Shattered Ladder 1-3

Chapter Three: A Rocky End

The next day crawled by, the world the same gray smear that blended into the next. No books to read, nothing to watch, just simple work to do; going root-hunting for Sora and stripping what little scrap he could for salvage.

It kept him busy, sure, but it was boring as boring could be.

No electricity meant nothing that could take you out of your thoughts. He knew people in the old world would have called that a good thing. He would have called them stupid, not knowing what they had. Nobody wants to be stuck with their thoughts. 

Especially not when all those thoughts were only bad or worse. 

The weak sphere he could only call the sun — half as bright and almost as hot — started sinking behind the Wall’s impossible line, dying light twisting familiar junk-piles into monster-shadows that clawed at the edges of everything. It wasn’t night, it wouldn’t be for hours, just a deeper denser gloomier gray tint to the world as the half-sun kept on its path across the true horizon behind the world’s edge that was the massive monolith.

It would only grow darker and darker until eventually his eyes would be worth as much as his muscle, but till then…

Well, he had time to do what he did.

Ken meandered around the edge of the village, bare feet still muddy from the day before, until he found his spot again. It was the same small piece of flattish ground on the north side, facing the wall. Tucked away from the noise and stares, he stood apart from the crumbling semi-circle of rusted metal sheets that pretended to be walls. 

It was his spot, only because nobody else had taken it from him

Mostly because nobody even wanted it. 

Even in the murk of the pre-night, this was the only place in the whole miserable world that felt like his. It wasn’t a good location, it didn’t have a good view, and worst of all, it wasn’t too far from the dumping pits so it just… stunk even worse than the rest of the village.

But it was his.

Cold gritty earth pressed against his legs as he settled down, compressed waste-dirt digging through his thin shorts. Time for the ritual. Two small acts that kept him from dissolving completely into the grayness, woven together like threads in burial cloth.

Don’t think about burial cloth.

First thing: breath.

Breath was important.

The most important.

It was the only thing he carried with him from the last life to the next, other than his skin, that same struggle with his breath. Even if the shakes were new, that didn’t change.

Breathing right was the only thing that kept him focused, the only thing that kept those same shakes down. 

Kept them from keeping him down, too.

His hands clenched tight at his sides, before he raised them together the way Gram had shown him; fists meeting in front of his chest, raw, scarred knuckles touching each other tight. A prayer to the Hands Above, she said. 

It didn’t look like any prayer hands he knew but he was used to not knowing anyway. Ken didn’t bother thinking much about what he knew or what he didn’t know, simply focusing on pulling the thick air into his lungs. Old metal, damp rot, and that sharp chemical tang drifting up from the sludge river and dumping pits where shit and piss and every bit of waste they added to the valley sat on his tongue and coated his nostrils a layer or three thick. 

One, two, three… He held the rank breath, body as still as he could get it, trapping hostile air inside his ribs.

Don’t let it out yet.

The long controlled breathe out came next, some of the hunger, the gnawing deep in his chest going with it. One, two, three, four… Sometimes it felt like it was eating him alive; no food, no water, nothing else fighting it but what he was taught. You breathe in the world, Kenshi. You breathe out the pain.

The feel of old hands, knobbled and wrinkled, on his bare chest flickered in his thoughts. Feed the hunger, Kenny. Don’t let it feed on you.

He still had the souvenir from yesterday, the thing still stained with flecks of his blood.

A rock, sharp-edged and heavy, clutched tight in his right hand, its surface warm from his body heat. Its jagged points were familiar pressure, good weight. Ken leaned forward where he sat on the ground, back to a dead tree, and started scratching letters in the dirt. Shapes and symbols stark and alien against dark grimy soil, forms nobody else in the village would recognize even if they saw them.

S-C-H-O-O-L.

Don’t forget. These were the words he knew, the written language he remembered still even after twelve years. Don’t you dare forget. Nobody else knew a damn thing about this, writing not really a thing in this village of garbage.

Hell, most of them could barely count to twenty, and that was just the ones lucky enough not to lose any fingers or toes. Bad math. Something close to pride bubbled up in his chest; sure, it made him different but he knew that difference was good this time. The warm feeling in his chest didn’t last all that long though, Ken well aware that he only knew this because he at least had school. 

Years of it, even.

Even still, a little ego didn’t hurt all that much. The Valley people could talk the words, kinda, their accents a clumsy mishmash of broken languages smashed together, but they couldn’t read them. They don’t know what flammable means, or anything about bacteria, and… he pulled a face, thinking back to some of the things he’d seen, definitely don’t wash their hands either.  

S-C-I-E-N-C-E.

M-E-D-I-C-I-N-E.

His hands shook a little on the last letter, making the ‘E’ wobbly. Stupid shakes. 

Sure, it came out a little rougher than the other letters but the word was still all there, carved into waste-dirt for nobody to see. The village might have had the spark, their magic they called a gift from their gods that didn’t even have names.

But Ken had his own things. Science. Technology. Math.

Things that could be learned, understood, explained. 

Sure, he didn’t know how to make most of those things, but he’d figure it all out. The scientific method was there for a reason and he knew how to use that.

And he wasn’t gonna tell them. 

Secret knowledge was power, even small power, even useless power. Better than no power at all.

Wind picked up, a strong breeze already hard at work at erasing his words already. Not like it mattered now anyway. Got them up here. He tapped his temple slow with one finger, index a little shaky still but nothing to worry about. Safe.

He kept writing, scratching words into the dirt, unbothered by the weather. Just nature’s dry-erase.

Tomorrow he’d come back, write new words. Bigger words.

Longer words that he still remembered.

He scratched the words in and he breathed, in-out, in-out, in-in-out. A steady rhythm of breath mixing with the soft scratch-scratch of rock against dirt as he thought back to the only person he ever wanted to share this stuff with.

Gram. Thinking of her even brought back memories, good ones. Good days of sitting in the dim gentle light of Gram’s shack.

The air in there somehow managed not to taste like rank or rust. No, Gram had too many herbs drying up on the wall, too many bundles of roots tied up; all of it filled her shack with the smell of thick, wet earth. It smelled like medicine, like healing, not the chemical sting of the outside. The small cookfire just outside the door always added something good to it too, rat-meat cooked right and tender with a thick stew that made everything taste even better. 

Seven years old and he remembered his body shaking the way it always did now for the first time. It had happened before, sure, but he didn’t really remember it much back then. Besides, it was the first time it had gotten that bad, legs shuddering on the floor like he’d touched a livewire. 

Her voice was the only thing that mattered. “Breathe, Kenshi.”

He never used his full name anymore, barely even thought it. 

But he remembered her words. “Breathe.”

She was stitching a thick piece of scavenged canvas when he’d fallen off the mattress, needle moving with steady rhythm, but her eyes stayed on him. “The shakin’ starts… you breathe. “The emptiness comes… you breathe.”

She stopped her stitching to go over by his side, lifting him back to the bed.

One gnarled finger tapped his chest. “Not a curse, Kenshi. Don’t you let them tell you it’s a curse. It’s just a hunger. Fire wit’ no wood. Your spark, it burn too fast. Got no fuel. So it try to burn you.”

She leaned forward over him, voice dropping to a low whisper as gray hair hung in his face and all he saw was a smile with missing teeth. “You gotta feed it slow. Wit’ your breath. Or it eats you.”

That was the only time in twelve years anyone ever tried to explain what was so horribly, fundamentally wrong with him. Not a curse. 

Hunger.

A fire inside him with no wood to burn. Feed it slow or it eats you.

His own voice surprised him, soft airy whisper that wind almost snatched away before he could hear it himself.

“…miss you, Gram.”

The rock was still warm in his palm, letters in dirt already blurring as wind shifted waste-dust over them, the sound of metallic rustling from the wire trees deeper out in the valley hitting his ears.

Thump. Thump.

Something else hit his ears, Ken’s eyes going wide as he sat up quick, back scraping against the rough bark. Dammnit.

Heavy boots crushed the quiet, crushed the moment, as those feet slid over the letters he’d scratched out in the dirt. Gone. The tread wasn’t careless, the owner knowing very well what they were doing as they scuffed away the words like they never mattered.

Joric’s voice rumbled low and mean, saturated with that same bored hare Ken knew as well as his own bones. “Oi, freak.” Same as always, the word was said like his name, a title more than an insult. “Playin’ in the dirt?”

Don’t. Ken squeezed eyes shut tight for one second, just one. Don’t waste the breath. Don’t give him fuel. A sigh left his breath as Ken pushed himself up to his feet, not even going to bother to duck again. I’m close enough to the village. He was going to walk away, disappear back behind another shack where Joric couldn’t find him, couldn’t risk starting something without it getting back to his father or an elder.

Joric moved when he moved, the other boy built thick. He used it the best way he could too, being a solid wall of heavy weight to block the path. “Didn’t say you could leave.”

A shove, unexpected and hard, sent Ken stumbling backward till his back hit the side of another dead tree, this one bigger and sticking out of a junk-pile like bleached bone. 

Joric leaned close, staring Ken in the eye, as he slammed a heavy hand against the tree trunk right next to Ken’s head and grunted like a beast. A foul wave washed over the smaller boy, something that smelled of greasy half-cooked meat that wasn’t just rat. 

“Old man says I gotta go easy on you. Says you’re ‘thin metal’.” The smile on his face twisted ugly, making his broken teeth look sharper. His face already looked hateful, even his eyes; squinty and sharp, too thin for his face. “Look like scrap to me. Useless scrap.”

Ken’s eyes flickered to the side of Joric’s head. Huh. He saw the skin there, purple-black against pale, fresh enough to still be tender. Somebody hit back.

Something flickered in his chest, a spark — not the spark — but a spark still. It felt like anger, something strong and deeper than it, though. Hittin’ me ’cause you can’t hit him back. It made sense, though. Chief’s sons didn’t get to fight their fathers, even when they deserved it. 

Joric had to take that anger somewhere. Lucky me.

The spark lit a fire in his gut as the thought crossed his mind, mouth twisting down into scowl before he could stop it.

With a grunt of his own, Ken pushed back against Joric’s chest. It was weak, his own shaky arms not doing much up against a heavier body that didn’t want to be moved, but Ken couldn’t help but try anyway. The feeling of being trapped, Joric’s foul breath on face, and his ugly smile staring down at him… it was too much. Like drowning in stink and meanness.

“…leave me ‘lone.” The words came quiet, almost nothing; a slurred puff of wasted air that probably nobody else could even hear. “…juss go.”

Joric’s face tightened up, nothing but anger staring back down at Ken now. All raw heat and pride and red cheeks, the same look his father got during village meetings when someone questioned his decisions. 

“You pushin’ me, freak?” It was one of those questions that never needed an answer. Joric definitely didn’t wait for one, either way.

No, he just started hitting.

Thok.

The first one caught Ken’s shoulder, a heavy hit that sent pain shooting down his arm.

“I said—” Thok. “—y’pushin’ me?”

Each word came with another punch, fists finding soft targets on Ken’s ribs, his arms, wherever he couldn’t protect fast enough. The shakes… the shakes started early, making it hard to block; his movements clumsy, useless.

Feed the hunger, Kenny. Gram’s voice sounded off again in his head, distant and sad. Or it eats you.

But there wasn’t enough breath for feeding anything. Just enough for trying not to break.

Thok.

One of those heavy fists slammed into his chest, impact rattling teeth in his skull. The world shook, vision blurring as he got pushed up against the tree harder and harder with every single hit. Another blow, backhand this time catching the side of his head, ears exploding with a high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else.

“You costin’ us food!” Joric’s voice rising, words ending with another punch to the ribs that made his body ring. Crack—something in there didn’t feel right after that one. “Always takin’, never givin’! Why can’t you just walk off into wastes like your crazy da’! Do us all a favor!”

The world got small. 

Gray skies disappeared, junk-piles vanished, monster-shadows gone. Just the sound of Joric’s hits, the dull thud of knuckles against body, the feeling of bones jarring with each impact. Meat tenderizer. 

He knew that word. He remembered that. That’s what this was.

Thud. Thud.

Fire wit’ no wood.

Gram’s words echoed in his head again as something inside him, a hungry empty thing he fought every day woke up and roared.

His eyes snapped open, something catching on fire inside him. The fuel of pain and rage was right there and it burned bright, burning through him faster than he could think, faster than breathing, faster than fear.

The rock was still in his hand. He’d been holding it all this time, fingers death-gripped around edges where his blood was still on it.

There was no thought, no plan to it, nothing he could even put into words. 

Ken felt his body move up, snapping up from where he was slumped against the dead-white tree, putting every ounce of his skinny desperate body into motion.

Something hit the side of Joric’s head.

The sound wasn’t a clean snap or dull crack. It was a wet ugly sickening noise, the sound a person’s skull should never make. Never.

Joric’s eyes shot wide open. Meanness wiped clean, replaced by a dumb wide-mouthed look of pure stupid surprise. He stumbled back from Ken as a dark red line suddenly stood out in the thick hair above his ear, more red leaking down the side of his face.

Too much.

Too red.

Oh.

The bigger boy wobbled, body suddenly loose, disconnected. One heavy clumsy hand went to his head, and then his eyes rolled back.

Ken saw whites.

Then Joric fell.

Not like a person; more a dropped sack of junk, the chief’s son collapsing into a boneless heap in dirt. His arms and legs started twitching, jerking in the dust, horrible shakes worse than Ken knew his ever were. 

The low gurgling from the back of the throat, a sound like half breath, half drowning, only made it worse.

What did I—

Ken stood over him, the smaller boy’s breathing aloud ragged tearing soundt. He stared down at the twitching body, at what he’d done. He looked at his hand, at the rock now wet and sticky and horribly red.

Blood.

The dripping rock fell from suddenly numb fingers, landing in the dust.