyes were wide, staring at the old man who seemed to have few cares about what he’d just done.

  “I don’t have stitches, but if you stay still for a day or so it might take on its own. Looks to me like you’ve lost a lot of blood. Not enough to kill you. That stuff’ll kill any germs looking to get to it.”

  The old man moved to put the stinging liquid away. The rag went onto a shelf, folded and stacked with others.

  “So what did you bring to eat?” he asked.

  Callen took a moment to recover and then unpacked his bag. He had some synthetic bread and meats. He also had a plastic jar full of chocolate fudge and as he brought this treasure from his pack, he explained that it really needed the ice cream pie to set it off, but he’d felt, under the circumstances, the fudge alone would have to do. The old man laughed, which eased any remaining tension Callen had about being in his company. Callen’s seven year old mind demanded to know more about this strange man and the questions began thick and fast. Who was he? Where was he from? How and why did he live where he did? And where did the light come from to light the room?

  The old man was happy to give away all his secrets. His name was Lewis Aurum. He was born and bred in the city. He worked hard for almost fifty years before he decided to try and better himself through crime. He was caught for fraud and sentenced to public service for two years. When he was released he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. With his police record, he was blamed for an attack he didn’t commit and given a life sentence of public service. Such a sentence included work details into the Outlocked land’s to gather natural resources for use within the city. It was during such a work detail that Lewis escaped, only to be set upon by the Outlocked. They had primitive weapons and no idea of what it was to be civilised. He waited to die, but found luck was on his side. They didn’t kill him straight off, but held him prisoner long enough for him to escape. The Outlocked chased him until he was cut off by a series of cliffs, but he managed to find a path that led him to an opening out of that hostile world and back to his own.

  Lewis turned around and looked at the source of his light - it came from the wastelands. He had crawled along it to escape the world beyond and he explained that due to his record and unfinished sentence, resurfacing in the city wasn’t an option for him. The only other choice was to remain hidden in the tunnels and fashion what life he could. Callen stared at the small tunnel. He could easily fit through it. The thought terrified him. His curiosity would love to have travelled the adventure to the Outlocked world, but his common sense and understanding of what would be waiting for him made him think better of it. He had a path of his own to travel - to reunite with his parents. He’d rest for a day or two with this charitable old man and then climb to the carriage way. Then he’d ride to his old neighbourhood. All he had to do now was wait and heal.

  The cloth door lifted slowly upwards. Callen and Lewis swivelled their heads in unison to see the boy with his knife. He had a trail of blood down his cheek from his right temple. His hair was dusty on one side from where his head had slept unconscious on the ground. He took a step inside the room.

  “You should have stayed out of it, old man,” he said with a wave of his knife.

  Lewis stood up and prepared for battle. Callen feared for him. He looked as old as anyone Callen had ever seen, by his best guest one hundred and forty or fifty years old. While a person’s life had extended itself to well over a hundred years above in the city, Lewis’ life
had countered this trend since moving below. His diet had accelerated his age and Callen had no way of knowing he was barely seventy years old.

  The two circled each other, until the young boy lunged forward. Lewis began to wrestle, prompting Callen to step in and try and help. The boy with the knife slung his arm at Callen and threw him away. The blade tore at the flesh on Callen’s upper arm and for the second time his blood baptised the knife. Lewis battled on and they struggled for a short while before the tension left the contest with a sharp movement from the boy’s arm. Callen couldn’t see the weapon anymore, but he knew exactly where it was. Lewis collapsed into the boy’s arms. The knife embedded to the hilt in his stomach and a coldness fast flowing over the old man’s face. He coughed slightly on finding rest on his knees and cried out when the boy removed the knife, letting him fall forward, his support now removed. He clutched at his stomach and seemed to shrink slightly, as he lay on the dirt floor. A single stream of blood meandered from underneath him to the foot of his attacker, now standing, staring at his victim and wiping the blade of the knife across his pants. The shine quickly returned to the blade.

  As Lewis lay dying at his feet, the boy with the knife changed his focus to Callen. Callen held a hand over his arm, which bled freely from its fresh wound. The blood wasn’t stilled by the pressure of his hand and it formed a red glove as it coated his skin. Droplets were hitting the ground, having travelled over his hand and down his arm to the bend in his elbow. Callen was in great pain, but he wasn’t ready to die. In desperation he turned and crawled away, entering the small tunnel. The boy lunged and caught a foot, but his grip wasn’t firm and he was left holding a size five shoe. Callen crawled further. The opening to the Outlocked world was only a few metres ahead. Behind him, he heard the same shuffling sounds as the boy tried to follow him. Callen never thought of the consequences as he hit the light and emerged onto the steep slope of the near cliff like face of a small mountain. He rolled and skidded to the bottom, across loose rocks and sand, coming to rest fifty or sixty metres below. Above, at the opening to the tunnel, the boy looked down at Callen lying in pain. Nearby, an Outlocked scavenger had seen the dust clouds and was blowing a wooden trumpet to signal the arrival of an intruder from the city.

  Callen saw more Outlocked approaching and began to take a few steps back up the steep slope. He looked up to see the boy, flashing his knife with a smile on his face. Callen changed direction and began to run as best he could. The Outlocked grew in number and, led by the trumpeter, began to chase. Their unkempt hair, emblazoned with ornaments of nature, jumped and bounced with each step they took. There garments dirty with wear and poorly cut from skins, gave them a prehistoric look. Callen’s pace increased. He wasn’t aware that two of the hunting party had broken off to try and scale the slope, having seen the young boy peering out from above. The boy disappeared quickly inside. He was happy to leave Callen to fend for himself and while he wanted to be certain of the outcome, he didn’t want to place himself at risk. Besides, he was convinced the Outlocked would finish the job he’d started.

  The pursuit of Callen continued for some minutes. The Outlocked overtook him and wielded him around, as if they were mustering cattle. They had him heading back towards the area he’d come from. An exhausted Callen was sprinting; he’d lost any consideration for his wounds. The fresh cut to his arm was bleeding freely. The wound on his side had opened up to join it. He was fighting for breath as he ran. A number of times he was as good as caught, but the Outlocked seemed intent on extending the chase. Like a sport, their pursuit continued. Again and again they drove Callen in a direction of their choosing, until he was left no option but to try and scale the same slope he’d come down. The Outlocked chanted and screamed, as Callen struggled to gain a footing and ascend the slope. The blood still flowed from both wounds and his breathing was fast approaching the sounds of someone hysterically sobbing. Finally, half way up the face, he felt his head going light. His balance became unsure and all went dark.

  He fell forward hitting the lose stones hard before beginning a tumbling descent like a rag doll. His tumbling fall continued until he reached level ground. Motionless, Callen lay unconscious at the feet of his pursuers. His breath made it obvious he had only passed out. The group looked at one another, unsure what to do next.

  The leader of the group signalled for the young boy to be lifted. He was hauled up by his arms, his feet drawing two clumsy lines in the sandy ground as they took him away.

  Over the next hill he was placed down. A tarpaulin, coloured to match the surrounding ground was lifted to reveal supplies. The group retrieved a simple stretcher. A canvas bed connected to alloy fretwork. Callen was placed on the stretcher, as others of the group hurriedly replaced the tarpaulin and set about camouflaging it with its surroundings. The job completed, four of the Outlocked took up positions and raised the stretcher to their shoulders. Without a word they began carrying Callen away.

  They walked for almost four hours before the landscape began to change. Plant growth had increased and there were large patches of solid earth replacing the sandy surfaces. Over a hill, a further group of Outlocked could be seen at a camp in the distance. There was a shout of recognition and some movement. The stretcher being carried gave many of them worry and a few on horses ventured out to see what had happened.

  A particularly athletic looking male of around thirty arrived first. He was wearing skins fashioned into clothing, but these didn’t show the same poor workmanship as those worn by the hunting party. These clothes were well sewn and looked comfortable to wear. He turned to the leader of the stretcher bearers.

  “He’s from the city?” he asked with concern.

  “He’s a boy. What else was I meant to do?”

  “Let nature deal with him. Let him die.”

  “Like we let you die?” said the leader of the stretcher bearers with a glare at the horseman. “He’s unconscious; I couldn’t see any harm in bringing him back.”

  The horseman looked at Callen once more, before pulling the reigns and directing his horse away.

  When the stretcher bearers arrived at the camp there was a crowd to greet them. An older man of around fifty stood centre. The horseman was now standing alongside him. The older man barked orders as the stretcher was brought through the gates.

  “I want the boy seen to. Make him fit, but don’t let him wake. We need a ruling from the Elders before we do anything more.”

  The leader of the stretcher party came forward.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing?”

  “You saved the life of a child,” came the reply. “How could that not be the right thing?”

  With that, the old man turned and walked after the boy now being carried to the centre of the camp. The horseman stood looking at the leader of the stretcher party, he had more to say before he’d let this matter drop. He spoke only loud enough for the exchange to remain between the two men.

  “The Elders are soft. They don’t understand how much harm the city would do to us if they knew what we have. When I am an Elder, things will be different.”

  The leader of the stretcher party shook his head and gave a derisive laugh.

  “Lien, if you are ever an Elder, we won’t have anything left worth protecting.”

  With that the leader of the stretcher bearers nodded to the rest of his group and together they headed for the gate to retrace the long march that had brought them to the camp. Lien stood watching them leave. He was not a happy man.

  Callen was taken down some steps. A large wooden door opened inwards and the stretcher moved underground. Suddenly the world of the Outlocked gave way to a world of modern conveniences. The stretcher was placed upon a metal gurney that ran on castors. The floor was smooth stone that could only have been poured cement. Swinging doors on hinges and printed signs gave away a world that was not supposed to exist. While the amenities were not the quality or abundance of the city, they were far from being the dressings of a prehistori
c people. Callen was wheeled into a surgical theatre. There was little of the city’s technology, but the basics of a well maintained operating theatre were undeniably in place. Callen was given blood as a young surgeon scrubbed. The surgeon came into the room to be gloved. She was in her late thirties and received quite a deal of respect from those around her. She ruled her theatre in a manner that quickly explained that respect. Callen was in very good hands. He was stripped by orderlies and scrubbed by nurses, before the surgeon began her task. She deftly explored his wounds, cleaned and then began to sew a number of fine stitches within Callen’s side. Next she began on the stitches to close the wound up. The cut to his arm was a simpler affair, only needing five stitches to hold the skin in place. A dressing was placed on each wound and the job was done. The surgeon then looked at the boy’s chart and scribbled down instructions.

  “This will keep him under until the Elders make a decision. I want him kept isolated and I want someone with him around the clock.”

  She strode from the room as if there was need for a departing fanfare. Those left in her wake quickly and quietly went about their business.

  The old man who had greeted Callen was now on a horse of his own. Lien was by his side. The gates to the camp were opened and the two horsemen rode out. They set a brisk pace, well short of a gallop, but fast enough to tell of their hurry.

  The ride was a long one and should have taken well over a day, but this was an emergency and the men took a change of horses half way and rode into the night along well worn roads. By the time the new day greeted them, the country side had lost its arid appearance and was now lush and green. The people were also in greater numbers; cheery, happy people going about a multitude of varied tasks. The two horsemen rode on. Lien and the old man came to a stop in a well wooded area. There were a number of young people nearby who converged on the riders as they approached. Lien explained their purpose. They needed counsel with the Twelve Elders. Quickly they were helped from their horses and ushered towards steps into a tunnel. Beyond the steps another world suddenly appeared; a world of artificial lights and concrete passageways. A guide led the way down a narrow corridor. They approached two large wooden doors. A clerk approached them on arrival and asked about the nature of their visit. The moment the old man mentioned Callen’s presence in their camp, the clerk’s face registered alarm. He nodded his understanding, as the old man explained the precautions that had been taken to keep Callen ignorant of his experience. On completion of the tale, they were ushered into a larger chamber. They moved in silence as they negotiated narrow seating that surrounded a magnificent round table. Twelve elderly men and women sat around the table - the youngest of them around forty, the oldest closer to eighty. Nearby a younger man was making a case. A murder had been committed by a man named Klim. The accused had admitted his guilt and a judgement was required on the individual’s fate. It was a most serious case.