Title: Never Too Far
Author: Thomas Christopher
Genre: YA/SciFi/Dystopian
Publisher: Self/Kalmaha Press
Release Date: May 10 2012
Blurb/Synopsis:
A harrowing story of love and survival. In a future of
scarce resources, where the possession of gas and diesel is punishable by
death, a teenage boy and a pregnant girl must save their impoverished family.
They risk their lives on a terrifying journey to sell stolen fuel on the black
market
Chapter One
Joe slung the rifle strap over his shoulder and pointed, but
his older brother Frank didn’t say anything.
“Don’t you see it?” Joe said. “Right there. Across the
river.”
Frank stepped back suddenly.
“We need to get out of here,” he said. “Someone might still
be there.” He looked across the river again. “What’s it doing out
here?”
“It looks abandoned,” Joe said.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“We got to check it out.”
Joe moved forward but Frank grabbed his arm.
“No we don’t,” Frank said. “Besides, you can’t go walking up
to it like any old piece of junk. It isn’t something you leave lying around,
either. They’re coming back for it, for sure.”
“All the more reason why we should go see it.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying we
shouldn’t mess with it.”
“Well, I’m going,” Joe said.
At the river’s edge, Frank snatched the rifle from
Joe.
“I’m leading the way,” Frank said.
Joe was about to grab the rifle back when Frank jammed the
last shell into the open breech. He used his maimed hand, the one missing three
fingers, and locked the bolt in place. Joe figured there was no sense in
arguing now. It would only make Frank more upset.
After they waded across the shallow river, they crouched low
and crept up the rocky embankment to the old road. Frank raised his head to
take a look, and then Joe poked his head up too.
“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Frank said. “It’s
definitely an Arbyter.”
Joe couldn’t take his eyes off it. He had never seen a real
Arbyter before. What he knew about them came from Frank when he was in the city
of Chikowa over a year ago. He said he saw Arbyters patrolling the streets all
the time. The way Frank described them made Joe think of a beast on wheels, one
with two dark windows in front like menacing eyes and a big machine gun on top
like a horn.
“I’ll go,” Joe said.
“No, you won’t,” Frank said. “I’m going. Stay behind me.”
For a moment Frank seemed afraid to go near the vehicle,
which was flipped on its side. He stood with his legs spread and the rifle
pointed at it as if he thought it might spring to life at any second. He
shuffled forward. His wet shoes scraped on the dirt road. When he got close
enough to touch the armored underbelly, he stopped. He nudged his foot against
the scratched and dented metal. Then he stepped back, ready to fire, ready for
it to finally awaken and show its true self. When it didn’t move, he took his
maimed hand off the rifle and motioned toward Joe.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Stay behind me.”
Joe shot to his feet and hurried to Frank who was rounding
one of the Arbyter’s huge front tires. Joe couldn’t resist brushing his fingers
along the tire’s thick tread or touching the fang-like spokes in the grill on
his way past. But the very second he turned the corner and saw the top of the Arbyter,
he pulled up short. It was much stockier than what he imagined. It looked like
the head of a giant iron bull. The dark eyes staring out from the squat cab
were cracked and pitted from bullet fire, and the machine gun’s long thick
barrel was wedged tight in the ground.
Frank hung the rifle over his shoulder, climbed on the
machine gun, and heaved himself up on the Arbyter’s side. Once he got to his
feet, he jabbed the rifle tip through an open window, or perhaps it was an open
door. Joe didn’t know because he couldn’t see that high.
“Come up and look inside,” Frank said. “I’ll keep an eye
out.”
Joe didn’t hesitate. He scampered onto the machine gun and
crawled up near Frank’s feet. Painted on the Arbyter’s door was the symbol of
the Guardian Party, the ruling government in Chikowa. The symbol was a
seven-pointed red star with a white ring in the middle and a red circle inside
like a bull’s eye.
“See if there’re any dead soldiers in there,” Frank
said.
Joe got on his stomach and ducked his head inside the open
window. He braced himself for a gory sight, but he didn’t see any of the dead
soldiers Frank was afraid of. Instead, he saw some kind of reddish-black
substance splashed all around. He reckoned it was probably blood. He looked
over the instrument panel, gazed at the cracks in the tinted windshield, and
then craned his neck to look behind the seats. Nothing was there as far as he
could tell.
On his way out he gripped the steering wheel and even
jiggled it once before he abruptly let go.
After he sat up, he said, “No bodies, but there’s
blood.”
“They must’ve evacuated already.”
“What do you think happened? Do you think it was
attacked?”
“If it was, we wouldn’t be standing here.” Frank looked
around like he was expecting someone to be there. “Let’s get down.”
Frank shouldered the rifle and shimmied down onto the
machine gun. Joe was about to follow him when he thought of
something.
“Hey,” he said. “I bet it still has fuel.”
He scooted to the back end of the Arbyter to look for the
fuel plate. As soon as he found it, he pried it open, unscrewed the cap, and
stuck his nose into the open cylinder. He took a big whiff. The smell of the
fumes made his eyes water. It still had fuel. He couldn’t believe it. He stared
at Frank standing on the ground below.
“Get down from there,” Frank said.
“How much do you think it’s worth?”
“How should I know? I don’t even know how much is in
there.”
Joe was going to find out. He looked into the woods and
spotted a big fallen limb. He leapt off the Arbyter, forgetting how high up he
was, and stumbled hard to his knees. But the drop barely fazed him. He ran to
the fallen limb, planted his foot on its barrel, and snapped off a long thin
branch.
“What are you doing?” Frank said. “Are you crazy?”
Back at the Arbyter, Joe clambered up to the fuel tank. He
dipped the stick into the opening and fed it down the pipe as far as it would
go. The smell rushed up into his nose again. He pulled the stick out to find it
half-soaked with diesel.
“There’s like half a tank.”
“Let me see that,” Frank said.
Joe handed the stick down to Frank.
“You know how much this is worth?” Frank said.
“I already asked you that.”
“It was at ten thousand shekels when I was in
Chikowa.”
“So you were lying.”
“So what? That might not even be right.”
“You think that’s close, though?”
“It’s got to be. This is like gold.”
“Why don’t we sell it, then?”
“Don’t be nuts. We get caught with this, we’ll be executed.
It’s illegal to have. You know that. Forget about it.” Frank threw the stick
into the woods. “Put that cap back on and get down from there.”
“I’m serious,” Joe said.
“Get it out of your head because it’s not
happening.
“I could do it.”
“What did I just say? No way.”
“But you went.”
“And look what happened to me.” He shoved his maimed hand up
at Joe. “You aren’t going. I’m not going. Nobody’s going. Got
it?”
Once they crossed the river, they walked through the wooded
bluffs and down into the valley where Joe’s family farm stood. Even though it
didn’t look much different from any other farm Joe had seen, he knew it was a
ramshackle wreck. The stark buildings were aged and weathered. The splitting
wood was streaked gray and black. Off to the side of the barn was a rickety
fence that held the little livestock they had left—a wooly goat, two spotted
hogs, some chickens, and the horses, Lester and Sam. Beyond that was a field of
limp corn and a garden of scraggly vegetables. The house leaned to one side as
if it was constantly trying to hang on against a fierce wind. Broken windows
were covered in plastic or scraps of wood. It was a wonder anyone lived
there.
Thomas Christopher grew up in Iowa and attended the
University of Northern Iowa.
After living in Seattle and Montana, he went to Western
Michigan University, where he received his MFA.
His short stories have appeared in The Louisville Review,
The MacGuffin, Redivider, as well as other places. He was awarded an Irving S.
Gilmore Emerging Artist Grant and was a finalist for the Matthew Clark Prize in
Fiction.
He lives in Wisconsin with his wife Jessica and their son
Holton.
Places to find Thomas
Author Page
Author Page
Places to find Never Too Far
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