The Dirt Eaters by Dennis Foon

Author:Dennis Foon
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Annick Press Ltd
Published: 2012-09-08T04:00:00+00:00

THE LABYRINTH

OASIS EXISTS. I KNOW IT DOES, THOUGH I MYSELF HAVE NEVER SEEN IT. BUT ANYONE WHO PAYS HEED TO TALES OF IMMORTALS THRIVING IN CAVES OF LIGHT IS A FOOL.

—LORE OF THE STORYTELLERS

FIRED WITH ENTHUSIASM to reach the healing place, Roan and Lumpy push themselves to their limits, sleeping little and resting less. They drink what water crosses their path and feed on tree sap and grubs, which to Roan’s relief are much easier to eat than termites.

As they near their destination, the terrain changes abruptly. The ground is torn up where bombs once blasted the roads. Huge pieces of concrete and steel lie scattered like scraps of paper. They’ve arrived at the ruins of what appears to have been a small, prosperous city. Hollowed-out, half-collapsed buildings, some standing ten stories high in sections, line the broken sidewalks. The rusting relics of smashed cars and overturned buses, the first Roan has ever seen, litter the ruptured streets. There’s no sign of life apart from a few weeds and vines that thrust up from the shattered remains, but there are many shadows, and the travelers become more and more apprehensive.

“This is the place?” asks Roan.

Lumpy nods his head. “This was the last city the rebels held. Bombs were dropped on it for four weeks straight, night and day. If what the storyteller said is true, some rebels came back to keep the healing place alive. The building must be here somewhere.”

They weave through the crumbled concrete, searching block after desolate block. Lumpy doesn’t say a word, but Roan can feel his companion’s tension, his growing desperation. Just as Roan begins to doubt they’ll ever find it, there, in tatters, is a white flag with a bold red cross hanging over a large, damaged entranceway.

Lumpy points at some broken letters above the threshold: H...P...T...A...L. “Do you know what they mean?”

“Some of the letters are missing, but I think it once spelled hospital.”

“What’s a hospital?”

“A place people went to be healed. They had medicines there, and special machines and doctors and nurses. The red cross on that flag means first aid. This must be the place you heard about.”

“Let’s go!” shouts Lumpy. He squeezes through the en­trance, followed by Roan.

Inside, the hospital is all walls and rubble. They pick their way through hallways blocked by dead ends where the ceiling has fallen in or floors have collapsed. It’s obvious this structure had once been filled with beds where people were healed; countless skeletons lie entangled in the rusting frames, fragile wisps of cloth still clinging to the bones.

“This might not be the place,” says Roan.

“It’s a hospital,” Lumpy replies, a quaver in his voice.

“It was once.”

Through a gaping hole in a wall lies what must have been a clinic. This area is in much better condition than the rest of the hospital. There are a dozen beds, the cabinets are intact, and the floors are dusty but free of rubble.

Lumpy rifles through the cupboards. Roan joins him, but most of the cupboards are bare, and the few jars they do find are empty.

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