Red King

They never tell you how tall the Tower truly is when you’re inside of it; it isn’t until you first take step outside of it and walk a hundred or so yards away, then turn around to bask in its impossibly titanic glory that it dawns upon you how enormous the Tower is. Your eyes can look up and up and up into the sky, and the Tower will seem to be as tall as you can look up, unless the charcoal clouds of ash and soot are passing through the Tower’s immense walls, in which case it will seem to be as tall as the clouds are. Indeed, nobody told poor, little Whitey-Red, the ugly thing he is, about the glorious outside view you get of the tower when you first leave it’s protective bosom, and only a few people warned him of the unparalleled dangers and agony he will undoubtedly face now that his proving has come upon him.

Exiled from the Tower with little more than the clothes on his back, a ragged backpack, a canteen of water, and an old rifle that belonged to his father which he barely knew how to use. He is quite fortunate to be armed, for Tower Administration does not give arms to the unproven when they are exiled, and few families of his class privately own firearms on account of how expensive and regulated they are. The breech-loading rifle made of black steel and sporting a stock made of walnut slung around Red’s shoulder by a leather strap has been passed on through the generations of his family, and when his father gave it to him he was told to return with the rifle at all costs so that he may get to pass on the gun to his own son, unlikely as he is to have one; it held a single .45-70 caliber bullet at a time, and he had only five bullets in his pocket, also given to him by his father. He didn’t even know how to load the thing.

Young Red, barely seventeen years of age, was sent out into the scorched wasteland of what was once called the Earth, told by the Tower police that he must explore the outside world and return with something useful to the tower to prove his worth, to justify his privilege to be a citizen of the Tower. He asked them what was useful, what must he bring back? He was told that his instincts would make him know once he found it. And lo, the endless sea of death that laid before his eyes, scorched earth as far as his eyes could see, barren and lifeless under the ruthlessly hot sun. The dry wind blew sharp against Red’s face, the sand carried by the wind stung him, and the sun burned hot against his skin. Looking down unto his pale skin, whiter than the whites of his eyes, he was well aware now that he would soon need to find a more appropriate attire to protect him from the sun; wearing nothing but long pants and a tank top, though he was lucky not to be stripped bare. Even worse, Red is as bald and as hairless as a stone, and he did not even have a hat for which to cover his head. Until he finds a way to cover himself, he will fry.

Truth be told, the wind and the sun and the sand were not what Red was concerned about. The only worry that weighed upon skinny Whitey-Red’s mind was: “Where am I going to find shelter from the Moon?”

He looked up to the sky with squinted eyes from the harsh brightness of the sun, and knew that he had about fifteen hours of daylight left, for the Tower began processing him for proving at the very beginning of dawn and released him soon after. With the Tower’s immense walls a fair distance behind him now, he looked back to the horizon, his crimson eyes slowly scanning and studying the country to deliberate which direction he would begin walking. He figured the best thing that he could find is another human being, one who was familiar with the wasteland and could lead him to a settlement. However, another human being could very well be the worst thing for him to find, as he has heard stories of the cannibals and the slavers who populate the land outside the Tower’s protective walls. He looked out into the country and his eyes caught the bright green shine of many ribbons tied to a tall post which he reckoned to be roughly a quarter-mile away, the glittering green barely glistening on the far horizon, just enough to be visible. He began to walk.

As he approached the glistening green ribbons, the post on which they were tied came into clear view as well, and he saw that there was a sign. It was apparent to him that whoever made the sign deliberately put it there for new unprovens such as himself to come upon, possibly to guide them. But the sign did not have his attention, for above the sign perched a big, ugly bird with black feathers and a wrinkly pink head, about the size of half a man. He stood about thirty feet away from the sign, staring at the bird, and the bird turned its head to the side to stare back at him.

“You look lost,” the bird spoke, as if it were a human, to Red.

Red’s eyes widened at the bird, caught entirely off guard by the fact that it spoke to him. He hadn’t even been out of the tower for longer than an hour, so he surely cannot have already gone mad.

“Don’t worry, stranger,” the bird spoke again in a deep voice. “You ain’t lost. You’re just where you ought to be.”

Red still offered no response, only a wide-eyed glare.

The bird tapped its talon against the wood of the sign and pointed its wing east, away from the tower. The sign said in capitalized letters: SANGUINE VALLEY. “Fifteen miles. It ain’t a difficult hike, mostly down hill. Just watch out for caravans along the way. They’ll probably eat you, kidnap you, or try to sell you something you ain’t needing.”

Red continued staring at the bird, either too afraid or too confused to utter a word.

“Advice is free. Don’t try to ration your water, you’ll dehydrate yourself. Don’t go digging in the dirt, leaves too many traces of yourself, and you’re likely to get bit. And fear the moon.”

Red looked away from the bird and out east, where the bird is pointing, and he saw a big, featureless hill of earth that he’ll have to climb. He figured that once he reached the top it would be down hill the rest of the way after, like the bird said.

“And don’t go losing that gun of yours. Rare technology out here, you’re unlikely to find any more bullets too.”

Red looked back to the bird.

“Well?” The bird uttered. “You should start walking now. You can make the trip before nightfall.”

Red tightened his rifle around his shoulder and began to walk.

“The meek shall inherit the Earth,” the bird said as Red went away.

Red’s throat was painfully dry as he walked barefoot upon the scalding hot earth. His feet were blistered and burned from prolonged contact with the rocky ground, and he felt heat blisters forming underneath his shirt and pants as they rubbed against his sunburnt skin, creating friction so painful that made him wish to strip bare and scratch and rip his own skin off. His hairless scalp dripped with steaming sweat that teared down his forehead and brow, and the sensation of the sun wrathfully shining down upon him had left him pink-skinned and dull of mind. He had been walking for thirteen hours and he still did not see the Sanguine Valley. Everywhere he looked there was nothing, a featureless country surrounded him on all sides, and there was not a single soul about; he felt as if he were the only person in existence. He felt as if he had been wandering aimlessly, he could not even tell if he had been walking in a straight line or not, and he was running out of daylight quickly. He wanted to let his legs give out from under him and fall to the ground, but he knew that if he did he would never get back up. He wanted to scream into the sky and curse the sun, but his throat was so dry that he could not so much as utter a whisper without tearing a hole. His canteen only held a liter and a half of water, and he had run out several hours ago. Even his rifle, which he viewed as his only protection, felt like an enormous boulder upon his shoulder. There was nothing for him to do but continue walking– continue wandering.

His wandering was cut short when his legs gave out from under him and he began to fall, though not because he had run out of strength, but rather because there was no more ground for which to walk on. In his heat-induced haze, Red had not even realized that he had walked into a bluff, and he fell over its edge like a stone. He did not tumble or roll down the cliff, he had fallen straight down over a concave cliffside, directly into a river of blood which laid below. The shock of suddenly falling then being dumped into putrid liquid woke Red up from his half-conscious heat daze, and he found himself keenly aware of what he had done, and he was terrified. With all the power he could summon from his burned and aching body, he thrashed around in the blood to swim to the surface, and he succeeded in so, managing to push his head above the surface for a gasp of air, just barely scratching for survival. He could not see, for the blood flooded his eyes, and the horrible taste of iron and salt overwhelmed the rest of his senses. The leather strap of his rifle tightened around his shoulder under the weight of the blood, constricting his arm. After barely having a single moment to breathe, the tide of the river of blood slammed against the side of his head and dragged him back down. Everything went black after that.

He was brought back to his senses after being forcefully pulled out of the blood by his wrist, finally having another gasp of air before collapsing onto solid ground. Red fell onto his knees and hands, and he vomited the meager contents of his stomach onto the ground, expelling all the blood that he inadvertently swallowed while he was under. Once he finished, he fell to his side gasping and moaning in pain, his rifle slamming against the rocks as he fell. A shadow was cast over him, and his bloodshot eyes looked up at the shadowy form that stood over him with blurry vision.

“Nope,” the voice of a man came from the form. “You ain’t moon-frenzied. Hell, you’re barely alive.”

Red coughed and winced in pain, completely unable to speak.

“Come on,” the man said. “Let’s get you back on your feet.” The man, Red’s savior, took Red’s rifle and slung it over his own shoulder, then grabbed him by the wrists again and, with similar force as when he was pulled out from the river of blood, pulled him onto his feet, lending Red his shoulder to brace on. Red, barely conscious, clung to the man as he took his first step, but quickly lost his strength and fell again, this time being caught by the man. His vision went black and the last thing he felt was being slung over the shoulder of the man who saved his life.