Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  “Get rid of him or I will,” the voice urged.

  Waypman stared at Michael’s pallid face. “You okay?”

  Michael clenched his fists. An urge to strangle the mutant overwhelmed him, and before he knew it, he was clawing at the mutant’s face.

  On instinct, Waypman grabbed Michael’s arms and kicked him in the groin.

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” he shouted as Michael collapsed into the mud.

  Michael blinked back tears as black rain splattered onto his mask. “H—help me,” he groaned. “It won’t . . . it won’t leave me alone.”

  “What won’t? What are you talking about?”

  Michael tried to answer, but his throat went dry.

  “All right, come on,” Waypman said, curling his good arm beneath Michael’s shoulder. “We’ll deal with this back at camp.”

  “Kill him,” the voice warned. “He’ll only tell the others of its location.”

  Just leave him alone, Michael pleaded as Waypman helped him back up the hill. He won’t tell anyone where it is.

  “I hope so,” the voice said. “Because if he does, it will be by your hand that he dies.”

  Harold studied the two as they approached.

  Fools, he thought. Absolute fools. Both men stood drenched in elemental oil, their laptane suits peeling and covered in blistered splotches. They will be docked for that, Harold thought, disgusted as the boy and Garfaxman collapsed beside the fire. As will I.

  Both men peeled off their masks and gloves, dropping them at their sides. Harold studied them carefully as they wiped down with alcohol-soaked rags. Parasites were known to linger in the mud, deadly breeds quick to kill if not treated properly. And it only takes one to wipe out a crew, he thought.

  When the two were finished, Harold pointed at the fire, where a haunch of draba meat roasted above the flames. “Eat,” he said. “Nicodemus says we can’t burn the fire much longer. Corialis eyes are about.” The parasitic organisms were one of the more wicked varieties left over from the war. Attracted to warmth much the same as the nagra, they float in the air until inhaled by the host. After gestation ends, acidic enzymes spread throughout the bloodstream and quickly liquefy the host’s circulatory system and organs.

  An ugly way to go, Harold thought. One he had no intention of either witnessing or enduring

  Sitting opposite him, the mutant warmed what passed for a hand above the fire.

  “So what happened?” Harold asked him.

  Waypman sat back and closed his eyes. “It was my fault. I lost him in the fog.”

  Drexil scoffed: “It wasn’t that thick, squiddy.”

  Waypman’s cheeks flushed with anger. “And what concern is it of yours?”

  “We share the pot here,” the gob replied. “Who’s to say you two haven’t gone and found salvage for yourselves. A little secret to keep for a rainy day.”

  “I—I’m sorry,” Michael said. The boy sat just outside the meager firelight, bathed in shadow. “It won’t happen again.”

  “You’re damn right it won’t,” Drexil spat. “You could have cost us the entire day’s coinage.”

  “Shut it, gob!” Waypman shouted. “He’s here, and it’s over. Your precious coinage is safe.”

  Drexil spit into the fire. “Best not let it happen again, boy. That’s all I’m saying.”

  Thunder grumbled above. Seconds later, another torrent of oily rain pounded the camp’s protective membrane.

  Harold stared enviously at the shimmering marvel. Nicodemus had erected it with such ease, muttering the incantation with only the slightest effort. He’s powerful, Harold reminded himself. Too powerful for one on rationed doses.

  He must have a cache somewhere on the Isle.

  It wasn’t unheard of for Chargers to keep secret stashes. After all, work required power. And usually more than their meager doses allow, Harold thought. But only the wealthiest families could afford such luxuries. And with that kind of wealth, there usually came authority. And powerful, deeply rooted lineage.

  Exhausted, Harold lay down on his laptane blanket and stared at his companions. Michael lay in exile on the far side of the fire, buried beneath a mound of damp laptane flesh. Strange, that one, Harold thought. The boy seemed distant since his return, lethargic. Best keep an eye on him. Who knows what he found out there.

  The mutant and gob sat in silence on opposite sides of the fire, both staring at the dancing flames. As for Nicodemus, he lay tucked beneath the wagon, a forlorn black hole heaped in shadow.

  This one is rotten, Harold thought. The Overwatch should screen them better less they want another Menutee on their hands. Since the end of the last turn, Harold had seen an increasing number of Isle men trickling into Cumlety. Rumor had it the boy prince, Prince Pryln, was finally purging the last of the great houses from the Isle. Black House, Coral Dome, Tower Proper, even the once mighty Kalal Clan, all banished to Cumlety under the forced guise of cleansing supervisors.

  Harold wondered how the prince planned to protect the Isle without their power. The volcanic city was under constant assault from rogue elementals drawn in by the eastern slipstream. Without the clans, who would uphold the membrane protecting the city’s outer perimeter? He must have something else tucked up his sleeve, Harold thought. But what?

  “Enough with that flame,” the Charger said. “More than shadows roam these hills.”

  Harold got up and dumped a shovel full of sand onto the fire. As the black coals smoldered and popped, he sat down and wrapped himself in his blanket.

  “Nicodemus,” he finally said. “How many runs is this for you?”

  The Charger glanced at Harold, his eyes narrow as if judging the mystic’s worthiness. “More than the maidens you’ve bedded,” he replied. He sat up then, his bones popping and cracking. “Do you even know where we sit, cast out?”

  Harold swallowed. As he tried to form an answer, the gob ran his blade across his wet stone. “Mud and shit,” Drexil replied.

  The Charger stared at him, his eyes emotionless pits of black. “Men of the highest order tread and bled this soil. And for what?” He shook his head. “So a bunch of fools might prod it like a common whore.”

  “So this is indeed the Dread Hill?” Harold said. “Where Menutee and his Galdrazar held up. The final stand of the Order.”

  “Ah . . . the cast out knows his history,” Nicodemus said. “And do you know what is rumored to lie here?”

  Harold shivered. “Menutee’s atuan. At least, that’s what the tales say.”

  “I’d heard the Brigade destroyed it,” Drexil said. “At Brigman Pass.”

  The wraith chuckled. “So the Isle would have you think. But who would be foolish enough to destroy such a prize?”

  Harold tensed. He’s sizing up our loyalties. Be careful in these next moments. “Too much of anything can be dangerous,” Harold said.

  This time the wraith burst into laughter, pounding the underside of the wagon with his fist. “You are truly a product of the Overwatch, little man!”

  Harold remained silent, staring at the wraith.

  “I have known more than my share of meridium in my long days on this earth,” Nicodemus went on. “But I tell you . . . too much is never enough. Not when such power courses through your veins.”

  So he does come from wealth then, Harold thought. I’d bet he’s of one of the higher orders as well. Perhaps even a direct descendent of Menutee himself! At this, Harold’s stomach turned.

  “It grows late,” Nicodemus said. “Sleep. On the morrow, we turn the crest of Tribat Hill. And if nagra signs ring true, you will need all your wits about you.”

  “You’ve seen more?” Harold asked.

  The Charger chuckled. “Just sleep, fool. Sleep the sleep of the living, for it may be your last chance.” And with that, the wraith rolled over and vanished into shadow.

  The storm broke several calls before dawn.

  Unable to sleep, Michael rolled onto his back and stared at the
star-studded abyss. Did you look upon the very same sight, Father? he wondered as dull gray clouds raced across the sky. He could almost picture his pop lying beside him, hungry, thirsty, covered in filth. Our family has gotten far, eh, Father?

  “Michael . . .”

  His heart jumped. Since the bunker, the voice had grown faint, less frequent. He had even dared to think it was gone. But now . . .

  “Michael . . .”

  He groaned, curling into himself. What’s happening to me?

  Beside him, Waypman rolled and yawned. “Is everything okay?”

  Michael nodded. “Can’t sleep, that’s all.”

  Waypman glanced at the sky. “It’ll be morning soon. I’d try harder.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Michael said.

  “Michael . . .”

  Waypman stared at him, curious. “Are you ever gonna tell me what really happened out there?”

  Don’ tell him, Michael thought. He’ll think you’re mad. Deep down, though, he was beginning to think he was.

  “The breather . . . it just got to me I guess.”

  “That so?”

  Michael nodded. But in his heart, he knew it was something deeper. Something is wrong. Horribly wrong. His world was beginning to spin, vanishing into a single pinprick of complete black. He turned away before the Garfaxman could see the terror in his eyes.

  Waypman stretched his arms behind his head and let out another yawn. “We got a long haul tomorrow, kid. Don’t want any more accidents. If something ain’t right, tell me now.”

  “Everything’s fine.” But even as he spoke, the voice droned on.

  “Michael . . . Michael . . . Michael . . .”

  Waypman nodded. “Get some sleep then, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  But as the voice twisted in his mind like a knife, he knew he wouldn’t.

  Sometime near dawn, Harold sat up, gasping.

  Damn this place, he thought. The nightmares had grown worse since his arrival several months back. But tonight was different, he thought. Like someone was . . . inside me . . . calling me beyond the membrane.

  He glanced at his hourglass. Four calls before sunrise. The still hour.

  Exhausted, he inched closer to the smoldering fire. The coals were warm, but they did little to alleviate his chill. Shivering, he shifted uncomfortably beneath his suit. The flesh felt damp and cold, amplifying his misery.

  An unfortunate necessity, though, he thought. Too many unknowns still roamed the Waste: ice traps, cyanide clouds, firestorms, and acid rain. All designed to seek out human warmth and destroy it.

  Harold remembered the stories he had heard back at the Isle: men stripped of flesh within the bowels of sandstorms, entire cleansing teams devoured by corialis eyes. And then there’s the nagra — perfect killing machines bred specifically for the Waste, beasts that could live without food, water, or air for days at a time. So many lost to them, Harold lamented. And for what?

  Little, if anything, had really been accomplished in the Culver; the land simply moved on, indifferent to their efforts, adapting to the poisons and traps like a river circumventing a rock. The old Culver is dead, Harold thought. And it was never coming back.

  Frustrated, he opened his journal and began thumbing through its ragged pages. So many nights, so many days to fill, he thought as blank page after blank page flickered past. He sometimes wondered whether he would live long enough to reach the end. Doubtfully.

  The gob stirred on the far side of the fire, farting and yawning as he stretched his gnarled limbs. When he finally sat up, he set about rolling a pinch of adreena weed into an old, sun-bleached cornhusk. “Care for a pull?” he asked, cracking a nefarious grin.

  Harold shook his head. “That stuff will kill you, you know.”

  Drexil shrugged. “No worse than this place.”

  A draba bird cackled somewhere in the distance. Harold looked up in time to see its shadow pass before the waxing moon. The bird would be hunting nagra about now, using the last light of the midnight sun to track the beasts’ sand prints.

  May the luck of the gods be with you, Harold thought before he turned back to his journal. He wanted to write of the day’s events, to scribble anything that might help him vent his stress. But I am as blank as this page. He shivered, adjusting his blanket tighter about his body. Best to just sleep now, he told himself.

  Exhausted, he lay back and stared at the wavering membrane. Like a soap bubble, ribbons of color snaked back and forth across its micro-thin surface. You’re deceiving, though, he thought. The fragile-looking skin would stand against the fiercest storm. Not even a fire elemental could penetrate it. Someday I will yield such power, he told himself. Someday.

  Yawning, he glanced back at the wagon. It was too dark to see the Charger, but something felt different, like a veil of oppression had been removed.

  “Nicodemus?” he said. When there was no reply, he got up and knelt down beneath the wagon. The Charger’s empty blanket lay wrinkled and filthy. Beside it, an untouched bowl of cold gruel. Gods be good! Harold thought, horrified.

  “Nicodemus?”

  At the sound of Harold’s voice, the others quickly flung aside their blankets and sat up.

  Drexil spat into the sand. “Relax, boy. I saw him slither off into the dark not more than a call ago.” The gob got up and walked over to the wagon. With a smile, he snatched up the Charger’s bowl and began slopping down its ice-cold contents. “At least he was kind enough to leave his sup,” he said through a mouthful of gruel.

  Cold sweat poured down Harold’s back. “Did he say where he was going?”

  The gob let out a belch. “Yes, and he read me a tale and tucked me beneath my sheets as well.”

  Harold’s face began to pale. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

  “What for?” Drexil spat. “He’s his own man. If he wants to piss or go for a stroll, what business is it of mine?” He withdrew another adreena stick from behind his ear and dropped the empty bowl at his side. “Care for a nip now?” When Harold made no reply, he shrugged and sparked it to life. “Suit yourself.”

  Harold paced nervously before the fire. This will not go well for us if we return without him. Not more than ten days past, a mystic had been hanged for simply returning to the docks with an injured Charger. The Circle still protects its own, even beneath the Overwatch’s thumb.

  “We need him,” Harold said.

  Drexil laughed. “He’ll be fine. Them cloakers know the Waste better than anyone. Hell, he’s probably just scraping out a little personal salvage on the side.”

  “Give him time . . . he’ll return,” Waypman said.

  Michael slowly approached the dead fire, his eyes heavy with sleep. “What’s going on?”

  “The Charger,” Harold said. “He’s gone.”

  Michael kicked aside chunks of burnt wood, uncovering a patch of smoldering coals. “What time is it?”

  “First call before dawn,” Waypman said.

  Harold’s stomach tightened. It felt much earlier. We must act now, he thought as another draba bird squawked in the distance.

  Drexil laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Harold asked.

  “The birds,” the gob replied. “They circle us as if we were carrion. And perhaps some of us are.”

  Harold swallowed. His world was crumbling before his eyes, and now he had to listen to this fool?

  “That Charger was smart to leave anyway,” Drexil went on. “Probably realized where we camped. Look . . ." He slammed his blade into the sand. When he lifted it, a baby nagra the size of Harold’s hand squirmed atop its tip. Drexil watched the creature with cold indifference. “With all this warmth, they’re probably everywhere by now.”

  Horrified, Harold froze. From the corner of his eye, he noticed several lumps shifting beside a nearby rock. Smiling, the gob casually walked over and stomped on the ground. Three baby nagra erupted from the sand and scuttled behind a charred stump.

  “We should lea
ve here,” Waypman said.

  Harold shook his head. “Not without Nicodemus.”

  Drexil took a long drag on his smoke and exhaled toward Harold.

  “Will you put that filth out?” Harold spat, coughing.

  Waypman tossed a handful of sand at Drexil. “Hey! Do what he says.”

  Drexil looked at the smoke as if contemplating it and then took another pull. “If it bothers you so much, squiddy, why don’t you come here and make me?”

  The Garfaxman stood up. He was about to oblige when he noticed a blade glinting at Drexil’s side.

  “So that’s how it is with you, eh?” Waypman said.

  Drexil smiled. “That’s how it is.”

  Michael coughed violently as adreena smoke wafted into his lungs. When he tried to stand, he swayed dizzily atop unsteady feet. “I don’t feel so good,” he mumbled.

  Drexil laughed. “Enjoy it, boy. The first ride is like no other.”

  Michael teetered back and forth before finally collapsing backward onto his blanket.

  Harold watched nervously as the Garfaxman went to Michael’s aid. He had known that high once. And once was enough, he reminded himself. The adreena chemicals worked quick, twisting one’s sense of reality into a euphoric dream.

  Harold’s chest tightened as he remembered his own experience: the black of night melting into dozens of vibrant colors, torchlight twisting and writhing to become purple tentacles of nightmarish proportions. And all that for five calls, he thought. Five calls of endless madness.

  Michael lay staring at the sky, his words dribbling forth nonsensically. “W—what’s . . . happening . . . to . . . me?”

  “Just relax,” Waypman said as he checked the boy’s pulse. “Keep breathing, and let it run its course.”

  “Oh, let him be, squiddy,” the gob spat as he crushed a baby nagra beneath his boot heel. “I wish only a single toque did me so well.”

  Waypman approached the gob, fist and tentacle balling at his sides. “If you don’t shut up, I swear I’m gonna kill ya, gob!”

  Drexil smiled, stubbing the end of his smoke against his bloody boot. “I’ll dance whenever you say, fish man.”