Chapter One
The blowing dust of the Manitoba desert tinted the air red, as if the world had been painted in fresh blood.
Patches walked carefully among the tall barbed cactus plants, a small knife in his weathered hand. The wep was a homie, just a piece of window glass repeatedly rubbed against stone until it was razor-sharp, with a piece of rat skin wrapped around the bottom to make a handle. The wrinklie remembered once seeing a baron with a steel knife. But then the ruler of that ville had also carried a working blaster, a wheelgun with live brass. The glass knife would be useless in a fight against a black-powder handcannon like that, but it served him well enough for the harvesting.
Stopping his slow progress near a tall cactus, Patches eased his hand into a cluster of the barbed needles and cut free a fat purple globe. As the juicy fruit fell, he neatly caught it with his other hand, and tucked it away into the patched canvas bag hanging at his side. The bag was almost half full and Patches smiled at the thought of how happy his wife would be knowing that they would eat this night.
The cactus plants replenished the harvested fruit very quickly, but always in new patterns, and he had never found another way of harvesting the fruit except by wandering through the deadly grove. There were many much larger fruits still nesting inside the cluster of needles, ripe and ready for the taking, but all of them were too big to retrieve without getting his arm punctured.
A fluttering from above caught his attention and the old man looked up to see a bird of some kind land on top of a tall cactus and start pecking at a fruit. Patches salivated at the thought of fresh meat, but he knew it was already too late.
Suddenly the little bird gave a horrid squawk and reared back with a quill sticking out of its wing. As it shook the wing, the needle fell out and the bird went happily back to the plump fruit.
“Three,” Patches whispered softly. “Two, one…”
Violently shuddering all over, the bird went limp and toppled off the cactus, bouncing from limb to limb of the plants. Then the aced bird was gone from sight, lost somewhere deep inside the overlapping needles covering the spreading arms of the tall cactus.
Goodbye, meat. With a sigh, Patches thumbed the desert sand from beneath his eye patch, then returned to the arduous work at hand.
The air of the desert grove was sweet, rich with a tangy infusion of citrus from the clusters of plump red fruits hanging from the flowering sides of each green cactus. A few of the plants lacked flowers, and those he simply avoided as a waste of time. No flowers meant no fruit. Although the venom in the needles of those cacti was much stronger, perfect to tip the arrows of his crossbow. A man didn’t have to be a very good shot with one of those on his arrow. Shoot a slaver in the leg and before he finished cursing, the flesh peddler would go stiff and topple over, a new passenger on the last train west.
It had been a long time since Patches last saw a slaver in his little valley, and that was just fine by him. Every day that he didn’t hear the crack of a leather whip or feel the cold of steel around his wrists was a good day. He wouldn’t even have put chains on a radblasted mutie, the shambling mockeries of men that wandered mindlessly from the desert. Strange they were, and triple deadly with sharpened teeth, claws and suckers on their fingers. Thankfully, no big muties came here. This tiny grove was his world, his private domain, unwanted by anybody, except himself and his wife.
The flowery grove stretched to the end of the valley, hundreds of yards long and equally wide. The warm ground beneath the cactus plants was covered with the decomposing bodies of small rodents, birds, reptiles and even some large insects with four wings. Once he found the skeleton of a norm, but the bones were so old even the clothing was gone, not even a zipper or button remaining. The corpse might have been lying there since predark days, who could say? But since there had been nothing to scav, Patches had moved onward and left the dead alone. Finding a bunch of bones was nothing new. Dark fire, there were ruins of predark villes carpeted with gleaming white bones, the predark skulls still staring skyward, sightless eyes forever looking at the nuke death raining down upon them.
Shaking off the grisly memories, Patches went back to work. Slow hours passed as the long day wore on. The old man became drenched with sweat, more from the effort of staying perfectly still than from the rising desert temperatures. Once, his ragged shirt snagged on a barbed needle and the breath caught in his throat, his heart pounding wildly. Turning ever so slowly, it took Patches a good hour to cut himself loose. Too tired to turn about again, he simply continued on in the new direction. There was food in this part of the grove, too. There was always fruit here. It was why they stayed.
Then again, he added ruefully, maybe Suzette had caught a lizard today. Meat for dinner! She hadn’t caught one since the last acid rain, over a dozen moons ago, but there was always hope.
Soon, another plump fruit was added to his bag and Patches snorted in mild annoyance at the memory of finding it. The leather bag seemed perfect for the job of harvesting. However, the faded lettering on the side read “Mail,” or so his wife said. And since he was the male she reasoned it should be his job to gather the fruit, even though she was much smaller and could slip through the lethal needles with much greater ease.
They had argued over the matter, of course, but Suzette was the granddaughter of a whitecoat, and much smarter than him. He went into the grove to gather fruit while she went into the sand dunes with their crossbow to hunt rats and lizards. The rats weren’t edible; the meat would put a man on the last train west.
“You playing or working in there, old man?” Suzette called from the direction of their hut.
Their home was a predark wag of some kind, the tires long gone and the engine a rusted lump block. But the body was a big box of metal that even the spring sandstorms couldn’t get through, and with the door shut tight, the howlers couldn’t seem to find them. If they kept very quiet.
“You back already?” Patches demanded suspiciously, craning his neck to try to get a glimpse of his wife. But the cactus completely blocked his view. “Hunting that bad?”
“That good!” she retorted happily. “Besides, it takes a long time to skin a lizard.”
A lizard? Hot damn, meat for dinner!
“Then don’t waste time talking to me. Get back to your cooking!” Patches laughed, returning to his own task. With luck, there might even be enough of the lizard to spare some for Trio.
His mind on dinner, the old man started to gather another plump globe when his ratskin moccasins slipped on the loose rock in the sand. Jerking back to try to stay upright, Patches went motionless at the cool touch of a needle pressing against his wrist.