FREE PREVIEW
Yes, you read that right. It is free.
We've all read countless novels about alien invasions and alien occupations, haven't we? "Derelict" tells the story of what happens to the survivors on earth after the aliens leave. And they have indeed left a mess! You may recognize some of the landmarks and towns in the story, even though the aliens had significantly screwed up our planet. I've posted the first two chapters here and if you like the story, you can read more on wattpad, also for free! This is really a win/win kinda deal. Have fun reading and drop me a note, will you.
The Root of All Evil
Chapter One
Boss kept a stick close
at hand. It was a gnarled old thing with a leather loop through its
knobby head and a brass cup on the foot.
The uninitiated would call it a walking stick.
Boss, however, did not
call it a walking stick because it was of no use to him for walking.
For Boss, it served a different purpose. He whacked people with it.
Mostly, Boss whacked Wyatt with the stick. In fact, Wyatt had been hit
so many times and with such regularity he would cringe and flinch any
time Boss reached for it. Not that he could help it, the cringing and
the flinching, that is. Repeated beatings tend to instill such
reactions. Over the course of years Wyatt had become attuned to the
stick, alert and ready should Boss find himself in a funk or just
generally surly.
Nothin' like a good beating to keep a Speck in line,
Boss would say. He talked about the stick like that, as if he were
nothing more than a passive observer of its actions whenever it chose to
mete out punishment to those deserving of such. Careful Wyatt, that stick's wanting to get busy, or Watch out, that stick be looking your way.
The stick went everywhere with Boss because it was never really known
when he might encounter someone in desperate need of a good thrashing.
He seemed to believe no real communication could occur without a proper
tenderizing of the hearer by the stick.
On the day Wyatt's life
would change forever, his thoughts and attention were focused on the
stick, much like every day. This day was a special one, the last day of
the trading season but one on which very little actual trade had
occurred. This rendered Boss irritable and foul, looking for an excuse
to loosen the fury of the stick. He sat perched on his stool muttering
incomprehensible grumblings and breathing out the occasional vitriolic
threat, his hand straying at times toward the stick idly leaning against
the counter. For his part, Wyatt worked at remaining inconspicuous yet
busy enough with his broom to maintain an appearance of productivity
should Boss think him slothful. Nothing drew the attention of the stick
with any greater certainty than sloth.
The rusty cans hanging
above the door to the shop clattered, signaling the arrival of a
customer. Without ability to resist, Wyatt's eyes were drawn to the
stick, apprehensive of whatever malice it may decide to dispense at this
unexpected intrusion. Yet Boss stayed his hand and the stick remained
in place, its wrath left dormant. Wyatt gawped at Boss in confusion,
this new inconsistency both puzzling and disturbing until he realized
Boss was as equally flummoxed by the man standing at the door.
It was a trader, one of the Rama.
The man was lean and
weathered, everything about him faded to a sun bleached gray and covered
in a film of dust. He wore a vest fashioned of leather from a creature
found deep in the Wastelands, a creature spawned of another world. An
ebony tusk about the length of a man's hand hung from a cord around his
neck, accompanied by smaller versions pierced through his earlobes.
Other than those adornments, little distinguished him from countless
other travelers who passed through Cairo each week.
He merely stood, letting his eyes adjust from the harsh glare of the street to the relative dimness of the shop.
"Welcome friend." From
behind the counter Boss slid from his stool, his palms extended outward
in an expansive gesture while his tone and posture belied the warm
words.
"Friend?" snorted the
trader. "I ain't your friend and they ain't no way I plan on becoming
one." His gaze swept across the shop noting the bolts of cloth, the
meticulously organized bins of salvaged nails, the spools of wire and
rope, and the jars of fruit preserves brought down from the north at
great expense. It passed over Wyatt as though he were nothing more than
just another bundle of goods or a piece of worn out furniture. And
Wyatt certainly was accustomed to this treatment, he was--by all
accounts--far less valuable than a bundle of goods or a piece of
furniture.
Boss cleared his throat
and peeled his sweat saturated shirt away from his chest, billowing it
in and out in a futile effort to provide some relief from the heat. He
dabbed at the sweat on his forehead with an already saturated rag.
"Meant no offense, meant no offense." He paused, biting his lower lip.
"It's just... Well, we don't get your kind in here often."
"Often?" It was said
more as an observation than a question. The trader pulled his hat from
his head and ran his fingers through a crop of short, wiry hair. Tiny
clouds of dust wafted into the air.
"Your name Elgee?" This time it was a question.
Wyatt busied himself with the broom but managed to watch as Boss tensed and sidled toward the stick.
"You ain't gonna need
that." A sardonic smile flitted across the trader's face. "Now I been
told you're a man who knows how to get things. Maybe some things might
be tough for others to get."
He drew a tiny leather
pouch from his vest and hefted it in his hand. It emitted a muffled
clinking sound, drawing Boss's eyes and holding them riveted with
curiosity. Boss pursed his lips as a new film of sweat formed on his
forehead. Greed won out over caution because he was nothing if not
greedy.
"Yeah, I'm Elgee. But I
don't know who you been talking to cause I don't do nothing illegal. I
ain't no agent, but I follow the code best I can, and better than
most."
Wyatt was sure he heard the trader give another brief snort. "You're a regular paragon of integrity, I'm sure."
Boss stammered and his face began to turn red.
"Oh, now don't go
getting yourself worked up into a lather. If I got the wrong
information, just tell me. I'll move on and be taking these crystals
somewhere else." He moved to slide the leather pouch back into his vest.
Boss jolted into action
like he'd been poleaxed. "Well now, hang on trader. I never said I
couldn't help you out. But a man's got to be careful. Yessir. Too
much dangerous business going on these days." Wyatt and the broom
drifted into his line of sight. "And you, Speck. Don't think this
stick don't see you. Now get busy with that broom and quit your
slacking." He thrust at Wyatt with the stick then dabbed again at the
sweat beading on his forehead.
The trader turned,
looking Wyatt up and down as though he had somehow been invisible until
that very moment. Having lived a life valued far less than a barrel of
ale and unaccustomed to such scrutiny from a stranger, Wyatt squirmed in
discomfort. The eyes of the trader peered at him with a menacing
intensity that left him feeling like a rat cornered by a pack of dogs.
He stood powerless, his legs and arms dangling without ability to move,
clutching his broom and feeling even more stupid than normal.
"So. You got yourself a Speck?" Another statement more of an observation than a question.
"And you got yourself
some crystals," Boss said, acknowledging Wyatt's existence with an
absent nod. He again jabbed the stick toward Wyatt but with his
attention focused on the leather pouch, he missed his target by a wide
margin.
Wyatt took the hint and
roused himself, sweeping at the already clean floor but ensuring he
maintained a safe distance from both the stick and the trader.
"I got 'bout half a
pound here." The trader placed the pouch on the counter between himself
and Boss. "And I just might be in the market for some old tech."
Boss's mouth dropped
open. It was the second time in less than a minute he looked like he'd
been poleaxed. "Old tech? Are you out of your mind? What would
possibly make you think I got any old tech? And even if I did, there is
no way in the world I would allow any of it to get into the hands of
the Rama."
The trader nodded and
the pouch of crystals disappeared into his vest. "Well, I guess I been
misinformed. I'll be taking my business elsewhere."
"Ain't nobody in Cairo
gonna trade for old tech. I can guarantee you that. Not with the Rama
and specially not for that little old dab of crystals."
"Too bad. 'Cause this
little old dab is just a taste. I said I had 'bout half a pound here.
But I got considerably more on the other side of the river." The trader
paused, reading Boss like a book. "Suppose an even thousand pounds or
so could hook me up with what I be after?"
Wyatt knew Boss--who was
fairly panting in anticipation--craved what he had referred to as that
"little dab of crystals" and would do anything to get it. Everybody in
Cairo wanted crystals. The whole reason this miserable outpost existed
in the first place was to buy, cheat, steal, manipulate or trick the
wily traders out of their precious cargo. But one thousand pounds? It
was enough to make even the most jaded sit up and take notice. That
leather pouch with the half pound would make for a good year, but a
thousand pounds? A man would be covered in wealth, dipped in luxury,
and wading in finery for the rest of his gilded life.
Boss mopped at the
sweat. He paced behind the counter and muttered obscenities under his
breath. He gazed out the windows of the shop then turned on Wyatt with a
snarl, barking out orders. "Get your lazy bones busy and lock that
door. And get our guest something to drink. Can't you see the man's
dying of thirst? Stupid Speck don't know nothing." He added that last
bit in a mumble.
Wyatt watched from the
corner of his eye as Boss stood with his arms folded across his chest
and stared at the man who had just walked in out of the blue with an
offer of unimaginable wealth. Wealth that had eluded Boss his entire
life. Wealth that would lift him away from this remote trading outpost
and into the position he always felt he deserved but had forever been
just beyond his reach. One thousand pounds of crystals meant he could
head back north, back to Chicago, back to civilization. Boss would be a
man of means, a man who could get what he wanted when he wanted it.
Wyatt poked his head out
the front door peering up and down the street knowing Boss would surely
wallop him with the stick should the door be shut in the face of an
approaching customer. Other than a bedraggled mongrel stretched out in
the shade, nothing looked alive or even close to it in the inferno
outside. Anyone with any sense at all would be safely ensconced indoors
behind thick masonry or mud walls which had hopefully retained a margin
of the previous night's relative coolness. Satisfied the street was
empty, he locked the door and scooted to the storeroom where Boss kept a
cask of ale.
"Let me tell you
something," even from the storeroom Wyatt could hear Boss growling this
out like a dog hunkered over a fresh kill. "Trader or not, you be
tryin' to set me up, there's gonna be one less Rama crossing back over
that bridge before the day is done."
It was the same tone
Boss used when the stick was about to get busy. "You hearing me
clearly? I ain't no official agent and can't legally trade in crystals,
but I expect you knew that."
The trader smiled. "Them's yangee rules. Don't mean a thing to me. I trade with anybody what got the means."
Wyatt filled two mugs
with warm ale--it couldn't be anything other than warm--and paused,
wondering if he should carry them out on a tray. He was uncertain how
to proceed. Boss had never asked him to serve food or drink to a
customer, because Boss never shared anything with anybody. It didn't
matter, he decided. No tray was to be found and the longer he dithered
the more he feared Boss would think him to be dawdling. Dawdling and
dithering always earned a session with the stick. In the end, he just
carried the mugs and placed one in front of each and backed away hoping
he could blend into the wall.
Boss grabbed at the mug
and belted down a healthy slug. "So what makes you think I got access
to any old tech? They ain't been anything of the like go through Cairo
for a couple hundred years."
"That so? You think you got your finger on every single thing that passes through here?"
Boss went to the window.
He crossed the shop and scanned the deserted street out the other
window. He scrubbed his chin with his hand and returned to the stool.
"No," he said. "Maybe not. But if someone's hustled something into
Cairo, I would've caught wind of it."
"Who said anything about someone bringing it in?" Boss frowned and squirmed a bit in discomfort.
"How else would it get here?"
"You don't know jack
about history, do you?" The trader smiled but Wyatt, hovering in the
corner trying to look busy with his broom, realized it didn't touch his
eyes. In fact, it gave the trader a bit of a sinister appearance.
"They say the old world had every sort of old tech on just about every
corner. Stuff that'd make your eyes pop if'n you saw it today. Weapons
that could kill from miles away, wagons traveling faster than any
horse, and even ways to send messages through the air! Course, I'm
believin' most them tales be nothing but made up stories, things old men
tell around the fire at might. But some of it's true enough, even
though everything was confiscated when the visitors come. But some,
here and there, slipped through the cracks and then after the occupation
ended they kinda remained unaccounted for."
He walked over to the
shelf and pulled down a jar of what appeared to be some sort of fruit
jelly or preserves. "And wouldn't you know it? I believe they's an
item here or there like that been just laying around for six hundred
years or so just waiting for an enterprising young man such as myself to
find them."
With that he unscrewed
the lid to the jar and used his finger to scoop out a goober of jelly
which he popped into his mouth with a smack of his lips. Boss, who
normally would have whacked such a presumptive visitor with the stick,
sat slack-jawed at this fantastic tale.
"You're asking me to believe there's something been hiding out here in Cairo?"
"I am not asking you to
believe a thing, Mister Elgee. A man's believes what he wants. But let
me tell you what I believe." He stopped for a moment clearly relishing
both the jelly and the opportunity to see Boss squirm. "I believe you
just might know exactly what I'm talking about. I believe that if'n the
right delivery of old tech were to show on the bridge at midnight, in
its place would be left one thousand pounds of crystals. Give or take a
pound or two."
"A thousand pounds of
trouble is all you're offering," said Boss without an ounce of
conviction in his voice. "Besides, all old tech goes to University.
Even your kind ought to know that. You've got nothing worth ending up
on a labor gang for."
"Well, if somebody
wanted to follow me out into the Wastelands and catch me with it then
try and haul me back, they be welcome to give it a shot. The way I see
it, a fellow sitting right here in Cairo caught holding would be the one
who oughta be worried." He scooped another blob of jelly into his
mouth.
Boss snorted. "And I
suppose a person interested in such a transaction could just wander
around asking if anybody's heard anything about some ancient artifact
and if so, would they be willing to share this invaluable information?
And that person, who don't happen to be a member of the Guild in the
first place and ain't legally supposed to be trading in crystals, might
wish to acquire these antiquities and possibly place them into the hands
of one of the Rama. I suppose then, this person would spend this rest
of his miserably short existence wondering why he listened to the
half-baked stories of a trader who has clearly spent too much time out
in the Wastelands getting his brains addled in the sun."
The trader leaned
forward. "No, I don't suppose that'd be wise," he allowed. "However,
an equally enterprising feller who just happened to have a shop in an
old, Pre-Departure bank building with a vault hidden behind a false wall
of trade goods might be able to take a look-see inside. Then he
wouldn't have to be wandering around town asking."
Boss's face turned
scarlet and the veins on his forehead looked to burst under the
pressure. "I don't know where you got your information trader, but
let's be clear on one very important thing: you have no idea who you're
dealing with here." Wyatt hadn't seen Boss this agitated. Ever.
"Well good. As long as
we're being clear, let me continue," said the trader. "I know exactly
who I'm dealing with and I know exactly what you got in that vault. You
got yourself a pair of lead lined crates with a bunch of symbols and
writing covering 'em that you got no idea what it means or what it
really is. More importantly, I do know. I know the words and I know
what they mean."
Boss slumped back onto
his stool, somehow defeated yet doing his best to remain defiant.
"What?" he managed in a voice tight with emotion. "What are the words?"
The trader leaned forward across the counter, inches from Boss. "Scott. Scott AFB."
Wyatt gaped in disbelief
as Boss was again left without ability to speak. Color drained from
his face while his mouth hung open and his normal scowl was replaced by a
look of profound stupidity.
"Now I'm offering you a
fair trade for something you're never gonna use and you'd have no idea
what to do with even if you had a mind to. I suggest you take my deal
and take it fast before word gets out."
Boss recovered now that
actual negotiations resumed. "Is that a threat? Are you really gonna
threaten me?
Here in my own place?" He gripped the stick with both
hands and hefted it toward the trader. "Suppose I take this stick and
bop you upside the head and dump your body in the river? You come in
here and threaten me in my own place, you gotta be out of your mind! I
got every right to..."
"You got every right to one thousand pounds of crystals, you ignorant twit. You want the deal or not?"
Boss's eye started to twitch. "Two thousand pounds."
"Oh? Offer's now at nine hundred."
"What?" Boss slammed his meaty fist down on the counter. "That ain't no way to negotiate! Fifteen Hundred."
"Eight hundred."
Boss was furious. "I
always heard the Rama were the most underhanded and devious of all
creation." He stormed around the shop ranting and cursing. Then he
stopped and opened his mouth to speak but another look at the trader got
him flustered all over again and instigated another diatribe.
Wyatt trembled in mortal
fear, holding his broom like a sort of talisman that could ward off
Boss's maniacal tirade. This was exactly the kind of mood that would
earn him a session with the stick later on and dread began to take hold.
Boss hadn't even been half this worked up the last time the stick
administered a beating. That was the time a customer had knocked over a
case of salvaged glassware and Wyatt was somehow to blame for leaving
the merchandise in the wrong place. He had been beat until he had lost
consciousness, waking hours later with a broken arm and covered in
bruises and crusted blood.
In spite of his
trepidation, Wyatt knew Boss would take the deal. It was the Big 'Un.
He didn't really know what kind of old tech Boss possessed or how it
might be used, but he did know Boss had finally stumbled onto the deal
of a lifetime. The Big 'Un had finally arrived, the one he had always
talked about with a faraway look in his eye and hoped would come his way
to get him out of this hellhole that was Cairo.
"And how do I know this
ain't some sort of set up? You get me out there on that bridge in the
middle of the night and take what you want then leave me holding
nothing. Who am I gonna complain to?
The trader looked like
he could bite through nails. Without a word, he turned and unlocked the
door, opening it wide to the street. He gave a shrill whistle,
startling Wyatt and making his ears ring at the same time. The old dog
in the shade flicked an ear but otherwise paid no attention. Waves of
heat poured through the door while a few dust devils skittered south
toward the river. Then a figure emerged from the shadow of the
abandoned building across the road and trudged toward the shop,
shuffling in the dust with head hung low under a wide brimmed hat.
He was young, on the
smallish side. A boy really. And he was the scruffiest, most
bedraggled figure Wyatt had ever seen. His clothes were a collection of
ill fitting hand-me-downs that should have been discarded rather than
worn. They were tattered and hanging from his scrawny frame, serving
only to make him more pitiful and haggard. Wyatt began to believe he
had encountered the Raman equivalent of a Speck.
The boy edged into the shop halfway hiding behind the trader.
"So you think I'm setting you up, eh?" The trader smirked. "How 'bout I leave you some collateral?"
"Collateral?" said Boss
believing he had gained the upper hand at last. "Other than crystals,
what could you possibly have worth anything?"
The trader turned and
reached for the young boy. "How about my only child? Suppose I leave
Rison here with you until the deal be done? That oughta prove I ain't
setting you up, don't you think?"
Boss scratched his head
as if in deep thought and hemmed and hawed around like he was torn with
indecision but Wyatt knew better. Boss had lived his whole life never
once mentioning, using, or looking at any old tech and that meant he
could therefore live without whatever it was they were talking about.
But he would surely live a whole lot more comfortably in the possession
of one thousand pounds of crystals. No question it was a done deal.
Boss was just trying to show the trader he couldn't be pushed around.
The trader continued,
"Course, I wouldn't take it too kindly should Rison come back to me with
so much as a single bruise or blemish. I might be inclined to get
upset."
Boss smiled his most
winning smile. It was like watching a wolf try to grin. "Alright,
alright, you got me. Can't blame a man for trying, can you? One
thousand pounds even and this little ragamuffin stays with me until I
get my crystals. You got yourself a deal."
The trader slammed the
now empty jelly jar on the counter and gulped down a slug of ale, wiping
his mouth on the back of his sleeve. "The crates best be intact and
sealed. Got it? The seals be broke then the deal be off. One thousand
pounds. Midnight at the bridge. Do not make me wait."
Having scored a victory
over the inscrutable trader, Boss gave a nod and struggled to keep a
grin from spreading across his face. "And how do you propose I get past
the customs inspector? None of this is gonna be even remotely legal
and it sure ain't gonna be very inconspicuous."
The trader tossed the
leather pouch to Boss, who caught it with one hand. "You got yourself
half a pound right there. I suggest you apply some charm and bribe the
man."
With that, the trader turned to leave then paused at the door. "One last thing. Bring your Speck."
Boss scowled at Wyatt.
"What's he got to do with it? I'm thinking the stick's gonna be getting
busy with him before the day's out. He's stupid as a box of rocks and
besides, he's been lazy today."
The trader sent a look that painted Boss a fool. "You think that's wise?"
"What?"
"Beating your Speck."
"What do you care? He's not worth even half the feed he chokes down every day, let me tell you."
"So if you damage him, how you planning on getting a thousand pounds safely off that bridge tonight? All by yourself?"
Boss hated it when he
perceived anyone interfering or outwitting him. "Why don't you just
mind your own business? And that business just happens to be getting my
load ready for delivery."
The trader took two
steps forward causing Boss to retreat in equal measure. "Use your brain
for something other than a divider for your ears. It's in my best
interest to get this deal over and done quickly and quietly without
stirring up a bunch of busybodies. And if you thought about it, you'd
see it was best for you as well."
He gave Rison a long,
steady look before turning and walking out. The door slammed in his
wake, rattling the cans while Wyatt trembled in fear. Boss stared at
the door for a long moment, not saying a word. The stick was going to
get busy, if not tonight, then first thing tomorrow and both of them
knew it.
*************************
As Cold Waters to a Thirsty Soul
Chapter Two
The boy called Rison
stood without speaking, his head drooping low and his dust covered arms
hanging by his sides. Wyatt couldn't begin to fathom how a man could
leave his son as a hostage. It took resolve and fortitude unlike
anything Wyatt had ever encountered. He was sure Boss had been so
blinded by the prospect of a pending fortune he had overlooked the steel
behind the trader's actions. Yessir, resolve and fortitude.
Unless it was something else entirely. Like maybe a callous disregard for his own kin.
Either way,
it seemed Boss had stuck his hand into the mouth of a lion and was
liable to have it ripped from his arm.
Still
staring at the door, Boss said in a low voice, "Get back there and
unload all that scrap metal from the wagon and get it sorted. And
Wyatt, you keep your mouth shut about this. Ain't nothing worse than a
Speck what can't stop talking. If word of this gets out, that stick
would not be the least bit happy about it."
Boss was
right. The stick wouldn't be happy. And Wyatt knew it didn't matter
whether he said a thing to anybody or not because sooner or later,
everybody in town would realize Boss had made a big score. Before long,
the Guild would start looking into the matter. Even if Boss relocated
to Chicago, folks would take notice of his sudden wealth and start
asking questions. New wealth always attracted attention and it all
would be traced back to the crystals and they'd want to know how someone
not in the Guild acquired such a vast treasure. And the Guild might
decide to ask those questions of anyone close to Boss. And nobody--but
nobody--was closer to Boss than Wyatt.
It was then
Wyatt realized he was expendable. Boss was sharp enough to reason, if
he hadn't already, his Speck couldn't be talking if his Speck wasn't
living. And there was no justice for a Speck. Never. Specks were
non-people; merely property. They had no rights, no advocates, and no
recourse. Nothing to call their own other than a future filled with
backbreaking labor, meager rations, and harsh punishment meted out at
the whim of their masters. While Wyatt knew all this, he also knew Boss
was lazy. Lugging around one thousand pounds of crystals would be
hard, sweaty work and Boss always avoided like the plague anything
resembling actual labor. If Boss wanted the wagon unloaded, it meant he
intended to use it tonight to make the haul.
A sharp thwack of the stick across the back of his thighs dropped Wyatt to his knees.
"Did I give you the impression it was a good idea to be standing around daydreaming? Get to work!"
He turned on
Rison and added with a snarl, "And you! Get your scrawny ass back
there and make yourself useful. This shop's got no room for dawdling."
His legs
ablaze with pain, Wyatt hobbled through the shop back to the cavernous
room in the rear of the building that served as a warehouse. A wagon
was parked in the middle of the room laden with discarded and broken
metal scraps, most covered and pitted with rust and useless to anyone
other than Boss. Stacks of crates and piles of miscellaneous debris
filled the perimeter of the room, a collection of decades worth of
scavenging, trading, or stealing. Boss was never above relieving the
unsuspecting or innocent of their possessions if he thought he could get
away with it. Of course, it was always Wyatt who took the blame should
stolen goods be discovered, Stupid Speck! How dare you bring anything stolen into my shop!
And then the stick would get busy.
Well, Boss
wanted this load sorted and sorted it would be, although Wyatt's notion
of sorting was far different from that of Boss. Because the bits and
pieces of metal were nearly indistinguishable one from another Wyatt
would randomly divide the load into one of the existing piles or crates
and call it good. There was no real sorting and Boss was none the
wiser. The piles of scrap continued to grow, Wyatt continued his
pretense of sorting, and Boss continued to believe his trove was
organized.
"So where do you want this stuff?"
The timid
voice startled Wyatt and he realized Rison had followed, staring at the
contents of the wagon with a look of skepticism he was sure matched his
own.
Wyatt
glanced at the boy, again marveling at the cold-hearted character of the
father who had left his son behind. "Ha! It don't matter." He stole a
look over his shoulder to ensure Boss wasn't within earshot. It
wouldn't do to have Boss or the stick discovering his technique.
"All this
garbage. Boss collects it and thinks one day it's gonna be worth
something." He waved his hand at the various piles. "I just put it
wherever I feel like."
"Hm. Well,
let's get busy. I wanna get outa here and I ain't gonna give that Elgee
guy any reason to come back here and start swinging that club."
"Stick."
"Stick. Club. Whatever. He comes near me with it, he's gonna discover what it feels like embedded in his skull."
Wyatt stared
at him in a combination of disbelief and amusement. That this scrawny
little kid had the temerity to think he could stand up to Boss and the
stick was ludicrous. Boss had scraped bigger things than Rison off the
bottom of his boot.
There was no
more talk for the next hour as they worked unloading the wagon. The
close and stifling air in the warehouse caused sweat to run in rivulets
down Wyatt's back. He soon fell into his old habit of tossing each
piece into whatever pile or crate was convenient but noticed Rison spent
some time studying each rusty bit with care. He smiled to himself
wondering how long it would take before the youngster realized the act
of sorting was nothing more than an exercise in futility. It was junk.
All junk. It would have been just as equally sorted had it been thrown
into one giant pile and labeled "garbage."
Even so, the
wagon was emptied in half the time with two sets of hands at the task.
Wyatt paused as Rison packed the last item into a crate, grateful for
the help. His hands, arms, and face were tinged in a rusty hue, typical
of an afternoon with Boss's scraps. He glanced over at Rison who was
equally coated in grime.
"How can you work in that vest? Ain't you about to die in this heat?"
"Yeah, it's hot. But it's worse in the Wastelands. You just get used to it."
Wyatt
scoffed. "There ain't no getting used to working in this heat. Come
on, they's a pump out back. We can get some water."
He led the
way through the wide door and into a small courtyard surrounded by a
stone fence built centuries ago and only sporadically maintained. It
had fallen to such a state of disrepair Boss had it in mind for Wyatt to
be mending that fence when the trading season wound down. Like the
fence, years earlier a well had been drilled to service soldiers and
traders, probably soon after the collapse of the old world
infrastructure when the trading post had first been established. Even
hundreds of years later it still produced, one of the few consistent
sources of clean water in the entire outpost.
Yet Boss
told everyone it was brackish and foul, a story concocted to keep anyone
from coveting his parcel. Clean, fresh water was a valuable resource
and men had been killed or run off their holding should a stronger man
desire it.
Wyatt worked the pump handle for several minutes but grew winded before it yielded a single drop.
"Here, let me do it awhile," said Rison. He shoved Wyatt aside and began pumping.
Finally,
water gushed from the spout and Wyatt plunged his head and shoulders
under the flow, reveling in the bracing impact of the cool water. Very
few things in life felt as good. Grime sluiced from him to form a
reddish puddle at his feet as the rusty residue washed away. Somewhat
cleaner, he drank deeply from his cupped hands and felt infinitely
better. He shook his wet hair back and wiped his face with his shirt,
belatedly realizing how dirty it was and that he had managed to transfer
some of that dirt back to his face.
His brief
moment of comfort was crippled by the stark knowledge that an hour had
passed. He was an hour closer to whatever misery he was sure Boss was
going to be cooking up. There was no immediate danger, he was confident
of that. But whatever was to happen would occur after the crystals
were safely ensconced in the shop. He had time to come up with some
sort of a plan and he could only think of one that offered any real
possibility of success: he would have to run away.
"Quit lollygagging," said Rison, interrupting his thoughts. "My turn now."
"Sorry." He
paused and the feeling of dread grew stronger. "Boss ain't gonna want
me around after this. He's gonna be worried that I'll let loose his
secret."
Rison
listened, his arms folded across his chest. "You're right. You're dead
weight after he gets those crystals." He spoke in a matter of fact
manner, as if it were of no more importance than a discussion of the
weather or a simple how-do-you-do.. "Now pump that handle, will you."
Still
fretting, Wyatt worked the lever. Water poured from the spout as Rison
pulled the wide brimmed hat from his head to allow a surprising volume
of hair to fall about his shoulders. He tossed the hat and leather vest
to the side and followed Wyatt's example by plunging his head under the
clear, cool flow. Wyatt paid little attention to Rison's gasp of
surprise brought on by the coolness of the water because the thought of
Boss' plotting was eating at him faster than a jackrabbit through a
garden patch.
Running
away. It's not like he hadn't thought about it in the past. But
dreaming about a thing and actually putting it into action were two
different animals. First of all, he was a Speck. Easily identified as
one by the discolored patches of skin on the right side of his neck and
down his shoulder. A Speck on the loose could expect no help or aid
from anybody. With no resources and no way to get supplies, he would be
but one step above helpless in the wilderness beyond the confines of
Cairo. Heading north would lead him through some rough country, at
least that was the talk he'd heard over the years. Too far from Cairo
and he'd face scavengers, both animal and human. Even if he didn't
starve, he would still be hopelessly lost. And south was out of the
question, he couldn't cross the river. The bridge led to the Wastelands
and nobody survived out there other than the Rama. Tales of unnatural,
other worldly predators roaming the lands sent a shiver of fear down
his back. But it had to be done, of that he was sure. Better to die
running through the wilds than to be beaten to death by the stick.
"Hey! Quit
staring off into space and get busy with that pump," said Rison
crouching at the spout waiting for more water.
With a tinge
of guilt Wyatt realized his reverie had interfered with his working of
the lever and had allowed the flow to reduce to little more than a
trickle. He opened his mouth to apologize but then caught sight of
Rison with his damp shirt plastered to his skin. He had expected to see
a scrawny boy, all ribs and bony elbows. Instead, the nearly
transparent fabric revealed a slim, curvaceous figure that was decidedly
not male.
He stood
still as a post, all slack-jawed and speechless. He felt self conscious;
stupid and gawking in an awkward moment of confusion and sudden
arousal.
"You're not a boy!"
"Brilliant
observation, Mr. Obvious," Rison scoffed, lacking even a hint of
embarrassment at her immodest display. She wiped water from her eyes.
"Who said I was anyway?"
*************************
Thanks for reading. And if you'd like more... check out this link.
https://www.wattpad.com/story/43021473-derelict
And if you're a member of wattpad (don't cost a thing) be sure to vote for me!
