In the early morning I retrieved an artifact. I am very curious about this one. The interest doesn„t stem from its sale value to traders or science crews. Come to think of it, I can„t see how I could do that. I have an attatchment to this one. Associates have always said, «If you find something interesting, don„t get too interested. Most of the artifacts will not be able to be taken out of the zone unless it passes screening!»
Problem. I can„t seem to throw this thing away, and it„s not a question of will power, or some divine force that lures me to it. I have discarded it many times. Every time I do so, it always returns. I even went to the trouble of assembling a sling to project it as far away as possible. Within the hour it was in my pocket. Every time I think it„s gone I find it bound to me again.
The artifact. A smooth, bullet-shaped, crystaline stone. Blue metallic veins, spiraling to the tip. It felt warm even through my gloves, like it had just been doused with boiling liquid. It was sheer fluke I discovered its effects. It„s not like I just threw it away. Hell no. It could sell for a decent price.
Shortly after daybreak I was positioned near cattle grid 169, one of those grids the border watch assembled to stop mutated animals escaping. I was transferring the object to a containment canister. When it escaped my hands my heart rate tripled before I realized it was my doing, and not some gravitational anomaly. I stood there dumbfounded as it skimmed across the ground and plummeted between the metal bars of the grid. I had been dreading crossing the grids. For one, the mutants who are stupid enough to walk across without adequate limbs, slip and their legs fall between the plates. Then the general rule is they either starve or are fried by blowouts. Then the remains fall between the plates and the rotting tissue sits there letting off an iniquitous odor. The danger to humans being that when crossing the plates on foot, concentration on your balance is paramount, and being hit in the face with a cloud of putrefaction can sometimes hinder senses. I„ve heard a story of a stalker who had been rendered unconscious whilst crossing the grid. His left leg broke in two places and he was stranded on the grid for two days before his party found him. Now, below the grid plates lay an artifact with enough trade in value to bag me some decent combat upgrades.
What is often astonishing is when a grid was clean. A grid free of carcasses was a rarity as there was no crews employed the clean them, they just relied on nature to clean up the mess. In this place nature doesn„t exactly function like it does elsewhere. It„s like that little place Mother Nature wasn„t allowed into because it was her husband„s retreat.
I knew this one wasn„t clean even before I could see in. Even through my combat helmet I could still hear the trill of flies. Flies often meant — «Don„t even attempt to go over this grid unless in a sealed vehicle or alternately, if you have a damn fine bio suit and ninja sense of balance!»
I pretty much gave up on the chances of getting the artifact back when I saw it sinking in a pile of sputum. Being without a vehicle also meant I had to find another way back to the border. Luckily the road the grid was on lead out to another checkpoint. It would be a lonely walk.
Combat boots. Never enter the zone without them. Reliable, comfortable, and sealed so that no water, or practically anything can enter. Up until now this had been true. The comfort factor went from a reliable ten to a one when something began digging into the arch of my foot. The road was at a crest so I could see all around. Taking ones shoes off in the zone is never recommended. However, my vantage point suggested there was nothing of danger around so I quickly sat on the road and undid the seals. Being on a road, my natural reaction was to take off my shoes blind whilst checking for any movement up and down the road. After pulling off the boot the unexpected glint made me look down. There lay the artifact. I ignored this for a second. I had already set myself an estimated time to reseal my boots on my feet. I did so and checked the surroundings again. The artifact. Lost. Confusion. My mind flicked back to all those images of the grid and the artifact„s escape to a carcass bath. Did I really lose it? Memories are always blurred. Memories like that don„t invent themselves. I put it back in my pocket and tried to
Earthquakes were common. Around noon a small quake began. It was probably under four clicks to its epicenter. I had developed a method for these situations because of their frequency. I would crouch down into a position similar to that of an olden day sprinter before their signal device declared race start. Being in this position in a quake allowed for distribution of weight over a larger area, and a fast escape from any dangers such as falling debris. It also meant my pack and helmet took the majority of debris rather than my body. I use to think in a scientific frame of mind. I„d think about how these occurrences were because of the original blast and the disruption of tectonic plates. Once, while going across a grid right near a boundary checkpoint. Moments like those would fire adrenaline through the body so fast that the muscles would surge to life. I didn„t fall. From then on I always saw quakes as the zone„s way of warning me from taking the artifacts. It didn„t stop me. The money was too good.
I was back in my feet. This one wasn„t big. I could hear the border guards over the next crest. It was still a short walk but the cold wind was carrying their voices. Their words were not understandable. It didn„t matter. They were talking of the quakes.
I felt a cold sensation stabbing my leg. I clawed at myself, eyes distorted by agony spears, tearing at my leg for answers. I ripped my pocket inside and out. Out spilled a small hand drawn map. The leg still screaming, but there was the culprit. It stuck to the back, frozen on. I scraped it off with my knife and watched it sizzle on the ground. What was once warm was now the coldest thing I had ever witnessed. The artifact glowed white in a fog and the ground around it began to form shards of ice. A sturdy kick sent the artifact flying down the road I had just come from. My leg was still ablaze with surges, and I collapsed to my knees. I could feel the ice through my boots and clothes. As the artifact rolled down the slope it slowly stopped its fog. I hobbled down the road to witness this sudden change in state. I dared to touch it. It was no longer a cold thorn but warm once again. I came to the understanding that it got colder as it moved in it„s undesired direction. Such a danger was best left alone, abandoned.
I started for the boundary only to feel my pocket get cold once again. Two steps and the sharp pains returned. I began to step back. The cold subsided. Where the artifact just lay was bare and my other pocket was again it„s home. It was bonded to me and I was trapped.
A memory of a child„s game. Warmer was when the treasure was closer, cold was when the child was getting further away. This sick similarity was my only option. I had to let it guide me. Perhaps it leads to an answer.
It would be a slow journey back.