Addict of the Wasteland Read online

  There is an incandescent burst of light when the addict strikes a match. With trembling fingers, he lights the beeswax candle and extinguishes the match with a flick of his wrist. He crawls back to the end of the bed and reaches into his backpack for his pipe. He holds the pipe in his hands, cold against his skin. His thoughts are being pulled and stretched in two directions: the clash of shame and desire.

  He stuffs the crystal into the pipe and holds it against the candle flame. A sudden jolt hits the back of his brain like a surge of electricity. His nerve endings smoulder as arcs of bliss and pleasure engulf him. His heart races. His breath deepens. Sweat oozes from his pores. He slumps, descends, descends.

  8.

  The addict sits bolt upright in his bed. His sheets are drenched with sweat and urine. Thin streams slice through the gloom, reflecting on the surface of the pipe. Leaning, he picks the pipe up, and looks down at it for a long time, ashamed. He shakes his head as tears run down his cheeks."Damn it," he says.

  He gets to his feet with weak, awkward motions, stepping over to his backpack. He drops the pipe in and sighs.

  Squinting, he opens the door to his room and looks out over the settlement. The sun shines with an oppressive ferocity. He shields his eyes from the glare with a forearm.

  "Bad night?" comes a male voice.

  Startled, he jerks to the right and sees Jacob. He clears his throat, hoarse and dry. "Yep," he says, nodding. "Bad night."

  Jacob tilts his head, regards the addict, and examines him. "You sure it was just a bad night?"

  The addict looks down and kicks a stone at his feet. "Just withdrawal. You know how it is."

  "You've got your colour back."

  The addict shakes his head. "What you mean?"

  "Stop this," Jacob spits. "The bruising is back around your eyes."

  There's no response. The addict scratches at the back of his neck and looks back down at his feet. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I messed up."

  "I need to tell Sal about this," Jacob says, walking away.

  "No, wait." The addict chases after him, grabbing his shoulder. "Please, it was a mistake. I don't know what happened."

  Jacob meets the addict's eyes and spits on the ground to his right. "All I know is that you took plez within our community and tried to lie about it."

  The addict drops to his knees and holds up his hands, his eyes growing wide. "You need to help me, please."

  Jacob shakes his head and walks away.

  Back in his room, the addict is packing his things. He fastens his backpack and pulls on his jacket. He sits at the edge of the bed, reaches into his jacket pocket, feels for his pistol, and remembers it's not there. He curses. There's a knock at the door.

  "Yep," he says.

  The door creaks open. Sal steps inside. "Why?" she whispers.

  The addict looks down at his hands. "I don't know," he says.

  "I'm so angry," says Sal. "You lied."

  "I don't know what happened. I was going to read, but then there was a crystal in my pack and... and..."

  "And you took it."

  "I couldn't help myself. I really couldn't."

  "Did you try? Did you call out? I could have helped you, but instead..." Sal shakes her head and raises a hand in frustration.

  "It wasn't like that," the addict says, getting to his feet. He paces and tries to meet Sal's eyes. "You've got to believe me, Sal. It just happened. I didn't plan it. I was weak."

  "You were," Sal agrees, placing a hand on her hip.

  "You've no idea how much shame and guilt I feel about this. You've got to believe me, I'm so sorry."

  Sal nods. "I know you are," she whispers. Tears well up in her eyes. "You agreed on the rules when we took you in. You lied to Jacob."

  "What are you saying? You saying I need to go?"

  "I'm sorry."

  "Give me another chance. I promise I won't mess up."

  "It's not just about me. We have rules in our community for a reason. I'm sorry, but we're going to have to ask you to find somewhere else."

  The addict slumps down onto the bed, puts his head in his hands, and sobs. "You've been so good to me," he says, turning to Sal. "I always mess things up."

  9.

  The air is thick with the smell of burning plastic and the open sewerage ditch that runs along the road towards the Grid. Fires burn in metal barrels sending sparks into the night sky, twirling and eddying as they dance around plumes of billowy black smoke. Dealers huddle around a bonfire next to the trailer of a stripped and rusted truck. Another swings a large machete in absent arcs and leans against the side of a campervan. They all have rifles.

  The addict weaves through the rows of cars. Some are burnt-out, blackened shells of twisted metal. Men and women lie dazed on the car seats. Tiny sparks of flame, like campfires in a dark forest, mark the smoking of plez. He trips against a teenage boy, curled in a stupor against the back wheel of a sunken pickup truck. He steps over to his usual car and looks in the window. There's a man taking advantage of a half-dressed woman, pawing at her exposed breasts as a string of vomit descends from her mouth.

  "Damn it," the addict says. He bangs his fist on the roof of the car.

  His regular dealer approaches, rifle slung over her right shoulder. Her face is hard and scarred. "Not seen you around for a while," she says.

  "I've been on the roads."

  "Yeah? Got anything you want to trade?"

  "Nope," the addict says, abruptly.

  "We got a fresh batch of plez. Good stuff from out west."

  "Anything like the last batch?" he asks, his eyes narrowing.

  The woman shakes her head. "That was a bad cook. Here, if you got nothing to trade, you can try this." She places a single purple crystal into the addict's hand before he can refuse. "Just remember where I am when you're looking to trade."

  "Right," he says with a frown.

  "Don't look like that," she says. "Trust me, this new stuff is great. Best yet."

  The addict nods and pockets the crystal. Looking around for a place to sleep, he wanders around the Grid for another half hour, gets back on the road, and leaves.

  He follows the line of asphalt, making his way back east. He thinks about Sal and Jacob, about the life he could have had, about the life he gave up, the life he lost. There's the sound of feral dogs hunting in the distance, their howls echoing across the night. He shivers against the cold as icy prickles of sweat seep through his flesh.

  The branches of dead pines snap beneath his feet. He stops, leans down, gathers the branches, and takes them in a bundle down a bank towards a copse of trees. He arranges the branches in a pile and lights a fire. He removes his backpack and places it on the ground. He leans with his head back against a tree, and drapes his jacket over his knees like a blanket. The cold stings his tears.

  With aching joints, he reaches into his backpack and takes out his pipe. He feels its weight in his hands, the cold wind against his fingers. "No more," he says. He pockets the pipe in his jacket and takes out his pistol. Without looking, he opens the chamber, removes the bullet, and blows on it. He returns the bullet, listening to the usual click.

  Thoughts of Sal and Jacob fill his mind again. He wonders if he can make things right.

  The campfire is nothing but cold white ash when the addict awakens. He lies on his side, his head resting on his arm. A rabbit sniffs around the fire then looks up, meeting eyes with the addict. They stare at each other for a long moment. He pushes himself up, leans with his head against the tree, and watches as the rabbit darts away, zigzagging through the undergrowth. Shaking away the numbness in his arm, he looks around, feeling the need for plez.

  With a groan, he forces himself to get to his feet. He brushes soil and leaves from his clothes and skin, and reaches into his backpack. Groping around, he retrieves a water bottle. The bottle is light, almost empty. He unscrews the cap and takes a sip. There's a foul metallic taste. He spits the water out. "Damn it," he says. He wipes his mouth with his sleeve, screws the cap back on, drops the bottle into his backpack, and heaves the backpack onto his shoulders. He looks up the embankment towards the road. The pang of hunger pulls at his stomach. He curses when he realises he has no food.

  Weak and sore, he sets off onto the road, heading east. He passes the skeletons of ancient buildings, their foundations standing like grim memorials to the time before. Tiny explosions of dust creep into the air whenever he knocks against a vine or branch. He grows alert as the road gets steeper. He checks for his pistol, for his hunting knife, and shakes away the thoughts of plez, the guilt.

  He smiles when the land becomes greener, when the dust, craters, and bare earth make way for thick trees and bushes. There's an apple tree to his right. He approaches it and twists an apple hanging ripe from a low branch. He brushes away a coating of dust by rubbing the apple against his trousers. He takes a bite, smiles at the spray of bittersweet juice in his mouth, and revels at the crunching sound as he chews.

  The sky has a brown tinge to it when the addict reaches the top of the hill. His leather coat flaps against the wind, and he squints against the swirls of dust. Dropping to one knee, he removes his backpack, takes a kerchief from a side pocket, and ties it around his head, covering his mouth and nose. He gets up, pulls on his backpack, and looks east towards the city, the black shimmering smear, hazy through the approaching dust storm. He looks back towards the Grid, only visible as thin trails of rising black smoke. Turning back to the road, he marches forward, ambles downhill, all the while shielding his face from the thickening dust cloud.

  After an hour, he sits with his eyes closed as the winds tear against his skin. He leans with his back against a tree, listening to the branches creaking and rattling above. His breath is warm against his kerchief.
Dust drops from his beard and jacket in clumps or otherwise clings to his sweat, coating him in grime. He coughs. His lungs burn and his throat is raw. Above, the branches crash against each other, protesting against the wind. He opens his left eye, follows the line of the asphalt, closes it to a narrow slit, and gets to his feet.

  With pained steps, he pushes against the wind. He grimaces at the peeling flesh on his hands, the skin along his fingers bright pink and cracked. He dips his head and holds his left forearm in front of his eyes, trying in vain to shield himself. "Damn it," he grunts.

  He takes a trail to his left and stumbles towards Trinity. Dust settles like snowdrifts along the east side of the fence when he arrives. With clenched fists, he bangs at the sliding gate. "Sal?" he calls. "Jacob?" He beats on the fence again, waits for a minute, and tries again, the sound of his voice being drowned out by the rattling of metal, the creaking of wood, and the whistling of the swirling storm.

  When no answer comes, he walks along the fence, looking for another way in, but there is nothing. On the west side, he realises he's sheltered from the wind. He slides with his back down a sheet of thick plastic, sits leaning against the fence, and waits.

  The sun is setting by the time the storm abates. Dense purple clouds circle across the sky as thin wisps of wood smoke drift over the sides of the fence. The addict unties the kerchief from his face, shakes away the dust, folds it, and puts it in his backpack. He gets to his feet and stretches. The nagging pain of plez withdrawal tugs at him, nudges him, assaults him. He coughs, walks back around to the entrance, and bangs on the gate.

  He leans backwards and cups his mouth. "Sal?" he calls. He knocks again and then steps back as the gate slides open. Sal leans around the gate with a confused expression. "What happened?" she asks. She's wearing a black woollen robe, its hood pulled tight around her head.

  The addict looks down. His clothes are filthy, and his feet and hands are bloody. "I got caught in the storm."

  "You were out in that?" she whispers, eyes widening. She looks behind her, hesitates, looks the addict up and down, and then steps aside. "Come in," she says.

  10.

  Sal leads the addict back to his room. When they go inside, the bed has been stripped. There's a coating of brownish-grey dust on everything. "I need to give you my weapons," the addict says. He hands Sal the hunting knife and pistol. She takes them, placing them next to her on the bare mattress.

  "I think I should give you this as well." He reaches into his jacket and takes out his pipe. "I should have given you this before. I held onto to it. I don't know why." He pauses. "I owe you."

  "You don't owe us anything. We're just treating you like any other trader. You can eat with us, stay overnight, but then you need to go."

  "I need you to take it from me. I need to be free." He drops the pipe in Sal's hand. She nods but doesn't say anything. He reaches into his jacket. "And there's this," he says, taking out the plez crystal. "I want you to take it away."

  Sal shakes her head. "You need to destroy it yourself. You need to prove that you really want to be saved."

  "I do, Sal. I really do."

  Sal nods, gets up, and pockets the pistol, knife, and pipe. "Bring it outside," she says.

  He nods, leans his backpack against the wall, and follows Sal outside into the moonlit night.

  Torches flicker like fireflies when the addict looks across the settlement. He follows Sal along a worn-out path, past the chicken coops. They head to an unfamiliar building, no more than a shed. "Wait here," Sal says.

  He waits, rocking on the balls of his feet. There's the sound of movement coming from inside, the sound of things being opened and slammed shut, then of something heavy being dragged along a wooden floor.

  Sal exits the shed, back first. She's dragging a flat round stone, two feet in diameter. He helps her and pushes it to the path. "Where do you want it?" he asks.

  "Here's fine."

  Sal steps back inside the shed and emerges a few seconds later with a hammer hanging down from her right hand. "Do you think you can do it?" she asks. Shadows cast from a nearby torch send ripples of orange light across her face. Her eyes are intense, quizzing.

  Confused, the addict furrows his brow, scratches his beard, and looks at the hammer. "I don't understand," he says.

  "Are you telling me the truth?" asks Sal. "Is that plez the last of it? There's nothing else?"

  He inhales sharply and takes the crystal out of his pocket. "Yep," he says. He feels the pull of the drug, tempting him, seducing him. He steals himself. "This is it," he says. "I need to do this."

  Sal hands him the hammer. "Destroy it," she says. "Put it on that stone and destroy it."

  "I... Okay."

  Shaking, he places the crystal in the centre of the stone. He raises the hammer, swings it down in a slow arc, tests its trajectory, and raises it again. He closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and looks at Sal.

  "I'm not going to make you do anything," she says. "This needs to be your—"

  Before Sal can finish her words, he brings the hammer down with a deep crack. The purple crystal lies shattered like glass on the stone. The addict's breath is deep. A rush of adrenaline spreads over him, and there's something else: a sensation of happiness, of freedom. He drops the hammer to his side, falls to his knees, and cries.

  "Well done," Sal whispers. "That must have been hard for you."

  He feels her hand on his shoulder, warm and comforting. He looks up at her and smiles. "Thank you," he says. "Please forgive me."

  Sal nods. "We'll talk over breakfast. Let's take you to your room, get you cleaned up."

  "Thanks, Sal." He gets to his feet, walks away from the shattered plez crystal, and does not look back.

  The addict has no appetite when he enters the communal hall the next morning. His eyes are gummy and his thoughts cloudy as he takes his seat.

  "Sal told me you were back," says Jacob. He doesn't look up from his plate. "You're very lucky."

  "This is just a one-night thing," says the addict. "I just wanted Sal to know that I was serious about getting off plez."

  Jacob gives an almost imperceptible nod and takes a slice of bread from a tray making its way along the table.

  The addict sees Sal heading his way. She is wearing a brown robe. Her dreadlocks sway as she walks. "Did you sleep okay?" she asks.

  "Not really," the addict says. "But I appreciate the bed, appreciate the hospitality, everything."

  "Has Jacob spoken to you yet?" Sal asks, taking a seat at the head of the table.

  "A little," he says. He hands Sal a tin plate, takes a slice of bread, and puts it to his mouth.

  "So what do you say?"

  He lowers the bread and tilts his head. "About what?"

  "We were thinking of giving you a second chance. We acted hastily in dismissing you the way we did, but you've shown that you committed to freeing yourself from this horrible, horrible drug."

  "Right," he says, smiling. "What if things get bad again? What if I hit that low point again?"

  "What will you take if you do?" asks Sal. "You destroyed the last of your plez."

  "Good point," he says, his smile broadening.

  Jacob raises his eyes, looking at the addict. "We will help you in any way we can."

  The addict shakes his head. "I don't know what to say. Thank you."

  11.

  A month passes and the addict is clean. He is packing his backpack when there's a knock at the door. "Yep," he says.

  "You know you don't have to leave yet," says Sal.

  "I do. You guys have been too good to me. You've already done more than anyone could have asked."

  "Don't go back to the Grid."

  He shakes his head, offers a grim smile. "If I can help it, I never want to go back to that place again."

  "Good," Sal whispers. "What will you do?"

  "Head east," he says with a half-shrug. "Follow the road, see if I can get to the city."