The Gap - Chapter 3

​Back cover description:
Zora lives her life in tenuous routine, using her unique gifts to guide refugees through the treacherous Gap in search of safety within the walled-off empire to the north. But her journey takes a turn, one day, as she uncovers dark secrets among the jungle's predators and bandits. Soon, survival becomes more than just reaching the other side, and it may come at the cost of everything she once held to be true.

Chapter 3

Ollie helps two of the passengers secure the boat to a large mahogany tree while I head to a clearing just inland from our mooring spot on the river and begin setting up camp. The sun is probably an hour from setting, and the Gap is the last place you want to be at night without shelter or a continuous source of light.

After several expletive-filled moments of me messing with the web of poles and cord and canvas, my small one-person tent takes form, and I drop my gear inside. It’s only a few inches bigger than me in any one direction, but it just needs to keep me dry. The Gap is known for its thunderous evening rains and storms, and I detest wet socks with every fiber of my being.

The others in the company set up their own equipment varying in quality and complexity. I see one couple with a higher-end tent complete with built-in illumination and space for at least six, while one gentleman simply drapes his windbreaker over his bag to use as a pillow. Some of the people that I see on these journeys plan their migration for years before venturing out, having come from relatively stable regions. Others are driven out of their homes with nothing but the clothes on their back, caught in the crossfire exchanged between whatever warring factions exist that month.

While Ollie sets up his own tent, I head into the brush in search of firewood and manage to haul an armload back to the gathering at the center of camp. I hack at them with my machete to expose their dry centers and collect a small mound of shavings for tinder. When I’ve finished assembling my structure, I reach for my lighter, only to find my pocket empty.

“Ah, crap…”

I feel around my other pockets; no luck. I head back to my tent and search around my bag. I even head back to the boat and rummage around, but I can’t find it anywhere.

“You left it on the table back at the Fort Sula house!” Ollie calls over to me from his tent.

“Well then why did you let me leave it if you knew?”

“Just a guess! You always leave it there!”

I roll my eyes and stomp back to the camp. We’ll be swarmed by bugs and worse if we don’t get that fire started soon.

“Does anyone else have a lighter?” I ask hopefully. The others look around at the group expectantly, but no one speaks up. “Or maybe someone with a thermal dominance?”

“I have a speed dominance, would that help?” one of the passengers offers up.

“Actually, yeah. Maybe you can light it the old-fashioned way with the drill and socket method.”

The passenger nods and moves over to the pile of wood while I take a moment to scope out our perimeter.

A speed dominance might actually give him a fighting chance when he gets to Jericho. At least, it should help him get past the wall. Once he’s on the other side, he’s on his own.

The Freesians call us Mods, as in modified, as if we were artificially enhanced somehow. It’s a misnomer. There’s really nothing supernatural about anyone in the southern continent; our abilities are the same as theirs, just enhanced, more dominant. It’s genetic, and each region has its own genetic variances. Some are particularly strong; some have greater thermal tolerances—I met someone once that could see slightly beyond the normal visible spectrum into infrared.

Speed dominances are some of the more common ones. Like my passenger. He’s by the fire now, rapidly twisting a stick in his hands. It’s only a matter of second before smoke begins rising from the pile of splinters, and a moment later tongues of fire catch the wood.

But being different always seems to have its cost, no matter what that difference is.

I’ve heard stories of how southerners are treated in the Empire. Used for their abilities like tools. Worked beyond reasonable limits as disposable assets that can simply be replaced by the next batch of us begging to get over the wall. They say that’s why they built the wall in the first place. The Freesians were worried about a southern invasion of a supposedly superior population taking over the Empire and ruling the “non-Mod” class.

But no one’s trying to take over anything. Most people honestly don’t even think of themselves as enhanced. It’s just how we’re born. In all reality, if the Burn hadn’t happened, no one would want to go near the Empire. No one wants to leave their home. But with the amount of destruction and chaos, many are left with no other choice.

There’s a lot of reputation to be made in a nation as powerful as the Empire, and even a little bit of reputation goes a long way down here, so we take it. We deal with the abuse, even though we know that we’ll never live a perfect life in their palaces, because it means a good enough life back home.

And this could all be third-hand hearsay, of course. Maybe the Imperials are the gracious angels that the elders always sing about. But I don’t know.

I've never been. Nor do I care to.

~

It’s a shame that everything in the Gap wants to kill you, because it’s actually one of the most beautiful places in the entire world. I’d live here forever if it wasn’t for the wildcats, parasites, and murderers. Even so, I’ll probably be doing this run for as long as I live. Or until they miraculously find a way to build a road through here. I spend most of my nights in the Gap, I suppose it’s like I live here anyways.

I look up at the soaring waves of equatorial marblewood trees capping the cliffs surrounding us. We’ve just reached Salmon Lake—the headwaters of the Tarxis river. It straddles the border of Sudland and the rest of the southern continent, nestled inside a thousand-year-old caldera—a scar from an ancient Burn, long since lost to antiquity. Moss and vines cling to the cliff walls like wet hair, while families of birds nest among the webbing, chirping exotic songs that bounce around the rocky depression.

I pull up along the edge of the lake and hop out onto the pebbled banks, splashing with each step as I drag the boat to shore. Once I’ve helped offload all my passengers, I tie the boat to one of the trees and pull the dead-man’s pin from the bottom. It’s a small uniquely-shaped tab that acts as the keystone to a complex system of locks and slides keeping the two halves of my boat together. Without it, the whole thing will fall apart about ten strokes from shore. I usually keep it hidden in a lockbox for a partner of mine to find and use for his crew going the opposite direction, but he’s taking the season off to visit family.

I notice some of the passengers pointing to a collection of towers and sandbags tucked away among the more forested part of the lake along the far shore. Armed soldiers with weapons peek out from in-between slatted trenches. There’s a large Sudland flag in the center of the camp, hanging loose in the windless air.

“Don’t worry,” I say, ushering my crew along. “They’re not looking for you. Not unless any of you are drug runners.”

It’s true. I've made this trip more times than I can remember, and I’ve only been stopped on a handful of occasions. The soldiers rummage around my bags and those of my company, then they send us on our way. They usually recognize the regulars; though, every now and then, a fresh rotation cycles through and they have to learn us all over again.

I don’t blame them. It’s easy to make drugs in the south, not so much in the Empire where society didn’t get blasted to bits by a massive geological event. And there are plenty of buyers up there, people who want that temporary dose of genetically modified sap that gives them enhanced abilities that many of us in the south possess. Strength, speed, smell, who knows. For a few minutes, at least.

But the border guards are at least a mild deterrent. Makes the casual traders think twice. Though, I suppose it only weeds out everyone but the determined ones who are violently willing to take whatever risks necessary.

It’s all about the reputation.

I give my customers another minute to arrange their gear for travel on foot, then make my way to the front of the pack and lead them on.

Our first few hours are simple enough. There’s a beaten path that winds its way down the peaks demarcating the southern border of Sudland, but we try to stay parallel to it by a good thousand paces or two. Bandits and predators know it’s one of the best places to catch unsuspecting travelers, and they tend to hang around the bushes alongside it.

The guides know to steer clear, but not everyone travels with a guide.

Ollie and I chat, but the others stay quiet. They usually do on these trips. I think I scare them with my little pre-departure speeches. All the better, though; it’s harder to hide a talkative company.

I toss a dried apricot to Ollie.

“So, you mooch off me for my food, you can’t light fires, you can’t see through fog; I can’t even get you to clean my spoon before giving it back to me. Remind me why I keep you around again?”

He promptly stuffs the fruit in his mouth and holds his hand out for another.

“My sharp wit, stunning looks, and the fact that you’re too lazy to find someone else,” he says, his speech muffled by food.

“Ah yes, that’s it.”

Ollie leans over and pours some sunflower seeds into my palm.

“Besides, not all of us are born with magic unicorn powers, Zo.”

“Alright, but what if you did have special abilities?”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter because I don't.”

“I know! Imagine for like half a minute.”

Ollie rolls his eyes. “What, like I wish I could teleport so that I could go to the bathroom at night without walking through the dark?"

I laugh. "No, that's superpowers. I'm talking about dominances."

Ollie’s a Sudlander. They don’t have dominances like the rest of us south of the Gap, but no one in the Empire really understands that. Which kind of sucks for them, because they get treated like anyone else south of Jericho, but are expected to perform like those of us who do have dominances.

Ollie looks thoughtful for a moment, then pops a few seeds into his mouth.

“It’d be cool to understand any language,” he says. “Like, to just know all of them, or intuit their structures and grammar, and then be able to speak them too.”

I nod. “I like that. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anything like it. I knew a guy once that could vocalize ultrasonic frequencies. That was kind of cool. He had a developed auditory system too, so he could use that to navigate in the dark using echolocation.”

“Bet the dogs love that.”

“Yeah, no kidding. One time—”

I’m brutally interrupted by a shrill cry, and the path forward is suddenly blocked by a band of masked individuals wielding curved blades, appearing as if out of thin air. They run towards us with weapons raised, even as another half dozen appear on our flanks and join them.

A gang of camouflage augments.

“Alright guys, here we go,” Ollie shouts to the others. “You’re going to want to watch this!”

I smile.

With eyes closed, I raise my arms and focus my breathing. I feel the energy in my body shifting as I calm my senses and direct my attention to the bubble of space around my company. My hair stands on edge, and then, with a familiar, practiced sense, I release the energy.

Zealous war calls instantly turn to shouts of panic, as if on cue, while the travelers in my company let out confused gasps, stunned at the sight. Swords fall to the ground, forgotten with a metallic clatter. It all happens in seconds, almost as quickly as it began.

I open my eyes to find the twenty or so masked bandits curled up on the floor in fetal position, hands over their ears, eyes shut tight.

It’s a strange scene to all but Ollie and me. None of the others can see the subtle shift in light, or the bubble of darkness that now clouds the vision of our attackers. They can’t sense the low-pitched nightmarish garble that’s overwhelming their ears.

Of course, Ollie can’t either, but this isn’t his first trip with me. He’s seen my abilities in action. Too powerful to be called dominances, too varied to be defined. For me, it’s just how I’ve always been. It’s like seeing or hearing, walking with one foot in front of the other. It comes to me as naturally as breathing, like waking up in the morning with a deep yawn.

But for the others, it’s an unearthly sight.

One by one, I let the bandits go, making minute adjustments to the directed vibrations that my body is emitting, while Ollie collects their weapons from them. They scamper away without so much as a backwards glance.

Ollie pulls out his canteen and takes a swig, like we're simply watching the sunrise after a brisk morning hike. “Maybe I’m just a bad person,” he says, “but I always kind of hope we run into the cartels on our trips.” He gives one of our attackers a good kick in the rear for effect.

I roll my eyes. But internally, I know exactly what he means.

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Title image courtesy of David Riano - Pexels