The Wanderer

The Wanderer

A Story by Dyaneares

Callan Soloman meets a woman unlike anything he's ever seen before in the desolated town of Sloane.


The Wanderer

   On the road, Callan Soloman had gotten used to a lot of things. He had gotten used to chasing the stars as they fled from the sunrise, and tucking himself into the cracks of Earth or under debris when it got too hot mid-day. He had also gotten used to pebbles sneaking into his socks slicing the bottom of his feet, constantly having to wipe his eyes and dirty palms onto his pants, and the hungry rumble in his gut. Cruelty, abandonment, and even murder were nothing new to him. These were all things he was used to.

   However, he was not used to seeing beautiful women.

   The beaten town of Sloane looked like heaven with dawn's pale light creeping between the cracks of the crumbling houses highlighting it against a backdrop of stars, and perched on top of a roof of one of the buildings that marked the edge of town was an angel. She stood tall and lean, with bare legs and exposed shoulders. The rouge-colored gown she wore was in pieces, the front completely torn off and the back left to drag behind her in shreds. Besides her apparel she was gorgeous, with warm brown skin and shapely lips. Her dark hair sat knotted at the back of her head and loose braided stands fell down her back. Something on her finger shimmered peculiarly catching Callan's eye.

   Callan stood frozen at the beginning of the bridge that led into town where he locked eyes with the mysterious woman. He blinked, thinking his eyes were tricking him but she did not disappear. Her gaze was empty, liquid brown framed by lengthily dark lashes. He bit back a low whistle, and instead tried to charm her with a flashy classically handsome smile, but her eyes quickly glazed over him. His smile thinned.

   "Hey..." He started, somewhat appalled that she would move on from him so quickly. She didn't even flinch at the sound of his voice.

   His fingers brushed over his jaw and found over-grown stubble and mud clinging to his face. Perhaps, he wasn't in the best shape to be capturing the hearts of women, but he couldn't of become that unattractive during his travels, and his charisma had in no way disappeared since then. He hoped. He looked back to the women. Suddenly, she spun around on her heels, facing towards the town instead of him and jumped down from the roof.

   "Hey!" He yelled as her strangely heavy footsteps disappeared. He scowled in the direction the woman had gone. Scrunching up his face that way did not make him feel any less defeated. Mumbling, he squared his shoulders, puckered his lips, and threw the light bag of supplies that had hung loosely from his hand over his right shoulder. When he reached the end of the bridge he was stopped again, but this time not by the gaze of some mystically beautiful women.

   He heard screaming, it barely catching his ear. It was so faint, but it still made Callan's heart drop. It belonged to a little girl.

   Callan took off towards the sound, buried deep behind the years of civilization that had been destroyed before Sloane even existed. As, it grew louder something starting nagging at the back of Callan's head. He slowed considerably, as he mind started racing. When had I become such a hero? 

   All he had done, stealing, lying, murdering, had been done to preserve himself. Yet, here he was, rushing to the aid of some helpless girl he didn't even know. The thought stopped him dead in his tracks. He looked around at the buildings surrounding him, they were far more sturdy compared to the ones on the edge of the wilds. He could easily just duck into one of the abandoned buildings and squat there until the sun passed and the situation had resolved itself.

   Then, his eyes snagged on a sucked-in face peering out at him from inside a make-shift home that blocked one of the destroyed alleyways. There were more, staring at him from broken windows and cracks in door that barely hung on their hinges. They were all scared, worried about what was going on. He probably wasn't going to find a suitable unoccupied space, anyhow. Perhaps, playing the hero would have it's perks, a hot meal and a place to spend the night. However, he could also end up dead.

   As Callan pondered this, the air was replaced with a sickeningly eerie silence and his stomach flipped.

   He couldn't do it. For once he couldn't walk away from doing the right thing. Callan's legs, that had felt like lead before, were light as paper as he zig-zaged between peeling walls and trash littered pathways. He found the screaming girl reduced to wide-eyed tears and whimpering. An old man, with tuffs of white hair clustered around his ears, held a protective arm in front of her. Their backs were pressed against an old building with a sign that used to read GENERAL STORE.

   Three men, dressed like trouble, stood in front of them but they were not busied with harassing the kid and the old man. The woman, from the roof, stood in front of them straight and tall with her hands carelessly rested at her sides. A fourth man dressed the same was laying unconscious on his side with a bright bruise under his right ear at her feet. The remaining three looked angry, the big cue ball looking one had a vein popping out of his forehead.

   All three men charged her at once, battle cries tearing from their throats. Callan's breath hitched in his throat, and the little girl gasped. "Pocahontas!"

   The woman, Pocahontas, did not flinch. Making it look simple, she elegantly spun her body and ducked beneath the men as they ran at her, a shredded dress strip catching on her leg as she did. She lifted herself back up and grabbed two of the men by their collars jerking them backwards. They fell onto the ground with a hard thud. The third man swung around, murder in his eyes, and went for the woman again.

   Callan dropped his bag and wrapped his fingers around the shotgun that had been stabbing him in the back the whole way to Sloane pulling it out of it's holster. He flipped it around, and gripped it by it's barrel, positioning it on his shoulder like a baseball bat. When the man barreled past him, he stepped out of the shadows and swung the gun at the back of his head. He went flying into the woman and her fist connected directly with his mouth. He crumpled to the ground unconscious.

   One of the remaining two still-conscious men, got up and ran. He sped off screaming into the wastelands. Cueball, the last men left, moaned. Callan was amazed at how quickly it was over.

   "Maybe you should consider a new line of work," Callan said walking over to the obvious thief and kicked him onto his stomach. Cueball responded with a gurgle of saliva and a couple curse words.

   Callan turned back towards the man, the little girl, and the woman. She was looking at him with those same empty, caramel eyes. He gave her a smile, bigger and brighter than the first. Her fingers curled slowly, and he noticed the curiousness of their shimmering. Not rings like he had thought but mechanics. The skin had been burnt away and the remnants of her gloves clung to spidery robotic fingers.

   His smile did not fade, but loosened. His gaze was brought back to her eyes. She looked at him for a long while and finally returned his smile with a thankful nod. He was still speechless, when she brushed past him and gripped the three men by their collars. He watched dumb-founded as she drug three, heavy grown men off towards the wasteland at an admirable pace. Callan was hypnotized by her braids sliding over her shoulders and the way her heels sparkled in the now risen sun. For, they too had the skin rubbed away and titanium rested beneath.

   "Everyone around here calls her the wanderer," the old man said snapping Callan from his trance. He blinked at the old man and the little girl. She smiled shyly at him from behind the man. "Don't worry, she's probably just dragging those bandits out into the wilds to leave them there. Why don't you come in?"

   Callan picked up his discarded bag and glanced one more time in the direction the woman had disappeared. He didn't see her anymore, but he doubted that would be the last time he would. The word caught in his throat. It was something he had never seen before.

   The Wanderer, unlike anything he had ever seen before. A cyborg.

© 2014 Dyaneares

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Added on February 18, 2014
Last Updated on February 18, 2014
Tags: Young, Adult, The, Wanderer, Science, Fiction, Futuristic, Cyborg



bakersfield, CA

My real name is Destiny Davis, I was born and (for the most part) raised in Bakersfield, California. Never heard of Bakersfield? We're known nationally for our famously bad air quality. I'm 17 years o.. more..