Crimson Dawn

They drove north into a vast, barren savannah, where crooked trees with wide canopies dotted the endless grasslands, and rock formations rose so high that they blocked the sun at its zenith. How such massive pillars had formed was beyond him; they looked like they had shot up from the ground. Atop one of these nearly cylindrical stone heights was the sprawling city of Rykuunh, its jagged, uneven silhouette visible from miles away against the clear morning sky.

In the northeast, the silhouette of a massive airship hovered near the sun, heading straight for the metropolis. Rykuunh was the capital of the Ognons District, which stretched from the equatorial jungles, across the savannah, and far into the desert regions. The city was the stronghold of the DFLL and was accessible via a long bridge and two elevators, one on the southwest side and the other in the northeast. The bridge served as a major trade route, open to transporters and hover freighters. The symbol of the resistance flew on flags above the checkpoint, fluttering high on the masts.

The 4x4 passed through the checkpoint with the necessary papers and climbed the dark steel structure. At a 30 percent incline, the engine roared like it was about to fall apart. From this height, Lex had a wide view over the savannah. To the west, he could see a vast expanse filled with the bloody remnants of a war he didn’t recognize, a graveyard of tanks, a scrapyard of discarded drones and aerial vehicles. Even from here, he could make out the shapes and shimmering lights of another city far off in the distance, built into a rugged, sandstone-colored canyon.

The land below was barren and desolate, dotted with colorless brush, strewn with rocks, and weighed down by an eerie loneliness. It was as if the past haunted this stretch of land, with the hot, dusty desert winds whispering tales of war, suffering, and injustice. Stories the land itself had written.

Mile after mile, they drove across the vast stone plateau toward the rebel capital. It felt like the ancient power line hanging above the road was their guide. Thick cables stretched from one post to the next, always following the road, a cracked asphalt path covered in dust and stones, barely distinguishable from the rust-colored wasteland around them.

After nearly an hour of driving, the 4x4 came to a halt as several figures dressed in black robes crossed the road with a herd of cloned sheep. They wore tall, cone-shaped straw hats with wide brims and herded the animals with long staffs. They were small and hunched, looking like creatures from another world. The captain made a comment, and Lex wondered if he was talking about the strange shepherds who continued across the barren land. Then someone else made a snide remark, and the others burst into laughter, but the eerie silence of the wasteland soon shut them up.

Less than a mile from the city, they passed a broken-down car wreck that had been turned into a playground by a group of children dressed in rags. The wreck had no front axle, propped up on stones, while the rear tires were still there but so flat they looked like they were sinking halfway into the dust. The body was completely rusted, with bits of old paint peeling away in the hot wind that blew through the burnt-out interior, tossing the kids' curly black hair. One child gripped the steering wheel tightly, staring at the approaching 4x4 as it kicked up a wide cloud of dust behind it. A group of people sat in the back, staring blankly at them. Their gazes were curious, suspicious, until a burst of laughter came when they realized who was driving the vehicle. The captain raised his hand out the window in a greeting.

They pulled over near a marketplace. In front of a building that Lex couldn’t tell if it was a ruin or still inhabited, or maybe both, they let him out, slamming the door shut behind him. The captain leaned out the window, shouting something at him while tapping his watch impatiently.

Once again, Lex was left to fend for himself, alone in a strange place with no idea what would happen next. In a daze, he stumbled across the road, sweat dripping from his body as the scorching air dried out his throat. It wouldn’t have surprised him if the bone-dry bushes on the roadside suddenly caught fire, or if the sun’s rays scorched his hair. He needed shade, and the only place to find it was under the canopies of the market stalls.

A local man in a bright yellow shirt walked toward him. He wore old sandals and a knee-length wrap skirt, chewing on something as he kept his gaze fixed on the boy. Then he pointed in the direction of the market, making a chattering motion with his other hand. Lex walked past him.

The market was set up between clay houses, and cloths and sheets were stretched across the alleyways to shield the stalls from the sun. A few merchants paused their trading as they noticed the newcomer walking through their area. It was likely they had never seen such a pale, frail-looking figure before, even though they themselves had grown up in one of the poorest corners of the New World. Lex wandered through a maze of makeshift stalls. Wooden boards and cardboard stuck into the ground blocked the steady desert wind, allowing the men to sell their goods undisturbed by the weather.

Scraps of packaging blew through the alleys, swirling between people’s legs. Suddenly, a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. Words. Foreign, urgent. He turned around. A dark-skinned man with long, heavy curls looked deep into his eyes. He might have been speaking to him, maybe even yelling, but Lex couldn’t understand. Just like the strange writing above the stalls made no sense to him. The skinny man held out a heavy plastic bag full of fresh fruit. He was dressed like the other merchants, wearing a wrap skirt, with a worn-out synthetic leather water bottle strapped to his waist.

"Yeah, I'm hungry," Lex muttered, "but I’ve got no money."

The man was chewing on something he’d stuffed into his cheek. His thin, hollow face and large, round eyes gave him a gaunt look. He rubbed his skinny stomach as if trying to signal to the boy that he needed to eat.

"I know that," Lex replied. "But I’ve got nothin' to trade."

The man pushed the plastic bag into his chest.

Lex shook his head and pushed it away.

"No credits. Nothing." He crossed his arms in an X and left the fruit seller standing there, the bag still in his hand.

The market was a chaotic, noisy mess. Everywhere there was haggling, money to be made, goods to be traded, and loud voices shouting over one another. At one particularly crowded stall, a barefoot merchant sat cross-legged on layers of rags, trading bundles of leafy desert shrub branches for stacks of worn paper. What was this? A currency, maybe something like the coins on Limbo?

Exhaustion forced the boy to stop.

He clung to a rusty fence, his dizziness growing worse.

The world started spinning faster and faster; stars flickered across his vision.

He didn’t know what was happening, but something was wrong.

Suddenly, he collapsed against the fence, desperately trying to hold onto the wire with the last bit of strength he had, but then he crashed to the ground, lying motionless in the dust.