That Demented Game

That Demented Game

The end of the world was like a demented game. It was a challenge and a struggle. Billions died when the skies tore open and when the clouds fell. Millions went into hiding when the air became too thick to breathe, and the animals too sickly to hunt.

The thousands that were left had to contend with dangers humanity had never faced before, challenges that dwindled their numbers even more.

Yet, like a game, there was always a solution, a way to win

Whatever it was, the few that found these solutions – that figured out the game – were winners.

Rusoff was a winner.

He was born into a secure network of underground bunkers that sheltered him through his development. When the bunkers fell, Rusoff left.

When he couldn’t find food, he hunted. When he ran out of water, he improvised with whatever he could find.

When that made him sick, he fought through it.

When he found the first community of people since childhood, he cleaned himself up, made friends, and moved in. He traded, he stole, he worked whatever job he could and made a name for himself.

When that name turned sour, when distrust and contempt began to brew, Rusoff took what he could and left.

Rusoff always survived through hunting, scrounging and even cheating and held on tight. Years were spent gripping tightly onto that sense of security, the idea that, no matter what, he would be safe in his own hands and always be there the next day.

When it came down to it, he quite enjoyed playing that demented game – as long as he could keep winning.

The Cache

The radio tower overlooked the old highway covered in overgrowth. Wheat grew wildly and here and there, a young tree stood proudly.

A farmhouse was hidden somewhere in that overgrowth. Rusoff could just glimpse the roof.

The cache was hidden in that farmhouse. What it was, Rusoff wasn’t sure. What was in it – it could be anything, but he thought it was valuable.

The old man at the Inn seemed desperate but truthful. There was something about the story that rang true. The detail in the story, the hesitation in the old man’s voice. There was history behind this cache – secrets passed through generations, a tense stand-off between two clans for the whereabouts of the hidden fortune ending in a bloodbath.

The only survivor? The old man. Rusoff reasoned he could be telling the truth, so he had left the old man some goods and wrote the information in his little black book.

Rusoff’s little black book of leads was perhaps his most valuable possession. It held information he’d found throughout his life. Potential spots to loot, people to rob, settlements to relocate to. Any information he thought might be important including details of old technology, healers, blueprints etc.

He reached into his rucksack for his book. It was well used, dirty, scuffed and torn. Under a roughly drawn table was the information that had led him here.

Rusoff began climbing down the radio tower, wondering what was so dangerous about this farmhouse? The old man had claimed that people he had sent previously had never returned, that the treasure had evaded the hands of men just as capable as Rusoff.

For two days, Rusoff had watched. No one ever visited. No animals stalked the area. The farmhouse was secluded, the stretch of highway leading to it almost completely overgrown. It seemed as safe as any other abandoned building.

Confident in his own surveillance, Rusoff concluded that it was the isolation that had kept this treasure safe, not any imminent danger, be it human or animal.

When his feet touched the ground, and he spun around to find a woman staring at him from across the road. Her eyes were as wide with surprise as were his.

Friendly

The woman eyed Rusoff up and down. He was embarrassed as she regarded him with concern. He was filthy and smelly and unkempt.

In contrast, she was healthy; vibrant, bronze skin, thick ropes of hair, a spark in her eyes that Rusoff had missed in his own for years.

She carried a thick, cumbersome backpack – he wondered what was in it. He eyed off the knife strapped to her thigh, and reflexes took over.

“Who are you? Are you following me?” Rusoff gripped tightly to the knife hanging from his own thigh. “Out with it, now.”

The woman was shocked.

“Okay, take it down a notch.” She didn’t go for her own blade, instead she raised her hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m just a courier. I deliver packages. Right now, just on a route.”

When Rusoff said nothing, the woman continued.

“Come on, cool it. I’ve come from the Old City, right? Going to Nation One, out west. I cut across this field all the time, I’m not – skies above, I’m not following you. I don’t even know you!”

Rusoff eased up and took a few steps back.

“Leave then.” He waved his hand at her, expecting her to move on command. Instead, she raised an eyebrow.

“I should ask what you’re doing out here?” She said. Rusoff chewed on his next words.

“Just searching. Looting.” he paused. “Searching for some old-world stuff, you know?”

“Old-world, hey?” She looked around. “Out here? Which old-world? Looks like you might find some edible wheat if you look hard enough”

Rusoff felt a wave of relief. She didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Old-old world. I’m a collector.”

The woman looked unimpressed.

“You’d be better off hitting up the markets in town for stuff like that. There’s nothing out here. I don’t think there’s even any buildings.”

Rusoff nodded, growing impatient.

“Doesn’t seem like it. So, will you be headed off then? People are waiting on you.”

Still unimpressed, the woman hesitated.

“Are you sure you don’t want to…come with me? I’m headed west, we could travel together, make camp, I mean, I have food – “ She stopped at the sight of Rusoff waving his hand in the air.

“No, no. I’m fine. Honestly.” Rusoff pointed down the road, “Run along now.”

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Rusoff interrupted once more.

“Or else. The woman regarded him with disdain. That’s a reaction he was used to.

With nothing else to say, the woman made her way down the road, occasionally glancing back at Rusoff. When he was sure she was gone, he dove into the wheatfield, finally alone.

Stuck

The farmhouse was just a shell of a building. While the upper floor was mostly intact, the bottom was caved in, giving way to the basement below.

Entering the building was easy – the walls full of holes as it was - but navigating the interior proved tricky. What was left of the floor was more of a ledge and every step caused the frame to creak or some floorboard to snap. The only thing of interest was below, and it certainly caught Rusoff’s eye.

The ground was singed in parts. Blackened spots littered the basement. They streaked out from individual epicenters – then Rusoff realized. He had seen this before.

It was the signs of a landmine booby trap.

He had never encountered one before, but had seen the aftermath. The burnt ground, the bodies, diced by explosions – he shuddered to think about it, and shuddered even more when his eyes found the bodies here.

What was so important that this stash needed to be protected by landmines? Could it be some sort of weapon? A stash of food, or specialized medicine? Perhaps some abstract piece of technology, something that had’nt passed the prototype phase in the old-world?

Something he could discover and claim for himself.

Excitement almost got the better of him. He threw his rucksack down and lowered himself using bits of protruding stone and metal as leverage points. Then he noticed what should have been the obvious first thing to check for – numerous undetonated landmines.

A duffle bag, against a wall, singed slightly black and imbedded with shrapnel, also caught his eye.

The cache. It wasn’t what he thought – in his more vivid dreams, he imagined a stockpiled room, or some secured, yet abandoned, bunker. Yet the olive duffle bag still beckoned him to add to his collection.

He took a step forward after his eyes had adapted to the light. By his count, there were three undetonated landmines. By the time he noticed the fourth, partially obscured by a detached arm, his mind was racing.

Stop. His rational mind begged. Turn back, get a better look of the area.

No, go, go! His lizard brain retorted. The woman knows you’re looking for it. Find it. Find it!

His lizard brain won that argument. The bag was just a couple meters away. If he reached his arm out just right, he wouldn’t even need to take another step.

He lunged forward, and just as the bag seemed at the tip of his fingers – he heard a familiar voice call from above.

“Crap, wow, are you okay down there? What are you doing? What are you thinking?” The woman from earlier was standing on the edge of the ruined home. “Those are mines, you know? They can explode!”

Rusoff spun around, shocked and angry. He almost reared towards her, but stopped himself just short of a mine he hadn’t noticed until then.

“What are you doing here? You – you followed me?” Rusoff roared. “I’ll kill you!”

He wasn’t sure if the shock on her face was from his words, or the clear, mechanical click of the landmine beneath. Rusoff looked down.

The very edge of his boot, the very tip – it bordered on the landmine. He wanted to look back up at the woman with some sort of expression that conveyed his desperation not to die – but it seems he had forgotten. He didn’t know how to ask for mercy. Instead, he looked back at her, his face frozen between an anguished scream, and a tearful cry.

The woman did nothing for a few moments, the silence crushing him.

“I uh…” The woman looked helplessly at him, and then noticed his rucksack by her feet. She knelt down and picked it up. “Sorry. That sucks.”

The woman shrugged, and left.

“You!” Rusoff screamed. “You! You! You!”

He couldn’t find the words at first, and then he did.

“You bitch! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me!? You stole my book! That’s my book! Those are my leads! Get back here!” When it was clear that she wasn’t coming back, and even longer still, after it was clear she couldn’t hear him, Rusoff snapped back to himself.

I’ve been in worse situations before and I can still reach the cache.

Whatever it was, he could use it – for now. He could figure out how to use it, in some way, to cheat his way out of this trap, like he always had. If it was food, he’d have a few more days to figure out a plan. If it’s a weapon – some way to signal for help, perhaps.

Rusoff dragged the sack over , grunting as he pushed his body to the limits, stretching his very fingers out and pulling.

It was surprisingly light. He opened it.

Colourful paper. He plunged his hand into the sack. Old sheets, printed with elaborate designs and marked with numbers. He had seen these before – at junk sales.

There was a note inside.

20 grand. Getaway cash. Hide in the basement. Don’t tell anyone, ever.

The paper was so old it nearly collapsed into the dust it was covered in. It was gone. The evidence of his find, his little black book to mark it in, all gone – for colourful paper.

Rusoff took a harsh breath, and emptied out the bag.

It might make decent kindling. He hoped. If I could find a way to light it.

He was determined to win.