DEADWOOD
It had been the third night in a row with no bark, and I was starting to feel it. The body aches. The nightly sweats. Even the bumps were starting to show up on my skin. This was something I was getting used too. I am just grateful that my body is handling it better than my mother. Ever since Tuesday evening she has been bedridden with terrible symptoms. Her bumps are triple the size of mine. We depended on the bark to survive. Without it, life could end anywhere from a couple days to weeks.
“Momma let me get you some water.”
“Gulliver, please hush.”
She was a strong woman considering the hand that she has been dealt. She has raised my brother, Cross, and I by herself since we were very young. My father died twenty years ago in the first battle of Deadwood. My mother doesn’t like to talk about it very much, usually telling us it is too tough to talk about.
The Battle of Deadwood started twenty-five years ago here in Deadwood, Oregon when the genius billionaires created a magical bark. Deadwood is my hometown and always has been. When bark was created, the nation flocked to it. Bark is a creamy substance that grants humans superhuman qualities. The billionaires created this due to eagerness and greed. Searching for immortality, a separator from the rest of our civilization. This development was essentially the beginning of the end. Bark and its limited availability caused tension amongst those who had it and those who did not, leading to civil wars that spread nationwide. It only took a few years before our world had collapsed to one nation. The rest of what is left is said to reside in what used to be Portland. We lived surrounded by a wall, a wall so tall and high that not even a plane could get over. We have been told our whole infant lives that we are not allowed to go outside the wall. No one ever told us why, we just knew it was dangerous. There were rumors what could’ve been beyond the walls. Old battle landmines, secret equipment, some people even say there’s animals! I have always wanted to cross these walls, but curiosity gets you killed nowadays. Everyone who attempts to leave the wall is harshly punished and typically executed. I sometimes wonder if this happened to my father, my mother insists I’m wrong. Mother doesn’t like to talk about outside the wall. She insists that ‘You never know when they are listening.’ I never really asked who “they” were, I knew my mother had been through a lot and I did not feel like adding to her stress.
. Every memory I have involves Cross. We would wake up early in the morning, give mother her medicine, and head to the coal fields about an hour walk south of Deadwood, 30 minutes north of the wall. The days at the coal field were long and hard. Twelve, fourteen-hour days with no breaks with little to no pay. It was terrible but it was the reality of our situation. We had no schooling, no money, and honestly no hope. Where hope lay was beyond the wall. Cross and I always dreamed of going beyond the wall despite the warnings that had been provided to us. We talked about it every single day at the fields. If you squinted your eyes really close the wall peaked just above the horizon. When the sun set below the wall was when we could go home to make dinner, the old reliable one sausage link and one slice of bread. This particular day at work Cross seemed overly eager about seeing what sat beyond the wall.
“I am tired of living inside this box. Controlled by greedy humans. Why is it someone else’s choice as to what I can or can’t do!” said Cross as he whipped the sledgehammer over his shoulder. I didn’t feel this way. If it is one thing my brother and I share it is the passion for doing what we are not supposed to do.
“What if we just did?” I didn’t really know what to say but I knew it was all we needed to say. All Cross needed was confirmation from his little brother on this day.
“We will go at 3 am.” said Cross. He looked at me sternly for about 10 seconds and then turned away, swinging at his coal. It was the last words he spoke to me the entire day at the field. That was unlike him, but I knew why. He was scared, but he did not want me to know. We finished our shift and headed home for what both of us silently felt could be the last shift. As we arrived home, we noticed our mother sitting in her chair on the front porch. My mother had not been outside in years, so this was a shock. She looked at Cross and I with deep eyes. Her eyes spoke a million different emotions looking into our souls. Her long black hair glided to the breeze in the air.
“I missed you boys today. How were the fields?” said my mother.
Both of us, still confused at the placement of our mother, glanced at each other, and nervously said good. She looked at us with a smile, a smile that looked like it wanted to cry.
“The curiosity you boys share is the curiosity that killed your father. I know my words can no longer stop you. The wall is heavily protected by security, you won’t be able to get within 10 miles of it before being sniped down. A couple miles east of the Shockata River is a sign with the words ‘Deadwood’. Push this sign into the ground and a tunnel will lead you through these walls. Take the gun from the shed, but once you leave those walls, never step foot in this house again,” my mother was still. I haven’t heard her say this much in years. How did she know we planned to leave tonight? Was it just a coincidence? My mother stood up, holding her faint smile, but this time with an actual tear. She walked into the house, locked it, and didn’t come back out. There was a click on the doorknob. Cross and I looked at each other, looked at the door, and then back at each other.
We started our walk toward the river, our mother led us too. Still no words had been said since we had encountered our mother on the porch. You could hear the pebbles crunch and crack as we delicately walked through the foggy night. The fog was so thick I could hardly see Cross three steps in front of me. Finally, after what felt like years of silence, Cross turned to me.
“How does mom know what we were planning,” whimpered Cross.
I was also curious, but more so curious as to how she knew we planned on clearing the wall today. None of it made a ton of sense, and I didn’t want to fill our heads with fear, I turned to Cross and mumbled “I don’t know, who cares. Let’s focus.”
“Don’t be a jerk,” said Cross.
I was not trying to be a jerk. The truth is that I was scared. For the first time in a long time, I was scared. I I wanted the thinking to end. I didn’t want to think about what was ahead, I just wanted to do it. I looked at Cross and apologized, he hugged me. We finally reached the sign and pushed it down as my mother had instructed and to no surprise a tunnel emerged. We turned our flashlights on and began to walk. My heart was pumping, my t shirt was soaked with sweat, and my hands shook to a point that almost made my flashlight useless. The more Cross (who was more fit) would get ahead the more nervous I got. I cleared my throat from mucus and mustered a shout.
“Hey Cross!” I said.
“What’s up buddy?” Cross replied.
“Don’t leave me out here,” I said with a tremble.
“I would never.” Cross ordered.
After about thirty minutes of walking, we saw a rusted ladder not too far ahead. As we approached the ladder, my mind circled back and forth between emotions. Was this really it? Was this really the opportunity to get outside of Deadwood? Would we be able to come back? As my mind bounced back and forth like a ping pong ball I began to second guess this decision.
“Cross what if there are animals?” I said.
“They were all killed off years ago. Stop being soft, Gulliver. There are no animals, there is no surprise, we will be fine. All the stories are made up. The government created these stories to keep us out,” Cross seemed sure.
“What if the stories are real?” you’d be able to see the sweat through five shirts by now.
“Gulliver, shut up! We walked all this way, stop over thinking this. We have been talking about going beyond the wall since we could remember. Don’t screw up the opportunity for us now!” yelled Cross. Cross was fuming and clearly done with trying to convince me this was a good idea. Before I could respond, Cross started stumbling up the ladder. I had no choice but to follow him up there. The ladder felt never ending. We climbed, and climbed, and climbed until we reached a point, we could make no more. With a simple punch, the dirt above us caved in, and there it was, the outside.
This page has paths:
- Existentialism Rudy Begazo
