Veracity (The Seven Cities Book 1) (3 page)

Around mid-morning I discover a little town, or what is left of one. Buildings, charred and gutted, line the cracked streets and the ground is a maze glass and refuse. What happened here? Where are all the people?

What must have been a pretty town is now destroyed. Every building has at least some form of damage and most are nothing more than soot stained bricks. As I maneuver the pitted sidewalks, I pass crumbled bakeries, cafés, and office buildings. The sight of the small, overgrown park with its rusted swings brings tears to my eyes. My heart breaks at the thought of the people who built this town; all of their lives and homes ripped away with such violence, for surely, destruction this vast could only be the result of war.

A breeze kicks up, sending dust and debris swirling in the air. The chalky smell of crushed concrete fills my nose and a chill runs through me, knowing that I am inhaling the remains of buildings, sidewalks, and who knows what else.

Down the street I see a faded sign advertising a discount grocery. Pushing open the door, I step into a different world. Outside, the town is made up of broken bricks and burned wood, but in here I find a world of green. I stand dumbfounded, taking in the scene around me.

Tattered green paper is everywhere, filling drawers, counters, and spilling onto the floor. The wind blows through the open door behind me, sending the paper dancing in the air like autumn leaves. I pull my own green paper out of my suitcase, and it's the same as the thousands scattered across the store.

I separate one of them from the others, squinting to read its faded words. One Dollar. An image of an old man is featured, surrounded by various icons and imagery. While interesting to look at, the design seems elaborate and unnecessary. My stack includes several different kinds: a ten, a five, a twenty, and several ones. Each denomination is unique and just as detailed as the one before. Although tattered and torn now, it's obvious they were a work of art. What was the point of such fragile currency? What would happen if the money were destroyed? It doesn't look like it would be very hard to do.

I move further into the store, tentatively at first, afraid to disturb the incredible sight. Stepping onto the thick carpet of green, my muffled steps are the only sound in the deserted store. This money must not be worth much if no one comes to collect it. The word credits pops into my mind and I can almost feel the small silver coins in my hand. My pulse races in excitement as I realize a memory has surfaced. I picture the coin, so small yet so important. Whoever I was, wherever I lived, I used credits as currency, not this useless, green paper.

A quick search of the store reveals very little, and I only manage to scavenge two bottles of water and four packages marked "All Natural Granola Bars". Although I am disappointed to find so little, finding anything at all gives me hope. Stocked shelves mean people, or at least a person. How long ago were they here? The only sign of life I can find is that the store is unusually clean. The great piles of money aside, the store is spotless, no dirt or dust to be found. There is definitely someone close enough to maintain this store on a regular basis. Why don't they take the money?

Each item has been marked with black ink to show a price. Standing next to the overflowing register, I check the cost of the items against my stash. I could buy all of it and still have money left, but I feel guilty wiping out the store. With future travelers in mind, I leave a bottle of water and a granola bar on the shelf. Mindful of my warning against theft, I lay my money with the rest. Opening the door, I watch as it swirls and mixes with the others, erasing all evidence that I was here.

Outside, I scan the buildings around me, looking for any sign of the shopkeeper. I check the darkening sky for smoke, but the sunset is unblemished. The thought of going door to door crosses my mind, but my desire for self-preservation over rules my curiosity. I was told that no one would hurt me, that the fear of being caught committing a crime would keep me safe. But in this world without lies, I wonder what people could get away with if they truly believe what they are doing is right.

Continuing down the road, I can't help but feel like I am being watched. Paranoia firmly in place, I search every window and doorway in the fear, and hope, that I would find someone. Several blocks from the grocery store, I find a house in noticeably better shape than the ones around it, complete with bay windows still intact and a solid roof.  "Barr Family Dentistry, Walk-Ins Welcome," is written in faded blue letters on a sign in the yard. The pristine sidewalk, though still cracked and warped, leads to a swept porch and a door that is neither busted in, nor hanging off its hinges. The upkeep of the building draws me in like a moth to flame, but also puts me on edge.

I steal up the path, constantly watching the windows for movement. My hand curls around the brass knob, but I'm hesitant to open it for fear of what might be on the other side. Standing close to the door, I press my ear against the wood. The ghost of a song is playing faintly inside, drifting toward me from somewhere deep in the house. Now I am positive someone is here. Should I knock? I firmly grasp the knob, daring myself to turn it. Suddenly, images of all the possible negative outcomes flash through my mind. Cowardice takes control of my body, and I jerk my hand back and walk away.

Turning for one last look at the house before stepping back onto the street, I catch the lacy curtains moving out of the corner of my eye. Indecision plagues me, but no matter how hard I try, I can't muster up the courage to investigate. I don't yet understand this world I have woken up in, and until I do, meeting new people is not high on my to-do list. The fact that they are there is comforting though, and makes this new world seem just a tiny bit less scary.

I walk as quickly as I can for as long as possible, trying to gain some distance from the house. It's getting dark, but my fear of being followed presses me on. It is not until I see a library that I feel safe enough to stop. The squat building is in relatively good shape, with strong walls and a solid roof.

Walking through the seemingly endless maze of empty shelves, I pretend they are still full of books. There is something oddly comforting about the idea of a vast sea of knowledge organized into a simple system of letters and numbers. Far in the back of the building, I find a bathroom and cry with joy when I discover running water. I turn the faucet on and let it run through my fingers, the dirt washing off in inky streams. It's frigidly cold, but wet, and I wash my hands and face, working hard to scrape the grime from my skin. Leaning over the sink, I let the icy water run through my hair, slightly horrified at how much debris runs into the drain. After washing off at least a pound of filth, I grab my bag and dig out an extra set of clothes. I change and rinse the dirty clothing in the sink, hanging it over a bathroom stall to dry. A miracle all its own, the working toilet claims my attention next. When it comes down to it, it's ridiculous just how much joy you can find in a bathroom.

Cleaner than I can ever remember being, I finish exploring the library.  It feels so wrong calling it that when it holds not one single book. We are connected in that way. Both abandoned. Both stripped of what makes us who we are. I add that definition to my growing understanding of myself. I am a reflection in broken glass. I am a library without books.

Tucked back in a corner, I find a dark stairwell leading down to the basement. Narrow, rectangular windows high above the shelves stream the soft moonlight of early evening into the room. In the dim light, I can see faded murals painted on the walls. Although a little dull and dim, the paintings are beautiful renditions of whimsy, full of dragons, knights, and princesses locked in towers.  I decide to spend the night here; a place full of beauty with a hint of what was, a small dose of "once upon a time".

A new dream envelops me as I sleep. Again the young man is center stage. Grinning from ear to ear, he drags me through the forest, slowing only to let me make my way over fallen logs and other obstacles.

"What is going on?" I laugh, stumbling through the forest.

"I have a surprise for you," he says, stopping to tie a scarf over my eyes.

"Where did you get that?"

"You'll see!" he laughs.

He lifts me up in his arms and I can feel him walking through the trees. After a few minutes, he comes to a stop, his breath quick in excitement. Lowering me to the ground, he tugs on the back of the scarf and it slips away.

"A house!" I cry. "You actually found us a house! We don't have to sleep outside anymore."

"It is so much more than that Katherine, it's a home, our home. Go ahead and look."

I walk up the steps to the cozy log cabin, already impressed by its wide front porch and rocking chair. The door opens up to a great room with some dusty living room furniture and a tiny kitchen. Awed, I touch all the buttons and knobs, wishing I knew what their purposes were. With a wink, the young man turns the knob on the sink and I gasp when it comes to life, the water running brown and murky for a few moments before flowing clear and clean.

On the other side of the living area I find two bedrooms, separated by a bathroom. One of the bedrooms actually has a bed in it. When was the last time I slept in a real bed?

"Open the closet," he says.

I run to the door at the far end of the room and fling it open. Inside I find a huge collection of clothes. They are strange looking but wonderful. I find dresses and skirts like I am used to but also blue jeans like little boys would wear, only clearly for a grown woman! I pull out a few different items and try them on. He laughs as I twirl around in the dresses, skirts, and even the jeans. They are all a little long on me, but otherwise fit well.

"We could make a life here Kat, a real life. No more running, no more hiding. This can be our home."

I turn and wrap my arms around his neck. "As long as I am with you, I'm home."

I wake with an undeniable sense of loss. Gone is the adorable cabin in the woods, and I'm transported back to a dark, empty library. Keeping my eyes shut tight, I desperately try to hold onto the vivid dream, but it slips away, dancing just slightly out of my reach. I cling to every detail, memorizing the feel of the soft dresses and the young man's strong arms around my waist. He warned me not to mistake the dreams for memories, but it's difficult not to without any of my own. Despite his warning, I use what I can remember to fill up the empty spaces within myself.

I could have lain there in my little corner forever, but moving gets much easier when I see a giant rat scurry across the basement's carpeted floor. With the light of day starting to stream in through the windows, the sweet children's section is revealed to be just as dirty and rank as most of the other buildings. The evening light had transformed it into a magical place, but the day is showing it to be a mirage in a desert of rot.

The walls and floor are caked in wide streaks of mud and mold, most likely the result of flooding. Long cobwebs hang from the ceiling and even the beautiful murals look grotesque in the light; just a reminder of the children who are no longer here to enjoy it. Grabbing my suitcase, I head for the stairs, refusing to look back at the floor I had slept on; no need to see that for what it really was.

Spending more time in the bathroom before I leave, I scrub myself as clean of the basement as I can, ignoring the bite of the frigid water. Leaving the library, with half a granola bar in my mouth, I restart my journey, more determined than ever to find a place where I belong.

As the town ends, the highway stretches out before me. The further I walk, the faster my mood deteriorates. I'm nervous about being back in a wooded area, grumpy that I don't have more to eat, and honestly a bit bored. At least back in the town I had something to look at. Here it is just trees, an occasional rock, and more trees. I try to pass the time by counting the faded, yellow lines on the road or the birds in the air, but nothing holds my attention for long. The hours inch by, and I kick rocks, throw sticks, and even try talking to myself to pass the time. With nothing to distract me from the quiet, loneliness of the wild, it isn't long before I start obsessing over how hungry I am.

I stop in a small clearing by the side of the road, climbing up on a large, flat rock to eat a small helping of my meager provisions. Laying my head back, I let the sun soak into my skin. I realize then that I had, without thinking, shunned the sun during most of my journey, sticking to shaded areas as much as I could. The feel of the sun's heat against my face is almost foreign, which raises a whole new set of questions. After a few minutes of sunbathing, I feel re-energized and ready to take on whatever the day might bring.

The day brings rain. At first it is merely a gentle down pour of big, cold drops, but soon the wind is howling through the trees as the sky turns an unearthly shade of green. Thunder rolls through the forest like an angry beast, following the great streaks of white lighting cutting through the storm-born sky. I shriek along with it, ducking with every groan and rumble, the wind whipping me to and fro in the icy rain.

Somewhere deep in the forest, a tree crashes to the ground, uprooted by the fury of the wind. The sound sends shivers down my already frigid body, and I fall to my knees in fear. Another flash tears through the sky, and I lurch to my feet, stumbling blindly through the thick sheets of rain. I turn a corner in the road and before me is a small brick building holding its own against the fury of the storm.