CHAPTER 1: CEDARVILLE
Living in this dustbowl has been your way of life since the beginning. You have never known anything different. Day in, day out, since you were old enough to walk - watering the horses, working alongside your mother and father in the fields, hoping every season to harvest enough food to keep yourselves alive. And hoping everyday that the winds will not blow their horrendous fury upon you, bringing in the sand and dust that kill everything you and your loved ones work so hard for. Food is so scarce. Many have perished this year in the famine of this desolate wasteland you call home
Everyday, the sun beats down upon your sweet face, and upon your slender body, piercing the remaining rags of what used to be a beautiful dress, a dress belonged to your mother when she was your age. What a beautiful dress it must have been in its youth. Long and pinkish white, colored with flowers of some type, perhaps carnations. The frills at its base are only torn rags now, but they must have been lovely once. You recount the conversations past, having heard your mother talk on more than a dozen occasions about that evening she first wore this piece of art. It makes you cheerful as you remember her smile. It was, afterall, the night she met your father. Oh how fond she is of reminescing, especially about that night. But then, everyone is nostalgic in Cedarville, this obscure provincial town. You walk by the old store sometimes during your early morning chores and can hear them talking about life before the Great Blast, as they call it. Some United States of Amaric, or something like that. How everyone had jobs and cars that ran, and how life was good. How there was an army that could "protect its people from any enemy, foreign or abroad." You remember these stories being told since your childhood. They are part of all the legends of your culture, a dying culture it seems. You yourself are old enough to know there was some kind of disaster - a war perhaps, or at least an attack - that killed most of humanity, and left only the suffering remains of people like yourself to tend to the remains of a world left behind.
Fear is in the air. Fear of hunger. Fear of death. But mostly, fear of fear itself, which is, in your estimation the greatest fear of all. People have no hope. You can see it, feel it. It's as if all the life in the universe has vanished, leaving only walking corpses to caretake a barren waste heap.
And then, there is fear of the Sadicans. Legends about them abound, and reach out much farther and wider than any legend about the disaster. Supposedly, they come in the night, killing, raping, burning entire villages and districts. There is no government, no military that can stop them. None exists. Rumors have it that they reproduce by rape, then murder the women who give birth in the most horrific ways. These legends don't terrify you as much as they did when you were a child, as much as still do the other residents of Cedarville. You have never seen a Sadi (as they are called for short). They seem to be the least of your concerns. To you, they are just a rumor. People need a common any to have community. You have seen it before. And this is no different. There are no Sadis, only fears of the unknown. Perhaps.
Pulling up the water pitcher from a homemade well, you lift and pour, then drop again. Sweat runs down your neck. You are tired from another day of labirous chores. But in the distance, something is different. You hear the sound of thunder. You look up and about, but there isn't a cloud in the sky. You continue pulling up the pitcher, then empty the brownish water into a cistern you carried with you on your back. You are relatively isolated from the village, it being a short yet arduous journey from Cedarville, with gravel roads, up and over Baker's Hill and into Damnation Valley. You have always been fond of these names. They apply. But they make you feel dead and damned, being out of sight of every soul.
You begin making your way back to the village. Suddenly, you hear screaming at a distance. Startled and concerning, you drop your cistern and begin running toward the sound. As you ascend over the hill, you see smoke rising from the village. The screams get louder and stronger. You draw nearer, only to find horror you have never known before. Men, giants, on horses, with swords and guns, and fire. Woman from your village, lined up with chains around their necks. Men, some dismembered on the ground, others crucified along the streets, other charred flesh chained or tied to poles, fences, trees. And every home burned to the ground. In horror, you turn and run, looking for shelter. In shock, you cannot think, only weep and you run frantically, hoping not to be seen. You think in terror what might have happened to your mother, your father. To your friends. Were these the Sadis you had so often heard about? Should you have believed and been ready?
Running for cover is the only logical thought that comes to your mind. You b-line for some shrubs about 30 yards away. But, unknowingly, you are detected by a Sadi soldier. You turn as you hear two horses galloping toward you, mounted by men, one with a rifle of some kind, the other with a longer staff ended off with a collar. You run for protection, but it's too late. You feel a sharp sting in your lower back. You legs stiffen up and lock as pain surges throughout your body. You fall forward, putting your hands out just in enough time to catch yourself. You look up. The sun glares into your eyes, forcing you to squint, but the shadow of a figure comes between you and the sun. He extends the staff, quickly putting the collar attached to its end over your head and around your neck. The collar fits loosely at first, so you attempt to break free. But somewhere in your mind, you know there is no hope. The Sadi presses a button on the staff near the handle. You hear a clicking sound. Then the collar begins to quickly tighten. You can feel it squeezing your neck. You put your hands between it and your neck, trying to pry it off. But you can't. You hear them laughing as you fight with all your might against them. Resistance is futile. The soldier attaches the other end of the staff to a link on his saddle and lightly kicks the side of his horse. It begins to slowly move, and you are forced to walk alongside it.
Before long, you reach the others. The sights you saw at a distance now come horrifyingly close. The stench is more than you can bear. You can see friends, loved ones mangled along the wrong. Corpses burned to a crisp. Smoke rising from burning buildings, no doubt filled with men, women and children. Along the street, men and old women stripped and tied up, or nailed up for that matter, to trees and left for dead. There is weeping and moaning all about. And the dark truth hits you - your family is gone. You can see the smoke and fire rising from your small cottage. Your eyes fill with tears as you come to the realization that everything you have grown up with has been swept away by these invaders.
The soldier dismounts and unhooks the staff his saddle. Once done, you are pulled toward the other women lined up and chained together. A soldier pulls your elbows behind you and ties them tightly together. Then another soldier pulls your wrists together in front of you. You struggle, but you cannot overpower them. And even if you could, what would be the point. You are captive. You wrists are bound tightly, the staff is released from your neck, leaving only the collar. The soldier hooks a long chain to the collar, then attaches the other end to the long chain connecting all the other women. Once done, the word is given, and all of you are paraded in a caravan of humiliation away from Cedarville, never to return again.
Living in this dustbowl has been your way of life since the beginning. You have never known anything different. Day in, day out, since you were old enough to walk - watering the horses, working alongside your mother and father in the fields, hoping every season to harvest enough food to keep yourselves alive. And hoping everyday that the winds will not blow their horrendous fury upon you, bringing in the sand and dust that kill everything you and your loved ones work so hard for. Food is so scarce. Many have perished this year in the famine of this desolate wasteland you call home
Everyday, the sun beats down upon your sweet face, and upon your slender body, piercing the remaining rags of what used to be a beautiful dress, a dress belonged to your mother when she was your age. What a beautiful dress it must have been in its youth. Long and pinkish white, colored with flowers of some type, perhaps carnations. The frills at its base are only torn rags now, but they must have been lovely once. You recount the conversations past, having heard your mother talk on more than a dozen occasions about that evening she first wore this piece of art. It makes you cheerful as you remember her smile. It was, afterall, the night she met your father. Oh how fond she is of reminescing, especially about that night. But then, everyone is nostalgic in Cedarville, this obscure provincial town. You walk by the old store sometimes during your early morning chores and can hear them talking about life before the Great Blast, as they call it. Some United States of Amaric, or something like that. How everyone had jobs and cars that ran, and how life was good. How there was an army that could "protect its people from any enemy, foreign or abroad." You remember these stories being told since your childhood. They are part of all the legends of your culture, a dying culture it seems. You yourself are old enough to know there was some kind of disaster - a war perhaps, or at least an attack - that killed most of humanity, and left only the suffering remains of people like yourself to tend to the remains of a world left behind.
Fear is in the air. Fear of hunger. Fear of death. But mostly, fear of fear itself, which is, in your estimation the greatest fear of all. People have no hope. You can see it, feel it. It's as if all the life in the universe has vanished, leaving only walking corpses to caretake a barren waste heap.
And then, there is fear of the Sadicans. Legends about them abound, and reach out much farther and wider than any legend about the disaster. Supposedly, they come in the night, killing, raping, burning entire villages and districts. There is no government, no military that can stop them. None exists. Rumors have it that they reproduce by rape, then murder the women who give birth in the most horrific ways. These legends don't terrify you as much as they did when you were a child, as much as still do the other residents of Cedarville. You have never seen a Sadi (as they are called for short). They seem to be the least of your concerns. To you, they are just a rumor. People need a common any to have community. You have seen it before. And this is no different. There are no Sadis, only fears of the unknown. Perhaps.
Pulling up the water pitcher from a homemade well, you lift and pour, then drop again. Sweat runs down your neck. You are tired from another day of labirous chores. But in the distance, something is different. You hear the sound of thunder. You look up and about, but there isn't a cloud in the sky. You continue pulling up the pitcher, then empty the brownish water into a cistern you carried with you on your back. You are relatively isolated from the village, it being a short yet arduous journey from Cedarville, with gravel roads, up and over Baker's Hill and into Damnation Valley. You have always been fond of these names. They apply. But they make you feel dead and damned, being out of sight of every soul.
You begin making your way back to the village. Suddenly, you hear screaming at a distance. Startled and concerning, you drop your cistern and begin running toward the sound. As you ascend over the hill, you see smoke rising from the village. The screams get louder and stronger. You draw nearer, only to find horror you have never known before. Men, giants, on horses, with swords and guns, and fire. Woman from your village, lined up with chains around their necks. Men, some dismembered on the ground, others crucified along the streets, other charred flesh chained or tied to poles, fences, trees. And every home burned to the ground. In horror, you turn and run, looking for shelter. In shock, you cannot think, only weep and you run frantically, hoping not to be seen. You think in terror what might have happened to your mother, your father. To your friends. Were these the Sadis you had so often heard about? Should you have believed and been ready?
Running for cover is the only logical thought that comes to your mind. You b-line for some shrubs about 30 yards away. But, unknowingly, you are detected by a Sadi soldier. You turn as you hear two horses galloping toward you, mounted by men, one with a rifle of some kind, the other with a longer staff ended off with a collar. You run for protection, but it's too late. You feel a sharp sting in your lower back. You legs stiffen up and lock as pain surges throughout your body. You fall forward, putting your hands out just in enough time to catch yourself. You look up. The sun glares into your eyes, forcing you to squint, but the shadow of a figure comes between you and the sun. He extends the staff, quickly putting the collar attached to its end over your head and around your neck. The collar fits loosely at first, so you attempt to break free. But somewhere in your mind, you know there is no hope. The Sadi presses a button on the staff near the handle. You hear a clicking sound. Then the collar begins to quickly tighten. You can feel it squeezing your neck. You put your hands between it and your neck, trying to pry it off. But you can't. You hear them laughing as you fight with all your might against them. Resistance is futile. The soldier attaches the other end of the staff to a link on his saddle and lightly kicks the side of his horse. It begins to slowly move, and you are forced to walk alongside it.
Before long, you reach the others. The sights you saw at a distance now come horrifyingly close. The stench is more than you can bear. You can see friends, loved ones mangled along the wrong. Corpses burned to a crisp. Smoke rising from burning buildings, no doubt filled with men, women and children. Along the street, men and old women stripped and tied up, or nailed up for that matter, to trees and left for dead. There is weeping and moaning all about. And the dark truth hits you - your family is gone. You can see the smoke and fire rising from your small cottage. Your eyes fill with tears as you come to the realization that everything you have grown up with has been swept away by these invaders.
The soldier dismounts and unhooks the staff his saddle. Once done, you are pulled toward the other women lined up and chained together. A soldier pulls your elbows behind you and ties them tightly together. Then another soldier pulls your wrists together in front of you. You struggle, but you cannot overpower them. And even if you could, what would be the point. You are captive. You wrists are bound tightly, the staff is released from your neck, leaving only the collar. The soldier hooks a long chain to the collar, then attaches the other end to the long chain connecting all the other women. Once done, the word is given, and all of you are paraded in a caravan of humiliation away from Cedarville, never to return again.
