An Old Friend

A gathering of likely folk brings comfort and peace to thegroups hungry hearts.

The warm sun hovered above the distant rolling hills. An orange light gleamed off the sand and cut off into hues of dark navy blue shadows. The riders looked like old heroes returning from a daylight that had lasted a thousand years. Their coats were caked with sand and white salts, and their bellies were hollow as casks. One by one they roared down what was left of the long road they had started upon so much earlier in the day.

            Flynn took these last few minutes to reminisce about the trip. He always liked the cool and relaxing feel of following the path most travelled. There were no worries, and outposts aplenty. The new highway was not barren, just scarcely populated. You were bound to catch a few glimpses on your way through, but given the dwindling supplies in the Fringe these people were less than hospitable. The triumphant town of Westingly was the only place this far west to find a warm bed and an even warmer meal.

            Around lunchtime Flynn had begun to horse around. Hours on the road always made him and Parker restless and made foolishness seem like a great idea even if it wasn’t. This would include scaling hills and hazardous trails that flow alongside the road until Biggs took notice. This could take anywhere from a few minutes to an entire hour if you were smart. Then there was the classic “bone swipe”. When one of the boys spotted a high rising bone, perhaps a sea-beasts ribcage, they would try and pluck it up from the salt as they roared past. Usually this would end in a loose grip and a sad face, but every so often one of them would yank a bone out of the ground. In fact, once Parker had pulled a rib so long it didn’t even come out of the ground, it just kept coming like a clown’s handkerchief. He let go in about a second, fearing what kind of chaos could unravel if a giant bone was bouncing around their back tires. Flynn never did count it as a win because of that. Maybe it was because bone-swipe was the only game he could win, he could never make the same long jumps and arcing tricks that Parker was so skilled at.

            Small fences began to crop up along the path, two at first, one on either side. Then another in the distance, each one surrounding long fields of wheat. Some lettuce could also be seen, and the occasional withered fruit tree. Most food was shipped in on gas guzzling vehicles. The world hadn’t changed much in that regard, even this far ahead. Though there was one key difference; this land was a prosperous one. There was no real reason for it aside from the production of natural and healthy foods, an endless supply of fertilizer and bonemeal for sale, and easy extraction of natural gasses once forbidden to man. From what Flynn heard of the civilized economy to the east, he had judged that these were people who traded in possessions not in value.

 

            The time for daydreaming was coming to a close. The warmth of the sun was fading away, and the humidity of the waste carrying winds had subsided long ago taking its smell with it. All that was left was to make their way to the center of town. Westingly Plaza, it was a place of tall shackle roofed houses and polished stone walkways. Lamps hung with black cords that draped across the narrow roads. The roads weren't built for much traffic except the occasional visitor, or the more common criminal on the run. A tavern sat on the edge of the plaza, its name was the Thirsty Trout. It stood the tallest of all the homes, and was unique in it was a very fine structure. Instead of being composed of logs and stones like the other homes, it was a polished wood panel hotel. The sign hung from a long metal chain and depicted a fish skull with a hanging tongue. A wide mug of frothy ale poured relentlessly into the dead fish’s mouth. In the very center of town sat the O’Halloran General Goods and Supply store. It was made of long Birchwood planks and was decorated outside with small, carefully treated gardens. It was a homey kind of place, and was easily noticeable due to a large sign with the name O’Halloran in bright fluorescent lights. A sparkling window gave way to a warm interior, a small dining area and rows of trinkets twinkled among candle light. This is the town where they had grown up for the most part, and it would always feel like home. Flynn wondered if the others ever breathed the same sigh of relief as they saw its tall roofs and shiny sidewalks.

             Two men in ragged jeans and sweaty old work shirts hung out in front of the Thirsty Trout as the party road into a small corral in the Plaza. They were lifelong residents and Flynn knew their faces well. One of them was a smoker and his body had paid the toll of lifelong use. The other was a young, and very slender man with denim overalls. He was the son of an old rancher here and had moved in the early days of what many could only remember as a massive pilgrimage away from a crumbling empire.

            “Biggs you ole’ lout, you look a pint thinner, you do!” Shouted one of the men, he was stouter than the other and was smoking a long white cigarette.

            “A week in the Fringe with nothing to drink but your own piss’ll do that to ye, Tim”

            “You’re kidding, I didn't think you could still piss your member’s so dry, best be getting yourself a plate over at O’Halloran’s eh?”

            “You know I’d rather be stuffing my face than talking to you two dandies. Might be I’ll do just that.”

            Flynn never understood why the older men badgered one another like wolves over a carcass each time they came home. He knew it was in good fun, but there was something about their sense of humor he could never understand or properly replicate.

            Parker chained his bike in a hurry. His temper had grown hot as his hunger grew and began to consume him. Upon looking about Flynn had noticed that they were all looking like a pack of ravenous dogs. Each one was so wet and anxious for their meal, pushing one another about and trying to force the others closer to the diner with passive-aggressive body language. It would have been funny if Flynn wasn't agonizingly hungry from the long trip. It didn't help that they could all smell the smoke of a kitchen filled with hot stew and fresh, crisp bread.

            “I don’t need to be saying this, but first stop is O’Halloran’s. You all show some respect while we’re here or you’re sleeping with the dogs, you hear?” grunted Biggs. This was all part of the before supper ritual where they would be reminded not to pig out and embarrass themselves. Obviously this was in vein, but Biggs came from a life of dignity and he couldn't help but try.

            They crossed the road to the store under the dim street light. The porch of the store was a mix of stone blocks and wooden railing. One by one they climbed the wide steps until they heard the welcoming shuffle of feet behind the door. A window in the door revealed an old wrinkled face with peering eyes. The man took one look at them and brightened in an instant, his wrinkles turning to dimples before their very eyes.

            The red wooden door swung open as a short man with long dark graying hair and a full beard welcomed them in. This was Chance O’Halloran, a kind old fellow who inherited the store from his father Jackson years before. He wore a starched plaid shirt of polyester and dark worn jeans. His feet fit nicely into a large pair of dark brown leather boots, and his pants were suspended by long felt straps fastened on by golden buttons. He shuffled backwards as he fit the door with a stopper, letting the hot air of the diner flow out to greet them.

            “Billy my boy it’s been too long! And look at you kids, how long have you been gone now? Was it two weeks? Three? You all must be starved, come, come we’ll talk later!” He cried in a warm and aristocratic voice. His face was the image of calm, and his movements never fell short. Of all the men in Westingly he had the most manners and the biggest heart. Without his support they wouldn't have had such a peaceful life, or been half as safe.

            “Indeed it’s been some time, we had hoped to find a good wreck. It’s been some time since we've made a profit from any remains out here, may be that the plains are finally drying up.” Biggs huffed, trying to hold his appetite. “I’m going to have to ask this one favor of you Chance, if it’s not too much to ask?”

            “Enough chivalry old friend, our wares are always open to you. You've no idea how much joy the young ones give to my dear Valerie. She’d have my head if I ever held a one of you in debt.” He said with a blink and a smile. “Speaking of which, where’s she off to? Go on, sit, I’ll make sure word reaches her of our company.”

            Chance stopped blinking in amazement of his visitors and with a short jump turned to begin preparing. Always the gracious host, and ever the caring godfather he would never cease to show his relief at seeing them again. With such a harsh world to live in it was a wonder good souls like his prevailed.

            He turned quickly before leaving the room, “She is going to be so happy, I’ll be but a moment.”

            Flynn looked around the store, admiring the posters pinned to the walls. A corkboard of notices and flyers hung to the right of the door, in front of it a cabinet with a fresh pot of warm coffee sitting in a carafe. Left of the door was a bar-like cashier’s desk with a line of diner style stools, a few napkin holders made of tin and a hanging ceiling fan above. Bottles and jars lined a couple shelves behind the counter, each one carefully dusted yet stained with salt. A lonely clock sat above the back door telling him that it was 8pm.

            The far wall of the store was lined with jackets of unique make and appearance. They were tailored for use in the plains, light and tight. No dust or rain got in, and the sun had less chance of causing heat-stroke under it’s light reflective surface. Flynn and his friends were sometimes picky what they wore, even if the jackets were better, they were expensive and looked kind of repulsive. It was hard enough being smaller than everyone else, looking dumb didn’t need to be added to the list. In front of the jackets were loose tools. They were in cases or wrapped in plastic, they simply sat on metal and wooden shelves that were wiped down every couple days to keep a nice earthy shine.

            Chance came stammering back into the room, leading a slightly aged woman with straight brown hair and a chiseled jaw behind him. She wore a wool shirt and jeans much like Chances, and smiled almost embarrassingly at them as she walked in.

            “Oh I had no idea you were all coming back so early! It’s so nice to see you all again, gosh are you ever getting old… I mean to say you've grown, how you've grown. It’s such a pleasure to have company!”

            “It’s our pleasure Val, you and Chance have always been our greatest friends. It would be an honest treat to dine with you two tonight if you can afford, all day they've been yammering about your delicious buttermilk bread and Chance’s venison stew.” said Biggs in his most surprisingly polite manner.

            “You always did love that bread, I've got some on the racks coolin’ off right now as a matter of fact. You all just sit down. We’ll talk over a tall glass of spiced ale, unless you’d prefer some cider, we've hardly had a chance to have any guests in a fortnight! Oh boy, I don’t even remember where Chance hid the place mats, do you mind taking a seat? We’re so sorry about this"“

            Valerie and Chance became autonomous from the group as they peered into old oak chests and tall spruce cabinets searching high and low for plates, steins, cutlery and linens. The group, knowing the house as their own in times long past, invited themselves into the next room. It was a cozy area meant for gatherings, meals, and the occasional game of cards after hours. A long oak table sat on barrel-like legs carved from logs. It had about ten seats, the closest edged near to a glass cabinet of plates and ornaments. Across from them was a small lined window with a tiny planter along the rim.

             In no time the table was being set, the younger members of the party rose to help lay the table cloth and set the plates out for each of them. A long tray of thick warm butter dropped into the center of the table, two loaves of golden brown buttermilk bread resting beside it. A thick knife rested in between the loaves and soon became the manner of a heated debate. Parker believed that Jacob’s hands were too dirty to cut the bread, while Jacob accused Parker of being unable to cut a straight line, or even cut for that matter. The debate ended up with Flynn having to cut everyone a slice and the other two simmering off and washing their hands. He was always the deal breaker, but at least he got to sink his teeth into the warm fluffy bread first. Butter dripped down his teeth and soaked into the mushy bread as he gulped it down. It then occurred to him that he was parched and his throat began to constrict and scratch as it swallowed and loosened back up.

            In no time Chance wheeled a small metal cart of stainless steel toward the table. On it were 8 steins, a barrel of ale, a jar of mixed spices, and several large trays of warm stew and cool, watery vegetables. Salt and pepper coated each dish while ketchup mustard and a tub of mayonnaise rested alongside the trays. If ever there was a host in the wastes it was the O’Hallorans.

            “Luckily we've got a couple boxes of tomatoes and carrots in the fridge this week, so we were able to dice them up and garnish them with a bit of oil and parsley. It should go great with a slice of bread and a bowl of stew, if you’d like we've got some potatoes frying up in a vat in the kitchen, don’t worry it’s hardly costing us. Really, we get this stuff every week it’s no trouble, we reap what we sow here in Westingly! Dig in, drink deep, you all deserve it after such a long journey.”

            Val circled the table laying down wide bowls of hot brown stew into each of their place mats. Each bowl had a large fluffy dumpling sitting in the center that was dusted with paprika and garlic powder. Next she handed out a tall stein to each seat, and got Jacob to help pour out either ale or cider depending on what they preferred. She was sweet like that. Biggs sat to the far right, and he asked for ale. Val carefully mixed in a dash of cinnamon and saffron into the ale to give it kick and sweetness. Next to Biggs sat Jacob, who chose the same only with less enthusiasm. Beside him sat Sandra who chose yet again the same. In fact the only ones who picked a cup of cider were Lani and Parker who were very peculiar and to themselves to begin with. Despite Sandra foolishly prodding, teasing, and even embarrassing them they held their opinions and sucked the frothy apple cider down with sluggish eyes and smacking lips. “Be that way than,” She said “More for me and Flinty-Poo anyway, Sparky.” Her jokes fell short though, as everyone was too busy splashing stew about in their mouths. Chunks of celery and venison floated in the brown murk, circling around the dumplings on a current caused by splashing spoons.

            Next came the crispy potatoes. They sat piled high in a long pan, sour cream and green onions were plopped on top in gracious scoops. Each of them crunched a spoon full as soon as they reached their stew filled plates. Potatoes were Flynn’s favorite as boring as that made him feel. There was something about that sugary mushiness and salty crisp outside that made him wild.

            Hardly a soul had noticed Val and Chance joining them. “My you are a hungry bunch! How you can manage out there I’ll never know. Now, how was it? Did your Papa treat you well? He isn't hogging all the flask all to himself again is he?” asked Chance, dipping a slice of bread in his stew.

            “He’s actually been quite liberal with the flask as of late, than again it was due time for a celebration.” slipped in Parker, in his usual knowledgeable tone.

            “That’s true, Flynn came back to us with a very interesting story, isn't that right?” coughed Biggs.

            “Is that so? What sort of story would that be? Which farmer caught you with one of his girls? Was it Thatcher out by the drop-off? Don’t tell me, it was that hooligan Carney by the southern road. You know he still owes me a solid steel plow, keeps saying his son needs it for the harvest. The harvest ended a week ago, and don’t think I don’t know it"

            “It wasn't like that Uncle,” butted in Flynn “ We've been in the Fringe for days, you won’t believe what happened.”

            “I wasn't aware a thing happened in the Fringe at all” joked Val with a warm smile. If Flynn could remember right everyone was on their second stein full.

            “I thought the same thing, until one day would you know it; a man came riding towards me. No sign, no plates, no flag, I had no idea who he could be. So here I am, thinking I should pull my gun out and live to see another day, scared as can be, and what did I do?”

            He let this one hang in the air. “I reached my hand out and asked him to stop.”

            “It’s true, the lad sold the poor sot an old leather belt for a right operational landmine. Can you believe it? The man traded a bomb for something to keep your trousers up. I couldn't believe my ears.” chuckled Biggs.

            A wise look flashed across Chance’s face. He looked over to Valerie who was smiling cheerily at the whole tale. “Dear, didn't we have a visitor a couple days ago passing through? Towards the Fringe I believe, didn't talk much. Asked for work, didn't find any.”

            “That man was just so ordinary. It’s like he didn't even exist, just wanted to know where he could make a dollar, maybe hide out for a spell.” mused Val.

            “It’s true, long dark hair he had, and rode a bike. Had a real unkempt beard too, nasty little thing. You know Flynn this fellow never seemed the dangerous type, it’s a surprise he went along carrying a bag o’ bombs. He could have burnt us down if he wanted.”

            “Goodness… and you said you got a good look at him? Talked and such?” asked Val.

            “Yeah, he had a sort of French accent, same hair as you said too. You think he was pulling my leg?”

            “Son I think this man is the sort we want nothing to do with, we keep to ourselves out here and don’t need arms dealers tracking the feds and the ‘fugees into our land looking for illegal weapons like that. We’re not going to stay independent if they know where we’re hiding. Could be he’s pulling all our legs and getting ready to tie ‘em up.”

            “We don’t know that,” blurted Sandra, “He could be a nice man, just looking for some work like he said. And what if he was pulling your leg Flynn? Can you blame him for wanting to stay private? Isn’t that what we all want too?”

            She had a point. They all took a few last bites and cooled off. It wasn’t a time for worrying, and their bellies were far from filled. Next came dessert; there were strawberry tarts and a wide syrupy apple pie made from fresh honey crisp apples. Cream was splashed atop the pastries as each of them was given a plate. Flynn, Sandra, Jacob and Biggs had a cup of coffee with a spoon of milk and brown sugar. It was a bold blend grown in an arid region of the old coast somewhere along the coasts of Cuba. Their eyes lit up as the brew filled the room with an invigorating scent.

            Lani picked at the pie nervously. She felt stuffed and couldn’t tell if it would be rude to withhold from the dessert. While Flynn was dashing about the plains, and Biggs was out foraging for food she would always be stuck in her tent or kicking dust with Sandra. She didn’t have the appetite or the urge to ravenously purge the pie of its syrupy guts. Val was first to notice, “Child are you full? What do you say about a cup of tea to settle your stomach?”

            “Oh Aunty I’d appreciate that very much. It’s delicious really, I feel foolish for not indulging” she admitted. Her face was maybe a bit red as she was not used to speaking in front of the group so personally.

            “Such manners! You’ll make a fine lady, don’t worry about finishing, I’m sure you’re friends here will gladly help you.” Val joked, shuffling to the kitchen to brew a cup.

            Jacob turned to Parker as they both started for Lani’s piece of pie. The poor girl shuffled uncomfortably as a struggle engulfed her personal space and that of her dessert.

            “If you get any bigger you’ll have to wear a tent for trousers! If anything I rightfully deserve this here pie.” stated Parker defiantly.

            “Can it, Spark-Plug. Why don’t you plug your gut with some more cider, you baby?” retorted Jacob without mercy.

            “You both flip a coin before I flip your heads into a bucket of piss, you’re giving us all a headache!” grunted Biggs as he leaned back in his chair.

            Jacob stood up and stretched. He procured a shiny silver dollar he traded a remote control car for at an old market in the south. As always he would rub it’s textured surface before flipping it.

            “Heads.” He snapped. Knowing that Parker was tails by default he didn’t wait for him to say ‘tails’. He knew he would anyway but that didn’t make it any more obvious.

            As Flynn sucked down another frothy mouthful of ale he glimpsed the coin glimmering and twirling through the air. So much hope in both their eyes was wasted on such a thin thread of chance, he thought. Why they ever put their stock in a gamble instead of a competition of skill he had no clue.

            It landed in his soft hands when he slapped it onto the back of his left palm. The coin screamed ‘heads’ as Jacob grinned.

            “Good game, chum, hope you don’t mind miss,” he laughed. The pie slid over to his seat. Parker once again was defeated. Something seemed different this time, like he was almost relieved. He didn’t even want the pie so much as he wanted to keep it from Jacob. It could be he realized this as it gleamed through the air. The boy sat back in his seat and let the food sink deep and began to let his thoughts wander.

            Sandra was easily being bored with all this talk of strangers and pie gambling, so she turned to the sleepy Chance and asked “Uncle, you know what would liven up this bunch right quick?”

            “I don’t reckon I know anything of the sort.” replied Chance with a smirk.

            She stuck her tongue at him and raspberried, “Why don’t you tell us the story of general Westingly again? I always loved it…”

            “Now there is a tale if I ever heard one,” Chance bellowed “Where to start!”

            Everyone stopped what they were doing. The lights seemed to dim and the windows seemed to close. All the world slipped into the ethereal realms of their subconscious as the story opened up before them like a film reel.

            “Long ago in a time before people like you and me there lived a great law man by the name of Simon Westingly. It’s said he lead a battalion of the most foolhardy chaps you’d ever hope to meet. There was Laughing Lee, Tom the Cherub, and even Suzy the Striper! This lot would fly in on a hellion class helicopter"the kind with two giant blades on either side. Wherever they went they broke up the worst of fights. They saved orphans like you from slave camps, and brang them to nice homes like this. Sometimes they’d put out fires and even help Gran shovel her driveway if there was no work around.

            Thing is that work started going south real quick about a hundred years ago. It was a time of what we call today the Imperial Resurgence. Before then the commonwealth was just a peaceful organization, it was voluntary, and it was for the economic betterment of all its members in the name of peace. It was in all respects the remains of a once great and thriving empire. When the fuel-crisis hit its climax, however… The world became a dark place for law men. The law became a confusing subject for most as it was every man for himself. Some folks couldn’t handle that though, and instead of die alone they pleaded that the empire return and take them in again! Can you believe it? After peacefully freeing themselves, the world walked back into shackles because the fuel was too sparse. In all truth though, these people were hurting. Maybe it was the right thing to do, because it didn’t take much convincing for the new Ministry of the Presidency to strongly push the Resurgence. And what men the ministers are, with their flags and large offices. The Ministry of the Presidency wasn’t satisfied with these few colonies though. They pushed harder until the military was bought out and ordered to invade all who resisted. Most didn’t, they had no fuel for their planes, they had no money for their guns, and they were starving. It was the most pathetic campaign you could ever hope to see.

            Old Westingly though, he got out of there. The general watched as his fellow countrymen shot men and women in the streets. He saw countries burned to ash for giving themselves up. He fled to the only place that wasn’t being shot to hell, and that was right here. What gets me every time is that he came when the place was still muddy and wet! There he was living on a stilt home with an air boat docked in his shanty. Old Westingly waited there for a long time until anyone ever found him. He’d travel for food every so often, but always made a point to return. Some say he was waiting for his daughter, or that maybe he had a wife too. The poor sot must have waited his whole life, because that shack fell down not 20 years ago. A town built around it of like-minded individuals who were tired of the imperial crosses and blaring anthems. People who wanted to step away from the crowded havoc, to live without the sins of the megalomaniacs out in their bubble-gum cities. That’s us, children. We’re here because of men and women like him. They were people of a better time that got pushed through hell and back and then forced to make a decision.”

            Chance lit a small cigar and relaxed his lungs. His eyes were hanging low and hardly open by now. It was no secret around Westingly that Chance had a strong love for the history and drama of the town. When the politics of the old world crumbled and the new Imperial Resurgence sought to lay order to the confused masses, he was but a child. In a way this was his way of staying young and remembering a time when both he and the world were free.

            “Dear, I hate to spoil the mood but I really must get to bed,” said Val, yawning quietly. “It’s so late, we’d best lock up for the night.”

            “I suppose it’s getting to be past midnight, will you all be staying the night? Come, we’ve a few rooms upstairs fit for guests. One of you may want to rest in the shed though, unless you don’t mind sharing a bed. I’m sure anything is better than those old cots you lug around eh?” chattered Chance in his usual cheery tone. He hobbled off his seat and made for the stairs. There was another story of bedrooms, a rest room and some storage for dry goods. The hallway was covered in peeling old wall paper but was sturdy and solid.

            “You go on, lad. I’m going to step outside for a puff, I’ll be back in a short while.” Biggs muttered. He made for the door and fitted himself in his boots and coat. A quick comb through his hair and a rinse of his hands and he was ready to go when Jacob approached him.

            “I’ll come with you, I won’t be tired for another hour at least.” He stated bluntly.

            “No. You need your rest, enjoy it while it lasts, boy.” said Biggs firmly. Something lingered beneath the words that made Jacob uneasy.

            “I’m not a boy. What’s wrong with staying up"

            “I said no. Let’s leave it at that.”

            With that Biggs swung the door open and left him grimacing in the storefront. He couldn't risk his life; he wasn't sure what he’d find when he left the store. Just for good measure he lit his pipe and stood there for a time. It was important to be quiet and to leave no traces of this.

            There was no way to be sure that he wasn't crazy. It had been years since it had all began and it was a wonder his brain still worked the same ways in which it did then. Years of being a father in this harsh new land hadn't withered him away completely but they had changed him. What was once a man had become anew. Culture and livelihood felt different here, and it required adaptation. In the early days he held a gun close at all times. He felt on edge within the line of sight of even the most humble of strangers. Changing from a meek and pale westerner into a gruff master of the wastes was more an mutation than a decision. Yet still under the countless layers of conditioning and growth there was the inner frame of his youthful self. Its bright blue eyes peered at the stars with an all knowing suspicion. Each sign had become too obvious to ignore.

            In a few minutes he was finished with the old bone pipe. The last ring of smoke drifted into the night sky which glimmered with raging suns a million light-years away. He took a quick note of the sky and how foggy it was tonight. It was clear and the moonlight gave him a crisp view of the surrounding landscape. There were few trees and the hills were mostly barren of anything other than rocks and twigs. This would take longer than he thought.

            As he climbed down the stairs to the porch he noticed a nook in the hills. Where during daylight it looked like one large climb it now clearly appeared to be two separate bodies. Dividing them was a rock pile, a large boulder sat atop the gap. It seemed too obvious, but he kept a note of it. Turning around he checked behind the store. In the distance he could make out some flatland with a few potholes. None were deep enough for more than a dog to burrow into.

            The road into town had many farms surrounding it. The thought that one could be used as cover crossed his mind. It too had a certain bland simplicity to it. Whoever would choose it as a hiding spot would have to deal with the inhabitants, and cattle were quick to lose their temper and cause a ruckus. It was better to stay someplace barren.

            That’s when he noticed the moon hovering above a short peak. Something was strange about this peak as he looked closer. His old eyes squinted at the top of the tall dusty tip. There it was, a shadow covered the edge and made the hill look smaller than it truly was. There was a long slope of land one could crawl onto from the back of the hill without being seen at night. He set off toward the bright full moon.

            As he walked across town he saw a few old faces. He tried not to engage them in conversation lest his thoughts drift. Some kind words helped to make him look more casual than curious though. It was good cover, but he needed to be quick. There was no telling what could happen if he didn’t hurry.

            He took an alleyway past the Thirsty Trout and hardly noticed the bellowing laughs and screams from within. Warm yellow light filled the alleyway and lit his path, but also made him appear clear as day. What were they thinking leading him on this hunt?

            He was out of town within a few minutes, huffing and puffing as his tired body waded through the salty land outside the small town. He had reached the base of the hill now. Stopping to catch his breath gave him time to plan the climb. There were no clear footprints to follow so he decided to walk at an angle so as to bypass some of the stress of climbing straight against the decline. It was almost time. His feet crunched against the gravel as he scraped his way up the slope.

            Crossing into the shadows felt more dubious than he thought it would. Here on the dark side of the hill he began to search. It was quiet but not naturally. It was all part of some plan he hadn’t expected. Step by step through the rocky sand drifts he ventured deeper into the silent blackness. Figures dashed through his periphery like missiles of light. Wits were few and far between in the lonely corners of the wastes.

            Rocks were jutting out of the ground on the upward side of the hill. One was parallel with the ground, another at an angle. In a way it formed a vertical lean-to, a nice shelter if one could tolerate utter discomfort. His nose growled with congestion as the sand blew in the wind and threatened to blur his vision.

            Just then a man with long brown hair, dark eyebrows and a tuft of beard hair appeared from the black. Across his chest was an old leather belt with a silver buckle. His green eyes were filled with a raw bewilderment. As he stepped into the beaming moonlight Biggs fumbled for his pistol.

            “Don’t.” said the man who had already drawn a shining steel submachine gun. It was small, but deadly, and Biggs could tell there was no intent to use it. “Heavens, it’s really you.”

            “Aye you found me lad, and I found you.”

Author's Note

This is certainly a dense chapter. The rising action slows immensely but will pick up soon, it's very important to develop the story as according to it's deeper meanings. Aside from that, enjoy!