Winter's Edge: A Post Apocalyptic/Dystopian Adventure (Outzone Drifter Series Book 1) (18 page)

“You’d be amazed what can work if you really want it to,” Carter said. “The way I see it, across the border, the State controls you through fear. People are too scared to think or act for themselves. Here in the Outzone, you
must
think and act for yourself to stop the fear from controlling you.”

Brogan gazed at Carter a moment, then lifted his coffee cup in salute. “Amen to that, brother.” He turned to Staunton. “Dan, looks like we got a philosopher in our midst.”

Twenty minutes later, the van came to a rolling stop by a square patch of muddy land that Carter had described as a park. Around it stood a few squalid-looking houses, barely more than shacks.

Five hundred yards past the west side of the park were a series of low-lying hills covered in thick brush. Higher up, the slopes were lightly forested, and Brogan could make out a trail winding through the trees all the way up to the crest. To the far side of the hills lay the West Valley farmland communities.

At one corner of the park, under a large tree, stood a group of motorbikes, their owners huddled around the base of the trunk, drinking beer and smoking. One spotted Brogan and Staunton and waved, beckoning them over.

As they approached, Brogan caught a strong whiff of weed. Two men stood up and sauntered over to them, and soon all four were busy negotiating a fare for the two
habal
drivers to take them to the Sunbright Farm. For some strange reason, which Brogan had yet to figure out, the motorcycle taxis of Winter’s Edge were known as
habals
. After some hard bargaining, they agreed a price within the range Carter had advised they should pay.

Swilling down the remains of his beer, and grabbing a last toke from the joint that was going around, Brogan’s driver, a young Latino with lank hair and a small feral face, stumbled over to the group of parked motorcycles. Slotting a key into the ignition of one of the machines, he nudged up the kickstand with the tip of his boot and swung his leg unsteadily over the frame.

“Looks like I get the baked one, huh?” Brogan remarked to Staunton, a wry smile on his face.

He stared across at the second driver, another Latino with dyed blond streaks in his hair who stood taking a leak against a clump of bushes nearby, his chin sunk deep into his chest, swaying gently from one leg to the other. It didn’t appear like the second driver was in any better shape.

“Okay…I guess one’s as bad as the other.”

Brogan’s driver had started his engine. “
Hombre, venga,
” the young man called out, gesturing impatiently to him.

“Relaxez-vous,” Brogan replied, strolling over to the motorbike. “Focus your attention on getting me up that hill in one piece, or I’ll crack that stoner head of yours off the nearest
piedra, me entiendes?
”

The driver looked at him, blinking uncomprehendingly. “
Que?
”

“Never mind.” Brogan climbed over the back of the saddle. He slapped the young man on the back. “
Tengo fe en ti
. What’s life without a little faith?”

Up close, the hill was steeper than it looked from a distance. Its lower slopes were badly waterlogged, and Brogan’s driver drove along the edge of the trail where the earth was firmer. As the hill steepened, the driver smoothly dropped the bike down a gear and drove expertly up the incline. He had obviously done this route a hundred times before, and could do it in his sleep. Half-baked, it was a cinch.

They reached the top. The driver pulled back hard on the throttle and Brogan’s stomach lurched as, with a burst of acceleration, the motorbike flew over the crest, both wheels rising off the ground. A moment later they touched down again, the driver braked sharply, and they began their descent, cutting down across the hillside at an angle. The Latino cocked his head sideways and a sly grin came over his face. Looked like the stoner was fully awake now.

Despite Carter’s vivid description from the other night, Brogan’s eyes widened as he gazed down into the valley below. He tapped hard on the driver’s shoulder and got him to stop. The bike skidded to a halt and Brogan jumped off the back and walked over to the edge of the trail. Pulling out a pair of Steiner compact binoculars from his jacket pocket, he raised them to up his eyes and stared out.

Down on the valley floor, on a large expanse of gently undulating land, was a patchwork of fields put to different uses. Pale meadows recently shorn of their cereal, some covered over in sheets of black plastic. Others had been set aside for pasture and divided by hedgerows, where horses and their foals grazed off the bramble and rough grasses.

Sweeping his gaze across, Brogan followed the hill’s crest line north as it bent west in a large U shape. On the lower slopes, scattered among small copses of woods, stood whitewashed farmhouses with thatched roofs, and panning over to the far side of the valley, he spotted a tiny ribbon lake whose clear blue waters sparkled in the morning sun. It was a pastoral setting of great beauty, particularly for so late in the year where so many of the fields already lay bare.

Carter had told him that before the
permies—
the permaculturists—had done their magic, the area had been infested with ragwort, an aggressive weed that crowded out most other forms of vegetation, and that the valley had been an unremarkable sight.

The second driver had caught up with them. Staunton got off his bike and walked over to where Brogan stood. Brogan lowered his binoculars and handed them to him.

After a few moments, Staunton whistled. “Man, they sure did something special here. Carter wasn’t exaggerating.”

“No kidding,” Brogan agreed.

“Even prettier than down south around the agri-towns, places like Providence. You ever get down that way, Frank?”

There was a pause before Brogan spoke.

“Nope. Never did,” he said in a quiet voice. He tapped Staunton on the shoulder, and the two headed back to their waiting drivers.

When they reached the valley floor, the two motorcycles turned right onto a mule track that ran north along an irrigation ditch. They rode straight for several miles until the track turned gradually west, following the bend in the valley.

Twenty minutes later, they passed a neatly built dry-stacked stone wall marking off the boundary to a large property. Brogan’s driver cut the engine and coasted up to the wall where, through a metal gate, a narrow rutted path ran up into the hillside.

“So is this it?” Brogan asked as the motorbike rolled to a stop. “This Sunbright Farm?”

“Yeah man, you got to walk it from here,” the driver replied, indicating to the gate. The effects of the marijuana and beer had worn off now. His voice was subdued, and his eyes drooped.

Brogan remembered that Carter had warned them that the farm didn’t allow unauthorized motorbikes onto their property. He swung his leg over the back of the bike as Staunton’s bike arrived and pulled up next to him. “Come back and pick us up at one o’clock.
En dos horas
.”

The young driver shook his head. “No, man. We wait for you here.”

The two Latinos parked their bikes, then sat down on the grass verge and leaned their backs against the stone wall.

“Even better,” Brogan said. “This way, you won’t run off and forget about us.” He pressed the palms of his hands together and placed them against the side of his face. “
Siesta
,” he said, grinning at the two drivers.

Brogan and Staunton set off, walking up to the farm gates. Brogan glanced back and saw that the two
habal
drivers were already fast asleep, their heads sunk forward, the collars of their jackets up against the wind.

The two walked up a steep hillside path. To either side were bramble hedges. On closer inspection, Brogan saw they contained red and purple raspberries. Stopping a moment by a thicket, he picked some off and popped a couple in his mouth.

“Boy, these are good,” he said, handing Staunton the rest. “We’re off to a good start.”

A few hundred meters up the path, they came to a brightly-painted wooden bridge that passed over a stream. Brogan guessed it must flow down to the irrigation ditch below.

On the far side of the bridge was a shed. It had a wooden bench outside, placed to one side of the door. The two went over and sat down. This was the spot where Carter had arranged for them to meet one of the trustees of the Sunbright Homestead Farming Community, as it was officially known.

They didn’t have to wait long. Minutes later, they heard the loud rustling of leaves from behind them, and a short, wiry-looking man wearing black gum boots, a pair of mud-stained jeans, and a pale green fleece jacket stepped out from behind some bushes and came marching down the hill toward them. The two stood up as he came over.

“Hello. I’m Max Poulter. You two must be Carter’s friends,” the man said in a friendly but surprisingly booming voice for someone his size. He looked around. “Didn’t he come with you?”

Brogan shook his head. “Carter couldn’t make it today. We decided we’d come by ourselves anyway.” He stuck out his hand, and introduced himself and Staunton to Poulter.

The two had decided to show up without Carter, figuring it would make any potential negotiations easier. If things went well, they would need to come back with the Hallecks. Carter could come then, to make sure he got his commission.

“That’s fine,” Poulter said, grabbing Brogan’s hand and shaking it vigorously. “He’s been here dozens of times. Probably sick of the place by now.”

Poulter looked to be in his mid-forties. He had a narrow, elongated face with straggly brown hair and a goatee beard. Though deeply lined and weathered, his face was a healthy ruddy color, and a pair of bright blue eyes examined the two men closely. Down at his waist, a Browning nine-millimeter pistol hung in a worn leather holster.

The farmer clasped his hands together. “Right then, follow me and I’ll give you a tour of the place,” he said brimming with enthusiasm. “Then we’ll have lunch and talk about the business end of things. How does that sound?”

Without waiting for either of them to reply, Poulter turned on his heels and marched back up the hill. Brogan and Staunton stared at each other a moment, then broke out into big grins. They hurried up the path to catch up with him.

With the two walking alongside him, Poulter discussed the concepts of permaculture farming, explaining how even though many of its design principles encouraged the transformation of the landscape with large earthwork projects, such as the building of terraces, dams, and swales, everything at the farm had been designed to work
with
nature, not against it, and the focus was on making the land as productive as possible without the use of chemicals and pesticides, not that there were much of them in the Outzone anyway.

“Not only do we support intense biodiversity at the farm, the food we grow here is more nutritious and better tasting that anything grown in the Strata State,” he said. “And we’ve managed to achieve perennial long-term food security that feeds our entire community without any outside reliance, even through the harsh winters we get here.”

“I remember the organic farms we used to have years ago. Before the FDA made them illegal,” Staunton said. “Is that what we’re talking about here?”

“Permaculture uses many organic farming principles, but it’s a lot more than that,” Poulter replied. “There are higher design principles at play, a greater integration, and use of the natural environment. In a little while, you’ll see what I mean.”

Poulter went on to give a brief history of agribusiness over the past twenty years. How, five years before the Great Global War, the Food Security Act of 2031 had practically wiped out small farming across the country, including any form of organic farming.

Under the guise of protecting America from the supposed emerging threat of agri-terrorism, the FDA banned the planting of seeds other than those purchased from government-approved companies—seeds that had been patented by the agrochemical biotech giants. Soon after that, in 2033, the law had extended to livestock. All animals bred for food purposes had to originate from genetically-engineered breeds from approved sources.

Brogan had never paid much attention to farming practices, but he was curious about all this. “How can a corporation own a living thing such as an animal, or even a seed? Surely that belongs to nature?”

“That’s a good question. The answer is that patents are granted for the genetic modification of the DNA of any natural biological substance,” Poulter explained. “Once they have changed the genetic structure of any plant or animal, they can patent the new breed. This is a very profitable business. For example, today all commercially grown crops in the State come from transgenic terminator seeds.”

“Terminator seeds? Sounds nasty. What the hell are they?” Staunton asked.

“They
are
nasty,” Poulter agreed. “And pretty much every vegetable or grain you’ve eaten in the last twenty years comes from them. They use genetic-use-restriction-technology to develop plants that only produce sterile seeds. In other words, they will only give you a single crop. Each year you must go back to the company and buy for the next harvest.”

Poulter’s face darkened. “Even after such a devastating war, these corporations continue to destroy the natural biodiversity of this country. It’s a monstrosity.”

This was an eye-opener for the two men. The news channels in New Haven constantly lauded the agri-businesses, stating how they provided a stable food supply for the region. After so much starvation during the global war, followed by serious food shortages during the Secessionist Wars, Brogan had never heard anything but positive comments about them from anyone.

Poulter paused a moment to compose himself. “Anyway, enough about the Strata State. Let me show you what we have achieved at Sunbright, and many other farms around here. Without anyone telling us what to do, it’s far more interesting.”

He escorted the two men up the slope to an area dense with trees, bushes, and low-growing lush vegetation that he called a “food forest,” pointing out the names of the plant and tree species as they walked through it.