008 - Brave New World

[Amyral]

*Five Years Ago*

*Welcome to Houma*

[p:a7qbiejl]Those were the last words Logan saw before he lost consciousness. They were on a sign a short distance from the only home he had remembered. The young boy had run as far and as long as he could from the attackers.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Almost 50 miles from New Orleans and about 20 miles from where he started. Had he walked that far? His mind was swimming with images. The tree-houses… no… his home… burning. No, he couldn’t think about that. That only made him weaker. He was far too young to be thinking about that. He was only 12.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]He only managed to walk a few more feet before he collapsed on the ground. It had to have been a while since he had eaten. He tried crawling forward a bit, but soon succumbed to unconsciousness.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]When he awoke, a dingy white ceiling was above him. He slowly sat up. His shirt was off with his chest and arms bandaged up.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]“Don’t move too much.” It was an old man’s voice. “You’re weak, bleeding, and dehydrated. You’re lucky to be alive, kid.”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]He looked over to see the man. He looked ancient. But then again, anyone over 30 looked very old to him. The man’s face was wrinkled. His black hair could be seen graying in certain parts.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]He held a tray in his hand as he walked over to the kid. He held out a small metal cup to him.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]“Here, drink this,” he said as he handed the cup to the boy. “My name’s Patrick. Everyone calls me Doc, though.”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]The boy took a drink. It was some of the best tasting water he ever had.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]“I…I’m Logan.” He said as he finished off the cup.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Patrick smiled. “You’re one of the tree-kids, aren’t you?" he asked.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan nodded and squirmed some. "How did you know?”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Patrick looked to a corner of the room. "You were completely alone. Once the news reached us, I knew that you must be one when the others brought you here. Besides, you had those."[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]He pointed to a pair of ornate swords. They were long with circular hand grips and a small hook jutting off near the end of each blade.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]"We've had more than a few convoy drivers complain about those weapons. You guys angered a lot of people, robbing convoys to New Orleans for supplies. It was only a matter of time."[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan put the glass down and nodded. “What news?”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Patrick took the cup and filled it again before answering. “The forest is still smoldering. One of the convoys had had enough and hired a militia group to deal with your group."[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]It hadn't been a dream after all. Logan's home, the tree houses, all his family, they had all been ambushed in the not. The first shots woke them from their slumber, but before they could do anything the canopy's were aflame. Logan remembered the screams that were snuffed out by gunfire. He remembered the leader, a teenager who went by the name of Jet, hand him the two swords and tell him to run. Logan didn't understand why, but he always listened to Jet. Everyone did. Besides, he didn't want to die. He ran off, running through the trees in a panic until he could no longer keep his balance on the branches. Then he ran on the ground until he could no longer run. Then he began to walk. He could still smell the smoke in the woods, but the noise of the attack had died down.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]They were just kids fending for themselves All of their families were gone, either in the war, like Jet's, or in the subsequent squabbles and diseases. They hunted or gathered for a lot of what they ate, but they also subsisted by raiding truckers and suppliers on their way to New Orleans. Logan never thought that would come back against them. He had been naive, he had been optimistic. He would never be again.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan looked down and sighed. “Where am I?”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Patrick handed the cup to Logan. “My house. I’m Houma’s doctor, have been since the virus. Now, enough questions. You need to rest. You’ve had a busy day.”[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan nodded and took another drink before lying down. Soon, he was soon asleep and Patrick left him in the room.[/p:a7qbiejl]
*Five years later*

[p:a7qbiejl]"There we go... keep your hand steady, now tie the suture."[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan carefully tied the wire off. A young boy was on the table. He had fallen from his bike and cut himself on a pipe. Patrick thought it would be a perfect opportunity for his young protege. Logan had learned a lot from his time with Patrick. Patrick had taken him on as an assistant. He taught Logan how to set bones and what to use on burns and sprains. Soon, Logan could set IVs and perform a variety of medical tests.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Logan soaked up the medical texts that lined Patrick's wall. He certainly wasn't as capable of a doctor as Patrick was, but he had learned a lot. Behind the wall was a large tree. In that tree were several notches in the wood. Logan had practiced with the swords as best he could, but he hadn't taken that much to them. He wouldn't give them up, his dedication to Jet was still strong enough that he'd never give up the weapons.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]The swords were strange, to be sure. They never seemed to get dull, no matter how much he used them. Jet had named them. One was called Rhythm. The other was called Blues. He used to talk to them, which Logan never realized was strange until he got older. But, oddly, the more he held the weapons, the more he seemed like they listed. They hummed as he swung them in a way no other weapon did.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]Patrick was a pacifist. He didn't mind Logan practicing the weapons, but he hoped they'd never have to use them.[/p:a7qbiejl]
[p:a7qbiejl]However, when Houma was attacked, those fears would have to be laid to rest.[/p:a7qbiejl]