Like right now. Crouched in the shade of a thorn bush, still as a boy carved from stone, he watched and waited for his food to poke its head out to be snared. He’d been there for a long time now—the sun was almost at midday—and was getting kind of angry and sad (but mostly hungry) when suddenly a hopper’s head and upper body emerged from the hole. Quick as a snake, the Kid jerked on his snare, a piece of shoestring, and the animal was caught. Jerking like it had been electrified, it thrashed and struggled, but he was quickly on it with a rock and the deed was soon done and he had a nice fat hopper to eat. With skilled hands (he’d learned early on not to eat the insides, the gloopy, smelly parts that made you sick), he tore open the animal’s belly, reached in, scooped out all of the guts, and flung them aside. Then he tore off the skin, which came away from the body like a very tight glove, all the way over the head and long ears, and laid it aside for future use. Finally, stomach growling, he took up the hopper and ate, tearing great chunks of bloody meat from the carcass.
As he ate, he eyed the landscape warily, his practiced eye noticing everything that moved, but there was no sign of danger, and he relaxed a little and savored the tangy, sharp flavor of the raw flesh. Sometimes life wasn’t so bad.
When he’d eaten all he could, he belched loudly, wiped his bloody hands in the dirt (and then on some leaves and then on his hopper-skin robe), took up the new pelt, and headed for Home. Anyone watching would perhaps have noticed his passing, but they would have had to be watching closely and, had they spotted him, they likely would have thought him an animal.
His home was what anyone else would have called a hole, a cavity he’d found in the side of a cliff that measured maybe four feet wide and ten feet deep. It smelled terribly, but to the Kid, with no reference points on issues like hygiene, it had a familiar musk, a safe smell that he trusted. It was a good spot, better than the old log he’d slept in for a long time, mainly because it was close to water; the Stream, the source of all things aqueous and a vital lifeline, was just a short walk away.
Crawling into the space, his knees saved from the jagged rock by layers of hopper skins, he tossed what was left of his lunch to one side, had a long drink from an ancient Styrofoam cup of brown water, and then lay down for a rest. Yes, he’d earned it. And he still had half a hopper for later! Sighing deeply, he smiled, a strange, grimacing sort of gesture, lay back, and pondered a few of life’s enigmas, like the wire trees and the flat black lands and what they might mean.
Chapter Six
It’s never easy when your elder loved one reaches that time in life when they require full-time care. And the expense is enough to make your head spin! But not anymore, not with Budgit Eldercare! Thanks to amazing Vitatube technology developed by NASA for Operation Mars, your loved one will live out their remaining days in comfort and safety, without all of the annoying aches and pains of old age! And for a fraction of the expense of “traditional” nursing homes! Enroll your senior in Budgit Eldercare today and start saving!
According to Justin’s wristwatch, it was exactly 2:34 AM when he was jarred from a deep sleep by Erin Swails. Groggy and befuddled, he looked around, still almost smelling the antiseptic and blood from his dreams, and then reality crashed in on him and he jerked to full consciousness.
“What’s wrong?” he demanded. “What’s happening?”
“Sorry to have to wake you,” said Swails, whispering so as to not wake up the others, bedded down nearby. “But there’s something I think you’d better listen to.”
“What? Listen? To what? Something on the waves?”
“Oh yeah,” said Swails. “Just come with me.”
Grumbling, feeling thick and disoriented, he followed Swails to the Com center, where she sat at her station and, nodding at the computer, turned a nearby knob. This produced the sounds of a conversation, probably on old-fashioned land lines, judging from the static, between what sounded like two people. At first both voices seemed foreign to him, but after a few minutes Justin realized that one of the speakers was none other than their erstwhile Good Samaritan, the Mohawk-sporting Sharp. What was more, he didn’t particularly like what either party had to say:
“And I says,” one voice—the unknown party—was saying, “the stupid-ass Redclaws don’t know what the fuck they’re doin’ without me around! Why din’t ya jus’ blast ‘em? Set ‘em on fuckin’ fire!”
“It’s Bloodclaws, assfuck,” said Sharp, the other voice. “Blood. Claws. Gots it? And we ain’t stoopid, neither. We jus’ don’t like gettin’ the Sick, hey? Y’all can’t spend Credits when yer takin’ a dust nap, can ya? An’ besides, what good would thatta done? Then nobody gets their gear, hey?”
“They’re sick!” said the other voice emphatically. “They needs to be teened and burnt out! Ya want that shit floatin’ around, gettin’ everybody sick?”
“Hey, look-a-here,” said Sharp. “You mighta been in charge, but you ain’t no more, hey? You’s laid up there in Sidetown since the crash an’ now I says what’s what. Them whitecoats ain’t hurtin’ nobody, an’ they ain’t goin’ nowheres. Way I figure it, we just keep our yappers tight about the whole thing and just wait, hey? Sooner or later, they’ll either die of that New Sick they got or they’ll run outta food and starverate. And then we jus’ walk right up and takes alla they shit. Easy, hey?”
“Huh,” said the other voice grudgingly. “Maybe you right. But what if someone finds out? The Church, or them crazy Demon fuckers from down south? And what if the whitecoats find one’a the stashes? Ain’t there one right close to ‘em?”
“Yeah,” said Sharp, “but they’s outstaters. They ain’t smart enough to find it. Expecially ‘cause they don’t even know it’s there! Heh heh! And don’t worry: Nobody’s gonna talk. Not to the Brothers or nobody else. Trus’ me.”
“Shit,” said the other. There was a pause, then: “OK, fine. Don’t burn ‘em out. But will ya do one fuckin’ thing for me? Huh? Just keep an eye on ‘em, OK? Don’t let ‘em get away. Got it?”
“I won’t fuckin’ let ‘em get away,” said Sharp crossly. “I already gots somebody watchin’, hey? If they squat and strain, I’ll fuckin’ hear about it.”
“Good,” said the other. “Well, later, dude.”
“Later,” said Sharp, and the connection ceased.
Justin blinked and looked at Swails.
“That was him, yes?” he asked. “Sharp?”
“Sounded like it to me,” shrugged Swails.
“And he was speaking of us?”
“Pretty sure…”
“Hmm,” said Justin, scratching the stubble on his chin. “And they’re watching us, as they intend to wait us out. Until we starve.”
“Or die of the New Sick,” pointed out Swails. “Which isn’t too likely, considering there’s no such thing.”