To survive and thrive. [Closed thread]

[Qyron]

- Thanks for the help.
- Only did what I was being paid for.
- Yes you did. Yes you did, indeed...

A young boy was peeking from a door but ran inside as the old man looked over his shoulder before walking over to the dust covered worker in front of him, stretching out a limp, pale skinned, hand, with impeccably clean fingernails.

- Is there anything we can do for you, son?
- Paying my due will be enough, sir.

The handshake was stiff and cold, as if touching something repulsive, after which he pulled back his hand and turned away, putting distance between himself and the dust covered figure standing under the morning sun.

- True, son.

He shouted inside as he climbed the 3 steps to the porch of the house to sit on a wide square stool, lined with died straw, cleaning his forehead and, more discreetly, his hands, to a large dark handkerchief he had produced from his left pocket; soon a woman in her early forties was at the door, wearing a dark colored straight cut dress with a stained and very use-beaten apron around her waist.

- Yes, Sir?
- Be a good girl and pay the man, Miriam.

Without a word, the woman turned back in. He remained silent where he was, looking at the other man as he now carefully cleaned a two-piece grayish white tobacco pipe, filled it with a coarse mix, lit and started pulling on it until a slow burning ember formed in the chamber; the smoke had a bitter and acidic scent.

- You smoke?
- No, sir.
- Mind if I do?
- It's your land; I believe a man is free to do as he chooses in his home.

The old man seemed amused by the answer and laughed, after which he smiled, large stained teeth showing, looking very pleased with himself. He kept pulling on the pipe, slowly, taking the smoke in, savoring it, looking at the man standing under the sun in front of his home. The morning was becoming warmer and the wind was dry against the skin, forewarning the hot day to come.

- You seem to be a smart man. Keep that way. It will keep you out of trouble and make your life a lot less painful.
- You believe so?
- I know so, son. You don't get old by being lucky; you get old being smart.
- I'll keep that in mind.
- You do that.

Coming from around the house, another man, in his mid-twenties, joined them. Tall and heavily built, he carried a hoe on his shoulder with a blade so large most men would be unable to use; he set it down, spat a foamy glob of spit to the ground and nodded to the outsider with a hint of disdain on his eye.

- Good morning.
- Good morning, Tom. I was just entertaining our guest for a moment.
- He's the man that fixed the water reservoir?
- He is, and a fine job he did.
- What's going to cost us, Will?
- Some supplies: food, clothes, footwear...

As silently as she had gone the woman returned, now carrying a large pile of items on her arms, that she promptly started displaying on the polished boarding of the porch: carefully folded, on a pile, two pairs of pants and three shirts. A pair of leather boots. A large water skin and a backpack, along with a small hunting knife, in its scabbard.

Walking over to the ledge of the porch, he took the boots on his hands; made of unstained leather, stitched together with what seemed to be twisted sinew string, with a thick, yet flexible sole, were very light and sturdy looking. He stopped to smell the leather before putting it down.

- Waterproofed?
- Treated with linseed oil, yes.

Backpack and water skin were both flexible and smooth to the touch, double stitched with the same sinew string used on the boots and the clothing items were made of a pale yellow fabric, slightly coarse to the touch.

- And the rest?
- Agatha!

At the call, a girl in her teens, dressed much like the older woman, walked outside and handed over what looked like a large envelope made of reeds, tied with a thick piece of string.

- Smoked meat and fish. Beans. Corn.

He followed her hand as she opened what was actually a cleverly made basket and pointed out each item, accessing the quantity and the aspect of the goods in front of him. Finally, taking the knife from its scabbard, he tested the edge on a fingernail.

- As agreed, son?
- As agreed.
- You can go, Miriam. And take Agatha with you.
- Yes, sir. Thank you.

The outsider quickly filled the backpack with the smaller items, hooked his older and smaller satchel to it, threw it onto his shoulders and picked up the empty water skin.

- You can fill that skin on the well near the gates. Tom will walk you out.

The old man dismissed them with a flick of his pipe and sent them on their way, Tom walking just a few steps behind the outsider, hoe again on his shoulder. Every garden they walked by smelled of freshly watered soil but all houses were silent as the two men walked across the small settlement and except for the encircled wheat fields waving under the breeze nothing moved.

Soon enough the village gate was in sight, a mesh of salvaged metal covered with discoloration marks where the metal had been heated to fuse the large nails used to hold the structure together over its hidden, tire filled, wooden skeleton; the rest of the wall looked very much alike, topped with a gangway and crowned with a few towers.

- There's the well. Fill your skins and hit the road.

Without a word, the man walked over to the well and did as he was told, under the eye of his makeshift guard.

- Man going out! Open the gate.

The gate screeched and creaked as it moved, opened just enough to allow a human body to slip trough its doors, stopped, and from the tower guard house near the gate, someone threw down what seemed to be a roll of cloth; Tom picked it up.

- If that wall you built comes down it won't matter, will it? You'll be long gone... And taking enough from us with you.
- I've worked for what I'm taking and just want what is mine.

He spoke without anger, looking straight into the eyes of the younger man.

- Now, if you please, the rest of my equipment.

Tom leaned forward, menacing, and shoved the parcel onto the outsider's chest.

- Get out.

Never taking his eyes from Tom's figure, the man crossed the gate, that quickly closed in front of him, with a loud thud. A moment after that, everything was silent and still again.

From inside the roll, the man produced a wooden staff and a belt with a large curved blade knife strapped to it that he put around his waist, hidden under his jacket, after which he tied the roll to the bottom of the backpack with whatever items still remaining inside.

The open road was in front of him, waiting, snaking as far as the eye could reach.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

The dawn broke and Credence pulled a cloth wrap from the small table next to her twin-size bed. She sat in the early morning darkness, undressing and re-dressing her hand, preparing for the morning patrol as she listened to the beating rain pound the tin roofs of the tiny community where she had lived for the past eleven years. Now nineteen, a woman in this dark world for a number of years now, she long ago stopped wondering about the future, or whether there was anything to hope for. At the age of just over a year, the world as it had been known had undergone an upheaval before unseen. She had never been clear on whether the wars had begun before the famines, or vice versa, but she had been aware on the impact of both. Her earliest memory was of morning walks with her mother, through underground tunnels below what was a war ravaged urban area, previously called Chicago. Each day, they would rise early, walk with other families, nearly all women and children, and arise from the streets from a stairwell across a former road from a former church. Inside, they found the little peace of mind that got them through each day, kneeling before an altar where they prayed for all of the things that god had promised in all of the holy writs. After an hour of prayer, the community returned underground, where they lived each hour of their remaining day foraging through the tunnels and seeking supplies and returning each day to contribute their findings to the greater servant for the good of the lord's children.......or something similar. She could not easily recall.

Her mother drilled her on the tenets of their faith and assured her the lord would provide and that they would prevail and prosper. The tribulation would not come, no matter how much they suffered. And each night, she returned to her tiny bed, hungry, afraid, and wondering when her father would come home and lead them to the coast where they could sail to the place where the war had not come. Years later, that war failed to recede and she found it at her doorstep, closer than ever.

She remembered it had been the year that she turned eleven. The winter had been particularly brutal. Ice covered the streets of the old city for weeks, and the tunnel exit was frozen, such that the daily prayer walk was halted for close to a month. And as the spring began to slowly thaw the unusually hard freeze, others appeared with bad intentions. She remembered the screams, filling her ears and jolting her awake in the wee small hours of the morning. An explosion rocked the ground beneath her feet, and the ceiling began to fall in upon her in large clumps from above. She screamed and threw herself under her bed, unsure of where to go, or what to do. Then, in a moment and with no warning, a hand pulled her from her hiding place, dragging her into the tunnels once more.

"Come, Creed," the woman said. She recognized her as the mother of two girls that had been lost during one of the afternoon foraging trips across the city. "We have to go," she told the girl. "Now!" The woman raced her through the tunnels, frantically seeking an exit, unable to find any door that opened into the night. As they fled, the screams from women and children rang out with each crackle of fire filling the underground community. Explosions brought walls down, sealing them from where they just came, and eventually, after what seemed like hours of flight, the woman holding her hand found a door to a staircase, which led to an abandoned lobby, which allowed them to escape to the streets. Six days later, she and the woman snuck out of the city when the woman located a small band of gypsies, who huddled them up in the back of their caravan, delivering them ultimately to a camp southeast of the city in an area that once was Indiana.

Days later, Credence realized she would never see her mother again. She would not ever likely know her father. Both were dead, she was told. It was time to move on. Just like that, as if they had never existed, they were taken from her and she was instructed to act as if that were the case. Just like that, it was as if god had never existed, and she chose to believe as if that were the case.

The next eight years were spent training. The camp where they lived served as an outpost for rebels seeking to hold agricultural land against the forces of the newly formed government, which seemed stringent and perhaps tyrannical, though she didn't follow the politics of the day. Her training was limited to hand to hand combat, weapons, tactics and strategy. She knew that raiders, such as those that had destroyed the community in her youth, roamed the land, seeking to obtain and take as theirs whatever wealth and treasure they might find. Her training merely was designed to allow her, like all the others, to defend. The men of the camp provided her with a handgun, advising her to keep a single bullet, in case the raiders ever got too close. The bullet was always in her pocket, ready for use if necessary. She would hold it, looking at it, a symbol of the future and the only hope for peace she might imagine, though she always dreamed of another way. Now, as she finished wrapping her hand, which she had cut butchering a hog for food the day before, she got dressed, put her weapon on her hip, and found the bullet there in her pocket, where it stayed. Where she hoped it always stayed.

On the way out, she gathered her bow and quiver, pulling each over her shoulder, then made her way to the courtyard, where she met her patrol assignment for the day. Standing under an awning to stay out of the rain, she waved at two men, only slightly older, both of whom she had known as long as she had been in the camp.

"Hey Creed," said the first, himself armed with a shotgun, while the second carried a simple rifle.

"Damien," she said, revealing nothing more. "Mack," she said to the second patrolman. "Where are we going today?"

"Word is that there is a caravan on the North Road," Damien said as he approached. "Should just be traders heading to the Great Lakes, but we need to get visual. If we can confirm, we can head back, no problem." Credence nodded, ever the diligent soldier.

"And we can hang out in my barracks," Mack said, a lascivious grin shot in Credence's direction. She blushed.

Dammit, Mack. She thought to herself. She hated how he got to her. He was handsome, and he was generally sweet toward her. His smile melted her heart, which she did not ever acknowledge to others that she ever had. She forced herself to become composed, returning her focus on Damien, the patrol leader. "Ok, let's go," she said. The three walked past a small guard shack, nodding to the single soldier guarding the only entrance to the community. As long as she could remember, she wondered if the staffing here was adequate to keep enemies out, if it ever became necessary. The group did an excellent job of patrolling and putting on the appearance of strength, at least enough to perhaps scare off potential enemies. In her eight years in the camp, there had been a few skirmishes outside the premises. When she was fourteen, there was a major assault on the camp from the former government forces, who were turned away after three days of mortar fire and attempted assaults on the front gate. However, the rebels launched a cache of portable rockets, debilitating the few tanks and artillery units present, and the government retreated. Depleted from hundreds of such battles across the continent, they never regrouped to give any serious challenge to the camp. It was as if they had ceded the area to rebels and various groups of raiders to fight over.

After thirty minutes of patrol, the three found themselves on a bluff overlooking the Purple Road below. It was called the purple road because it had become known as the bloodiest pass in the region. In order to reach the camp from the north, raiders had to climb the bluff, and they had typically been slaughtered attempting to do so, leaving the blood and bruised bodies to tumble down and into the street.

"I can't tell what we're dealing with here," Damien said. He squinted through the now driving rain to see what was ahead. "I just can't see that far, today." He stared a few moments more, looking at what clearly seemed to be some sort of caravan. "Creed, go east toward the creek where it dips to the road. Mack, you head west, and try to get around them. If there's trouble, fire a flare. If not, after you get a visual, head back to the bridge. We'll regroup and head back." Credence and Mack nodded, then went their separate ways.

Credence tracked quietly along the creek bed to which she was assigned. As she rounded the bend, the water rose to her knees, raised up from the heavy rains. she held her bow, armed and ready to fire, before her as she marched quietly toward the Purple Road. From nearly fifty yards away, she took up a position against the creek wall, watching through the rain, quickly noticing a number of old women and older men, struggling to keep dry any number of pelts and wares, clearly nothing to worry about. After a few moments, and no signs of any trouble, the girl began to backtrack toward the bridge, as the patrol had discussed. She made her way up the creek slope, and had gone only about two hundred yards when she saw a large heap in the middle of the field before her. She immediately stopped and pulled her bow, searching the area in the distance as she sprinted to the bulky thing before her.

"Damien, no!" Credence shrieked in a hushed tone, when she saw the body up close. As she rolled him over, she noticed the team leader had been shot several times, but the pool of blood from his chest appeared to come from a deep gash, as if he had been sliced in two. Her lip quivered as she realized there were raiders in the area. She gathered Damien's shotgun, which was laying beneath him, and she pulled the extra ammunition from his pockets. As she did, she saw a flare launched from the edge of the field.

"Mack!" she cried, before sprinting toward the flare. In a moment, she passed through high grass and found the third member of the patrol, gasping, gurgling as blood ran through his fingers where he pressed against his own throat. Mack's eyes were bugged out and they were dimming already as his life ran through his hands. Credence pressed hard against his throat, prolonging the inevitable, unable, she knew, to save him. "Mack, no! No, no, no!" In the distance, the alarms of the compound echoed through the storm. Holding Mack until he was no more, she immediately stood and looked to the compound, just poking her eyes over the grass.

In the distance, large, black plumes of smoke billowed above the hills. She could hear the faint screams that sounded so much like those she had heard eight years ago. If the walls were breached, people were dying. If the alarms had sounded, then the defenses had been broken. Credence had never felt more alone. She stooped beside Mack, and checked his body for ammunition and anything that might help her in this dire moment. He had a few shotgun shells, and close to thirty bullets that would work in her .38. As she continued her search, she noticed for the first time that Mack wore a St. Christopher medal around his neck.

How quaint, she thought, amused and disappointed. There was no god. She stood up, threw her bow across her back and grabbed the shotgun at her feet. She sprinted to the nearest row of trees, heading back toward the creek and then in the direction of the Purple Road. There, she exchanged some silver she had pulled from Mack's pants for a ride on one of the caravan's wagons. Four days later, the rain had long stopped and the gypsies entered the dusty plains, much farther south of the Great Lakes than Damien had suggested. And as the sun beat down on her back, Credence found herself a woman without a country, without a community, without a home. She had two more pieces of silver, which could get her a bit farther on the wagon train, but beyond that, she had no plan and no idea what to do. She placed her hand on the outside of her pants pocket and felt the single bullet she placed there every morning.

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[Qyron]

Taking the occasional green spot, mainly solitary trees or the more uncommon small woodland, where enough moist was available to sustain the more demanding vegetation, the land was empty as far as the eye could reach, covered with a knee high dense carpet of grass; traveling was relatively easy but the intense heat took a heavy toll, even from a seasoned traveler.

After walking for hours, with the fortified community well behind, swallowed by the hills in the far horizon and the sun high in the empty sky, the man decided to stop and rest under the shade of a large old lonely oak that stood in the middle of the flatlands he had been crossing. Under the tree's wide canopy was cool and the slight breeze that made the grass wave in the distance became cooler and almost soothing; tired, he set the large backpack down, sat next to it on the ground, grabbed his water-skin and took a sip.
A moment later, he took his jacket off, heavily padded and made from a thick, sturdy, cotton canvas, more suited for cooler weather, but it had proved to be too valuable to trade for anything; it was set on the ground, outspread, to allow it to dry and prevent the natural fibers to rot. The shirt quickly followed, soaked in sweat. All around was silent, dormant under the midday sun, and the man leaned back against the tree's trunk, enjoying the cool of the shade and the moment of rest.

In his mind, he reviewed the days spent in the small farming town working on the reservoir, building and strengthening stone walls in and around the small pond the community had dug in previous years, in an attempt to enlarge their water reserves. The wall would hold, he was sure, and outlast the niggling people that had paid for it. Not in good will but nonetheless paid.
Even the meals he had received during the weeks he spent there had been handed to him with scorn, as if feeding a thief or a beggar, and away from all eyes, in the small shed he had to sleep; his hasty departure had been the final display of disrespect he had had to endure.
With that in mind, he grabbed the backpack and emptied it, after relieving it from the roll tied to the bottom and his old satchel, hooked to the straps, and started going through the contents pilled on the ground.

The first item he grabbed was the boots: made of high quality leather, there was nothing to add to the first appraisal and would make a good replacement when he was done with the ones he was currently wearing but the same couldn't be said of the pants and shirts, made from a very light linen fabric, but the simple straight hugging cut was more suited to work in the fields than to travel; when the opportunity showed, he would barter with it. The hunting knife he would keep, to replace the one he had broken and still carried with him; it was more fit to skin animals and carve meat than the heavy blade he carried strapped around his waist.

Taking another sip from the water skin, he set the boots and the clothing items aside and grabbed the backpack: a large oval shaped bag with a flat bottom and back, with several pockets, hoops and straps built into it, inside and outside and a large flap to cover the opening was a welcome replacement for his single strap and very use beaten satchel. Along with the new water skin, that he estimated could take about six liters of water, it was the most valuable item he had got in return for his work. Both made in the same flexible high quality double stitched and waterproofed leather, were items of excellent craftsmanship. Finally, the ingenious basket he had been given contained enough food to sustain him for a month, if he found himself on a pinch.

The old bulging satchel was lying on the ground, its contents stretching it to its limits; all the wear it had was perfectly patent in the crisscross of fine lines and cracks that covered the leather but was still holding yet with all the space for carrying and organizing available in the new backpack it made no sense to insist in putting so much stress on the older and smaller bag. Diligently, he emptied and sorted its contents.

His sleeping roll remained where it was, tied to the bottom of the backpack and was soon joined by several small items: fishing and sewing kit each in its individual side pocket, the more sensible medical kit inside, the fire starting kit in a small pouch on the inside of the closing flap. The few extra clothing items he had also were moved along with a large piece of handmade soap he carried carefully concealed. In a separate pouch, he fitted all the food; inside a small tube made from a hollow piece of bone, were a few ounces of salt.
Heavier items like his masonry tools – hammer, several chisels and chippers – and items destined for bartering remained in the satchel. With everything finally organized, he put his shirt back and grabbed his cane; the coat was tied to the backpack

«-» « - »​

With the harsher hours of the day behind, he progressed quickly across the savanna, only with its wild inhabitants for company; signs of human occupation were scarce and far between, usually graves or long abandoned camp sites, where the ash of the fire pits had long been blown away by the wind, leaving a charred mark on the naked ground.
In the distance, he would occasionally spot large herbivores grazing. In the aftermath of the conflict, with human disturbance greatly reduced, the original owner of the great open outdoors returned and repopulated the land and were now thriving as their ancestors, slowly building their numbers. With the sun starting to dive in the horizon, all was stirring impatient: grunts and calls filled the air, preparing for the night. Pushing further would be dangerous so the man stopped to check a small grove of oaks, growing sheltered in a depression.

The grove grew in a small elongated basin, most probably an artificial lagoon dug to store water for irrigation; over the years debris were allowed to slowly fill it and created the prefect nursery for large trees to grow. For what it mattered, being clear of any recent signs of occupation and with no fresh scats from predators to be accounted for, it made a good place to stop and perhaps for more than a night, considering the abundance of game around, big and small.

Experience and abundance of kindling made easy to start a small campfire, deeper into the grove and half buried into the ground for shelter and concealment and a less careful hare fell with two well placed stones hurled from a sling was quickly skinned and placed over the flame. Dusk was setting when the wind brought the sound of wheels crushing the dry soil to his ears, along with voices of people shouting to each other and the animals pulling the wagons., until the wagon train came to a stop a few yards away from the grove.

- Let's stop here for the night. - It was a man shouting. - The wagons in a circle with the animals inside, near the trees. The children can fetch for firewood and somebody start a fire. I get nervous when it's dark.
- You're usually drunk when it gets dark! What makes you nervous about that?
- Having to take a piss and not knowing where to aim, you dumb ass!

People laughed and carried on with what they were doing. Children jumped out the wagons the moment the leader had mentioned them, allowing their parents to park the wagons and tend for the animals as some women started clearing the ground and others were busy firing and spreading small lanterns around the camp area. Soon a fire was started with a bundle of wood unloaded from a wagon and a heavy iron frame was put over it.

The man observed all this from the shadows when an elderly woman stepped out of a wagon helped by two young girls.

- Elias!
- Yes, mother?
- We are guests here, son. - A seat was brought to her and she was helped to it. - Please invite the person hiding in the trees to join us.

Silently, the man walked out into the light.

- You have nothing to fear. - The leader stepped out and welcomed him. - Please, join us.
Thank you.
- We don't see many people in our travels and even less in these surroundings. - His posture was tense but he smiled. - Are you alone?
- Yes.

Everything stood still as the two men stared each other in the eye, seizing each other.

- You already know my name. - The caravan leader stretched out his hand. - Who are you, my friend?
- I'm Michael.
- Welcome, Michael. - The men shook hands. - If you are camped nearby, bring your things and join us, please.
- Thank you.
- Thank you, Michael, for your company.

The shadows of the grove quickly swallowed the figure of its guest. He wasn't willing to leave his campsite but having someone to chat and share a meal with was something good to have, so he simply smothered the flames of the fire and covered the coals; the hare and its skin went back with him. No one was paying attention when he returned and was simply called to sit near the fire when finally someone noticed him. A woman quickly approached him with a skin full of beer, which he refused, while another handed him a steaming bowl of a thick meat soup and took the hare from his hands to put it by the fire.

- Tonight, we eat and rest... - Elias was across the fire, standing, with a large tankard in his hand, from which he took a swig before continuing. - In the hope we can do it again tomorrow!

Everyone cheered loudly and resumed eating.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

Day six of the slow crawl across the continent found Credence struggling to find her place among the gypsies. The women did not seem to take to her, except for one kindly lady who had essentially taken her in. And the men seemed to have bad plans for her. In five nights, she had gotten very little sleep. Each time the train stopped, the men would surround a campfire while joyously celebrating a life that she could see no reason for which to celebrate. Wine or whisky or some ill-tasting hooch was passed around, she wasn't sure which, and she noticed that the men became crass, unruly, even threatening to one another or to others in the wagon train, nearly every single night. There had been no new water to be found, only row upon row upon row of some overgrown fields that had no doubt been working farms in generations past. The occasional dust storm blew in late each evening and she would hide inside a wagon or a tent if camp had already been made, just trying to keep it out of her teeth and eyes. No stranger to tough conditions, the world in which she traveled was of less concern to her than what her future might be, for until the train stopped, she had no idea what that might be and nowhere to go, should she choose to walk off into the wilderness. The last two days had tempted her desire to do just that.

At the beginning of that morning two days ago, as the caravan moved West, she had ventured into the woods to hunt one afternoon, at the first of the dawn's light. Tracking deer and a prairie turkey deep into the woods, she could still see the wagons and hear the gypsies. So long as she made it back to the main road when their voices drew faint, she would not be lost and could always climb back in the wagon with the kindly woman whose son appeared to lead this ragged band. As she sighted one of the turkeys in order to take her shot, she heard a rifle fire over her shoulder and saw the turkey fall to its side in a burst of feathers. Then laughter as she turned around.

"Are you insane?!" She asked the large, blonde haired man who had tracked behind her. "You could have hit me!" The man laughed again.

"Yeh should've shot firs'." He said, walking in her direction. "Turkey's mine now." He walked toward her, then stood facing her, not ten feet away. He looked over her face and along the curves of her body before his eyes again made contact with hers. "Yeh can earn the rights to it by me in mah wagon if yeh like," he said, laughing again. Credence was suddenly hyper aware that there was nobody else in the area with them and the sound of the voices in the distance were growing more faint by the moment. She drew her bow and leveled it at the man's chest. Though he had a rifle, she still had equal ability and perhaps the upper hand. He was not expecting her confrontation, though she felt it imminently necessary.

"I won't shoot," she said. "Move along and get your turkey," she said nothing more. The man held his rifle up, indicating a willingness to simply pass by as he did just that.

"Yeh look hungry," he said. "If you change your mind, I can feed you later." He smiled again. Credence began backing away as he moved closer to his kill, though she knew he was in the train with her and would be nearby once she returned. She wondered if she should have killed him then. When she got far enough away to feel safe enough, she turned and sprinted back to the wagons on the main road and loaded herself into hers.

"Are you okay child?" the old woman asked.

"Yes," she said. "Who is the fair haired man that rides with us?" The old woman thought a moment. "The large one," Credence continued.

"You must mean Gareth," the woman said. "His father used to lead our group. He acts like he is prince of some land, awaiting his chance to reign. However, we are a collective. We have no kings. We simply survive in hopes of making our next destination where we can trade our wares for things that will help us survive until we choose and make it to our next stop. If we keep moving, we can live. But Gareth believes we are conquerors, waiting to grow in numbers and strength."

"What happened to his father," Credence asked.

"Elias had to kill him."

"Had to?"

"Yes. The man took Elias' sister as his wife when many of the travelers believed a man could simply do just that. After using her, then destroying her, Elias found that she hanged herself in the woods just beyond where our camp had been set. That was a year ago. Elias struck down the man, Gareth's father, with a fury unseen, and set our group with kinder rules, if only for a short time." The woman darned a blanket as she spoke.

"Why would it only be a short time?" She asked.

"It is the nature of our lives," the woman replied. "Gareth will kill Elias. And if he does not, then Gareth's nephew will. Or his cousin. Alliances, even inside the group, do not last long. Certainly not as long as vendettas." The woman then left to attend to some matter along the trail, leaving Credence to consider her words. For the next two days, Gareth had found ways to show up near the girl, often at times when they were isolated from the rest of the travelers, or in passing ways where none could hear their interactions but her.

I can't wait to fuck you, he had said, between clenched teeth as she passed him while he waited in the food line and she walked the small bowl of gumbo she had been given back to a place she had chosen near the campfire one night. She ignored it at first but he continued. See the four women holding babies over there? He had asked one early morning as the wagon train leaders loaded up to move onward. You'll make a great wife number five, he said before he slapped her ass and moved toward Elias, no doubt to keep his enemies closer. His behavior and comments seemed more presumptive, more obsessive, and more threatening in just the brief time he had been setting out to torment her. The result was that she stayed in the hot wagon more often, and that she neither got close to Elias' supporters or his, not knowing when a power shift might be made, or when she would have to choose one side or another, or to leave the group entirely, in order to survive.

The next evening, the wagon train came to a stop, and it appeared they would lay down camp as usual. Credence emerged from her wagon, looking around for a flat spot in which to build a fire and encourage the others in surrounding wagons to put up camp nearby and provide some sense of safety in numbers. As the camps formed and the children played, the old woman shouted at her son from over Credence's shoulder.

"Please invite the person hiding in the trees to join us, Elias!" she had said. Credence turned her gaze from over her shoulder toward the front of the camp and into the woods where the woman had been looking. There, just at the edge of the trees, she could, indeed, see something of a darker shadow, topped by a brimmed hat of some sort, nestled just amongst the overgrowth and high weeds. She reached to the ground beside her, clutching her bow in case there was an ambush nigh. Her eyes squinted to see through the haze from the large campfire at the main circle of the camp, as well as through the late evening gloaming from the low hanging sun, to see Elias walk cautiously toward the shadow. It was then that she saw a man, rugged and appearing to be handsome from some distance, step from the shadows where the figure she had earlier seen once stood. She watched the two men interact a moment, then put her bow aside when Elias seemed to welcome the man into their wagon train.

Perhaps, she thought, he was a displaced traveler like she had been. She wondered about the man's background, his family, his tribe, if he had any. She wondered if he had been married or still was. She wondered why he was alone, for she already knew why she was. And she found him compelling from this distance, even if she had yet to hear or say any word in his presence. She returned her focus to a squirrel that was roasting on her small, nearby fire. It was then that a large boot stepped from her periphery, and Gareth reached into the fire, pulling the staked creature from it with his leather gloved hand.

"That's mine," she said, without excitement, knowing it would do no good.

"Not anymore, is it, eh?" The disgusting man said, sniffing it, then taking a bite of meat directly with his teeth. "Tell you what," He said, as she watched him tower over her as he passed by, walking back to the wagon train. "I'll share this wit' you," he paused. "If you come and earn it in meh wagon." Credence rolled her eyes and allowed him to walk off. But before he did, she felt her hair tugged back, her neck extended to allow her eyes to meet his gaze, now directly over where she was sitting. "But if yeh don't wanna earn it, then don't worry," the man smiled. "Yeh'll be in meh cabin free of charge soon enuff." The man smiled and forced her head back forward and down as he roughly pushed it away while releasing his grip. She had no friends or allies here. She simply endured Gareth until he left the area. But she knew there would come a time when he would not leave the area.

As the sun set and darkness came over the camp, she found herself hungry, and wondered about the stranger, sitting on the far end of camp near Elias. She walked to fill her canteen in the nearby lagoon, then heard gypsy music starting up as she returned. It was then that Elias stood and addressed the entire camp, something she had not seen him once do in six days.

"Tonight, we eat and rest," Elias said, standing with a large tankard in his hand, from which he took a swig before continuing. "In the hope we can do it again tomorrow!"
Everyone cheered loudly and resumed eating. No truer words had been spoken, she thought. Each day now seemed like a hope that the next would not bring more hunger, more heat, more suffering. Each night, as the air cooled, gave reason to celebrate, though little else did. Credence continued to watch the stranger off and on. Something about him intrigued her, though she had no reason to approach him and she still wondered if he wanted to infiltrate the group. She did not know, still, what these people stood for, or what wealth or power the really had. As the light dimmed, she could only see the glow of the fire brush the man's face. And amidst the celebration and revelry, she heard a brief scream in the distance.

"What was that?" She asked the old woman, sitting nearby watching the camp revelry.

"Probably a claiming," the woman said.

"A claiming?" Credence asked.

"The men here do not always wait to woo a wife," the old woman said. "Or wives," she added as if to punctuate her statement. "And interfering with a claiming causes trouble, so other men do not." The woman seemed to look her up and down for a moment in the firelight. "Gareth will try to claim you," the old woman sent chills up the girl's spine. She wondered why she said that, or how she know. At the same time, the woman gave a spooky feeling that she knew things before they happened, or that she knew things that others never would, as if she where linked in to some greater cosmic certainty. She doubled down her warning. "God help you if he does." She said. "The last one didn't survive two days." Credence felt herself clutch her bow once more, vowing instantly to never let it or the shotgun she had stowed in the wagon to leave her sight. She looked once more to the stranger, noticing he was comfortable and did not look to be a beleaguered soul. He had presumably made it on his own for some time. Perhaps he could offer her some advice, or safe passage. She needed to garner his attention and she needed to do so out of the presence of Elias. She worried that not doing so would appear that she were "on his side," whatever that meant, and thereby enrage Gareth, whom she wished to keep in neutral as long as possible. She felt like she needed to leave the group for her own safety, and had not the slightest idea how to go about it.

 

[Qyron]

The man ate his meal silently, discretely observing the people around him. Children ran around the camp, from one fire to the other, playing or harassing the adults for food or attention, and were generally well received by women and men alike, while older teenagers would stay near parents or some older figure, trying to take part of the conversations. Younger children were on their mothers laps, eating or sleeping, and a young mother sitting just a few feet away from him was nursing a newborn, no more than a few weeks old.
Although dirty with dust and soot from the road and the fires – clothes and faces – everyone looked well fed and healthy and people seemed to be just enjoying themselves. Casual conversations could be overheard, mixed with jests and puns, followed by chorus of laughs while people ate their food and around another fire a group played wildly on a mix of instruments, filling the night with music.

- Let me take that from you. Want some more?

A young gypsy woman took the empty bowl from his hand when he was about to set it on the ground, rubbing her fingers over his hand, whit a flirtatious smile shinning on her face for a brief moment.

- I'm fine.
- Remember me if you need anything.

Aware that returning her advance could be as dangerous as openly turning her down, he made no effort to follow her as she turned away and disappeared, moving between the people that were starting to gather around the musicians.

- I hope you are enjoying yourself. Mind if I join you?

Elias was a man in his thirties, with long black hair falling down to his shoulders and dark eyes that glistened like gemstones at the fire light, well built yet lean, with a powerful presence. Without waiting for an answer, he sat next to the man.

- Yes, I am. Thank you for your hospitality.
- Never mind that.
- Nonetheless, thank you.

The two men were interrupt by a small rowdy group of men that approached them offering a skin full of some sort of spirit but ended up sitting across the fire passing it between them, although they all had already had more than their fill, making toast after toast to whatever came to their intoxicated minds.

- Come with me. My mother wants to meet you.

Elias took a small pipe from a pouch on his belt and started filling it without paying much attention to what he was doing as the two men walked to the tree line, away from the main camp fire, where most were gathered, towards a small fire that burned brightly, with only women around it. On a leather seat, Elias mother watched as the men approached.

- Good evening, mother.
- We were about to have some, tea. Will you join us?
- Yes, mother.
- I wasn't talking to you, my son.

Michael felt the intensity of the old woman's gaze as she stared him in the eye and measured him.

- Yes, madam, I will.
- Sit.

Two seats, brought from a nearby wagon, were placed in front of them and the men did as they had been told, watching in silence as the old woman directed the others around her: boiling water was taken from an iron pot placed over the fire and poured into a large wooden bowl and a mix of flowers and herbs was added to it, producing a strong sweet floral smell that filled the night air while wooden cups, carefully carved from solid blocks of wood, were diligently placed at hand, to be served by the elder herself with the help of a large wooden ladle; Michael was served last and was surprised when he tasted the warm liquid and realized it was stronger and had a deep subtle taste the aroma didn't gave out.

Nobody had spoken for a while until Elias leaned forward and took a coal from the fire with his bare hand to lite his pipe; calmly, he pulled on it to nurture a steady burn and then set the ember from where he had taken it, as if it belonged there and couldn't be set anywhere else, as he let out a volute of white smoke.

- Where are you heading, Michael?
- East.
- Not much there, to what I know.
- Not much anywhere, nowadays.
- True.

Michael set his cup on the ground and leaned to the fire, with Elias looking at him with his pipe in one hand and his cup in the other, waiting for him to proceed but the other man remained silent, warming his hands by the fire.

- What do you do for a living, Michael? - It was Elias mother that spoke. - Besides being a nomad as ourselves.
- I'm a mason. - The man rubbed his hands one last time and sat back, looking at the elder. - I go from one place to the next, either selling my labor or doing other odd jobs.
- To travel this world alone takes courage.
- That or an incredible stupidity, ma'am. - He grabbed his cup again and took a sip from it. - I haven't yet realized which is my exact affliction.

Unlike the gypsy chieftain, that burst into laughs and raised his cup to the man, the matriarch remained silent and composed. When the laughs ended, it was Michael who spoke to questions Elias.

- And where are you heading?
- Wherever the road takes us, Michael. We go from settlement to settlement, trading.
- What do you trade?
- Leather goods, wood implements, pottery, tools... Everything and anything.
- Perhaps we can reach an agreement over some items I want to get rid of.
- I'll introduce you to the trade master.

Michael felt his skin crawl under his shirt. A cold breeze was starting to move over the land, pushing the people away from the fires and into the warmth of their beds. Mothers called and carried children. Around the main fire only a few remained and the music was dwindling, with only a pair of violins still playing a slow sad tune.

- Let's leave that for tomorrow. - Michael stood up and stretched is hand to Elias. - It's getting late.
- It seems so. - Elias took the hand in front of him. - There's room in my tent for another, if you want to spend the night with us.
- There's no need. I will see you tomorrow.
- Tomorrow, then.

The man looked at the matriarch, who dismissed him with a wave of her hand and watched him walk to the tree line and disappear in the darkness as a specter. Unlike her son, the old woman felt there was more than what met the eye about the individual and she wanted the opportunity to talk to him, out of her son's presence and influence. She would have to arrange for such opportunity.

Clutching her cane, the old woman struggled to her feet, under the watchful eyes of her helpers. Elias, who was still sitting by the fire, excused himself and left for his own tent and, as he walked across the grounds, the rest of his people prepared for the night, moving to their tents and wagons. The smaller fires were put out, leaving only the main campfire burning at the center of the encampment, to ward off any roaming animals, and a few oil lamps scattered throughout the area that she too little light to be of any real use.

Elias wife was standing in front of his tent, barefooted, and slipped in when he was just a few steps away, pushing the opening flap just enough for a glimpse of brightly colored thick carpets and pillows covering the floor. When he stepped inside, she was sitting on her legs, waiting, and already completely naked.

Good evening, lover.

She pointed to a pile of pillows on the floor, went for the tent's flap, tied it and turned to him, already leaning against a rather large and soft cushion, while outside the few people still out-of-door hurried to their shelters, avoiding to look directly at the occupied hearths and overlooking what went on inside, in an attempt to preserve the smallest notion of privacy, until the encampment went silent and still.

-#-​

The night became cold, with the temperature dropping suddenly and to the point his breath condense in the air so the first thing the man did when he found his spot in the grove depths was to renew his bonfire, which had burned until only a few ash covered warm coals were left, with his jacket over his shoulder.
When the fire burned high and strong, he sat on his bedroll with his legs folded in front of him, enjoying the warmth and watching the flames dance over the wood and reviewing the night with the gypsies in his mind until his body demanded to rest and he lay down on the blankets to spend the night after throwing another piece of wood into the fire..

The fire had burned the entire night and by dawn, when he woke, was reduced to a pile of embers that shined brightly when the occasional breeze blew between the trees and reached it.
Feeling his mouth dry he went for his water skin, to find it almost empty, finished it and after throwing another piece of wood into the fire, he left his camp, exiting the grove in a place where the tree line met the bank of a small lagoon, away from the place where the gypsies were installed, quenched his thirst and filled the skin. After a moment of hesitation, he undressed and walked into the cold water, to wash the dirt clinging to his skin and hair but aware the sun was starting to rise, he hurried himself and exited the pond straight into the trees, taking his belongings in his hand. He was starting to shiver when he returned to his camp and knelt by the fire to dry while he took out clean clothes from his backpack.

After preparing himself, he left his camp again, to hunt. After the collapse, with no human hand in play, wildlife had flourished and the surrounding lands were a perfect example of it with deers, wild turkeys and rabbits being plentiful. Other small animals completed the landscape, making the oak savanna teem with life.
With his sling at hand and a pouch full of stones hanging from his belt he walked away from the grove, searching for areas where the human presence hadn't disturbed the animals and was rewarded with a flock of wild turkeys feeding in an open area; a few quickly and precisely hurled stones felled two birds and sent the flock into a chaos of feathers and loud shrieks.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

Credence remained near the fire as it withered to coals, still providing warmth as the members of the caravan retired to their tents. Beyond the small pit where the fire had smoldered, past the rest of the camp and into the purple haze and dense darkness of the tree line, she stared at the small orange speck that flickered bright, signaling the place where the stranger must be staying. He had retired in that direction perhaps an hour ago, and yet she could not stop wondering about him and whether he was her opportunity to safer travels. As the night air began to finally cool the fire, and she decided it had grown quiet enough to satisfy her that she would be safe asleep, she climbed into the back of the old woman's wagon, unfurled a few blankets on the baseboards, and rolled another beneath her head to serve as the closest thing to a pillow that she might have. As the night grew quiet, she found it difficult to sleep. Her mind wandered back to the outpost and her days with Damien, Mack, and others with whom she had grown close and near whom she felt safe. She worried that she would never feel safe again, as a solitary tear fell across her cheek. She questioned her instincts for the first time in so many years. She knew the caravan of traders owed her no loyalty and, over time, as more and more of them became exposed to her, more and more of the men might treat her as Gareth was beginning to. She could not tell who to trust, as none of these people were her own. And she wondered if the stranger was a safer bet than the caravan. Nothing in her being told her one choice would be better than any other. She drifted off to sleep, where peace could be found, if only for a few hours.

SNAP!!!

Credence's eyes popped wide open, and she hesitated to move a muscle, listening for any further noise outside the wagon in which she had been sleeping. It was still dark, though she could tell from the very slight illumination of the horizon through the wagon's opening that it would not be long before the sun was up. She waited a few more moments and heard no further noise, then rose from where she lay on the floor, stowed the blankets she had used, then slowly peered outside. Several fire pits saw smoke rising into the sky, but none had yet been re-lit, and the entire camp appeared to still be in slumber. The girl stepped outside and stretched, and quickly located her shotgun, which she had stowed beneath the wagon the night before, then traipsed into the woods, heading northeast away from the camp.

In a matter of only a short distance, she located the nearby stream and tracked across a low water point to the other side, before following it back south toward the mouth of the stream, where it emptied into a nearby lagoon. In the near darkness, she could not see across its banks any longer, having widened enough that water now flowed freely and the lagoon formed a crystal, cool oasis in a dystopian world. Credence placed her shotgun on the bank of the stream and removed her boots. She then peeled off her zip up sweater, laying it nearby. As she took another look around and saw nobody, she unbuttoned one, then a second button on the dirty military issue pants she had worn since she lost her society a week ago. She toggled the zipper and then peeled the pants off, leaving them in a heap as she stepped out of them, now only in a black sports bra and matching sporty, black, cheeky panties that were all she now owned. Another moment later, she was waist deep in the lagoon, pulling handfuls of water from below over her arms, then chest, and over her stomach and thighs. As the water washed over her body, she felt clean for the first time in days, and she felt her muscles relax beneath its cool presence. She enjoyed the bath for a few moments, losing track of just how many, when she heard a sound that was new to the natural noise of the woods surrounding.

Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk!!!

Credence peered through the darkness toward the sound, coming from the opposite bank and downstream, careful not to make any noise of her own. The sound was familiar, though she could not quite place it.

Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk!!!

She took a few steps backward, getting close to the bank herself, until the water was merely at her calves, before squatting low, her butt and thighs half in the water and half out, attempting to peer once more downstream. Her mind raced back to a time she had patrolled with Mack, and she smiled, recognizing the sound. Mack had always needed something to drink, to the point people joked about it. He would often carry extra canteens on patrol, even though he would be no more than a brief walk back to the outpost, where water was not plentiful, but certainly readily available. The sound of him filling his canteen, dipping it in the potable water pool in the compound filled her ears, and for a moment, the sound transported her back to those times - happier times.

Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk!!!

She wondered who filled their canteen on the other side of the lagoon. She remained perfectly still, a trick she had learned on patrol and in her efforts to survive in the wild on hunts, until the sound stopped. As the breeze rustled the trees above, her ears picked up the splashing of the water from the same area where the previous sound had been. She was comfortable that the person, whoever it was, had done like she had, risen early and made their way to the woods, to the water, simply to start the day, and therefore was not likely any sort of threat to herself. She stood slowly, then found a small rock outcropping where she sat long enough to dry, before dressing once more, then pulling her hair into a tight, though still wet, ponytail. She retrieved her gun again, then tracked farther south along the bank as the sun began to bring forth light to the day, leaving her in a gray-purple haze that was always a prelude to the day's full light. She began to notice her breath in the cool morning air, as she walked deeper into the woods, hoping to find food for the day.

In a short distance, Credence stepped into an opening from the woods where a field of near waist-high grass grew. Perhaps only an acre in width, the field seemed peaceful, but unsettling. Walking to its center meant giving up the tree coverage that allowed her to blend in and stay hidden from eyes she did not want upon her. Instead, she snuck along the tree line, still curling South away from the camp, careful to keep an eye out for any other soul. She had nearly gotten to the southern most end of the field, when she was startled as a flock of birds raced violently from the reeds below, leapt over the tall grass, and flapped past her close enough that she could feel the energy from their wings. Her heart raced as she spun in the direction from which they came, then back across the field, pointing her gun back and forth in case there was any danger to herself which the birds had perceived and she did not. She wondered what had disturbed them, then squatted down once more to survey the clearing. It was then that she saw the stranger from the night before and realized that it was he who was sharing the woods with her this morning. She watched him wander toward something, and she figured he was hunting, though could not see what he had tracked. She assumed it was one of the birds from the flock that had just flown by. After only a moment of surveillance, she stood up slowly, then walked in the stranger's direction, gun by her side and off her shoulder. She approached him, saying nothing, until she was near enough that she did not have to shout. When she came close, her eyes made contact with his own, and she continued walking casually toward him careful to make no aggressive motions or threats.

"Hello," she said.

 

[Qyron]

Two young toms had fallen. When he left his cover to retrieve the birds one was lying on a pool of blood, that stained the dirt in dark red, with its head completely shattered by a stone, and the other was still twitching on the ground, which he quickly grabbed; with a sharp twist to the neck he finished the animal, ending its suffering, and then proceeded to slip its throat to bleed the meat. He was looking for some straw to tie the animals feet when he noticed the girl walking towards him, coming from the trees.

He remembered seeing her the night before, always by herself, and judging by the gun she held and the way she held it next to her and the way she dressed and moved, she was not a gypsy. He remained were he was, allowing her to approach, the bird in one hand, while with the other he covered the knife strapped to his waist under his shirt. When she was just a few yards away their eyes met and he noticed slight signs of fatigue on her face and that she seemed somewhat malnourished. The thought that she, like him, was also out to hunt crossed his mind. Then, she greeted him.

- One bird is more than enough for me. You're welcome to take the other if I spoiled your opportunity.

 

[CarnivalBarker]

Credence looked at the birds, a bit taken aback by his response to her greeting. While her morning hunt had been more of an expedition, she had not approached him with any interest in food. She was simply curious about the man who had been alone in the woods after spending the evening with the caravan.

"Oh, thanks," she said. Before reaching to take one of the birds from his outstretched hand, she looked him up and down, checking for any signs or markings of any bands of raiders in the area. She did not put it past them to infiltrate or scout a group of people, a caravan, a town, or even an entire city, before swarming to attack it, taking anything they could take as their own. Two years ago, students at one of the few remaining universities, high in the old Rocky Mountains, awoke to alarms screaming at three in the morning, as an organized raider party blocked doors to every barracks, gym, and dormitory inside the sixty-five foot walls surrounding the campus, which had been built specifically to withstand attacks from outside agents following the fall of a more civilized society. As the men were herded toward a giant reading room in the student union, where they would disappear, the women became subject of more personal, terrible acts of war, often in their own rooms before being taken themselves away from the city and entered for trade on a market that many did not want to acknowledge existed. As inquiries were made, it was learned that the raiders had worked for two years earning status inside as administrators and professors, only to allow the band entry for its own means once the time was right. The shell of the campus, for all Credence knew, remained empty and horrifying on the harsh slopes of the mountains to this day. She knew not who this man was, but she knew enough to be very cautious. At the same time, she noticed nothing that would give him away as any sort of affiliated enemy. There was no curved knife favored by the Elamai tribes. He had no tattoo visible from his sleeve and covering his right hand as was common of, and perhaps required by, the Anarchists of what used to be Texas and Mexico. She saw no sign of the silver and ruby jewels that often adorned items kept by those members of the garish Bistal tribe of the central plains. And at the same time, there were many other independent, small groups that could pose a threat that she simply could not be sure. At the same time, he didn't seem hostile or cruel. He seemed quiet and at peace, a rarity in what was left of the greater, horrible world. Something about him intrigued her. There was some part of that tranquility that she wanted for herself. She wanted to know more.

"What brings you here?" She asked, taking one of the birds.