The Tale of the Lorax - Part 4

Chapter Four: The Outcast

He had just made it over the wall and went falling to the ground below when he heard a noise from around the curve of the wall; a noise that Once-ler knew all too well, a noise that he feared hearing every day of his life since this horrible, disgusting wall had gone up around the town that he himself had designed. After having rolled a few times after landing, managing to not grunt or even hiss when his bandaged arm hit the dead ground as he rolled. The man came to a stop and pushed himself to his feet immediately and ran for cover.

"No please, god no I'll pay I swear!"

"Take everything we have please don't do this!"

"I'm afraid we can't do that."

"You can't do this!"

"We can and we are."

Once-ler pressed himself against the vast metallic wall and dare not even to try and see around the curve; he knew this routine. Somebody was being sent beyond The Wall. Whatever the reason it was hardly mattered, there were so many reasons why people were cast out it was ridiculous. O'Hare was a maniac, a controlling megalomaniac who wanted perfection even if it was an ugly perfection.

"Please no, no!"

Then he heard the thud, and a woman scream. Judging by the sound a guard had hit somebody in the head with their gun to knock them back, though he heard another stumble told him there were two people. A couple being sent out?

"M-mommy, daddy…"

The sound of a child's voice turned Once-ler's blood cold in its veins as he listened for the movement; the shuffled foot steps. The woman was screaming now, pleading, but the guards were obviously not having any of this. There were more pleads, more cries falling on deaf ears before he heard the heavy thud of the doors sealing shut. The old man waited, holding his breath, praying to whatever God might look down upon a man like him that it wasn't what he thought…

…but then he heard the sobbing of a child and he wanted to scream. A child? Sent out into this environment. The old man rushed around immediately, trying to not look intimidating but that was impossible when you had glowing goggles, a flapping jacket, a long blood stained scarf and a top hat on. What he found was a small boy, not even four years old, laying on the floor, where he'd been thrown by the guard. He looked very sick, too sick. His eyes were sunken in, his skin a pale sickly color and his clothes hung off him loosely.

Seeing the approaching man the little boy shrieked in fear but had little to no energy to run, or even try to get up from where he'd been thrown. Once-ler came to kneel besides him, "It's all right. I won't hurt you. Here, here put this on." he pushed the small gas mask onto the child's head, having to tighten the straps. "I'm here to look after you. What's your name? Tell me your name." he said as he began to pull the child into his arms, and was alarmed to discover how skinny and light he was.

"Wes… Wesley… I want my mommy…" his eyes welled with tears as the old man held him against his chest, even going so far to open up his jacket to hold the shivering child closer since it was deathly cold out here this time of night, and the boy was already partly frozen by those flimsy clothes he wore.

"I know you do kid. I know." Once-ler said as he began to run across the black, dead fields, avoiding the mounds of dirt besides the tree stumps. "Let's get you somewhere warm, get some food in you. Okay?"

He got no answer; the child was passed out, either exhausted from his illness or from the stress, Once-ler didn't know but what he did know is this was going to be one of those nights and even if his right arm was beginning to burn with the familiar pain of a healing wound being stressed he held the child still. He was all he had, now, and he was damned if he would abandon him out here.

~*~

"I keep telling you people why don't you just track the wiry old fool?" O'Hare asked as he sat at his impressive desk again, this time there were men in suits stood across from him. None of them looked too pleased to be here… who would ever look forward to being called into O'Hare's office like this? Not many.

"We reported, Sir. He. He has traps up. If we dare attempt to approach his base…" one of the men said who had massive scarring down the left side of his face, "We-well. You remember what happened last year in June…"

"I remember, Marcus. He blew up ten of your men and shot the rest between the eyes. You're lucky to be alive at all." grumbled O'Hare, "But this isn't good enough. He's planning something. He's getting crazier every other week he's breaking in now, and these, these acts of vandalism…!"

O'Hare turned his head to gesture to a large, projected collection of electronic images. There were walls all across Thneedville, plastered with posters of O'Hare's face and Thneedville's motto only now there were acts of graffiti against them. In various colored spray paints the words 'Let it grow', 'The Lorax shall raise again' and 'Down with O'Hare' had been sprayed over numerous places. "He's inciting trouble." O'Hare said. "And I repeat if you guys ever see anyone marking the walls like this I want you bringin' them in! In one piece or otherwise!"

"Yes sir." saluted the men.

"Tryin' to knock me off the top so he can take place again…" O'Hare sneered. "Oh, I'd like to see him try, the old idiot… he's nothing but a blood thirsty mad man, driven insane by that smog out there. And who knows!" O'Hare turned his head to look at his men, and grinned. "He's so old maybe Mother Nature will do the job for us and put an end to his madness."

They certainly hoped so.

~*~

"C'mon kid. I got ya soup." the old man was kneeling on the ground now in what some could consider a lounge room. The walls were covered in old propaganda posters for the Thneed, though they had suffered over the years. There were bullet holes that riddled the smiling, illustrated face of the young Once-ler as well as knife tears and out right scorch marks on a few. Course that was nothing compared to some lifted posters of O'Hare. They had suffered even worse; shot gun blasts, even some arrows. Not only were there ruined posters, but there were weapons too. Guns of various makes and sizes, armory, even a good old fashion bow and arrow sat up a shelf with a big collection of arrows.

He couldn't leave the boy alone so Once-ler had carried his bed's mattress down the flights of stairs and set it up besides the wooden table in the middle of the room. He was trying to make the kid comfortable but that was hard to do since he was shivering and shuddering from the illness he had, and going by how white he'd gone, the boy didn't have much time left.

Wesley's sunken eyes slowly open and he stares up at the old man standing there, now without his gloves, jacket, hat and goggles. He looked like any other old man, though his body language screamed of control and confidence, and the clothes he wore looked like they had seen much better days. The white long sleeved shirt had stitching across it to patch up numerous rips and tears, the grey vest was tattered but in one piece more or less and his long black trousers were dusty.

"I… not hungry…" Wesley said, turning his head away weakly.

"You have to eat." Once-ler answered firmly, but still softly. "C'mon. Do this for me?"

The little boy obviously wasn't hungry but Once-ler wanted him to have at least something warm in his stomach to help ease the pain he was feeling. He eventually talked the boy into it, holding his head up as he spoon fed him the soup which was simple broth. Nothing fancy; the kid's stomach probably couldn't handle even chicken soup at this point and he didn't want him feeling sicker.

"Tell me 'bout yourself Wesley. What'd you like to do?" asked Once-ler as he wiped the little boy's chin, since the soup had begun to dribble down.

"S-swimming…" he answered quietly.

"Hey swimming, that's got to be fun right?" Once-ler asked, smiling as brightly as he could. "I never learned to swim, myself."

"Wh… why…?"

"Where I came from, we didn't have pools 'n water to swim in. And when I moved way out here I just never learned. Didn't think it was necessary. Looks fun though. Is it?"

It took the boy longer to answer, he was obviously struggling to even keep his eyes open, but he eventually managed to nod his head once. Once-ler had to resist the urge to snarl at the world in general, or in O'Hare's direction. This wasn't the first sickly person Once-ler had come across but one so young, so innocent, it made him so mad yet so frightfully sad at the same time. Nobody this young should suffer like this. Nobody should and yet he had. What had made him sick like this? A virus? Disease? He wasn't a doctor, so he couldn't even begin to diagnose.

"…rest now." Once-ler whispered as he settled the boy down against the bed, and fluffed up his old pillow as best as he could before covering Wesley's shaking form with a blanket made of stitched together thneeds. The little boy whimpered and Once-ler heard him whisper something about his mother and father, before the old man got to his knees, then feet, wincing as he did.

As the child slept the old man worked. He lit a small candle and set it on his table and he began to check through the new ammunition that had been sent out to him in the last shipment. Every bullet had to be checked to make sure it was fully functioning, and wouldn't misfire or blow up in his face. A few had, in the past, leaving nicks and scars across his face but thankfully no damage done to his eyes since he always wore his goggles when firing his shot gun. To risk damage to his eyes… oh, he would never. He only removed them when he really wanted to focus on a target, keeping his vision clear, unclouded by the yellow lenses.

In the corner of the room an old record player gently played some smooth jazz, filling the air with some kind of noise and hopefully giving the child something other than his pain to focus on. He desperately wanted to smoke a cigar but he dare not with the little boy sleeping besides him on the floor, so instead he drank. A glass half full of whiskey sat in front of the bullets, and the man slowly took small sips throughout his checking of the bullets.

It took him a few hours to do that, checking each one, and ended up with a few duds so, over all, a good check over since normally there would be more than forty to a group of two hundred. Once-ler moved the dead bullets to a bag and set it aside whilst the good ones were placed back in their box and returned with the other ammunition on their categorized shelves.

Once-ler sat back on his chair and stared ahead for a moment before sighing, and pulled a kit out from a drawer in the wooden table. After setting it down, he reached down and rolled up his right pant leg. Once he was past the black boot he wore whose laces and straps went up past his ankle, it revealed what was left of his leg. It was still there, only the muscle mass had all but shriveled away leaving what looked like a skeleton that had been covered with old, speckled skin. But he had not given up, at the loss of use of his legs. He had prevailed, he had adapted, and had created a 'support' that ran from the base of his foot up to his knee joint and all the way up to his mid thigh.

Naturally they were made of metal and increased the power in his legs, enabling him to simply walk, as well as run for far distances without his legs aching and on top of that it allowed him to leap farther than any normal man could. It amused him, though, when guards would try to shoot his kneecaps out only to have the bullets deflect.

It was the illness, you see. Even if his body had adapted to living in the toxic environment he had helped create, it had also become diseased. Whatever it was, cancer, or something else, had eaten away at the strength and nerves in his legs. Without his expertise as an inventor, as a man who adapts, he may well have ended up sitting in his lurkim alone for years unable to move. But Once-ler was a stubborn man, a determined man, something he had held onto long since the innocence of his youth had dwindled in the face of the world and its harsh realities, and cruelties.

Then there was his lungs; diseased as much as his legs had once been. It probably didn't help matters that he smoked cigars on a daily basis, but when you reached this age, with the kind of work he did on a daily basis he felt he was entitled to some kind of pleasure in his life and if that was smoking and drinking, than that's what it was going to be. He was going to die some day, any day now probably going by how crazy things were getting, so he chose to get what he could out of life while he still could.

The old man began to tend to the metal casings over his legs, oiling up the joints, cleaning off the grime, as well as tending to his skin which tended to rub and get small sores where the metal rubbed. Thankfully, though, he felt nothing from the waist down (thankfully the 'plumbing' still operated just fine thank you very much) otherwise he would be in constant pain with his legs.He tended to both legs in succession that night, stopping to sip his whiskey, or to simply listen to the music that brought on softer memories of his youth.

Dancing with Norma, before he had been consumed by greed and pride, swaying together to slow music in his cottage or out among the trees. How beautiful she had looked, then, her hair done up in curls that hung around her perfect, beautiful face. She used to be able to make him blush like a child by simply batting her eyelashes at him, once upon a time.

That was such a long, long time ago now… could he even dance any more? Or had he forgotten the art when he had begun focusing more on weapons, and guns, and planning to bring down O'Hare? He didn't know. He couldn't try to find out and certainly not now, for the small boy suddenly began to cough. But this cough didn't sound right; it was the kind of cough every person made after breathing in the air outside. When they couldn't breathe any more.

"No. NO!" Once-ler's chair toppled to the floor as he himself fell to the floor besides the boy, wrapping him up in his arms, rocking him like his mother would have. "No, no. Wesley. Come on. Stay with me. You can do this. You're young! You're strong, you got a whole life ahead of you and believe me it's going to be worth it soon! You'll be back with your mom 'n dad and the town will be free and there won't be any more of this ugliness. You, you have to wait and see it, you must…!"

Wesley was beyond the art of speaking, his skin was now a pasty white, the bags around his eyes so deeply embedded it was disgusting to look upon. His spit flew from his mouth as he coughed, stained with red droplets of blood, and they stained Once-ler's white shirt and vest but the old man didn't care. He caressed the back of the little boy's head, his expression grim. Begging wasn't going to do anything, it hadn't helped before, it wasn't helping now. He pressed the child against his chest and rocked him, back and forth, humming a disjointed song he could remember from his own youth.

Once-ler held onto the boy, rocking, humming, until the violent shaking of the child finally stopped. He heard that final, horrible sigh as the child lost his battle, and his body went limp and still in his arms. The old man held him close, though, refusing to let him go yet. Not fair, not right, how can this be law; sending a dying child out into a world that killed him even faster? He had a whole life waiting for him but no, because he'd gotten sick, because his parents couldn't afford medicine, he'd been discarded like trash. Tears welled in the old man's eyes and hated himself even more.

Why? That a man as horrible and disgusting as himself would live to be so old, and yet an innocent life like this had been snuffed out so early, hardly given a chance to shine. He couldn't stop the tears, nor would he try to, as he bowed his head forward and pressed his cheek to the dead child's now cold forehead. His sobs soon replaced the sound of the jazz music, and they echoed out around the slanted lurkim on the far edge of the cliff face.

~*~

"You're going back out there, aren't you?" Helen asked as she set down the breakfast she had made in front of Ted. It was some kind of slop again but different to the slop they had to eat for dinner.

The young boy sat there, arms folded on the table. He said nothing.

"I can see that you are. You're thinkin' about it." she said, wondering how Ted suddenly had changed in the span of a few days time. He suddenly looked much older in her eyes, this look around his eyes that reminded her of her husband.

"You never told me about Dad." Ted said quietly, slowly lifting his head to look up at her. "You just told me he died."

"He did."

"N-no, he was taken away. He was killed. Because he worked with the Once-ler." Ted said quietly. "You never told me that part."

Helen shut her eyes, and sunk down to her seat at the table. She removed her glasses and rubbed at her eyes tiredly, shoulders shaking slightly. "I know."

"Why? I mean, why didn't you tell me?" Ted asked.

"Because I didn't want you thinking that you could get revenge for what happened." Helen admitted, looking up at him finally, tears in her brown eyes. "I didn't want my son, my baby, going out to fight a war that killed his father."

"I don't know if that's your call to make any more." he said bluntly. He had done a lot of thinking the night before and while this had begun as a trip to get Audrey a tree so she would notice him, suddenly it had become something so much bigger than anything Ted would have even dreamed of. There was a war happening, a war behind the scenes that nobody was told about to keep the projected image of 'peace' and 'orderly conduct' in place. A war that had taken his father away, yes, but so many other people too. Just how many, he couldn't begin to comprehend.

"Just. Just be careful that's all I ask." Helen finally whispered. "Please."

She was surprised to find his arms around her suddenly, but she was grateful. Helen held him back tightly, remembering so much in such a short amount of time. How small Ted had been when he'd been born; she was so afraid he was sick but he was stronger than the doctors thought. The little baby had fought to live, had survived his premature birth, and continued to grow like a weed. She could remember his first word 'Mama' and his first steps, the first time he rode a bike, and everything else a mother remembered of their child. He was growing into a young man, one she was proud to call her son and she knew her husband would be proud of him as well. Now, more so than ever.

"Wait for tonight, at least. You gotta be crazy if you try to sneak out in board daylight." she whispered.

"Got ya, Ma."

And wait he did. The young boy waited for the cover of darkness to sneak out again; this time taking a route his Grammy had offered him to take. It meant taking the sewers but with his gasmask on, the young boy had managed better than he thought he would. He used his screwdriver to loosen the already loose casings on the final exit and climbed down from the pipe, landing in more filthy water but it wasn't anything he couldn't manage.

Getting onto his bike Ted began his long trek out across the wasteland, but his journey was not going to be an easy or simple one of course not. He was just rounding an old, broken looking machine that had axes sticking out of a long, ant-eater like device, when he ran into something or, in this case, somebody. Ted yelped as he fell back onto the ground but soon found a huge fist grabbing the front of his shirt and hauling him to his feet and Ted's eyes widened when he saw who it was.

One of the guards. He had a round helmet on, huge round goggles and a gas mask that made him almost look like a living human fly. The man wasn't alone, and the two of them were very big and very bulky. They didn't even ask him any questions before one of the men had suddenly struck Ted in the face with his fist. Ted brought his hands up to shield himself, knowing he couldn't even attempt to take them on, before he was thrown to the ground. When he landed, however, his mask came free and fell from his face. He tried to get up to grab his mask but a pressure was pushed down against his back, and he felt another blow to his head, causing him to cry out.

That's when the Once-ler appeared. He screamed like a wild animal as he came barreling out of the darkness and the man with his foot on Ted's back was startled when the old man tackled him like a football player, with a strength somebody wouldn't expect from a man his age. The force sent the two men rolling, tumbling, whilst the second man automatically went for his weapon while Ted scrambled for some kind of cover.

The old man was to his feet instantly and he swung his foot at the man's head, the strength of his metallic limbs causing the man's neck to snap back dangerously close to breaking point but not entirely. Dazed, the guard was barely aware when the old man hauled him to his feet and used him as a living shield when his partner began to shoot at the old man. They had been foolish; they hadn't anticipated an attack, nor gun fire. Their usual padding wasn't here and the bullets lodged in the guard's body, causing him to cry out in pain as the burning stings of the bullets pierced his flesh.

The second man gave up shooting at a distance and began to rush forward but didn't get too far before a shotgun blast went clear through his shoulder. He screamed and fell to the ground, seconds later the Once-ler's foot was upon the bullet wound, causing the pain to intensify even more as he pinned the large man tot he floor. Grabbing at his mask, his helmet, the old man ripped it off of the man's face and tossed it away before pointing one of his pistols at the mans face as he pulled his own yellow goggles off of his face. They revealed cold blue eyes, hardened by years of loneliness, years of fighting, and now they blazed with raw rage.

"Is O'Hare that interested in one singular little boy?" he demanded, vision clear in the fog; he didn't want to miss this shot. "Is that why he sent one out to die last night?"

"Follow… following orders…" gagged the man.

"That's not a good enough reason." Once-ler snarled. "I'm letting you live. Take your dead friend back with you and let this be a lesson to your boss. Touch my grandson again and I will destroy everything you hold dear. You got that?" he hissed this last part dangerously low, so malicious and dark it sounded one would swear a snake had been given the gift of speech.

The fallen man whimpered before Once-ler bent down and quickly retrieved the weapons from the man. He didn't trust them as far as he could throw them. Once the man was weaponless Once-ler got off of him, and watched as he gathered up his fallen comrade and dragged him away. Frowning still, Once-ler turned to where he'd seen Ted and when he saw him his eyes widened in absolute horror.

Ted's nose was bleeding, he had a blackened eye, and his mask sat in his hands.

"NO!" Once-ler thought, screamed it in his mind, before he rushed to the boy and knelt before him, grasping at his mask and pushed it over his mouth. He tried to appear calm, collected. "You kids. Getting into trouble…"

"Sorry," Ted spluttered, wincing at the pain of the pressure of the mask against his sore face.

Once-ler felt dread growing in his stomach. How long had Ted been without his gas mask on? It only took a minute for the toxic haze to get into your lungs, and it would only take a matter of days for it to spread and infect your lungs, breaking them down. That guard he had unmasked was now a dead man walking, and he probably knew it too. He doubted Ted knew, though. Should he tell him? Warn him? He didn't know.

"You missed me." Once-ler chuckled, forcing his fears away.

"Huh?" Ted asked, dizzy from the strike to his head.

"You came back. Clearly you missed me. A little. Right?" Once-ler asked as he helped Ted to his feet, dusting off the front of his shirt as he did.

Ted gave a weak laugh.

"Well come on. Best get you to my place in one piece before anything else leaps out and tries to kill you." Once-ler said as he bent down to retrieve the bike from where it had fallen. Once-ler got on it and had Ted ride on behind him as he kick started it, and drove across the landscape.

His heart was racing within his chest; already pained from having to bury the little boy out under a tree stump just that morning. How he had dug, the ground deep and cold but he had covered the little boy in a blanket, given him a decent burial, before placing the Earth back on top of him. He had wept throughout the entire procedure from digging to end, just how he did every single painful time he had to end up burying people who were cast out of the town.

He had done it so many times he almost lost count but he refused to allow his own grandson to end up under one of those tree stumps, sleeping forever.

He just simply wouldn't allow it.