Sand and dust, the faded spotlight of the sun, and not a blade of grass in sight. For days.
They had one hell of a black streak lately, Harding thought. Lost Silver to the attack on the Bunker. Foolish attack, they were lucky to get away at all! Didn’t get to bury the fella even. No time for that when hiding from pursuit in the abandoned mines for days. Like rats. A few days without the sun were a pleasure at least. It didn’t last, the food ran out quickly and they had to make a run for it across the steppe. Lost Bradley, the one with the funny nose. Harding didn’t miss this one, but it still was a loss to the band. Bradley was a good axe, even though he was an insufferable dickhead. In such a streak, a good axe was worth more than a warm personality.
Now there were just six of them. Food was running out, but water was more of a concern: they were counting sips they drank. But there was hope: they were onto something at last. Some vagabonds, maybe thirty people. They had cattle with them, and that meant food. Good thing Eyes spotted the tracks, Harding thought, otherwise, they would have been done for. Eyes is one useful fella.
Now they huddled under the concrete debris of a building, hiding from the sun in the dwindling shadows, waiting for Eyes’ signal. He was up on top of some column with his ocular. Harding ground his rebar spear with the sharpening stone. Some preparation always felt better than nothing before a fight. He glanced into the shadows nearby and saw others doing their own rituals. The huge cupboard of a man, Flower, sat staring blankly at the ground. Always gets sad and melancholic before fights. On the other hand, Flower was always sad and melancholic, Harding thought. Ricky was checking the straps of his chest plate, nervous and jittery as usual. Seth and Melbourne were babbling some nonsense in half voices, Harding couldn’t make out the words, but probably heard them a hundred times. And that was that, six against thirty. Thirty and some cows, hopefully. It was a stupid gamble, but they ran out of options.
- Ready, fellas! - Eyes called.
They got up, cleaned their pants of sand and dust. Harding groaned and heard his knees click. Finally, they assembled at the column, upon which Eyes was seated.
- They just went over that hill. We start running now and they won’t notice for a while. That’s our chance. They are on foot, they won’t get away.
- How many? - Flower said in croaky bass.
- Fuck me if I know, I only saw a cloud of dust.
There was a pause. It didn’t matter how many there were anyway. Finally, Eyes broke the silence:
- Drink your water, fellas. We either get more now, or we stay in that desert.
They drank their water. Harding thought he had more left. Funny thing, the less water he had, the better it tasted. After he was done with his flask, he noticed that Melbourne was still sucking onto his. The damn bastard had more water! How could it be?
But then Harding shook his head and ran for the hill, towards the fight It does not matter if the bastard had more water, he will be dead as well if they don’t get more. The folk were starting to run after him, clouds of dust behind.
Running with a spear was annoying, but he had plenty of experience. He held it by the center, low in a bent arm, parallel to the ground. This way the enemy wouldn’t see the tip poking above the hill. The goddamn sun was drilling his forehead, burning through the cloth wraps and the helmet. Should have approached from the sun side, not running straight into the cursed sun! Not like they had time for maneuvering. They were going up the hill now, and soon Harding’s lungs started aching. His knees too. Running in armor was annoying, but he had way too much experience.
They saw the cloud of dust above the hill. And then silhouettes in front of it. They were in a hurry. There was a cry, then more shouting. Harding couldn’t make out what the silhouettes were doing, as the hot air twisted and danced inbetween. But there for sure weren't thirty of them. Some reassurance, alright, Harding thought. And then he felt the tickling feeling of fear and some excitement with it. That’s when he finally realized they are going to fight, and he might get hurt, and he might die. His hands started trembling slightly, and his left eye started to twitch. A faint thought about backing away sparked in the mind. But dying from an axe or spear beats starving in the desert, he thought, and persisted onwards. He didn’t bother running faster - the distant figures were not running away anymore.
Instead, the figures assembled a gapped line and moved forward. Stupid bastards, could have stood in place, Harding thought. There might be a chance after all. But as he got closer, he suddenly was paralyzed with fear: what if they had firearms? It’s been a while since he saw one, but this one figure looked like holding a long one. A rifle, recalled Harding. Does dying by a bullet beat starving in the desert?
Hell yeah. Suddenly, they were too close to these people, and the experience took over. He had way too much experience. Harding threw his rebar spear across the field, and roared like a madman. He was joined by the croaks of five others. There were figures moving, someone yelling, metal ringing. He grabbed his spear and it didn’t give in. He kicked a body to set it free. He saw movement near and threw himself towards it, only to find that it was Melbourne, gasping for air with a gaping cut across his chest. Harding threw himself the other way and found a figure he didn’t recall. He sidestepped an awkward blow of a baseball bat and smashed into the bastard with his shoulder. There was a thud as his enemy flung towards the ground like a sack of rocks. Harding ran him through with his rebar spear, pulled it out, and it gave in. Not sure what to do, he stood in position with his spear pointing in front, looking around. His knuckles were white from gripping the spear. But it was over.
The bodies of vagabonds were laying about. Four men. Bleeding onto the sand, skulls cracked, bodies pierced. Harding grimly realized that what he took for a rifle was simply a plank. They were fighting men with sticks.
Melbourne lay on his back a bit aside, no movement to his eyes. Harding knew the look. The fella was done for. One with the desert now. Harding was puzzled for a moment: in the fight, he saw a cut wound on Melbourne, but the vagabond bastards didn’t have anything edged. Then again, who could tell the kind of wound in the heat of the fight? Maybe it was just his eyes, seeing things, like the rifle he saw.
- Everyone alive? - Eyes called,- Good job, fellas. Poor Melbourne, bad luck to die to such rabble.
He paused as if trying to remember something important. He looked about, frowning, his body frozen. Harding saw the muscles under Eyes’ dry face twitching, his left cheek jumping frantically. The rest was frozen. This is the look of a man in denial.
- The goddamn fucking cock sucking shitheads! - Eyes exploded, throwing his blooded sword on the sand,- These fucking… The bastards… The mongrels! The vermin!
He erupted into a series of dry coughs.
They searched the vagabonds. They only had water for a few days and food for one day. Nothing else useful.
- They have covered the tracks, Eyes. I think they went there, probably. But maybe… ,- Ricky mumbled.
- These four stayed to let the others escape,- Eyes was searching the horizon with his ocular already, his voice now calm and sharp as always, but with a fit of bitterness to it. The look of a man accepting.
They had one hell of a black streak, alright, Harding thought.
The sun was slightly over the zenith, burning at the five on them. The crumbling highway was ahead for as far as the eye can see. Not a blade of grass in sight. The only point of note in the landscape was one sorry ruin of a gas station by the side of the road. Sand and dust, the spotlight of the sun. The vagabond bastards! Must they have chosen to flee toward the sun? If they went this way at all.
They were passing the gas station and then there was movement. Four men went out. Hard men, spears and axes on the ready. Armor, some leather, some crude metal plates. They moved to stand on the road across from Harding’s lot. There was a long silence. Only the wind, rustling dust, interrupted it.
There was a lot to be said, but nothing needed to be said. Clearly, the vagabonds didn’t go this way, otherwise these folk would have raided them. Ricky was wrong, or Eyes was wrong, or somebody else, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The gas station folk wanted to ask if we had any water, Harding thought, but we wouldn’t tell the truth. Even if we told the truth, they wouldn’t believe it. We want to ask them for water, but they wouldn’t give it. If we asked, they would know we are weak, and get dead set on killing us.
Harding felt a sense of crippling inevitability in the scene upon him. He suddenly thought how it looked from a bird’s eye: two bands of ragged men dressed in assorted wraps, holding improvised weapons. Indistinguishable from each other. About to kill each other over nothing. He felt a faint empathy towards the folk across. As if some invisible force was dragging the whole situation towards bloodshed. Useless, futile, absolute waste of men.
He was annoyed to feel like there was some way to avoid it. Some words to be said, gestures to be made. Yet these words felt out of reach. Harding was cursed to observe as the worst outcome unfolds, and to feel as if he could prevent it. They are going to fight, and he might become one with the desert.
This time there was no tickling feeling to his muscles, no excitement and no fear. He didn’t have it in him to be scared anymore. He did not have it in him to care even. A wave of remembrance came over him: another life, from his early childhood. Water fountains with as much water as you want, grass everywhere, crowds of people about, friendly folk, roaring machines, shining lights. It felt like a dream, so fake, so unreal. Decades of scrambling about the desert were real, blood was real, dust was real. The goddamn Sun was way too real.
Harding put his spear on his shoulder and walked. There was shouting behind: “What is this fuckhead doing?”. “Seems like your friend made a run for it”. With a dry sigh, Harding reached the shadow of the gas station cover, set his spear onto the sand and turned around. I may die, but I am not dying under the goddamn sun.
And then they fought. One big bastard tried to get him with a fire axe. Then he was down, bleeding onto the concrete, and Harding was onto another fiend. It was hard and gripping at first, like all the fights before. Then the fiend started circling Harding, and Harding was trying to poke him but couldn’t, and their dance became repetitive.
When you need to lift a bunch of heavy boxes, it’s hard and painful at first, but then you kind of zone out, and then it’s over before you know it. Harding zoned out from murder. It became routine. Before he knew it, the gas station folk were down on their backs, one with the desert, and all of their folk were standing upright.
- Good lord, Harding, you got two. You glorious son of a bitch! Valhalla fucking material! - Eyes clapped his hands,- Now your Highness and the rest of you, take what you can off these fools, and let’s find a hole to hide in.
Anything to get out of the fucking sun.