Dark Sanity
Chapter Seven

Outlands

Thousands of years ago a region in the Northern Territory through which Flint was riding had once been known as the Never Never. It had always been a sweltering land, but the aboriginals nevertheless thought of it as a majestic expanse filled with great spirits. Now it was known as the Outlands—a grayish terrain that was nothing more than a desolate wasteland filled with death, massive gorges, and a thick haze of heat caused by the black-spotted sun. The heat became so intense that little particles of smolder slowly rose from parts of the cracked, crusted-looking terrain.

Flint rode farther north through the land on Donna who galloped cautiously. It if weren’t for his mare, he would have dehydrated, fainted, and died hundreds of miles back. He patted her and smiled, grateful to have her. He was, however, concerned about her health since he had yet to replace a waterhole in this dead region. He was beginning to feel he’d never replace water. Did the rest of the world resemble this environment? If so, then leaving Desonas may not have been the most intelligent decision he’d made in his life.

He had adapted to the extreme heat, yet he was sweating profusely despite it being winter in Australia. The scorching Outlands tested his body’s tolerance, and it certainly wasn’t different for his mare. On several occasions, Donna slowed down, producing a wobbly gait. Flint gave her most of his water. In fact, he only had one wineskin left, and it was nearly empty. He was hoping it would rain soon. Yet there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky.

The wavy heat continued to press against him. Several dust devils whirled in the distance. Flint periodically nudged Donna away from them. They were mostly harmless; though, there was an occasional dust devil that looked dangerous.

During the night, Flint spotted a somewhat safe-looking valley. He tugged the reins and guided his mare toward it. Upon arriving, he hitched Donna to a withered tree. He didn’t need to create a fire by the bed he laid out, but when he heard the howl of a dingo, he created it anyway in case there were other dangerous wild animals prowling around in these parts. He lit the fire, feeling just a little safer. Though he wasn’t afraid of dingoes, he didn’t exactly want a starving animal preying on him. He closed his eyes and eventually fell asleep.

On the following morning, Flint awoke and felt it was much warmer than previous days in the bleak Outlands. No more dreams, he thought to himself. Ever since he’d left Desonas, he hadn’t experienced another dream. Unlike before, it didn’t bother him. In fact, it made him feel confident. He felt that the last dream he had in Kalkajaka was a new beginning; it was a symbol of him accepting himself and becoming free from the myriad illusions that plagued him since he started living here in Australia.

He thought of Sarah and the others as he ate a sandwich, wondering whether telling them to stay in Desonas was the best idea. Either way they’d be in danger. Though, for the time being, out here seemed worse to him. He wondered whether Joey would come back to kill them; then again, if Joey was smart, which Flint had no doubt he was, then it would make sense for him to forget about the others whom Flint showed little affection for and go directly after him. Yes, he thought, perhaps the so-called tribunal would ignore them since he’d behaved as though they’d meant nothing to him.

After he finished eating, he took a sip of water from his wineskin and then gave the rest to Donna. He no longer had any water; this made him feel uneasy. Flint cursed under his breath, knowing he should have brought more with him. He didn’t exactly think this journey through. Nevertheless, he packed his things, unhitched his mare, mounted her, and nudged her to steadily gallop north.

He continued to see dust devils form and dissipate in the distance. The heat worsened and worsened with each passing minute. Flint frequently wiped sweat off his forehead. His heart was beginning to pound as though he’d been traveling on foot. It frightened him to think of Donna’s condition. His mare kept galloping. He was proud of her; though, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d be able to maintain this astonishing momentum.

Several hours passed. No clouds had formed. The heat was worse than ever. And there were no signs of life anywhere. Flint’s stomach growled fiercely; he was beginning to crave meat. Unfortunately he didn’t have any. He took out his last sandwich and ate it while riding forward. Eating made him thirsty. This caused his heart to pound more since he’d run out of water. That’s when he acknowledged it wasn’t simply the heat that contributed to him feeling fatigued, it was anxiety too—thinking he might die in the middle of nowhere.

Flint tried to keep a sharp eye, scouting the region to see if he’d spot or hear an animal in the far distance. He loved to hunt; in fact, it seemed to him as though he hadn’t hunted in ages. If he had to, he’d hunt a dingo or any kind of beast just to have some food for later. He took out his Winchester and slung it around his back, ready to use it if he’d by chance spot an animal.

After a few minutes, Donna slowed down. This alarmed Flint, but he didn’t complain or do anything when she reduced her gallop to a canter. The fact that she’d been able to travel this swiftly for so long was a miracle, he thought. He wasn’t going to bother her if she needed some rest. Eventually, when the sky changed from blue to an orange tinge, Flint forced Donna to stop by another valley.

This time he didn’t set up a fire. He simply hitched Donna to a withered tree and leaned against a large rock, holding his Winchester. He watched the area while Donna took a nap beside the tree she was hitched to until night came. When it was nearly pitch-black outside, Flint heard the distant hooting of an owl. It was hard for him to believe that wildlife still lived in this region considering how bleak it looked, but he wasn’t complaining. Flint was tired; however, he stood up and forced himself to scout around, hoping to hunt the owl or anything just to have a decent meal before going to bed.

He searched the area he had taken refuge at for the night, yet there didn’t seem to be any signs of life other than the distant sounds of the owl. He took a deep breath and continued to reconnoiter the region, trying to replace the nocturnal bird. It seemed to be farther away, so he stepped away from the valley with his rifle lifted. After taking a few steps, the hooting faded. Flint stood stock-still, hoping to hear it again. The owl was long gone. Wherever it went, it was nowhere near him. He cursed and returned to the crater, deciding to lay next to where his mare stood.

The heat pressed against him despite it being nighttime. Flint could barely feel any cool breezes. And the ground where he lay burned as though the sun was still out. He sighed and laid his rifle on his chest. Staring at the stars for a little while, Flint wondered where Hamarah could be. Time went by, and before he knew it, he closed his eyes and fell asleep in the pitch-black Outlands.

The following morning, Flint awoke to a cloudy day. He rejoiced when he opened his eyes, gazing at the gray sky. This meant that it may very well rain soon, and he’d have all the water he would need to keep traveling. Quite frankly, he had no idea where he was going. He’d been traveling on instinct, hoping to replace some kind of civilization out here. And since he’d been told that life only existed in the Northern Territory, he had decided this was the path to take. He just needed a little water and everything would be all right again. He eagerly packed his blanket, putting it in one of his knapsacks. He then whistled, walking over to his mare.

“Good news, girl,” he said to her. “It’s going to rain. Then we’ll be as good as new. We just need some foo—” He stopped talking, noticing that Donna lay still by the tree. She did not move at all. He whistled again. “Donna?”

Flint reached her and kneeled down, realizing she was unconscious. He shook her a few times, hoping that she was just sleeping despite the fact that horses sleep standing up; however, she wouldn’t wake up. No matter how many times he shook her, she wouldn’t budge; she didn’t even twitch. Flint gulped heavily, staring at her. She had apparently dehydrated. Even though they’d been traveling for days, Flint didn’t think something like this would happen so soon. His horse looked dead. Flint lay next to her and stayed with her for hours.

The sky gradually darkened throughout the morning and afternoon. Flint was praying all day for rain. His prayers, however, weren’t answered. His stomach soon growled. He pressed his fingers against his belly, taking deep breaths. This journey was pathetic, he thought. He pondered for a while, acknowledging that leaving his home at a time like this wasn’t so wise. It was his narcissism that had made him act irrationally. But no, he said to himself, leaving was the right thing to do because of what had happened at Kata Tjuta. He wasn’t insane—he’d been right all along. This wasn’t the time to feel guilty or weak; he needed to be sure of himself. He removed his hat for a moment, scratching his head.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” he dispiritedly said to himself. He glanced at Donna and gently petted her. She suddenly awoke, giving out a squeaky neigh. “Easy, girl,” he said to Donna who convulsed and neighed in a painful outcry. He backed away, distraught by what was happening. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I am so sorry.”

He slowly reached for his revolver, not understanding why she was in so much pain. Not even dehydration or starvation could cause this reaction. He wondered if this was the result of food poisoning; could she have eaten something nearby that was rotten? Flint shook his head as he pulled out his Peacemaker. He regrettably cocked the revolver’s hammer back, aimed at his mare, and—no, he couldn’t do it. He lowered his gun, hearing Donna neigh louder and louder. Her pain was tearing him apart inside. Flint clenched his teeth as he held in his tears, his finger trembling by the trigger. Then, in one swift movement, as though he’d lost all emotion and guilt, he lifted his gun once more and pulled the trigger.

The gun resonated after going off, producing a ringing echo. Donna’s neighs stopped. He could no longer hear the reverberation of his revolver or the cries of his horse. He dared not look down. Instead he stood up, grabbed one of his knapsacks, and walked away. Flint felt worse than when Amanda had hung herself but didn’t cry or curl into a hole waiting for death. He simply walked and walked until the crater where Donna had died couldn’t be seen even if he turned around to glimpse at it. Yet when he was miles away from Donna, he abruptly knelt to the ground and cried.

“My God,” he uttered to himself, sniveling. “I’m a mu-murderer.” He shuddered as tears ran down his cheeks. “I killed her.” A voice within him tried to tell him that he had to shoot her; it was the humane thing to do. Another voice in him, however, called it murder. “I’m s-so sorry. Please forgive me.”

Flint curled up after all. For a brief moment, he thought that he’d lost his emotions by not crying earlier. Now he felt relieved, knowing he was still human. Yes, as long as he suffered he’d maintain his humanity. Flint lay in the middle of nowhere, haggard and dreary due to the treacherous journey. Closing his eyes, he sobbed and surrendered to the sizzling granite. Flint fell asleep earlier than usual.

He awoke a few hours later. It was far past midnight. The ground was dry. It still hadn’t rained. Flint roared at the sky, feeling as enraged as the scorched terrain beneath him. He rose to his feet, made sure his Winchester rifle was loaded, and traveled north despite how dark it was. To his surprise, he saw the outline of a mountainous valley ahead. He was hoping some kind of wildlife would be prowling around over there. He pressed on, feeling his stomach ache for food what with its growls. His throat was parched, too, but right now he yearned to have a nice piece of fresh, crispy meat.

As he approached the mountainous valley he recalled the festival that he and his family had prepared for the townspeople. The incredible food he’d eaten back then was what initially made him think about that day back in November. Although most of the folks in Desonas had betrayed him—playing him for a fool—he nevertheless missed them.

He wondered to himself, how were Salomon and the others able to live with themselves? How were they able to smile every day knowing that their lives were a complete lie? Were all of them that afraid of the tribunal? Could the tribunal be that powerful? Did they truthfully prefer to be wardens rather than be free? Instead of feeling depressed about what he’d recently done to his mare, he felt livid. Flint thought, if he could just replace some kind of sign—anything regarding the tribunal—he’d be content and would deem this journey meaningful. So far, he had nothing; this deeply frustrated him.

Flint finally reached the valley and climbed up a ledge that led him into a tiny cave. He sat down on a rock and listened to the silence, trying to gaze at the stars. It was still cloudy, but he was at least able to see a few stars. He didn’t hear any wildlife around the area, making him feel even more frustrated. There was so much turmoil within his mind. Flint abruptly got up and hopelessly threw his rifle. He roared in anger, defying the dead world.

The world, however, wasn’t as dead as Flint thought it was. When he finished screaming he heard loud metal clomps. It was the strangest sound he’d ever heard before in his life. While the thunderclap-like sounds of foot stomps continued, he slowly peeked out of the cave, gazing at the desolate, midnight expanse. Flint, however, deeply regretted peeking outside because he noticed a giant humanoid creature encased in body armor approaching him. And yes, it was a creature since he didn’t know what else to call it.

The thing he saw resembled a man that stood twelve feet tall. It wore thick-plated armor made of titanium, and its helmet resembled a chiseled, stone face with a gas mask. As the being approached him, it breathed as if it were on some kind of life-support system. Its eyes flickered with light as it stomped toward Flint who gasped, backing away. The giant was clearer now—it had oil stains on its robust, copper-tinted suit of armor.

Flint was so startled and frightened by what he saw that he wasn’t able to talk or move. He simply stared at the colossal humanoid being that glared at him without uttering a single word. It entered the cave and stood still, observing Flint as though it were studying him so it could dissect him.

“Wh-what are you?” asked Flint, surprised he was able to speak.

The armored being suddenly gave out a deafening metallic sound mixed with electronic reverberations that changed frequencies from low to high pitches. Flint pressed his hands against his ears and ran for his life. When he exited the cave, another armored being approached from a ridge above, raising its giant arm. Flint saw it from the corner of his eye and attempted to jump when it struck him on the side of his face, causing him to fall.

Blood spurted out of Flint’s lip as he fell. He slammed his head against the granite, barely able to see. His vision became blurry. The deafening metallic sound finally stopped, but he could hear the two armored beings stomping toward him. He thought he’d conquered his dreams. Why was he back in the dreamtime? This couldn’t be real. Yet it felt so real. His head throbbed in pain due to the fall, and his mouth burned as he spat out blood. If he’d taken a direct blow to the head it would have undoubtedly killed him.

Just then, he heard another sound from above—a thudding, vibrating sound. He tried to widen his frail eyes as he lay on the jagged ground. At that precise moment, a red light beamed into his eyes, blinding him. He breathed feebly as heavy steam puffed down, engulfing him. He could have sworn that some kind of machine enveloped in steam was hovering over him, and that the armored beings were on it. But he was too weak to open his eyes again. He gave out one final breath of disbelief before fainting.