Addict of the Wasteland Page 2

  There are faces, mutterings, and swirls of confusion.

  He thinks he recognises Jacob and Sal. He calls out, but he's trapped deep beneath a layer of gel, squirming like a mosquito as the amber sets around him. His body drifts along as though the hands of a crowd lift him, bouncing and whirling as he loses grip with his senses.

  The air changes. The smells are different.

  When the addict wakes again, he can move his tongue. His mouth is sore, and his spit is as thick as mud. There's a taste of iron and rust, of blood and bile. He leans to his right and pushes the filth from his mouth, letting it dribble onto the bed next to him.

  He's vaguely aware of Sal's face and her dreadlocks like snakes. He's not afraid. He does not recoil.

  "Can you hear me?" she asks. Her voice is distant, echoic, muffled, as though heard through water. Comprehending, the addict nods and tries to speak. His tongue is swollen and bleeding.

  She calls out to Jacob.

  The addict lies back. Something damp presses against his forehead. He drifts in and out of awareness.

  He opens his eyes at the end of a nightmare. Sal is still there. "Are you okay?" she whispers. Her voice is sharp and clear.

  "I..." he splutters. "Must have been bad cook." His eyes are encrusted with gum. He rubs them with the heels of his hands. There's a burst of pain as a yawn tears through his throat and scrapes against his lungs.

  Sal shakes her head. "There's no such thing as good plez."

  The room is different. There's a desk and books on shelves. "Where am I?"

  "Jacob's surgery," she says. "We thought you were going to die. Jacob thinks you had a bad reaction."

  The addict flops back, his strength and energy sapped. "Can I have a drink?"

  Sal holds a cup of water against his lips. The addict sips. "Thanks," he says. "I couldn't move."

  "I know."

  He feels Sal's hand on his arm. There's a smell of rubbing alcohol hanging in the air. "How long was I out?"

  "Two days. God still has a plan for you in this world."

  The addict spits, part out of protest. "Where's God?" he asks. "I was lucky."

  "You're going to end up like every other addict," she says.

  "What's to live for?" He meets Sal's pitying eyes with a defiant glare.

  Sal shrugs. "God."

  "That's not an answer."

  "It's the only answer."

  The addict shakes his head and sniffs.

  "We can help you," Sal says. "We can get you off plez. You can live again."

  "What if I don't want to?" he asks.

  "Then you'll die, and next time Jacob won't be around to help you. It's that simple."

  The addict opens his mouth to speak, closes it, and shakes his head. "No one gets off plez," he says with bitter resignation.

  "Perhaps," Sal says, pushing out her bottom lip. "Perhaps not. It will be much easier to do if you're willing to accept help."

  He shuffles towards the head of the bed, sits up, and looks at Sal. "How?"

  "With God's love we can—"

  "Pah," the addict says, interrupting. "Is that all you've got? Give me something else. Something real."

  "But God is—"

  "Something else," he snaps.

  Sal nods. "You can't avoid God's love," she says. "But if you need something else, think about something you love."

  The addict considers this, sighing. "All I've known for so long is plez. All I think about is getting it, and then I'm on it, and then I want it again. It's always there. That's all I've got."

  Sal makes a grim smile. "I know," she whispers. "Think back. Think back to before the plez. What did you like?"

  "I was a kid. I'd play. I'd make things. I'd read. My mum used to have these books from before. Stories about dragons and magic, about rockets that went through the sky. I miss that."

  "Can you still read?"

  The addict furrows his brow. "I couldn't say. It's been so long."

  "We've got lots of books here — stories from before the end times. You can read them. You can stay here. We can help you."

  The addict smiles. "No God stuff?"

  "It's all God stuff, but I'll try not to preach to you. All I ask in return is that you live by our rules and attend sermons on Sundays."

  The addict wrinkles his nose. "What do you mean?"

  "We meet as a community once a week to hear a lesson from the Bible. You don't have to believe in God, but the lessons are useful for us all to live better lives."

  "And you'll help me? No offence, but I'm waiting for the catch."

  "The catch is that you free yourself from plez, that you live your life doing right," Sal says, getting to her feet. "I won't ask for an answer now. You're tired and you've been through a lot. Please think about my offer."

  "Will do," he says.

  4.

  When Sal returns a few hours later, she's carrying a tray of food. There's a bread roll, a leg of chicken, and a pile of steaming mashed potato. "Hungry?" she asks. She slides the tray onto the bed next to the addict.

  "I can eat," he says. "Thanks, Sal." He leans over, taking the chicken leg with his left hand. His movement is weak, but he manages to lift the meat to his mouth and take a bite. "You've no idea how good this tastes," he says, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He looks down at his clothes and realises they're not his own. "Where are my clothes?"

  "They've been washed and are waiting for you in your room."

  "Right. Thanks."

  Sal sits down on the seat next to him. "Have you thought about what we were talking about before?" she asks.

  "Yep."

  "And?"

  He gives a sigh, scratches his beard, and looks down at the food. "I keep thinking there's a catch. I keep thinking this is too good to be true. When you live at the Grid, you know everyone's got an angle, everyone's looking to get something from you."

  "I've already explained the catch. No more plez. Do right. It's that simple."

  "It's not simple."

  "It is," Sal says flatly. "If you swear to stop taking plez and do all you can to do right, you will have our friendship. We look out for each other here. Love is the most precious thing we can all give."

  "And what if I mess up? What if I can't help myself?"

  The corner of Sal's mouth twitches. "It won't come to that," she says, shaking her head. "You need to start holding onto hope."

  "But what if it does?" he asks, turning to Sal and meeting her gaze.

  "Hope springs eternal. With help and love. God..." She takes in a deep breath. "I won't let that happen."

  The addict sighs. "Have you seen an addict twitching? Have you ever seen a guy scratch his own eyes out because he can't get plez?"

  Sal remains silent, looking down at her hands.

  "I have." The addict folds his arms. "I don't want to be that guy."

  "There are also the addicts who die every day from a dangerous batch, or because their bodies just give up. It seems to me either choice is fraught with risk, but one of them leads you to a path of living a good life, and the other does not."

  He considers Sal's words, tasting the creamy potato he holds in his mouth and swallows. "Okay," he says. "I'll do it."

  5.

  Candles flicker. A fire burns in the corner, throwing a warm orange glow across the addict's face. Books line shelves along the walls, and sunlight pours in at a steep angle through a glazed window. The sound of clucking chickens and children's laughter seeps into the walls. The addict leans forward on the bench, looks to Sal and smiles. He turns back to his book spread open on the desk before him, squinting as he focuses on the words.

  "Do you think you can still read?" Sal asks.

  "A little," he says. "It's coming back to me. I can remember the letters on their own, but I'm struggling with the sounds when they're together." He points to a word with a grubby finger. "What's that say?"

  "Ishmael."

  "What's an Ishmael?"

  "It's a name." He
looks at the words and nods. "Call... Me... Ishmael."

  Sal nods. "That's right. Keep going."

  "So..." He narrows his eyes, looking to Sal.

  "Some."

  "Right." He turns back to the page. "Some... years... ago... never... mind... how... long... pre... prec... Damn it." He slams the book shut, leans back, looks up at the ceiling, and rubs his beard. "I can't do this," he says.

  "You can," she says, placing a hand on the addict's arm. "The word is 'precisely'."

  Agitated, the addict gets to his feet, takes off his cap, and runs his fingers through his hair. His eyes wander half-focused around the room. "I'm twitching, Sal. I can't do this."

  "You're doing great." Sal's voice is calm, patient, reassuring.

  The addict paces back and forth. Sweat gathers around the back of his neck and slicks his forehead. Floorboards creak beneath his feet with each step. He takes a deep breath, holds it, and lets out a sigh. His hands tremble. "I can't do this."

  "Try to sit back down," Sal says. She pats the chair and smiles.

  "You think I can sit still? You think I can concentrate? All that's going through my head is plez, plez, plez. I need to get some. Just to get me by."

  "No." Her voice is firm. "You'll only be going back. You've got to keep hope in your heart."

  "Hope? That's nothing. That's like your God."

  Sal raises her chin, pursing her lips. "Please sit down," she says.

  With tears filling his eyes, the addict sits. He drops his head into his hands and sobs. Sal's arm moves around his back. She comforts him.

  "I can't do it," he says. "I can't do it."

  "You can," Sal whispers. "You'll get through this."

  The addict's skin is cold and clammy when he's led by Sal into the communal hall. Sal walks at his side, holds him by the arm, steadying him as he wobbles forward. He pushes himself with each step as if wading through mud. Each breath brings a jolt of pain to his chest as thick phlegm fills his mouth and clogs his nose. He barely registers the faces staring at him as Sal leads him to a seat.

  Dazed, the addict gives a half-smile when he realises a plate piled with potatoes, carrots, and fried pork has been served to him. His head sways as he struggles to focus on Sal. "Thanks," he manages.

  He blinks at the food for several minutes while the rest of the room falls into a strange blur. Sounds undulate and twist. Something presses against his lips. He looks down; Sal is feeding him. The food is pushed into his mouth. He chews slowly, languidly. He's not hungry. With effort, he pushes the food out of his mouth, letting it cascade down his beard. "Plez," he whispers. A panic rushes through him, desperate, urgent.

  Jacob is saying something to him, but his words are far away, as if heard through glass. His face distorts and contorts into garish, horrific smiles. The addict starts to cry, squeezes his eyes shut, curls into a ball, and falls to the floor convulsing.

  It's the middle of the night when the addict shoots up from his sleep with a sudden jerk. He sits upright, itching all over. He's in his room. There's no sign of Sal; no sign of Jacob. His clothes are on the bedside table. He pulls on his trousers and jumper. The floor is cold beneath his feet.

  Twitching, he steps over to the door and opens it. There's a rush of cold night air. Chickens cluck in their coops as the stars twinkle above. There's the smell of pig faeces, wood smoke, and animal feed. Moonlight glistens along the top of the fence, catching bits of metal with a silvery-white glow. Thin wisps of smoke rise from the surrounding shacks, leaning with the wind and climbing into the night. He walks downhill towards the centre of the blast crater.

  A cow looks up at him with sleepy eyes. He walks over, pats the cow's head. Its ears twitch. The addict sighs, wandering past the chicken sheds, the vegetable patches, and uphill towards the communal hall. Only the animals make a sound.

  Walking along the fence, he gropes for an exit. He passes beneath extinguished torches and runs his hand along the twists of rope and wire. He slides his back down a smooth sheet of metal and sits with his head between his knees. His fingernails draw blood from his clenched fists. He squeezes harder, trying to feel something that isn't the pain of withdrawal.

  Icy sweat coats his skin as throbbing bolts of pain ricochet around his skull. "Damn it," he whispers. He strikes the ground with his fists. Frustrated, he tugs at his beard, tearing out handfuls of hair then letting them drift to the ground in clumps. He arches forward, and cries out. Tears sting his eyes as they wash down his face. The taste of blood fills his mouth. He rolls onto his side and vomits. "I can't do this," he says. "I can't do this."

  There's a hand on his shoulder. He looks up. "Sal," he says.

  She says nothing, smiles, and takes his hand.

  6.

  The addict takes slow, deliberate breaths. He looks down at the page, furrowing his brow. "I can't do this, Sal. I'm spent."

  Sal folds her arms and gives an admonishing glare. "Try to focus."

  "I can't focus, damn it." The addict looks down at the dried cuts and half-formed scabs on his palms, shaking his head. "You said you'd get me off this stuff."

  "We are." Sal places a hand on his left arm. "You are going to get through this. I know it's tough."

  He jerks his arm free and turns to Sal with anger. "You've no idea how tough it is," he says. "No one gets off plez." He slumps over the desk, burying his head in his arms. "I'm beyond help."

  Sal's hand is back on his shoulder.

  "What?" he snaps.

  "How do you feel?" Sal asks.

  The addict sits up and gestures to his hands. "Look at me," he says. "I stink. I'm sweating." He holds his trembling hands up in front of Sal's face. "See that? That's the shakes, the twitches you get when your body's crying out for plez. It's all I can think about." He tugs at his beard, giving Sal a haunted look.

  "But you must feel better than you did, surely?"

  "I'm not unconscious, if that's what you're getting at."

  Sal smiles. "Things will get better. Jacob said the plez just takes a while to work its way out."

  He sighs and wrings his wrists. "I know," he says. "I know."

  Sal jabs at the book and smiles again. "Go ahead," she says.

  "Call me Ishmael. Some years ago..." He looks up and sees Sal smiling and nodding for him to continue. "Some years ago — never mind how long... precisely."

  "That's it," Sal whispers.

  "Having little or no money in my purse, and nothing in par... partic—" He coughs. Globs of blood and phlegm burst from his mouth. A convulsive, uncontrollable fit rushes along his body in wave after wave. He drops to the floor shaking, sobbing. He coughs again and vomits. Sal runs to the door. She calls out. The addict's vision fades to nothing.

  Hushed voices whisper around him when the addict stirs. He forces his eyelids open. Looking around, he realises he's back in Jacob's surgery. His mouth is dry, and he wheezes out each pained breath. "Water," he says, looking up at Jacob and Sal. They watch him, their faces etched with concern.

  He sips the cool water when Jacob leans over him and hands him a pewter cup. "What happened?" he asks.

  "Try to take it easy," Jacob says. "You had a bit of a fall."

  The addict raises a hand to the right side of his head, and cringes at the sharp spike of pain. An egg-sized bump protrudes from his skull. He grimaces. "How?" he asks, taking another sip of water.

  "You had a fit from the withdrawal," Jacob says. "You're lucky Sal was with you."

  "Damn it," the addict says. "I just want to be over this."

  Jacob wipes the addict's brow with a cold damp cloth. "You're nearly there. You don't look as yellow as you did, and your eyes are starting to look normal."

  "I don't feel normal."

  "You will," Jacob says with a shrug.

  "I need to do something. I can't just wait about. What needs doing around here?" He reaches for the cup, takes another sip of water, and sits up with his head leaning against the wall.

  "Do you know about anima
ls? Cows? Chickens? Pigs?"

  The addict shakes his head. "No. They don't have anything like that at the Grid."

  Jacob nods. "Okay." He looks around. "How about toiling in the fields? You know about growing crops?"

  "No," the addict says. "I'd be willing to learn."

  Jacob purses his lips and taps his chin for several moments. "You could always clean dishes."

  "I could do that. At least it will give me something to distract me. If you think I'm over the worst."

  Jacob nods. "I'm not sure if you are over the worst yet," he says. "But I'm sure you're closer to it being out of your system than not."

  Resigned, the addict gives Jacob a blank look. "Right," he says.

  7.

  The addict throws a handful of dust onto another tin plate and rinses it away with water heated by the fire. He adds the plate to the pile to his left. Men and women work around him, preparing food for the evening meal. A vat of stew bubbles on a stove behind him. He salivates at the aroma of simmering beef stock. Pots and pans clatter. He takes another plate and another handful of dust. A hand touches his shoulder.

  "How are you feeling?" asks Sal.

  "Oh hey, Sal." He puts the plate down and gives a half-smile. "I'm okay. Still getting the twitches, still getting the urges, but I'm feeling in control."

  "You're starting to look better. You don't have that pallid look any more."

  "That's good to know. It's that hope thing you were talking about. I know I can do this."

  Sal gives the addict a smile, nods to herself, and takes his hands. "I'm really proud of you. You are really starting to turn things around here."

  "Thanks, Sal."

  The addict hums to himself when he makes his way back to his room. The last glimmers of sunlight drift beyond the horizon. He turns the handle, shoulders his way through the door, closes it behind him, and flops down on the bed. Through the fading light, he looks to his bedside table and sees Sal has left him a copy of Moby Dick. There's an unlit candle next to the book. He sits up, crawls to the end of his bed, reaches into his backpack, and searches inside for some matches. His fingers touch against the side of a matchbox. He grips it, and there's something else: a tiny crystal, the size of the end of his little finger. He is paralysed for a moment as if frozen in time. He grabs the crystal and the matchbox, placing them down on the bedside table to his left.