Lost World

Sinoah’s eyes cut coldly across the faces of dirty Outliers, positioned on the other side of the Path Between Lands that separates their tribes. She stands shoulder-to-shoulder with Nathan. They wear feathers and bones in their hair, and the teeth of their fallen enemies wound in leather cords around their necks. The symbol of their House, a queen, is tattooed on the outside of their wrists, illustrating their union, and visible as each parent places a hand on a shoulder of their surviving son.

Nathan whispers in his son’s ear that there are fourteen eligible Outliers this year. Skandar nods. The number means nothing to him as he can count no higher than ten, but also because his eyes are searching for only one: Helen. At last he sees her corn-colored hair riding the wild curve of the wind. She smiles at him wistfully.

They met by chance near a hollowed tree deep in the Outerlands and every week henceforth. He taught her how to write her name, she taught him the songs of her people in the broken, halting language of Outliers. Skandar sometimes leaves the Last World trinkets he finds in BWI City for her to discover among the rough folds of bark of their tree. In return, she leaves him gifts of daisy chains and wood carvings.

The sky above the two feuding tribes is a heavy slate of contiguous gray. Young Outliers are lined up behind their Chief on the opposing side. Thurgood Marshall X prepares for the ceremony. He reflects how far BWI has come in his time as elder elect. The tribe transformed the sprawling cavernous structure of BWI into a New World city: citizens claiming abandoned nooks with words such as Fire & Ice, Cinnabon, Chipotle above the door. They made homes, and together, a thriving community.

Thurgood Marshall X crinkles his nose in disgust when he thinks of the Outliers, who live in squalor and wallow in their ignorance. He restores his nonpartisan expression. It’s time to begin.

He marches to the center of the Path Between Lands and holds up the sacred Book of Words. Its cover and several pages are missing; what remains is stained and faded. A hush falls.

“As is our annual tradition,” Thurgood Marshall X begins, “BWI citizens of age will choose a mate among Outliers. This union will introduce new blood to our superior City while lessening the burden of overpopulation on the impoverished Outliers. We pledge to educate the chosen, converting their savage habits to the ways of the New World---"

The Outlier Chief moves swiftly. He raises a stick from under his filthy smock, plunges the sharp end into the chest of Thurgood Marshall X. He crumples, face white with shock.

Sinoah’s muscular legs close the gap between her and the Outlier Chief quickly. She raises her sword, and with a single smooth stroke, his head is detached from his body and rolls away. She charges the Outliers, along with her tribe.

Skandar sprints to Helen and catches her hand. He presses his latest find into her palm: a gold heart-shaped locket, nicked and missing its chain. He points to the Outerlands and mouths to her: RUN. Then he turns and enters battle.

They attack every Outlier they catch; their bodies soon littering the Path Between Lands. Thurgood Marshall X lies in front of the City marker, his dead eyes stuck open. Sinoah places her palm on his face, closing them. She looks up to the large block letters spelling BWI on the City marker. The rest of the wording has bleached in the face of tens upon thousands of suns since the Last World perished, save a line of pale pink script the ancestors deciphered: Thurgood Marshall.

Sinoah grunts and leads the pack up the path to the Arrival lane, between the red towers, back to their home. She passes the Houses of Flying Dog Tap, Ledo, Jamba Juice. The families inside are roused by citizens’ vicious whopping. They emerge from curtain-doors of matted bear fur and frayed fabric, weapons in hand.

Sinoah snaps orders:

Strip all the metal from the vehicles, make weapons.

Harvest the gardens, jar the food.

Mix tinctures and poultices a-plenty.

Amilla sits at a terminal, solemnly crushing witch-hazel and lemongrass with her pestle. Outside, citizens are slashing at curved metal, tearing it from the body of the enormous t-shaped vehicle. The ancestors hypothesized Last Worlders fashioned their vehicles in the likeness of t for terminal, although they do not know what actions warranted being strapped elbow-to-elbow in an inescapable pod. Many speculate Last Worlders built them in a last-ditch attempt to quarantine the Sickness that preceded the Great Collapse; they cannot fathom another reason Last Worlders would label their corridors terminal.

Sinoah steps forward, her brown face wizened, teeth barred. “War is upon us!” Her words are thunder. “Today, a Chosen Three will be sent into the Outerlands to gather intelligence. Tomorrow, we ATTACK!” The applause is deafening.

“I choose Skandar, strongest of Warrior. With him will go the strongest members of Learned and Medicinal-Alchemy who are also skillful in Warrior: Tory and Amilla.” Citizens clamor in approval, thrusting their blunt blades towards heaven.

The Chosen Three pack the instruments of their trades. They pass trimmed grass and lush gardens of BWI. Beyond the Path Between Lands rises a wild tangle of thorny brush and overgrown trees.

Tory removes a map from his knapsack and brandishes an ancient copper compass. He points west.

In the green-black light of the forest, sticks snap, animals scatter, bleating and braying under the cover of dense foliage. Tory holds a shield and Amilla grasps sharp knives in both hands, the ends wrapped with braided leather. Skandar holds his bow and arrow ready. They advance into the wilderness, nature rising over and through abandoned houses: the New World swallowing the last.

A rock thuds against a tree trunk, missing Amilla’s head.

They drop to ground. Scores of Outliers stand and throw jagged debris. Tory holds the shield and crouches ahead of Amilla and Skandar. Skandar shoots arrows, each hitting its target. Amilla crawls forward on her knees, stabbing an ankle or a foot, then jumping upon its fallen owner, she sinks her serrated blade into bare flesh.

Battle cries and projectiles cease. Tory puts down the shield, and The Chosen Three walk over paltry, bloodied bodies.

“Here,” Amilla calls. An Outlier is at her feet, mud is strewn across his face and chest, a primitively stitched skirt covers his genitals. His blue eyes look to the gray sky, his breath labors. Skandar raises his sword, but Tory puts a hand on his arm.

“Why war with us?” Tory asks.

A bitter smile forms on the Outlier’s lips, blood dripping from the corners of his mouth. “You steal us and leave rest us to starve.” He spat. Blood and bile drip down Tory’s leg and pools in the curled piece of rubber that is tied to his foot. Tory exchanges glances with his companions. Pitiful. Skandar drives the sword through the Outlier’s chest, his last breath a deflated gasp.

They push forward, blood drying on the edges of their knives.

It booms through the forest: metallic grinding, constant and guttural. The Chosen Three drop to ground. Skandar’s heart thuds in his chest. The clanking, revving, voluminous racket terrifies him. He presses his face into pine needles and dirt, his body rigid.

It draws near. Skandar lifts his upper body and squints through blades of tall grass. Vehicles much smaller than the ones of BWI have pulled in, blocking their route. Mercifully, the noise is silenced.

“How many?” mouths Tory.

Skandar shrugs. “Ten,” he guesses. Tory rolls his eyes.

Footsteps on soft pine-covered ground. The strangers talk among themselves. Their accent is strange, their pronunciation all wrong.

“Up!” commands Skandar. Tory raises the shield.

“Whoa!” comes a deep male voice. “Put down your weapons. We’re not going to hurt you.”

A man and a woman stand in front of their fleet of miniature vehicles. “My name is Stephen. This is Maryann.”

“Leave,” Amilla growls, “we have no use of you.”

“We’re here to save you,” Stephen persists. “Please, we are unarmed.”

Skandar sees their hands are empty, except for a black box in Stephen’s hand. He nods to the others, and they emerge from behind the shield. Stephen and Maryann are dressed in magnificent colors, draped across their tall, erect bodies. Gleaming gold and silver dangle from their limbs. The Chosen Three exchange glances.

“You’re not from BWI,” Skandar states, his hand tight around the handle of the sword at his side.

“B’why?” Stephen and Maryann puzzle over the word.

“Do you mean B.W.I.?” Maryann asks. She turns to Stephen. “We’re between Baltimore and DC – the airport is around here somewhere.”

“Air-port?” The new word tumbles awkwardly out of Skandar’s mouth.

Maryann ignores him. “What are your names?”

“I am Tory of the House of Duclaw Brewing.”

“I am Amilla of the House of McDonald’s.”

“I am Skandar of the House of Starbucks.”

“Was no one available from the House of Dunkin’ Doughnuts?” Stephen bellows with laughter; Maryann looks down, tries to cover her smile.

The Chosen Three are bewildered. How do they know Malchali Dunkin?

“I’m sorry, we mean no offense,” Stephen says once he recovers.

The black box in Stephen’s hand crackles. “Rescue Team Alpha-9, what is your position?”

“Telephone!” Tory exclaims.

“No, but close,” Stephen says encouragingly. “Walkie-talkie.” Stephen speaks into the box: “We’re in Sector 59-K, Rescue Team Beta-7. We’ve got inhabitants here – they’re primitive, like the ones from Sector 34-W.”

“We’re not Outliers!” Amilla spits. “Or Last Worlders.”

“I’m afraid you’re all outliers of a lost world,” Stephen says.

The Chosen Three stare at him incredulously. Does his ignorant kind not know the difference between last and lost?

“Come with us,” Maryann says softly. “We’ll get you medicine and proper clothes. In time, you’ll see….”

“Forward!” Skandar commands, raising his bow. Vooop. Skandar collapses, forced calmness arresting his senses. He hears two more vooops; two more bodies fall to ground.

Footsteps.

Maryann’s face floats above him. “Sorry,” her word exaggerates itself, expanding and contracting through space until it reaches his ears.

“I-doan-wan—” Skandar flounders. His mind screams FIGHT, but his body refuses to heed his command. Dull fear pricks his chest as he sees Amilla and Tory being wheeled away by the foreign Last Worlders.

“I can’t believe he’s still conscious,” Stephen says. “Take him to base. I’ll take the rest of the squad to meet up with Beta 7 at B.W.I. Something tells me we’re going to need a lot more tranquilizer darts.”

Skandar wants to slice open their skin, dig his fingernails into their organs, close his teeth around their bones and bite down. Instead, he is strangely compliant, his will detached from his body. He sees the red t on the side of the white vehicle. His heart pulses with jagged panic. “Not terminal!” he cries, but nahhhhh is what he emits.

“It’s all right,” Maryann coos. “Ok,” she says to Stephen. “But let’s do a better job with this bunch.”

“Yes,” Stephen agrees. “We’ll get it right this time.”

Skandar is sliding sideways and jounced as he's clumsily lifted and pushed into the red t vehicle. He senses someone next to him. He turns his head, straining to sharpen his vision. He makes out the shape of a heart, gold and slightly nicked, dangling from a daisy chain.

“Hel--?” he starts. She murmurs and drops her arm from the flatbed. With the last of his strength, he does the same, his fingers brushing hers.

Skandar feels heavy. Staring through the vehicle’s back window, he fixates on a clear patch of blue in an otherwise threatening sky. The vehicle rumbles to life, but the overwhelming commotion of gears and metal is nothing more to him now than a low hum as they cross the landscape and into the future, or else the past.