Bartholomew Razorwood
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- Posted: Sun, 01 Feb 2015 22:27:49 +0000
My writing style is probably a bit slow and clunky, forgive me. I've tried to edit it as best I can, this is all I have so far.
Story of a zombie awakening to sentience since death and finds that he can rouse some of the others of his undead kin to something resembling life as well.
Prologue: Eye opener.
I remember it now . . . it seemed long ago . . . I had awoke amid a thousand or more, standing there, limply shuffling in the endless night of un-death, a wave in a sea of waves. In those dark moments I noticed something . . . . Per se what I noticed was not all revolutionary to you who live but for me . . . well it let me explain. It took me by surprise; time had mattered little before that moment, if it had mattered at all. Months, years, centuries I couldn't recall now, they just drifted by like dust in the endless desert amid which the damned walked. In that moment, when time poured back into me I stood dumb struck, all the time before now had been taken up with the endless hunger, the pain and nothing, no thought, no joy, no sorrow, just death, as if I had not existed until this moment.
The rag tag, endlessly moaning, wretchedly marching army of the dead took no notice of my return to conscious, comfortable in their deaths they moved on. For many hours I stood as the moans faded into the distance, I noticed, so faintly, that I was alone in the desert, but where was I? I? What is I? I looked down quickly for reassurance, unable to understand this burgeoning growth of sentience. My hands where the first things I saw, limp at my sides, stained red from atrocities long forgotten.
Ah yes might have been my thoughts, though they were more basic than this, just the understanding along the lines of these words, The hunger.
There was none of that now, I had never been hungry before really, there was just . . . the drive to eat, anything and anyone. At the present it was no longer with me anymore, there was nothing, I felt neither tired or energetic, cold or hot, alive or dead, everything was just . . . empty . . . . At last I walked on to fill it up.
Chapter one: Dead names
The sun was high in the brown-tinged blue skies above the desert. Endless waves in either the air or on the sand seem to flow as the heat boiled from the surface of the sand to create the mirage oceans on the brown dehydrated shores of the desert. Set adrift from above is a figure, alone among the dunes, dressed in long brown rags covering every inch of flesh. The figure wears a cloth mask pulled tightly over the visage and the only suggestion of a face are the heavy, sand blasted goggles covering his eyes. Heavy boots plunk down on the sand sinking an inch down with each step, in the distance you could probably see him stumble and eventually roll down one of the taller dunes, a backpack trailing behind him. Eventually he comes to a stop rolling in a heap at last, just laying there, head in the sand. This seems to go on for a bit until at last he forces himself to sit up.
The head of the figure slumps toward his chest as he sits there seemingly dazed from the fall downward. This goes on for a while, as if he were contemplating something long and hard, maybe a musing of directions he should be headed, or deep despair at the seemingly hopeless situation. Eventually there was a motion: a half-shrug, half-lurch to his feet. The drifter staggered over to the back pack, stooped and picked it up.
I . . . I can't . . . started the thought as he walked along the ridge of a tall dune, it sputtered out sadly and the blank nothingness continued on, as empty as the desert he walked in. Hours passed and eventually night fell, the desert seemed to come alive with sounds, chitters in the distance, creatures rustling from under the sands, feigning death during the day only to resurrect at night. Eventually the moon rose full over the dunes shining a pale light on the cold lands that were only hours ago on fire. The drifter stopped under the light of the moon and eventually sat down leaning on the back pack for support staring up in the sky
.
What . . . what is that? He cocked his head to the side and let out a sigh, it was dry and coarse, like the winds of the desert his breath was swept upon. Memories flooded back to him in an instant, for the first time in untold ages, memories of warm nights under the moon, half remembered, tattered like old tattered dreams shredded by morning's first light.
I remember . . . . Was the first thing that popped in his head. Yes! The thought burst into his mind like a firework in the night sky. What little he could recall it was a heavenly body orbiting the earth, initiating tides and reflecting the light of the sun onto the planet.
There was a rasping wheeze coming from within the mask as he struggled for breath that didn't come. He clutched at his throat and gasped a raspy gasp like sand paper on bone and gagged doubling over toward his knees. Finally the words came to his throat, scratching and clawing their way to the surface pouring out like a hoarse gush of water from beneath the fractured surface.
"Moon! I remember your name! The moon! Space, lunar orbit, tidal cycles, I remember!" With strength that seemed to have been previously bereft from his body he leapt to his feet and shouted, "You're the moon! I REMEMBER!"
In that same moment he fell over backwards, arms outstretched into the sand and sighed in relief. Finally! Memories, he had thought they had all dried up, but then again the moon was always there, to the point that you took it for granted what it was. It was easy to forget, but easy to remember at the same time. Now memories associated with the moon, whatever they were did not come, no memories of love underneath its silver light, no memories of fireflies in summer, there was nothing but the information of what the moon was and what functions it served.
Flustered he began to search his memories for anything else of interest, it was slow going and they seemed to flow in one at a time in little bits like an old movie without the sound. There were a few things, but they were regarded as things he could recognize without some sort of touchstone in reality. Without having something to ground those memories in reality, they seemed little more than dreams, neither real or unreal, just incomplete.
Then out of the darkness one shining beacon burned through his mind one thought, one thing that mattered more to him right now than anything else ever could have . . . his name Gareth . . . But there was nothing after that, no middle name, no last name, nothing but a big blank again. Gareth sighed again and settled down, he was overloaded from the sudden surge of memories that had come upon and sat the in a daze.
"Gareth," he said aloud, as if playing around with the sound like a child with a new toy. He said it several more times to ease the fear that he might forget what he had acquired, this, his most precious possession up until now.
What now?
The thought rattled him, forcing him to sit bolt upright, it was as if a question about something abstract and uncertain were entirely new, it had nothing to do with . . . the hunger, Gareth visibly shuddered at the thought, or his more recent endeavor of- wait, what had happened to bring him to this point and for that matter what was he wearing and carrying around anyway?
Stiffly he moved to his knees, each muscle moving mechanically as if functioning one at a time to achieve a robotic sense of movement in quick succession that still didn't seem smooth enough. There was something off to his movements in fact, they were as if he were constantly in a state of fatigue but continued to move on as if compelled by some other worldly force.
But now, with each moment of clarity and remember there was more confidence in the movement, though still somewhat stiff, there was a fluidity that could resemble, to some unobservant observer, to be a sign of life. Gareth opened that pack and reached in feeling around, Hmmm, there were old bits of metal debris, some pens, paper and rolled up underneath it all was a tightly packed blanket rolled neatly into the bottom. He pulled it out gingerly letting the contents spill under to the bottom of the bag.
In the moonlight he could make out a plaid pattern, red and black . . . and smelling severely of the bottom of a bag that had sat god knows where for who knows how many years before he even picked it up, not even realizing why he had done so. It was just instinct to pick it up I guess, he thought, in my haze I couldn't control entirely what I was doing . . . honestly I have no idea what is going on, he lay down in the sand and covered himself with the blanket, not knowing why, just seeking some familiar comfort as the moon finally moved behind a tall dune and rendering the desert now in shadow.
Awakening the next day he staggered to his feet, rolled up the blanket putting it away before moving on. The sun beat down in all it's fury but he ignored, or even didn't notice the heat and continued on all day, resting at night before moving again during the day. He wasn't sure why he rested at night, Gareth never tired, but it felt right to rest at night, even if it felt pointless. Routine he said to himself Routine is key. Or at least it felt right, if nothing else.
Weeks turned into months as he wandered far from the desert to the north and the east into a wide land full of waving grass and sparse trees. It was a great plain stretching out far and wide beyond the sight of the eyes. To the west the ground seem to slope up and to the east it dipped further down into rolling hills, Gareth chose to follow the hills to the east.
As he went he would sometimes encounter groups of undead, some huge, sometimes just a single wandering entity moaning and shuffling in the eternal night of death. Curious he walked up to the single dead and it looked at him as if about to attack. She (he had noticed it was a she and mentally was surprised by this, over the weeks and months from the journey out of the desert he was slowly waking more and more, but still with no memory of what had come to pass) stopped and stared through him, he peered into those milky eyes and saw nothing, not even torment. Just an eternal, walking slumber of endless purposelessness.
In that moment he felt a stirring, a kind of desolation of the soul knowing there was no hope for this one and in that moment he felt a wailing grief greater than he could ever recall. Gareth tore his gaze from the female undead, she had already begun to move away oblivious now to his existence. In that instance of despair he ran ran, for the first time in possibly centuries he ran and felt the need to cry from the horror he had witnessed. He had never dared approach the large groups of dead for fear they may just roll over him in their passing, but the single dead was too much. He realized now what they were and perhaps what he was.
It was some time, possibly hours or days, before he stopped running. Coming at last unto a river he collapsed in the sand and mud of the shore and looked into the water. What looked back was a hooded figure with face covered. In curiosity he peeled the layers of cloth from his face and let the hood fall. What greeted him was no less horrifying than the undead woman. He was emaciated, grey skinned, lips stained with blood, greased and ancient hair in a mass around his head, once of medium length now tangled with centuries of filth and knots.
Shaking he looked down to his hands and once more saw the blood stains and in that instant he knew, he knew all of it. What had happened, not who he was but what he had done. He saw it like a dreams, those who struggled against him and countless others as he tore at them, ripped them to pieces and ate them. Sobbing he stripped himself and waded into the river feverishly washing his greyed flesh, washing the aeons of blood from his hands. Running water in his mouth feeling a desire to vomit but not the heave that came. It had all finally dawned on him, he was dead yet he walked, journeying on until cruel fate chanced on him to wake up and remember the countless horrors he committed.
Climbing on shore he stared up at the mid day sun, he had forgotten so much in that time, it was all he could do to lay there and succumb to the guilt and the pain gnawing in his soul like a festering wound. In his mind the remnants of his conscious chided him with the nagging guilt, Gareth clenched his fists and screamed long and sorrowfully before collapsing to his knees in the sand.
He lay there for some time until at last the sun had set and the moon came shining out from behind the sandstone cliffs. Gareth looked up into the face of the moon and thought, he thought long and hard about all that he could remember, he thought on the past and for the first time he thought about the future. My "life" up until now there has been nothing, for I aimed to achieve nothing but only to press forward as I . . as we all did. At last he stood up and for the first time in ages he spoke with a strength and confidence he hadn't found since that first night when he remembered his name.
"That was the purposeless existence of the dead! Though dead I remain, I think, I move about of my own volition!" He made a sweeping gesture and clenched his fist, "From now on I "live" for myself again, to find my purpose in "life", I wasn't awakened from death to languish in sorrow . . . there will be time to atone for my sins later . . . "
With renewed vigor and purpose he tied back his hair, though cleaned it reeked of ages past, and wrapped his face back up before donning his tattered rags and the long raggedy leather coat and boots that protected his form the elements. Turning to what was roughly north he followed the river hoping to find a way to cross it's vast bulk. After a few days of wandering along the mud flats and through the forests he came across a shallow for and stalked though, it took the better part of an hour to struggle through the mud and current before reaching on the other side.
Stopping only to dump out of boots he continued meeting a rising land that eventually opened into a rolling land of open prairies and forests tucked deep in folds and hollows in the land. Gareth stalked for many more days until he at last came to something he hadn't seen before, but immediately knew what it was.
"It's . . . a road?" Said Gareth in surprised tones, "Does . . . oes that mean the living . . "
As he approached the end of his sentence there came a rumbling in the distance and instinctively he dived into the bushes by the road. What followed through surprised him greatly, huge, armored trucks shaped nearly like boats on land barreled by in a massive convoy that kicked up dust clouds for miles and miles. Upon each one was a man covered from head to toe in a military like garb with his face covered an manning a swiveling machine turret.
Out of the forest came moaning and rapid shuffling as zombies of all sorts rushed with surprising speed at the convoy only to by cut down by machine gun fire or be crushed under the tread of the armored trucks. Then just as they came it had all passed, the dead lay moaning, those that hadn't been shot in the head had been cut in half and just crawled off, at least those who had arms did. Those who did not just lay thee in final defeat, not even interested the vultures.
With a grim face he stalked out into the killing fields and looked at those who could not move but were "spared" final death. There were six in all, the rest just continued to move on already gone, moving or dragging themselves along to road wherever the convoy was moving. In desperation he stare into their faces and again saw nothing but the endless night, they stared completely through him. It was in that moment that he decided he must end their suffering, unable to move they were even more forsaken than before.
Hefting a fallen branch that was still green enough that it wouldn't break and heavy enough to smash a skull he began a grim duty of silencing the moans one by one until at last he cast aside the bloodied limb and sat down on the side of the road trying hard to weep but feeling no tears coming. Gareth placed his covered face in his hands and sobbed gently for he knew he could not approach any settlement now with what he had seen.
What he did not know was that he was being watched from the trees, human eyes spied him from across the road in the canopy. They had been watching the whole spectacle curiously, for he had not attracted any of the dead to him before or after the passing of the trucks. Quietly they dropped down onto the forest floor, after dispatching any lingering dead with silent arrows and approached him with weapons drawn in case he was secretly armed.
In Gareth's despair he hadn't noticed them approach and had he, he might not have cared too much at this moment for he wept greatly. When they saw he hadn't moved but continued his gentle crying one man moved forward and placed a hand carefully on his shoulder saying, "You should not weep for them, they have been dead for a long time, it is better this way."
Gareth started and fell over on his back trying to scoot backwards into the bushes and escape. But he froze when he saw the arrows notched and somewhere inside him he said to himself So far a journey to end like this, is this truly how I shall die, cowering before the living?
Looking up at his through the thin veil of the cloths that covered his face entirely he saw a group of people, ten strong, men and women dressed in simple garb and camouflage, man had guns but the weapons they seemed to prefer were the arrows. Easily made and silent when compared to the guns they must have only been for dire emergencies. The man who had spoken to him stepped forward and extended a hand, he had a rugged but thin face and was of red skin from the sun, and sported a closely cropped black Mohawk and face paint. upon further inspection they all had face paint.
Gareth reached out fearfully and gripped the hand, the man's eyes went wide as he pulled him to his feet and pulled back quickly stepping away from the shrouded figure before him saying gently, "You . . . . y-you're cold as ice."
To which Gareth stepped back carefully ready to shield his hea with his arms saying with a distant voice, "Yes, I am . . . one of them . . . but not."
The warrior stood as if awe struck but did not move, no one did, arrows notched though they were everyone stood dumb struck as if they had seen a ghost. Finally one spoke in a halting tone as if she could not believe it, she still kept he bow level however, "Where . . where did you come from?"
"From a great desert . . . where many dead wander still . . . I awoke there amongst . . . and army of us and have journeyed aimlessly since."
They moved quickly to surround him now and bound his hands behind his back, but they did so with a kind of reverence, maybe because they were not sure what to do with him. Soon they marched through the forest and as they did one finally asked, "Do you . . . remember your name?" They seemed unaccustomed to talk to strangers and always they spoke quietly.
"I am . . . Gareth, "He said softly through the cloth, "I remember nothing more of my name, or who I was before . . . I only remember . . ." There was a soft grinding as he clenched his teeth, they tensed bu soon realized he was trying to cry again, "I only remember bits and pieces . . . and the endless nightmare . . . the horrors . . . atrocities . . . " He spoke as a child confessing to a parent unable to stop, he could not and would not speak of specific instances but from then on bowe his head. For those crimes to be even mentioned filled him again with the grief of the past, a feeling and a time that would be forever known as The Harrowing.
At last they came to a treed wall or lip of land covered in mosses and old trunks and stopped. Reaching out quietly one of them touched a seemingly unassuming knot on the stop and suddenly a mechanical groaning was followed by the very ground opening up. Down they descended into the a massive complex of tunnels and people moving here and there. It was a great city built into the limestone of the earth, some hundreds or even thousands of people were everywhere, businesses bustled, people and children moved happily about the street, playing, singing, music was played.
They seemed to ignore him, in his garb he was but another captured outsider. But for him it brought a wave of feelings, of a desire to belong to a world like this, to feel the rhythm of life once more. Down they went toward the deepest levels until the came to a great hall. There the leader went inside for long time while he and his body guard waited. At last he was motioned to be brought in and his captors prodded him forward with some care.
Gareth was brought before an elderly man sitting amongst some large men with wary eyes, the word chief came to mind and Gareth knelt quietly before him. With a voice of ancient gravel the chief said, "Is this the . . . . "dead man"?"
Another nodded stating simple, "Yes, he is, we observed him ending the uh . . . existence of the walking dead that had been rendered unable to move by the caravan gunners . . . afterwards he was seen . . . er, crying sir."
A look of surprise crossed the chiefs face and he knelt to look to look into Gareth's milky white rheumy eyes with a look of concern, Gareth looked back with a distant yet sorrowful look, "By god what has happened to you . . ." the Chief whispered.
Gareth was taken aback by the show of sympathy, "I . . . have awoken . . ." he paused and then added, "Sir."
Standing he walked back to his chair al the while saying, "Pray, where do you come, tell me . . .everything if you can."
A man started, "He says he-" but the chief held up a hand,"Pleas let him speak." The Chief turned an interested face toward Gareth and simply raised an eyebrow, "Proceed."
Still kneeling he began simply, "I remember . . . waking up in a great crowd of the walking dead, barely cognizant I stood dumbstruck as they wandered off and stood there for what seemed like days." Gareth blinked and looked uncomfortable having never really having had the need to talk this much before, he wasn't sure what, "There was a time where I wandered aimlessly picking up things as I went, putting on clothes an covering my face as if I were afraid of the wind and the sand of the desert . . "
This went on for a great while as he tried to recount the lands he passed through until at last he came to what had happened mere hours ago by the road. He described how he felt and began to look downcast in recollection for he was still in the grip of The Harrowing, the flood of memories and guilt of the damned would take some time to shake off.
"Hmmm, they said you had a name, what was it again?"
"Gareth . . . I . . I don't recall anything else, er sir."
The chief smiled and nodded, "Welcome then Gareth I am Chief Amitola and this is the City Under the Earth."
Gareth looked around then suddenly said, "Why wasn't I killed, aren't you afraid of an outbreak, aren't you . . . afraid of me?"
Amitola laughed softly and smiled, "Gareth, you needn't worry we are the descendants of the survivors of The Fall, we are immune to the plague that you bore and bear still, it is why we still live."
"The Fall"?"
"Yes, three hundred years ago the outbreak of a plague that created the walking dead was loosed upon the earth and almost all of man was consumed, civilization collapsed, we here were those who were unaffected or where unbitten." Chief Amitola gestured out of the hall toward the village, "This village was once a simple fallout shelter built for a few dozen, but with years and people coming from all around we expanded into the limestone and continued to grow until we were all but a city unto ourselves, we survive by farming, hunting and utilizing geothermic energy to create an endless source of power for the city."
Standing up in awe he looked up at the ceiling and all around, Three hundred years created all this! Then he stopped and stared at Amitola, "B-but . . . I remember some of the time before The Fall, I just can't grasp these memories, have I . . . been dead for that long?"
Amitola merely shrugged and waved the question away, "Trouble yourself not with these questions for now, we will answer them in time, for now we will take you to a place you may rest if you can, Kangee here will show you to your quarters, we must give you time, time for you to remember and time to be amongst people," then he stood up and placed a hand on Gareth's shoulder, "I know much troubles you, I cannot begin to fathom your pain and loss, but you must understand, there is some special destiny for you, otherwise you would have not awoken or found you way to us by some chance, please understand me when I say try to understand that what you have done, many of us have grown up seeing the walking dead, they know not what they do anymore and you did not either from the sound of it."
A pained look shot across Gareth's eyes and he turned away saying quietly, "Thank you Amitola . . . . " If it were possible, he would have shed tears again.
Chapter 2: The City Under the Earth
Eventually he was unbound and led to a small room in carved into the limestone with a bed and a chair, it seemed that they used this room as maybe a cell or as a temporary place to house guests. Kangee, the warrior that had first spoken to him, opened the door and made mention that if he needed anything he would be available to obtain it for him, but Gareth merely shook his head saying he hadn't needed food or even water for months, or even years. To be honest when he thought about it, he wasn't even sure how long he had wandered up until this point.
It was some days before he left the room, he tried to sleep but he never felt tire, he was just there, eventually he tried to focus his mind and to rest his thoughts and ease his turmoil inside. Days turned to week and eventually he was led out and given proper clothing, his old clothes were taken away to be burned save the old leather coat, it was still in good enough condition to repair.
Soon he was led to a doctor and was examined, what was left of his congealed blood was drawn and studied. His body was checked for wounds, repair as best the could, sewn, bones were set and bolstered with screws and steel. Afterwards when he walked he hadn't realized how damaged his body had become in the intervening times. They had even filled him with formaldehyde effectively embalming his body and preserving as well as making it far less stiff than it was.
Gareth was given helped cleansing himself and finally when he looked in the mirror in his room without his mask he felt as though he was almost alive again, but deep inside he always knew he'd be different and he also knew he couldn't stay here in this room. The people who had been taking care of him had earnestly encouraged that he take an escort and visit the city, especially Kangee who asked many times.
"You must get out," he insisted, "the chief is worried that you your spirit will fall into a deep despair which you may never recover, you need to interact with people and forget your troubles, listen to Amitola, he is a very wise man."
"If I must, I will, I just don't know if I can face people even after the forgiveness and kindness you have shown me,' Gareth smiled weakly knowing it was a poor argument the he finally caved, "Oh alright, let's get out of here for now! Show me the city Kangee, it's got to be better than sitting here feeling sorry for myself."
Kangee grinned and slapped him on the back, "There you go, trust me, The City is something to see, they say you can't see all there is to see in one lifetime here."
Indeed Kangee was not kidding as they entered the great spiraling tunnel that slowly spiraled up, each level branching off into dozens of side streets and those streets connecting with alleyways, further streets stretching farther off into the miles of limestone in all directions, all lit with bright bulbs that made it feel as though it were day and warm, yet there was a cool breeze that blew down from some great vent hidden far above them bringing it's fresh air down into the tunnels.
They visited markets and he met with people, they all flocked to see the strange stranger and spoke to each other about his dead appearance and rheumy white eyes. They had heard that one of the walking dead had returned to his conscious mind and were soon referring to him as the Yuhica Wicate, or the Awakened Dead. Gareth smiled to people and Kangee walked proudly beside him, explaining sights while children tagged along jabbering and pointing at the funny man who was dead yet alive.
Now looking at Gareth fully restored one wouldn't think he was too bad on the eyes, a bit plain all the same and continued to keep his hair at it's median length knowing he'd never be able to cut it lest he'd lose it forever. In fact some women whispered about his appearance and giggled to each other quietly.
Now the city itself was actually built of many people, but they all seemed to speak same mixture of what Gareth had come to remember being a mishmash of native American dialects and English, it seemed to be the norm and in some places he couldn't understand the dialects at all. In all this time he wondered what had happened to other kinds of people, then he remembered the convoy that fateful day and endeavored to ask Kangee more about it.
While sitting in his room trying to rest his mind Kangee walked in and Gareth smiled. "You wanted to talk with me?" Kangee said curiously.
"Yes," said Gareth after some time spent coming back from the distant look that his meditations gave him, "I've been bothered with something lately that I have never really found the time to ask you . . . who were those people in the armored vehicles?"
For a moment Kangee frowned and shook his head, "We rarely talk of those people," he looked out the door for a second then closed it carefully behind him and turned to Gareth, "There are from one of the great tower cities, there are we have been told, quite a few out there in the world, they are . . . I can't say for certain, no one has dared ventured near one of the tower cities."
Gareth cocked his head for a moment, "But surely people must know something?"
Kangee shook his head, "Only dark rumors, some speak of a oppressive and paranoid government that controls and tracks every person there. There are even whispers that the leaders of such places are immortal and drink the blood of the populace, indeed some say that the nobles of the house ride out and seek out nomadic tribes and slaughter them for sport herding the wandering dead ahead of them to cause panic amongst people. What the bloody princes don't drink dry the dead devour whole creating more of their numbers . . . "
He shut his eyes and waved the words away, "I'm . . I'm sorry I ever asked Kangee, I can't imagine someone going out of their way to cause suffering like that."
The warrior smiled, "Yes, that's why you still live, you have compassion and strong feelings Gareth, it is why we didn't kill you out right when we first saw you."
They smiled and talked for a while longer before Kangee dismissed himself and Gareth returned to his meditations to calm and rest his mind. He found that he only became mentally exhausted now as he talked and interacted with people having no longer being driven only by the need to go forward. But with this new freedom he soon became restless, something was pulling him to wander again, but with a renewed purpose but what he couldn't tell. Something out there called to him and he couldn't tell what it was.
It galled the dead man for sometime even as he was allowed free range to certain parts of the city, but ever more he was found sitting in his room, no longer looking forlorn but now with a growing look of determination on his face. It wasn't until the feeling crested that he met with Chief Amitola again, they shook hands briskly like old friends now and sat in the great chamber near a warm fire while Amitola smoked from a short tobacco pipe.
Finally it was Amitola that broke the silence, "My friend, I have sensed 'ere long that you have been restless, more so than usual, please, tell me what's on your mind."
"Well," started Gareth as he leaned forward on a knee, Amitola smiled noticing the strength and confidence contained in his friend's posture he knew what was coming next, "I feel I need to go out into the world again."
The wizened old man nodded sagely and gestured to continue, "Yes . . er, it's not that I don't appreciate the hospitality that you and your city have shown me but it's just that . . . well I feel like I'm being called out for some purpose that I can't quite understand, there's something out there that may lead me to my true purpose and I need to find it."
Smiling Amitola knocked his ashes into the fire and leaned on a knee giving his friend a slap on the shoulder, "It is as I had hoped Gareth, you have grown strong here, you are not the broken man that was drug here barely able to process his own existence without such shame and remorse that he might as well have not continued," he paused and reloaded his pipe and lit the tobacco taking a deep breath, "But now look at you, poised, confident, even ready to strike out into a world that nearly broke you once, my how you've grown these past months!!"
They laughed and continued to speak at length together until an agreement was reached. Gareth was to leave two weeks from that day and was to swear a solemn oath never to reveal the location of the secret city to any outsider connected to the tower cities. There was no trust to be had with the people there, for there were many legends of bloodshed and mayhem that came from that way. In fact it was advised all together that he continue to travel east, though there may be more cities in the world, no one had traveled that way in a great long while, it may be worth a look at.
Story of a zombie awakening to sentience since death and finds that he can rouse some of the others of his undead kin to something resembling life as well.
The Awakener
Prologue: Eye opener.
I remember it now . . . it seemed long ago . . . I had awoke amid a thousand or more, standing there, limply shuffling in the endless night of un-death, a wave in a sea of waves. In those dark moments I noticed something . . . . Per se what I noticed was not all revolutionary to you who live but for me . . . well it let me explain. It took me by surprise; time had mattered little before that moment, if it had mattered at all. Months, years, centuries I couldn't recall now, they just drifted by like dust in the endless desert amid which the damned walked. In that moment, when time poured back into me I stood dumb struck, all the time before now had been taken up with the endless hunger, the pain and nothing, no thought, no joy, no sorrow, just death, as if I had not existed until this moment.
The rag tag, endlessly moaning, wretchedly marching army of the dead took no notice of my return to conscious, comfortable in their deaths they moved on. For many hours I stood as the moans faded into the distance, I noticed, so faintly, that I was alone in the desert, but where was I? I? What is I? I looked down quickly for reassurance, unable to understand this burgeoning growth of sentience. My hands where the first things I saw, limp at my sides, stained red from atrocities long forgotten.
Ah yes might have been my thoughts, though they were more basic than this, just the understanding along the lines of these words, The hunger.
There was none of that now, I had never been hungry before really, there was just . . . the drive to eat, anything and anyone. At the present it was no longer with me anymore, there was nothing, I felt neither tired or energetic, cold or hot, alive or dead, everything was just . . . empty . . . . At last I walked on to fill it up.
Chapter one: Dead names
The sun was high in the brown-tinged blue skies above the desert. Endless waves in either the air or on the sand seem to flow as the heat boiled from the surface of the sand to create the mirage oceans on the brown dehydrated shores of the desert. Set adrift from above is a figure, alone among the dunes, dressed in long brown rags covering every inch of flesh. The figure wears a cloth mask pulled tightly over the visage and the only suggestion of a face are the heavy, sand blasted goggles covering his eyes. Heavy boots plunk down on the sand sinking an inch down with each step, in the distance you could probably see him stumble and eventually roll down one of the taller dunes, a backpack trailing behind him. Eventually he comes to a stop rolling in a heap at last, just laying there, head in the sand. This seems to go on for a bit until at last he forces himself to sit up.
The head of the figure slumps toward his chest as he sits there seemingly dazed from the fall downward. This goes on for a while, as if he were contemplating something long and hard, maybe a musing of directions he should be headed, or deep despair at the seemingly hopeless situation. Eventually there was a motion: a half-shrug, half-lurch to his feet. The drifter staggered over to the back pack, stooped and picked it up.
I . . . I can't . . . started the thought as he walked along the ridge of a tall dune, it sputtered out sadly and the blank nothingness continued on, as empty as the desert he walked in. Hours passed and eventually night fell, the desert seemed to come alive with sounds, chitters in the distance, creatures rustling from under the sands, feigning death during the day only to resurrect at night. Eventually the moon rose full over the dunes shining a pale light on the cold lands that were only hours ago on fire. The drifter stopped under the light of the moon and eventually sat down leaning on the back pack for support staring up in the sky
.
What . . . what is that? He cocked his head to the side and let out a sigh, it was dry and coarse, like the winds of the desert his breath was swept upon. Memories flooded back to him in an instant, for the first time in untold ages, memories of warm nights under the moon, half remembered, tattered like old tattered dreams shredded by morning's first light.
I remember . . . . Was the first thing that popped in his head. Yes! The thought burst into his mind like a firework in the night sky. What little he could recall it was a heavenly body orbiting the earth, initiating tides and reflecting the light of the sun onto the planet.
There was a rasping wheeze coming from within the mask as he struggled for breath that didn't come. He clutched at his throat and gasped a raspy gasp like sand paper on bone and gagged doubling over toward his knees. Finally the words came to his throat, scratching and clawing their way to the surface pouring out like a hoarse gush of water from beneath the fractured surface.
"Moon! I remember your name! The moon! Space, lunar orbit, tidal cycles, I remember!" With strength that seemed to have been previously bereft from his body he leapt to his feet and shouted, "You're the moon! I REMEMBER!"
In that same moment he fell over backwards, arms outstretched into the sand and sighed in relief. Finally! Memories, he had thought they had all dried up, but then again the moon was always there, to the point that you took it for granted what it was. It was easy to forget, but easy to remember at the same time. Now memories associated with the moon, whatever they were did not come, no memories of love underneath its silver light, no memories of fireflies in summer, there was nothing but the information of what the moon was and what functions it served.
Flustered he began to search his memories for anything else of interest, it was slow going and they seemed to flow in one at a time in little bits like an old movie without the sound. There were a few things, but they were regarded as things he could recognize without some sort of touchstone in reality. Without having something to ground those memories in reality, they seemed little more than dreams, neither real or unreal, just incomplete.
Then out of the darkness one shining beacon burned through his mind one thought, one thing that mattered more to him right now than anything else ever could have . . . his name Gareth . . . But there was nothing after that, no middle name, no last name, nothing but a big blank again. Gareth sighed again and settled down, he was overloaded from the sudden surge of memories that had come upon and sat the in a daze.
"Gareth," he said aloud, as if playing around with the sound like a child with a new toy. He said it several more times to ease the fear that he might forget what he had acquired, this, his most precious possession up until now.
What now?
The thought rattled him, forcing him to sit bolt upright, it was as if a question about something abstract and uncertain were entirely new, it had nothing to do with . . . the hunger, Gareth visibly shuddered at the thought, or his more recent endeavor of- wait, what had happened to bring him to this point and for that matter what was he wearing and carrying around anyway?
Stiffly he moved to his knees, each muscle moving mechanically as if functioning one at a time to achieve a robotic sense of movement in quick succession that still didn't seem smooth enough. There was something off to his movements in fact, they were as if he were constantly in a state of fatigue but continued to move on as if compelled by some other worldly force.
But now, with each moment of clarity and remember there was more confidence in the movement, though still somewhat stiff, there was a fluidity that could resemble, to some unobservant observer, to be a sign of life. Gareth opened that pack and reached in feeling around, Hmmm, there were old bits of metal debris, some pens, paper and rolled up underneath it all was a tightly packed blanket rolled neatly into the bottom. He pulled it out gingerly letting the contents spill under to the bottom of the bag.
In the moonlight he could make out a plaid pattern, red and black . . . and smelling severely of the bottom of a bag that had sat god knows where for who knows how many years before he even picked it up, not even realizing why he had done so. It was just instinct to pick it up I guess, he thought, in my haze I couldn't control entirely what I was doing . . . honestly I have no idea what is going on, he lay down in the sand and covered himself with the blanket, not knowing why, just seeking some familiar comfort as the moon finally moved behind a tall dune and rendering the desert now in shadow.
Awakening the next day he staggered to his feet, rolled up the blanket putting it away before moving on. The sun beat down in all it's fury but he ignored, or even didn't notice the heat and continued on all day, resting at night before moving again during the day. He wasn't sure why he rested at night, Gareth never tired, but it felt right to rest at night, even if it felt pointless. Routine he said to himself Routine is key. Or at least it felt right, if nothing else.
Weeks turned into months as he wandered far from the desert to the north and the east into a wide land full of waving grass and sparse trees. It was a great plain stretching out far and wide beyond the sight of the eyes. To the west the ground seem to slope up and to the east it dipped further down into rolling hills, Gareth chose to follow the hills to the east.
As he went he would sometimes encounter groups of undead, some huge, sometimes just a single wandering entity moaning and shuffling in the eternal night of death. Curious he walked up to the single dead and it looked at him as if about to attack. She (he had noticed it was a she and mentally was surprised by this, over the weeks and months from the journey out of the desert he was slowly waking more and more, but still with no memory of what had come to pass) stopped and stared through him, he peered into those milky eyes and saw nothing, not even torment. Just an eternal, walking slumber of endless purposelessness.
In that moment he felt a stirring, a kind of desolation of the soul knowing there was no hope for this one and in that moment he felt a wailing grief greater than he could ever recall. Gareth tore his gaze from the female undead, she had already begun to move away oblivious now to his existence. In that instance of despair he ran ran, for the first time in possibly centuries he ran and felt the need to cry from the horror he had witnessed. He had never dared approach the large groups of dead for fear they may just roll over him in their passing, but the single dead was too much. He realized now what they were and perhaps what he was.
It was some time, possibly hours or days, before he stopped running. Coming at last unto a river he collapsed in the sand and mud of the shore and looked into the water. What looked back was a hooded figure with face covered. In curiosity he peeled the layers of cloth from his face and let the hood fall. What greeted him was no less horrifying than the undead woman. He was emaciated, grey skinned, lips stained with blood, greased and ancient hair in a mass around his head, once of medium length now tangled with centuries of filth and knots.
Shaking he looked down to his hands and once more saw the blood stains and in that instant he knew, he knew all of it. What had happened, not who he was but what he had done. He saw it like a dreams, those who struggled against him and countless others as he tore at them, ripped them to pieces and ate them. Sobbing he stripped himself and waded into the river feverishly washing his greyed flesh, washing the aeons of blood from his hands. Running water in his mouth feeling a desire to vomit but not the heave that came. It had all finally dawned on him, he was dead yet he walked, journeying on until cruel fate chanced on him to wake up and remember the countless horrors he committed.
Climbing on shore he stared up at the mid day sun, he had forgotten so much in that time, it was all he could do to lay there and succumb to the guilt and the pain gnawing in his soul like a festering wound. In his mind the remnants of his conscious chided him with the nagging guilt, Gareth clenched his fists and screamed long and sorrowfully before collapsing to his knees in the sand.
He lay there for some time until at last the sun had set and the moon came shining out from behind the sandstone cliffs. Gareth looked up into the face of the moon and thought, he thought long and hard about all that he could remember, he thought on the past and for the first time he thought about the future. My "life" up until now there has been nothing, for I aimed to achieve nothing but only to press forward as I . . as we all did. At last he stood up and for the first time in ages he spoke with a strength and confidence he hadn't found since that first night when he remembered his name.
"That was the purposeless existence of the dead! Though dead I remain, I think, I move about of my own volition!" He made a sweeping gesture and clenched his fist, "From now on I "live" for myself again, to find my purpose in "life", I wasn't awakened from death to languish in sorrow . . . there will be time to atone for my sins later . . . "
With renewed vigor and purpose he tied back his hair, though cleaned it reeked of ages past, and wrapped his face back up before donning his tattered rags and the long raggedy leather coat and boots that protected his form the elements. Turning to what was roughly north he followed the river hoping to find a way to cross it's vast bulk. After a few days of wandering along the mud flats and through the forests he came across a shallow for and stalked though, it took the better part of an hour to struggle through the mud and current before reaching on the other side.
Stopping only to dump out of boots he continued meeting a rising land that eventually opened into a rolling land of open prairies and forests tucked deep in folds and hollows in the land. Gareth stalked for many more days until he at last came to something he hadn't seen before, but immediately knew what it was.
"It's . . . a road?" Said Gareth in surprised tones, "Does . . . oes that mean the living . . "
As he approached the end of his sentence there came a rumbling in the distance and instinctively he dived into the bushes by the road. What followed through surprised him greatly, huge, armored trucks shaped nearly like boats on land barreled by in a massive convoy that kicked up dust clouds for miles and miles. Upon each one was a man covered from head to toe in a military like garb with his face covered an manning a swiveling machine turret.
Out of the forest came moaning and rapid shuffling as zombies of all sorts rushed with surprising speed at the convoy only to by cut down by machine gun fire or be crushed under the tread of the armored trucks. Then just as they came it had all passed, the dead lay moaning, those that hadn't been shot in the head had been cut in half and just crawled off, at least those who had arms did. Those who did not just lay thee in final defeat, not even interested the vultures.
With a grim face he stalked out into the killing fields and looked at those who could not move but were "spared" final death. There were six in all, the rest just continued to move on already gone, moving or dragging themselves along to road wherever the convoy was moving. In desperation he stare into their faces and again saw nothing but the endless night, they stared completely through him. It was in that moment that he decided he must end their suffering, unable to move they were even more forsaken than before.
Hefting a fallen branch that was still green enough that it wouldn't break and heavy enough to smash a skull he began a grim duty of silencing the moans one by one until at last he cast aside the bloodied limb and sat down on the side of the road trying hard to weep but feeling no tears coming. Gareth placed his covered face in his hands and sobbed gently for he knew he could not approach any settlement now with what he had seen.
What he did not know was that he was being watched from the trees, human eyes spied him from across the road in the canopy. They had been watching the whole spectacle curiously, for he had not attracted any of the dead to him before or after the passing of the trucks. Quietly they dropped down onto the forest floor, after dispatching any lingering dead with silent arrows and approached him with weapons drawn in case he was secretly armed.
In Gareth's despair he hadn't noticed them approach and had he, he might not have cared too much at this moment for he wept greatly. When they saw he hadn't moved but continued his gentle crying one man moved forward and placed a hand carefully on his shoulder saying, "You should not weep for them, they have been dead for a long time, it is better this way."
Gareth started and fell over on his back trying to scoot backwards into the bushes and escape. But he froze when he saw the arrows notched and somewhere inside him he said to himself So far a journey to end like this, is this truly how I shall die, cowering before the living?
Looking up at his through the thin veil of the cloths that covered his face entirely he saw a group of people, ten strong, men and women dressed in simple garb and camouflage, man had guns but the weapons they seemed to prefer were the arrows. Easily made and silent when compared to the guns they must have only been for dire emergencies. The man who had spoken to him stepped forward and extended a hand, he had a rugged but thin face and was of red skin from the sun, and sported a closely cropped black Mohawk and face paint. upon further inspection they all had face paint.
Gareth reached out fearfully and gripped the hand, the man's eyes went wide as he pulled him to his feet and pulled back quickly stepping away from the shrouded figure before him saying gently, "You . . . . y-you're cold as ice."
To which Gareth stepped back carefully ready to shield his hea with his arms saying with a distant voice, "Yes, I am . . . one of them . . . but not."
The warrior stood as if awe struck but did not move, no one did, arrows notched though they were everyone stood dumb struck as if they had seen a ghost. Finally one spoke in a halting tone as if she could not believe it, she still kept he bow level however, "Where . . where did you come from?"
"From a great desert . . . where many dead wander still . . . I awoke there amongst . . . and army of us and have journeyed aimlessly since."
They moved quickly to surround him now and bound his hands behind his back, but they did so with a kind of reverence, maybe because they were not sure what to do with him. Soon they marched through the forest and as they did one finally asked, "Do you . . . remember your name?" They seemed unaccustomed to talk to strangers and always they spoke quietly.
"I am . . . Gareth, "He said softly through the cloth, "I remember nothing more of my name, or who I was before . . . I only remember . . ." There was a soft grinding as he clenched his teeth, they tensed bu soon realized he was trying to cry again, "I only remember bits and pieces . . . and the endless nightmare . . . the horrors . . . atrocities . . . " He spoke as a child confessing to a parent unable to stop, he could not and would not speak of specific instances but from then on bowe his head. For those crimes to be even mentioned filled him again with the grief of the past, a feeling and a time that would be forever known as The Harrowing.
At last they came to a treed wall or lip of land covered in mosses and old trunks and stopped. Reaching out quietly one of them touched a seemingly unassuming knot on the stop and suddenly a mechanical groaning was followed by the very ground opening up. Down they descended into the a massive complex of tunnels and people moving here and there. It was a great city built into the limestone of the earth, some hundreds or even thousands of people were everywhere, businesses bustled, people and children moved happily about the street, playing, singing, music was played.
They seemed to ignore him, in his garb he was but another captured outsider. But for him it brought a wave of feelings, of a desire to belong to a world like this, to feel the rhythm of life once more. Down they went toward the deepest levels until the came to a great hall. There the leader went inside for long time while he and his body guard waited. At last he was motioned to be brought in and his captors prodded him forward with some care.
Gareth was brought before an elderly man sitting amongst some large men with wary eyes, the word chief came to mind and Gareth knelt quietly before him. With a voice of ancient gravel the chief said, "Is this the . . . . "dead man"?"
Another nodded stating simple, "Yes, he is, we observed him ending the uh . . . existence of the walking dead that had been rendered unable to move by the caravan gunners . . . afterwards he was seen . . . er, crying sir."
A look of surprise crossed the chiefs face and he knelt to look to look into Gareth's milky white rheumy eyes with a look of concern, Gareth looked back with a distant yet sorrowful look, "By god what has happened to you . . ." the Chief whispered.
Gareth was taken aback by the show of sympathy, "I . . . have awoken . . ." he paused and then added, "Sir."
Standing he walked back to his chair al the while saying, "Pray, where do you come, tell me . . .everything if you can."
A man started, "He says he-" but the chief held up a hand,"Pleas let him speak." The Chief turned an interested face toward Gareth and simply raised an eyebrow, "Proceed."
Still kneeling he began simply, "I remember . . . waking up in a great crowd of the walking dead, barely cognizant I stood dumbstruck as they wandered off and stood there for what seemed like days." Gareth blinked and looked uncomfortable having never really having had the need to talk this much before, he wasn't sure what, "There was a time where I wandered aimlessly picking up things as I went, putting on clothes an covering my face as if I were afraid of the wind and the sand of the desert . . "
This went on for a great while as he tried to recount the lands he passed through until at last he came to what had happened mere hours ago by the road. He described how he felt and began to look downcast in recollection for he was still in the grip of The Harrowing, the flood of memories and guilt of the damned would take some time to shake off.
"Hmmm, they said you had a name, what was it again?"
"Gareth . . . I . . I don't recall anything else, er sir."
The chief smiled and nodded, "Welcome then Gareth I am Chief Amitola and this is the City Under the Earth."
Gareth looked around then suddenly said, "Why wasn't I killed, aren't you afraid of an outbreak, aren't you . . . afraid of me?"
Amitola laughed softly and smiled, "Gareth, you needn't worry we are the descendants of the survivors of The Fall, we are immune to the plague that you bore and bear still, it is why we still live."
"The Fall"?"
"Yes, three hundred years ago the outbreak of a plague that created the walking dead was loosed upon the earth and almost all of man was consumed, civilization collapsed, we here were those who were unaffected or where unbitten." Chief Amitola gestured out of the hall toward the village, "This village was once a simple fallout shelter built for a few dozen, but with years and people coming from all around we expanded into the limestone and continued to grow until we were all but a city unto ourselves, we survive by farming, hunting and utilizing geothermic energy to create an endless source of power for the city."
Standing up in awe he looked up at the ceiling and all around, Three hundred years created all this! Then he stopped and stared at Amitola, "B-but . . . I remember some of the time before The Fall, I just can't grasp these memories, have I . . . been dead for that long?"
Amitola merely shrugged and waved the question away, "Trouble yourself not with these questions for now, we will answer them in time, for now we will take you to a place you may rest if you can, Kangee here will show you to your quarters, we must give you time, time for you to remember and time to be amongst people," then he stood up and placed a hand on Gareth's shoulder, "I know much troubles you, I cannot begin to fathom your pain and loss, but you must understand, there is some special destiny for you, otherwise you would have not awoken or found you way to us by some chance, please understand me when I say try to understand that what you have done, many of us have grown up seeing the walking dead, they know not what they do anymore and you did not either from the sound of it."
A pained look shot across Gareth's eyes and he turned away saying quietly, "Thank you Amitola . . . . " If it were possible, he would have shed tears again.
Chapter 2: The City Under the Earth
Eventually he was unbound and led to a small room in carved into the limestone with a bed and a chair, it seemed that they used this room as maybe a cell or as a temporary place to house guests. Kangee, the warrior that had first spoken to him, opened the door and made mention that if he needed anything he would be available to obtain it for him, but Gareth merely shook his head saying he hadn't needed food or even water for months, or even years. To be honest when he thought about it, he wasn't even sure how long he had wandered up until this point.
It was some days before he left the room, he tried to sleep but he never felt tire, he was just there, eventually he tried to focus his mind and to rest his thoughts and ease his turmoil inside. Days turned to week and eventually he was led out and given proper clothing, his old clothes were taken away to be burned save the old leather coat, it was still in good enough condition to repair.
Soon he was led to a doctor and was examined, what was left of his congealed blood was drawn and studied. His body was checked for wounds, repair as best the could, sewn, bones were set and bolstered with screws and steel. Afterwards when he walked he hadn't realized how damaged his body had become in the intervening times. They had even filled him with formaldehyde effectively embalming his body and preserving as well as making it far less stiff than it was.
Gareth was given helped cleansing himself and finally when he looked in the mirror in his room without his mask he felt as though he was almost alive again, but deep inside he always knew he'd be different and he also knew he couldn't stay here in this room. The people who had been taking care of him had earnestly encouraged that he take an escort and visit the city, especially Kangee who asked many times.
"You must get out," he insisted, "the chief is worried that you your spirit will fall into a deep despair which you may never recover, you need to interact with people and forget your troubles, listen to Amitola, he is a very wise man."
"If I must, I will, I just don't know if I can face people even after the forgiveness and kindness you have shown me,' Gareth smiled weakly knowing it was a poor argument the he finally caved, "Oh alright, let's get out of here for now! Show me the city Kangee, it's got to be better than sitting here feeling sorry for myself."
Kangee grinned and slapped him on the back, "There you go, trust me, The City is something to see, they say you can't see all there is to see in one lifetime here."
Indeed Kangee was not kidding as they entered the great spiraling tunnel that slowly spiraled up, each level branching off into dozens of side streets and those streets connecting with alleyways, further streets stretching farther off into the miles of limestone in all directions, all lit with bright bulbs that made it feel as though it were day and warm, yet there was a cool breeze that blew down from some great vent hidden far above them bringing it's fresh air down into the tunnels.
They visited markets and he met with people, they all flocked to see the strange stranger and spoke to each other about his dead appearance and rheumy white eyes. They had heard that one of the walking dead had returned to his conscious mind and were soon referring to him as the Yuhica Wicate, or the Awakened Dead. Gareth smiled to people and Kangee walked proudly beside him, explaining sights while children tagged along jabbering and pointing at the funny man who was dead yet alive.
Now looking at Gareth fully restored one wouldn't think he was too bad on the eyes, a bit plain all the same and continued to keep his hair at it's median length knowing he'd never be able to cut it lest he'd lose it forever. In fact some women whispered about his appearance and giggled to each other quietly.
Now the city itself was actually built of many people, but they all seemed to speak same mixture of what Gareth had come to remember being a mishmash of native American dialects and English, it seemed to be the norm and in some places he couldn't understand the dialects at all. In all this time he wondered what had happened to other kinds of people, then he remembered the convoy that fateful day and endeavored to ask Kangee more about it.
While sitting in his room trying to rest his mind Kangee walked in and Gareth smiled. "You wanted to talk with me?" Kangee said curiously.
"Yes," said Gareth after some time spent coming back from the distant look that his meditations gave him, "I've been bothered with something lately that I have never really found the time to ask you . . . who were those people in the armored vehicles?"
For a moment Kangee frowned and shook his head, "We rarely talk of those people," he looked out the door for a second then closed it carefully behind him and turned to Gareth, "There are from one of the great tower cities, there are we have been told, quite a few out there in the world, they are . . . I can't say for certain, no one has dared ventured near one of the tower cities."
Gareth cocked his head for a moment, "But surely people must know something?"
Kangee shook his head, "Only dark rumors, some speak of a oppressive and paranoid government that controls and tracks every person there. There are even whispers that the leaders of such places are immortal and drink the blood of the populace, indeed some say that the nobles of the house ride out and seek out nomadic tribes and slaughter them for sport herding the wandering dead ahead of them to cause panic amongst people. What the bloody princes don't drink dry the dead devour whole creating more of their numbers . . . "
He shut his eyes and waved the words away, "I'm . . I'm sorry I ever asked Kangee, I can't imagine someone going out of their way to cause suffering like that."
The warrior smiled, "Yes, that's why you still live, you have compassion and strong feelings Gareth, it is why we didn't kill you out right when we first saw you."
They smiled and talked for a while longer before Kangee dismissed himself and Gareth returned to his meditations to calm and rest his mind. He found that he only became mentally exhausted now as he talked and interacted with people having no longer being driven only by the need to go forward. But with this new freedom he soon became restless, something was pulling him to wander again, but with a renewed purpose but what he couldn't tell. Something out there called to him and he couldn't tell what it was.
It galled the dead man for sometime even as he was allowed free range to certain parts of the city, but ever more he was found sitting in his room, no longer looking forlorn but now with a growing look of determination on his face. It wasn't until the feeling crested that he met with Chief Amitola again, they shook hands briskly like old friends now and sat in the great chamber near a warm fire while Amitola smoked from a short tobacco pipe.
Finally it was Amitola that broke the silence, "My friend, I have sensed 'ere long that you have been restless, more so than usual, please, tell me what's on your mind."
"Well," started Gareth as he leaned forward on a knee, Amitola smiled noticing the strength and confidence contained in his friend's posture he knew what was coming next, "I feel I need to go out into the world again."
The wizened old man nodded sagely and gestured to continue, "Yes . . er, it's not that I don't appreciate the hospitality that you and your city have shown me but it's just that . . . well I feel like I'm being called out for some purpose that I can't quite understand, there's something out there that may lead me to my true purpose and I need to find it."
Smiling Amitola knocked his ashes into the fire and leaned on a knee giving his friend a slap on the shoulder, "It is as I had hoped Gareth, you have grown strong here, you are not the broken man that was drug here barely able to process his own existence without such shame and remorse that he might as well have not continued," he paused and reloaded his pipe and lit the tobacco taking a deep breath, "But now look at you, poised, confident, even ready to strike out into a world that nearly broke you once, my how you've grown these past months!!"
They laughed and continued to speak at length together until an agreement was reached. Gareth was to leave two weeks from that day and was to swear a solemn oath never to reveal the location of the secret city to any outsider connected to the tower cities. There was no trust to be had with the people there, for there were many legends of bloodshed and mayhem that came from that way. In fact it was advised all together that he continue to travel east, though there may be more cities in the world, no one had traveled that way in a great long while, it may be worth a look at.