The Loner

Damn. I just watched the first two episodes of Obi-Wan Kenobi. The show features a badass black female character named Reva. That's going to mean a name change for my character. Dammit.

All I can say is that writing this seems mind-bending...

I will have to read the final version in one reading once it's finished. I admit to now reading the chapters as cut-offs, completely forgetting a lot of the details you have mentioned earlier in the book. I'm missing a lot, which is logical because of the length of time between the chapters. And this is not a complaint.

Objective self-editing of your own work is a hard thing, but I've gotten better at it. I 've written a mistake into this story that is too big to ignore. A lesson I learned from this is when writing fantasy, don't create the map and write from it. Write the story and fill in the map as it progresses. The map is solely for my use - it won't be printed in the book - but I created most of the map before I began writing. I put New Texas and the Woven Shadows Enclave on the map based on early ideas I had that were abandoned. Still, I wrote to the map.

What I've done is create two semi-autonomous regions within the Midland Kingdom. There are several problems with this. The first issue is with the "why" of it. Why would the Gyro King who is determined to rule the entire continent allow two self-governing zones in his own realm? Two factions he could destroy easily, no less? He wouldn't is the only answer, even though I did impress myself with the gymnastics I put Quigley through explaining it all away to Huck.

New Texas is a region that will not figure at all in the story. It's mentioned, explained, and that's it. So New Texas has to be stricken from the manuscript. Any half-assed editor would say the same if they had as much insight as I do into the complete story.

The Woven Shadows Enclave is a religious sect that I had big plans for before I started writing. It's an idea that worked well in my early thinking, but doesn't pan-out in the story. There's still a role in the book for the Enclave, but I believe it has to be a much smaller sect, not some Vatican-like city state with its own militia. So all references to it have to be edited out or revised.

Most of what I've written about both Texas and the Enclave is in the same passages. One thing, though, is they set up a vignette about Ramon and Mexico, a memory Huck has, that I really like. That will have to find another place in the story or go away.

Now, I could make the whole five faction thing work, but it would turn this story into a dense, boring political drama and that's not what it is. It's an adventure.

Does any of this interest you? I doubt it, but this is as good a way as any to avoid doing the edits just now.

I've taken about five days thinking through part two. I had all the "what" in line, but was stuck on some of the "why." Whatever happens to a character, there must be a reason for it. If something happens to character A, why does character C care? What is character B's reasoning that allows them to be lured in to a situation? I let the chapter rest at about 8 pages, mulled over the "why" of everything, added a little info to a previous chapter, decided to move some of part two's plot points to part three, because the second part needs to breath. I'm pretty sure I've got a clear path ahead now since I was able to write more on the chapter last night and can't wait to get back to it this evening.

I added a small piece of important information to the end of Chapter Nine. I expect to have Chapter Eleven finished tomorrow.

The only detail I'll reveal about where the story is going is that some of the heroes and some of the villains will die.

I like what part two is promising. So far, the story has been a series of gunfights and attacks, which suits the road race across the wastelands, but can't sustain a book. There's a lot of road ahead of the heroes, but the focus will be removed from the road for most of part two. Huck and Fawn will face new perils in locations where we'll linger a bit.

I noticed something, it's interesting... Jack and Fawn are the exact opposites. He sustained himself on human pain and misery, it gave him strength. Fawn prevents people from suffering, and it drains her out.

I've added a bit to chapter ten, in the conversation between Reeva and Huck and in Huck's thoughts beside the pond, both scenes in 10:1. Added a reference to Market Town, because it makes sense that there should be a rendezvous point set.

Chapter Ten

Another Country

1

On the eastern edge of the Shifting Sands, just across the border of the Midland Kingdom, Huck and Fawn parted ways with Reeva Talbot. Huck thought the guide might travel on with them, since there was no one to return to at Truck Stop Station, but she told him she had one last mission in the west and hinted that their paths might cross again.

“Quigley is coming east,” she said, “To tinker on some secret project in the Republic. I’ve got to be at the station when he arrives.”

Huck grinned. “When? When is he coming?”

Reeva shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, “Soon. He may already be on his way. He said in his last message he had a bit of sabotage to tend to at The Listening Post.”

Huck recalled his first night on the East-West Road, thought of the fireball he had seen erupting on the western horizon.

“I think he’s already tended to that,” he said, “I think he blew up the Post.”

Reeva nodded. “All the more reason for me to get back,” she said, “It’s a two-day walk from here to the checkpoint. There will be at least a squad of troopers posted up there. She’ll have to sing to get you past them.”

Reeva glanced at Fawn, and Huck did, too. She had been fatigued since singing their way across the Shifting Sands. Her nose bled for some time after and her face was drawn, pallid. She had been the same way after killing the troopers at Truck Stop Station, only now Huck thought she appeared much more exhausted, maybe even ill.

“I don’t know that she’ll be able to sing,” he said, “What she did back at the sands took an awful lot out of her.”

Seeing Fawn kill the soldiers had given Huck a brief, false sense of security about the journey east. He had imagined Fawn’s voice as a secret weapon, protecting them from enemies with her untranslatable songs, but seeing her weakened state after she parted the storm, he understood that her magic had limitations – and came at a high price. He supposed it were possible she could sing herself to death. The thought spawned a chill up his spine and he stared at Fawn.

“The singing makes you sick,” he said, “If you do it too much. Is that right?”

Fawn nodded. Huck turned to Reeva.

“We have to avoid the checkpoint,” he said.

Reeva stared eastward, pointed at a thin strip of green on the horizon.

“Where the desert ends, there’s a forest, but it’s not without its risk. You can lose your direction in the thick of the woods, be attacked by wild animals.”

Huck frowned. “I’d rather take my chances in the forest than against a squad of troopers.”

Reeva didn’t argue against the boy’s plan to depart from the highway, but she urged Huck to get back on the East-West Road as soon as he could. ““Make for Market Town. That’s where Quigley and I will be looking to catch up with you. We could search the forest for weeks and not find you.”

“Market Town,” Huck said, “It’s not on my map.”

Reeva shook her head. “Most of the villages won’t be on your map. You won’t miss Market Town – it’s a small city, and it’s right on the road.

She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, though no one was around to overhear. It was a habit when speaking of the resistance.

“We have friends there,” she said, “Find the livery, ask for Samuel Hogan, the blacksmith. You’ll find us or wait for us there.”

Huck committed the name to memory, turned to Fawn and spoke it aloud, so she would remember it, too.

Reeva walked away west. Huck and Fawn went on their way into the Midland Kingdom, Cyclops bounding out in front, leading them down the road. They did not travel quickly, for Fawn remained ill throughout the day, but they kept a steady pace, stopping frequently so the girl could rest on the roadside, replenish her strength. As they progressed east, the landscape on either side of the road transformed, became less brown, more green. In the late morning, they noticed scattered patches of weeds and wildflowers, which spread into wide swatches of grass and young trees in the early afternoon. The road rose steadily out of the lowlands, curved over lush hills and cooler air, and by the time the evening descended, wound through a thick, dark forest. Birds called from the trees, insects sang in the foliage, frogs croaked and chirped in unseen pools of water. Huck could not recall having ever been in a land which smelled, felt and sounded so alive.

“It’s incredible,” he said softly, “I never imagined anything like it.” He turned to Fawn, eager to see her reaction to the forest, but her head hung low, her shoulders slumped, her hooves fell unsteadily upon the surface of the road. In the moonlight, Huck saw that she had been silently crying. Her condition had not improved, only worsened, and Huck supposed it would continue to do so until the girl had taken some rest – a night off the road, a meal, a sound sleep. He gazed into the forest on the north side of the roadway, saw no glowing eyes staring out of the darkness, heard no fierce grunts or growls from the shadows.

“We can stop for the night,” he said, “We’ll go into the woods and make a camp. We’ll find a nice spot, with water and shady trees, and we won’t move on until you’ve got your strength back.”

Fawn nodded, her mouth turned up in the slightest of smiles followed Huck and his dog into the dim woods. Moonlight fell like silver cobwebs through the trees, alighting the forest floor. They hiked far enough into the woods that they would not be noticed by anyone passing on the road. Following the voices of hundreds of frogs, they came to a grassy knoll, secluded among a stand of thick trees, on the bank of a wide green pond.

“Here will do just fine,” Huck said, tossing his weapons and gear on the ground. They had lost their bedrolls and saddlebags with the horses in the Shifting Sands, but Huck had his satchel and the food he brought with him from Orbit Falls. He had his father’s long coat, as well, and spread it on the crest of the hill, beneath the boughs of a giant oak. Fawn lay down upon it, curled her hands beneath her cheek, fell almost immediately into a deep sleep.

Huck sat on the bank of the pond, shared jerky and dried squirrel with Cyclops, listened to the croaking chorus of glow-frogs. Luminous glands in the creatures’ throats sparkled and shined in the darkness – flashes of yellow, red and blue like colored bulbs floating on the water. He absentmindedly stroked Cyclops’ coat, breathed deeply of the cool night air, wished Fawn were awake to share those welcome moments of blissful peace.

I’d stay right here forever if I could. I’d build a house and farm the land and leave the fate of the world to the people who want to control it.

He reached for his mother’s medicine pouch, clasped it in his hand.

I could throw the power cell into this pond, and no one would ever find it. I don’t have to go east at all if I don’t want to.

Behind him, Fawn breathed deeply, and Huck reminded himself that he owed her his life, that he had promised Maggie Hancock he would see her daughter safely into the Republic.

It’s not about me anymore, if it ever was. It’s more than just the satellite core I’ve got to smuggle east - it’s Fawn. I don’t know what purpose she serves in the war, but it’s her that matters most. I feel that in my heart. At least we won’t be on our own once we get to this Market Town.

The night grew cold, and Huck grew sleepy. He stretched out along Fawn’s back, Cyclops curled up against her belly, and the three of them snored through the night, a chorus to rival the frogs.

2

Kiljoy’s life had been saved by the alien alloy which lined her augmented eye-socket. It was a bullet to her head that claimed her eye - and nearly her life - four years earlier in a skirmish on the northern front, landing her in a Gearhead City hospital, where top military surgeons fitted her with an electronic optical sensor, developed from leftover alien technology. The four-armed bitch’s bullet had shattered the red optic lens, blown apart the circuitry of the robotic eye, but lacked the force to pierce its smooth, shining casing. Kiljoy had suffered a trauma – the right half of her face was a puffy, swollen bruise and her head ached with the telltale thud of a mild concussion – but she had survived yet another battle that should have put her underground.

She had regained consciousness during the sandstorm but remained face-down in the street throughout the night, for she could hear voices from within the Truck Stop structure. One of those voices belonged to the radio operator, Quigley; the others she did not recognize, but there were at least four resistance fighters waiting out the wind. She lay in the road throughout the duration of the storm, drifting sands covering her arms and legs, clogging her nostrils, until the men finally left for the east. Only then did she rise and take stock of her own condition.

She was in a hurry to get on the trail, track down the boy from Orbit Falls and the singing girl – the mutie gunslinger, too – but she was in no condition to travel. She found her horse down a narrow street, found a shock rifle the enemy had overlooked on one of the dead troopers, and a sidearm on another. Inside the great brick structure, she stoked the stove, scraped the last of some grey stew from the pot, then slept for hours in a darkened corner.

When she awoke, the sun had settled behind the western hills, the throbbing in her head reduced itself to an insistent pulsing ache. It was a pain she could suffer on the road. She rummaged through the station, found a store of jerky she stuffed into her saddlebags and a long hooded cloak she threw on over her fatigues.

She would not attempt to cross the Shifting Sands. She had never taken that route across the border, and she was unwilling to risk her life to the unruly, unpredictable valley. She would take the long way round, through the low hills to the north, lose two days but make up time once she reached the Kingdom.

Hers was a race against Nevison, who she assumed must be nearly over the mountains by now. The Ranger Captain would report first to the capital, affording her the chance to catch up to the fugitives while he took his scolding from the high command. She knew two things Nevison did not – what the boy looked like and that he was traveling in the company of the singing girl. She was confident she would find them before Nevison did. She, not he, would be the hero of the Kingdom, rewarded highly with the Gyro King’s favor.

Outside the structure, Kiljoy pulled the cloak’s hood up to cover her head, shrouding her face in shadow, climbed into the saddle, spurred her horse toward the rolling hills north of Truck Stop Station.

3

Descending the eastern slope of the Highlands Pass, the twinkling lights of villages spread across the darkening valley below, Nevison thought it a marvel that he had made it over the mountains at all. He had lost two more troopers on the last leg of the crossing, not to marauders, but wolves. The mountain nomads had not shown themselves again after their retreat, but Nevison understood that the Highlands Pass was now under control of the wild clans.

The squad encountered no patrols on the trail, only the scattered bones of soldiers, the carved-up carcasses of horses. There were signs of fierce battles, but few intact human corpses. The mountain clans were confirmed cannibals, known to butcher their fallen enemies, roast the flesh over roasting pits at their secluded encampments. They ate their prisoners, too, often one limb at a time, keeping them alive for the sake of freshness.

The waypoint stations were abandoned, too, littered with the butchered remains of the soldiers who died defending them. Nevison marched his men past the first waypoint, unwilling to camp only a few short miles outside the valley in which they had been ambushed. They arrived at the second empty station well into the night and made a rough camp within its walls, set a fire burning in the hearth. A rotating pair of guards stood a vigil on the lookout tower, but none of the men slept well and the squad was on the march come the clear, cold break of day.

The wolves set upon them in the early afternoon, a hunting pack of four, bursting from the tree line like blurred, grey shadows. The beasts were long and lean, with broad, brawny shoulders and oversized heads, snarling jaws and razor-sharp fangs. They were on the sleepy soldiers in seconds, took two troopers out of their saddles before the squad fell into formation and shot three of the animals dead. The last wolf fled into the forest, but Nevison knew it would return, to feast on the flesh of his fallen troopers.

Doesn’t matter if it’s man or beast that kills you up here. Either one will eat you.

He reined his horse to a stop the curve of a narrow switchback, raised his spyglass, saw the great alien lights of Gearhead City glimmering in the distance. He had been reluctant to deliver his report, but now he was eager to get it over with and get back on the trail of the boy from Orbit Falls. Nevison had little hope that the singing girl would be found, but he meant to track down Huckleberry Fagen if he had to chase the boy clear across the Kingdom.

4

Quigley’s party spent the whole of the day slowly crossing the Shifting Sands. He was no stranger to the volatile expanse, having crossed the border there several times in the past, but he was no qualified guide, either. Each time he had traversed the sands, he had been guided by Clinton Talbot or his daughter Reeva. He hoped one or both of them had led Huck and Fawn safely across the border.

It was a particularly mild day on the Shifting Sands, but still too dangerous for casual or careless travelers. Quigley led the others methodically, cautiously, listening to the ground as Talbot had done, but lacking the practiced ear to detect every groaning change before it took place. There had been any number of close-calls with yawning pools and flowing rivers of sludge, but no one was lost, and the party made steady progress throughout the day.

Quigley judged they were halfway across the expanse when they came upon the dead pony, buried up to its neck in churning pool of fluid sand. Monk stared at the horse, glanced at his companions.

“That’s the pony Fawn was riding,” he said.

Hancock shook his head, shrugged. “All it means is they lost a pony. One dead horse doesn’t mean the both of them didn’t make it across, and their guide, if they had one.”

Quigley agreed. “I’m certain now they had a guide,” he said, “I don’t think they would have made it this far on their own.”

“Let’s move,” Monk said, “I don’t like standing around on these shitting sands.”

Quigley opened his mouth, but Monk shut him up with a wave of his hand.

“I didn’t misspeak, Quigley.”

Hancock chuckled, followed Quigley along the crumbling edge of the pool, down a narrow, solid path through molten chaos. Hours later, as the sky was dimming toward nightfall, Hancock spied a lone figure moving toward them from the east, pulling a geared-up pony. The men ducked behind a rumbling dune, Dalton had a look through his spyglass, passed the telescope to Quigley.

“A woman,” Hancock said, “She’s not wearing a uniform.”

Quigley peered through the glass, recognized Reeva Talbot, hurried up the slope. Dalton grabbed a handful of the radio operator’s coat, held him back.

“It’s Clinton Talbot’s daughter,” Quigley said, “I’ve got to hail her before she catches sight of us in these uniforms. She’s as fast as you with a gun and she wields four pistols at once.”

He climbed to the top of the dune, waved his arms and hollered out. “Reeva Talbot! Don’t shoot! Morton Quigley here, yes, yes.”

Reeva raised a hand in greeting, waited where she was for Quigley and his companions to come and meet her. The men scurried from the dune, three of them, covered the distance cautiously, gathered around her noisily.

“My daughter,” Hancock said, “Is Fawn alive?”

“What about the boy?” Quigley shouted, “Does he still have the power cell?”

Reeva nodded, held up all four hands, palms out. “They’re both alive,” she said, “But we won’t be for long if we don’t get off the sands before full-dark. Fall in behind me.”

They followed her back the way she had come, moving faster now, with a qualified guide walking point.

5

In the chilly hour before dawn, Huck and Fawn were awakened by the sound of horses on the East-West Road. Huck left Fawn and Cyclops at the camp, crept quickly through the trees, ducked behind a clump of bushes, raised his binoculars and watched the road. The riders came from the west, pounding hard along the track, hunched low in their saddles. Huck could not see them clearly in the early-morning darkness, but he saw the black uniforms and red armbands of the King’s Advance. This was no patrol out of the Kingdom, but pursuers from the wastelands. He snuck back to the campsite, unaware that he had witnessed the passing of Morton Quigley’s band of allies.

Finally got to sit and read the last update properly... Loving this story. Anyone who enjoyed LOTR or The Stand will love it.

Now we come to the proper end of Part 1 - Oblivion.

Chapter Nine

Crossings

1

Reeva led the party to the crest of a low, rounded bluff overlooking a wide expanse of writhing, undulating sands. On the edge of the expanse, wooden X’s, raised on tall poles, marked the beginnings of the Shifting Sands, warning guideless travelers to turn back. Beyond the markers, the East-West Road dissolved into swirling dust clouds and bubbling, belching pools of quicksand.

The ground was alive, or so it seemed to Huck. He stared out over the seemingly endless valley, frightened and awed by the unpredictable nature of the landscape before him. Streams of liquified earth, thick and stony, ran freely through the valley, changed course unexpectedly, disappeared beneath the desert floor, bubbled to the surface elsewhere. Seemingly solid patches of earth were in reality great pools of hot mud, still and calm one moment, then suddenly churning and yawning, spewing towers of steam and sand high into the air.

Huck lowered his binoculars, turned to Reeva. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” he said, “How far across to solid ground?”

Reeva shrugged. “It varies,” she said, “Some days it’s twenty miles or so to the other side; some days it’s farther. Never more than thirty, though.”

Huck glanced at Fawn. Since departing Truck Stop Station, the girl had seemed subdued, even sickly. Her face was pale, and she slumped slightly in the saddle, her head hung low.

“You alright?”

Fawn nodded, managed a slight smile. Huck turned his attention back to Reeva, and the Shifting Sands. “I guess if there were another route east, you would have taken us that way.”

Reeva nodded. “We’ll lose two, maybe three days skirting the sands at either end,” she said, “And neither of those routes is any safer. The King’s Advance patrols the mountain passes to the north and the southern route is deep in Old Mexico.”

Huck sighed, watched as a river of steaming sludge ploughed across the valley, swallowing boulders and the occasional Joshua tree. There was not much plant life in the valley – Huck was surprised there was any at all.

“What makes the earth so fluid?” he said, “Does anyone know?”

Reeva nudged her horse down the slope, the others followed.

“Who knows?” she said, “On ancient maps, a wide river split this valley, and there were hot springs scattered among the hillsides. The common theory is an atomic blast buried the river, cracked open shallow deposits of magma, activated dormant fault lines. I’m a guide, not a geologist, and all I see out there is nature blown to hell.”

Huck thought of Maggie Hancock, heard her voice in his mind as clearly as if she were riding beside him.

It’s the revival of nature and nature is magical

Where the road crumbled into the desert, in the shadow of twin warning markers, Reeva dismounted, instructed the others to climb down from their saddles.

“From here, we lead the horses,’ she said, “Better to lose a pony than be sucked into the earth along with it.”

Huck removed the satchel, bow and quiver from the gear strapped behind his saddle, slung them over his shoulder with the rifle. He wouldn’t risk losing his mother’s book, or the power cell socket, if his horse were swallowed by a pool of boiling mud. He lifted Cyclops out of the sling, set him on the ground, commanded him to heel as the party moved forward onto the Shifting Sands.

2

Nevison disliked the mountains nearly as much as he did the desert. They rose before the expedition like slumbering giants, great craggy sentinels guarding the paths between the wastelands and the pastures and plains of the Midland Kingdom. The mountains were not as obviously treacherous as the Shifting Sands, but Nevison feared the forested peaks, for they were plagued by unpredictable weather, deadly mutant beasts, and secretive clans of cannibalistic humans.

There would be patrols on the road, though not as many as there had been before the Dragon Cough outbreak. In an effort to lock down the border, prevent the disease from spreading into the Kingdom, the high command had shifted security protocols from mounted patrols to stationary guards, expanding the number of troopers manning the western checkpoints.

The Highlands Passage checkpoint - a small stone fort, several outbuildings and a dozen tents -came into view on the road ahead and Nevison raised his spyglass. The checkpoint was still manned – he could see soldiers taking up positions on either side of the road and on the walls of the fort, and an officer watched the approaching caravan through a spyglass of his own. Nevison could not make out the man’s rank at that distance, but he was likely a lieutenant.

A pair of troopers rode out to meet the expedition, threw quick salutes at Nevison. “Welcome to the Highlands Passage, Sir,” one of them said, “Any infected among your party.”

Nevison shook his head. “Tell me something, Trooper,” he said, “Do I appear to be the kind of fool who would ride in the company of the contagious?”

The trooper held Nevison’s gaze. “No, Sir, you don’t look like any kind of fool at all. I’ve got to ask, though, as a precaution. Standard procedure these days.”

The Ranger Captain sighed. “Yes, of course,’ he said, “You’ve asked, and I’ve answered. Now, I’d like to get along to the checkpoint, rest my men and horses, and get started over the mountains before it starts getting dark.”

The soldier glanced at his partner, who stared at Nevison. “Yes, Captain,” he said, “I’m sure you’re aware there’s a mandatory three-day quarantine for all military personnel going east.”

Nevison spurred his horse, glared at the two outriders. “I’ll discuss that with the checkpoint commander,” he said, “What I will not do is sit here in the sun and debate the matter with a pair of enlisted grunts.”

3

Hancock’s party lost an hour rounding up the frightened horses. By the time they rode into Truck Stop Station, powerful winds from the south returned, pushing growing clouds of sand across the desert. On the settlement’s main street, the men climbed down from their horses, stared at the bodies of soldiers strewn throughout the square. The wind howled through the settlement, the sky grew increasingly dark, and drifts of sand began to pile up around the corpses and along the foundations of the buildings.

“We’ve got to move,” Hancock shouted, “If we hope to cross the Shifting Sands before the storm gets any worse.”

Quigley and Monk stared at each other. They understood Hancock’s eagerness to catch up to his daughter, but both men also knew that the storm was already upon them and showed no signs of waning soon. There would be no crossing the border until it passed.

“Don’t be a fool,” Monk hollered, “Even an expert guide wouldn’t lead you across in this storm.”

“Monk’s right, yes, yes” Quigley said, “And in case you haven’t noticed, there doesn’t seem to be any guide on duty at the present time.”

He wondered if Talbot were dead or guiding Huck and the girl into the Kingdom. He took his horse by the reins, led it toward the main structure, shouted for the others to follow him inside. They barred the door behind them, found a room with a trough of slimy water and a bucket of dried grain, left the mutant hunter to look after the horses.

In the main chamber, they huddled around an iron stove, red embers still glowing inside, and a pot of stew uncovered on one round burner. Hancock dipped a finger into the stew, licked it clean.

“The stew’s still warm,” he said, “The stove’s still burning. Huck and Fawn can’t be more than an hour or two ahead of us.”

Quigley nodded. “Then they may be far enough ahead of the storm to make it safely across the sands,” he said, “Assuming they’ve got Talbot along to guide them.”

He rummaged through a wooden chest near the stove, found chipped bowls, filled them with stew, passed them around the group. The hunter emerged from the stable and Quigley filled a fourth bowl.

“We could lose their trail if we remain here very long,” Hancock said, “We’ve no idea how long this storm might last.”

The wind rattled against the windows, blew in through the broken ones.

“We won’t catch up to them at all if we try to cross now,’ Quigley said, “We’ll be lost on the Shifting Sands and swallowed by the earth. You know that, Dalton.”

Hancock sighed, dipped into the stew, listened to the wind screaming through the settlement. He wondered if he would see his daughter again; thought of his wife - who he would certainly never see again - and knew what she would say.

Everything is as it should be, and all will be as it must.

4

The winding Highlands Passage cut a steep zig-zag path up the western face of the slope. Nevison had spent all of two minutes dressing down the checkpoint commander, stripping the lieutenant of his outsized sense of authority, promising the man he would be reassigned to the northwest front if the expedition were quarantined.

“You’ll serve out the rest of your duty in that red rain hell,” Nevison had said, “If the insurgents don’t kill you, radiation sickness will.”

The lieutenant, as much as he despised his station on the western border, was not a complete fool. He deferred to Nevison’s rank, and the obvious urgency of the Ranger Captain’s mission, and ordered his guards to allow the expedition through to the passage.

“At your leisure, of course, Sir. When your men and horses have had their rest.”

That had been hours before. The expedition was well on its way over the first peaks of the range, the checkpoint out of sight far below, the homeland two days to the east. As the expedition traversed the western slope, the desert heat was left far below, replaced by cool mountain air which grew colder as the day wore on. Even in the summer months, the weather was wintery and unpredictable at high altitudes. It had been so since the bombs. A mild sunny morning could give way to afternoon rains which turned into snowfall when darkness shrouded the mountains.

The caravan was much smaller than it had been at the beginning of the march, having divided several times on its way across the wasteland, and now – reduced to forty troopers and a pair of wagons – it moved at a steady pace into the highest reaches of the passage. Nevison meant to make the first waystation before full dark, bivouac there for the night, and be back on the trail at dawn.

The company rounded a wide curve, descended into a green valley where snow still covered shady patches of earth, passed through a narrow gap between the trees. From high atop a stony ridge, a band of mountain nomads marked their passage, counting troopers as they filed by.

5

To Huck’s great surprise, the party crossed the first ten miles of the Shifting Sands without being swept away by a river of mud or sucked into the depths of a bubbling pool. Reeva led them slowly, carefully over the expanse, kept the party close, demanded they remain silent so she could hear the murmured warnings rumbling through the ground. She navigated the sands by sound as much as sight, leading her companions out of the path of onrushing sludge, sidestepping pools of quicksand the others mistook for solid ground, avoiding glowing streams of magma no matter which way they flowed.

Crossing a cracked, dry stretch of ground where the earth was still and solid, and Huck thought for a moment they had come to the eastern edge of the Shifting Sands. He called out to Reeva, meaning to ask her how much farther they had to go, and she silenced him with a glance, stared at the parched earth beneath their feet. A crackling thrum rose up from the ground – like the sound of breaking ice on a frozen lake – and Huck’s boot heels broke through crumbled earth, brown sludge oozed up around his ankles. Reeva reached out, grabbed hold of his hand, pulled him across the breach, her own boots sinking in the sand.

“Run! Follow me!”

She lit out for a low hill, Huck and his dog at her heels, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Fawn was following, too. Behind the mutant girl, the earth opened up, trapping Fawn’s pony in a thick, steaming sludge. The girl held tight to the horse’s reins, the ground crumbling at her feet, tried to pull the heavy beast from the quicksand.

“Let it go!” Reeva shouted, “You can’t save the horse!”

Huck turned, saw the earth liquifying where Fawn stood, ran back and grabbed hold of her arm. “Fawn, come on!” he shouted, “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

She released her grip on the reins, turned and followed behind Huck, the ground giving way behind them as they ran. They reached the top of the mound, where Reeva crouched panting and Cyclops barked frantically, as the screaming horse disappeared beneath a widening pond of frothing, sulfurous quicksand. All around the rise, water and magma erupted from the ground, flooded the valley, trapped the companions on the hill, a solid island in a sea of churning sands.

“That was too godblasted close for comfort,” Reeva said, “Way too fucking close.”

Cyclops sat at his master’s feet, Fawn stared at the place where the pony had been swallowed by the earth, Huck glanced at their guide.

“What do we do now?” he said, “We’re stuck out here.”

Reeva pulled a pouch of herbs from an inner pocket, rolled a smoke with two of her hands, rubbed sand from her eyes with the other two.

“We wait for the ground to harden again,” she said, “And it damned sure better harden quickly.”

She looked west, across the Shifting Sands, saw a great dark cloud moving fast on the wind.

“Another storm,” she said, “We don’t want to be out here when it blows through.”

6

The wind howled like a banshee through Truck Stop Station, roared along sand swept streets on its way to the border. Quigley stoked the fire, brewed chicory coffee, and the four men sat around the stove, smoking pipes and slurping from ancient mugs. The storm raged throughout the day, showed no signs of weakening, and Hancock’s expression grew more grim with each passing hour.

“Your daughter,” Quigley said, “Why did your wife send her east? If she meant to keep the girl hidden from the Gyro King, why send her into the heart of his realm?”

Dalton took a long swallow of coffee, a deep pull on his pipe, answered on a cloud of blue smoke.

“Maggie is a seer,” he said, “She dreamed a vision of Fawn in the east, said our daughter would be the savior of the west.”

Quigley had no reason to doubt that Maggie Hancock had the gift of sight. He had traveled much on the continent, crossed the Kingdom twice, and been to the Republic and back. He had met all kinds of mutants, heard of psychics and seers, knew that Fawn Hancock was a singer of powerful magic. Knowing what he did about the nature of mutant genes, Quigley accepted without question that Maggie was a variant, too.

“What did she see in the vision?” he said, “How is your singing girl to save the west?”

Hancock shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said, “Maggie said the dream was dim – only clear enough that she knew it was true.”

“And you believe it, yes, yes,” Quigley said, “You’ve enough faith in your wife’s gift of sight that you’ll risk your daughter’s life.”

Monk grunted, glanced at his pointy-eared clan brother. Both Gypsies knew enough of Maggie’s sight to know what Dalton’s answer would be.

“Maggie’s visions have never been wrong,” the former Sheriff said, “Sometimes they’re vague, but they always prove true. If she says Fawn will make it east and save the west, that’s what will happen.”

Quigley nodded. “Then I believe it’s so, yes, yes. But if you believe it – and I trust that you do - why are you so distressed about catching up to her?’

“Maggie saw me in the vision, too,” Dalton sighed, “She saw me in the Kingdom, carrying Fawn from a crumbling tower. I don’t think she makes it east if I’m not there to save her.”

Quigley consulted a mental map of the Midland Kingdom. He knew of only two towers in the Gyro King’s realm – The Spire in Gearhead City and The Steeple in the Woven Shadows Enclave.

7

In the mountains, a heavy snow began to fall, blanketing the Highlands Passage with an eerie silence and a carpet of white as the sun dipped away in the west. The expedition trudged on in near darkness, the promise of fire, food and sleep just a few short miles ahead at the westernmost waystation. Nevison chain smoked, lighting each fresh cigarette from the butt of the last, pretended to be listening to the story his Lieutenant was telling.

“And when the Major caught us naked at our post,” the Lieutenant said, grinning, “Going at it with those two barmaids, well, you can just imagine…”

A burst of ballistic gunfire broke the silence, the Lieutenant fell from his horse, blood spurting from a hole in his forehead ran crimson on the snowy ground. Nevison spurred his horse, drew his shock rifle from its scabbard, shouted orders at his troops as the tree line came alive with movement on either side of the trail and the forest erupted with the blasts of many guns.

“Form up!” he hollered, turning his horse in a tight circle, surveying the attacking force, “Defensive field positions! Circle up, god blast it!”

The advance, weary from the day’s long march into the mountains, sluggish from the deepening cold of the storm, was caught completely by surprise. Dozens of men, wearing furs that blended with the environment, emerged from the forest, all of them wielding long guns, three of them riding great bears. A third of Nevison’s men were killed in the initial attack, but the remaining troopers remembered their training and closed ranks around their commander.

Nevison dismounted, threw himself to the ground, rested the barrel of his rifle across the chest of his fallen Lieutenant. He loosed a volley of amber bolts which dropped two of the onrushing attackers, searched through the rifle’s scope for the three enemy riders.

“Kill the bears,” he shouted, “Kill the god blasted bears!”

Bullets whizzed into the snow where he lay, spraying his face with icy mist, and a trooper beside him cried out, fell suddenly silent. His troopers were outnumbered, but they were better trained than the mountain nomads, and killed two attackers for every fallen soldier. Nevison ignored the cries of his fallen troopers, raised himself to one knee, drew a bead on a giant bear lumbering toward him, shot the beast through its heart. The animal stumbled forward, still running as it died, fell on its side, crushed its rider beneath its flank.

The Ranger Captain wheeled around, drawn by the terrified screams of his soldiers, saw a second bear ravaging through their defensive position, swiping at fleeing troopers with its massive paws, crushing them under its weight. Nevison stood, the snow running red all around him, fired a series of bolts, killed the rampaging bear.

“Huddle up!” he shouted, calling the remaining troopers to rally around him, “Circle up on me and kill that last fucking bear.”

Of the forty soldiers who had entered the mountain passage, eleven remained. They closed ranks on the Ranger Captain, shock rifles pointed in every direction, prepared for a final onslaught that did not come. Most of the nomads had been killed, too. The dozen or so who survived, including the third rider, ran for the shelter of the forest and the safety of their encampment.

Nevison lowered his rifle, glanced around at his fallen troopers, reached into his coat for his tobacco.

“We should go after them, Sir,” one of the troopers said, “Take ‘em out while they’re on the run.”

The Ranger Captain shook his head, lit a smoke. “No,” he said, “That’s what they want us to do. They’ll lure us into the forest and kill us all.”

He steadied his frightened horse, pulled himself into the saddle.

“Mount up,” he shouted, “Leave the wagons. We ride for the waystation, before those sonsofbitches return with reinforcements.”

He turned up his collar, squinted against the snowfall, glanced down at the fallen Lieutenant, thought of the story the man had been telling when the fighting broke out.

I wonder what the Major did, when he caught them flogging those whores.

8

The molten earth cooled enough that Reeva was able to track a solid trail across the expanse, and the party escaped the hill ahead of the storm. They rushed across the Shifting Sands as quickly as they could without stumbling into a spawning pool of sludge, with the wind whipping hard at their backs and the sky growing dark with blowing sand. They were nearly across the expanse, less than three miles from the eastern side, when the storm fell around them like a shroud, blinding their eyes, hiding the path before them. Reeva brought the group to a halt in the shrieking darkness.

“Join hands,’ she shouted, “Make a chain. Forget about the fucking horses.”

All around them the dust cloud swirled, the earth rumbled and quaked, unseen rivers of mud roiled up from the ground. Huck held Fawn’s hand with his right, reached down with his left to comfort Cyclops.

“We’re not gonna make it,” he hollered, “We can’t see where we’re going. Reeva, tell us what to do.”

He could barely see the guide, though she stood right at his side, clutching Fawn’s other hand. Reeva leaned her mouth close to his ear, spoke a word Huck had learned long ago to equate with hopelessness.

“Pray.”

Fawn tugged her hand free of his, pushed past Reeva, a frail shadow in the raging storm. Huck took a step after her, reached out to grab hold of her blouse, and Fawn began to sing. Her voice carried over the howling wind, a melody that rose and fell across the expanse, and the tempest stilled before her as she stepped lightly across the sands.

Fawn’s song did not dispel the storm, but cleared a path before her, a corridor of stillness and calm through the blowing sands. Huck and Reeva fell in behind her, Cyclops brought up the rear, and they followed the sound of Fawn’s voice across the desert floor. The storm raged in their wake, closing the corridor as they went, but before Fawn’s magical song, the earth solidified beneath their feet, the blinding sands parted for their passage, and the singing girl from the wastes brought them safely to the other side of the Shifting Sands.

9

By daybreak, the dust storm was over, blown through to the east overnight, leaving only a chilly breeze to sweep through Truck Stop Station. Monk insisted again on riding east and Hancock relented, admitting that three on the road would be better than two. Unwilling to risk another brother or leave the clan uncertain of his fate, Monk sent his hunter home with a message and a cache of weapons taken off the corpses of the fallen soldiers.

Hancock swung into the saddle, glanced at the radio operator. “Back at Monk’s encampment,” he said, “You told me you had a plan for traveling safely through the Kingdom.”

Quigley nodded. “I do, yes, yes…but let’s worry first about crossing the Shifting Sands. I’ve never crossed the expanse without a guide.”

He glanced at the dead Kingdom troopers.

“Security on the border will be tight,” he said, “Before the virus, the southern passage was only lightly patrolled, but the army bolstered its presence to keep out infected refugees; and now they’ll send reinforcements, to hunt for Fawn and Huck.”

Monk grinned at Quigley. “Are you suggesting a change of wardrobe?”

“Yes, yes, indeed I am,” Quigley said.

They stripped three of the dead troopers, put on the stolen uniforms, stowed their own clothes in their saddlebags. Hancock and Monk fit well into their disguises, but Quigley was too short for his – the sleeves swallowed his hands and the trousers bunched up at the top of his boots. The chevron and red armband that should have been at his shoulders sagged nearly to his elbows.

“You’re looking a bit sloppy there, Sergeant,” Hancock said, winking, “You’ll never pass muster wrinkled up the way you are.”

“Just you never mind, yes, yes.”

Quigley nudged his horse, Monk and Dalton fell in on either side of the track, and they rode out of Truck Stop Station, bound for the Shifting Sands and the border beyond.

10

Silence took up residence in Truck Strop Station. Rats scurried from their holes, crawled over the corpses, gorged on the flesh of dead soldiers. The sun climbed the morning sky, warming the desert floor and valley air, an easterly breeze ruffled the flaps of empty tents.

Lieutenant Kiljoy groaned, spit sand out of her mouth, opened her remaining eye, and sat up on the dusty street. She cradled her throbbing head between her hands, vomited onto the dirt. A glint of sunlight on metal caught her eye. She spied a small metal object, half-buried in the sand, picked it up, turned it over in her palm. It was a badge, adorned with three stars and the symbol of the Federation. She shoved it into a deep pocket on her uniform trousers.

Hmmmm. I think I've thought of a believable way to do something I thought I couldn't do. I'll have to see if it passes the reader test when I get there.

I've learned through the writers of Twitter that I am a pantser as opposed to a planster.

The chapter I'm writing now is leaning heavily toward being the true conclusion of Part 1, not the beginning of Part 2. This chapter deals with crossing the border - not only Huck's party, but Nevison and probably Hancock and Quigley. It's feeling like Part 2 should begin in The Midland Kingdom.

I did the same thing with TBWGitD - called the first part complete, then realized it wasn't when I started writing about the Starlight Motel.

I was a little embarrassed to realize the Midland Kingdom salute is basically a facepalm.

The soldier snapped to attention, stared blankly at the Captain, raised a perfect salute – the palm of his right hand pressed to his forehead, all five fingers extended like the points of a crown.

Oh, boy.

I've moved the action to the chest rather than the forehead to save myself from being ridiculous.

Part 1 is edited to my satisfaction. I can finally get back to the story. I have ideas for Part 2, but no idea about Part 2 - so this will be fun. I'd probably never say this about my own life, but I'm glad Huck and Fawn are leaving the desert. It's time for a change of scenery, a change of pace, and some surprises.

See...the line "night fell dark and moonless over the wastes" is redundant and sloppy. Any reader will know night is dark, especially a moonless one, so "the night fell moonless over the wastes" is better. The reader is smart enough to picture an unusually dark night without being told directly.

As I am so far behind on this, I have decided to wait until it is published. I am looking forward to reading it, but prefer to wait for the physical book. I hope you don't mind.😍

I used to hate revising, but I've learned to love it the more I recognized it's value. I've been working on Part 1, all weekend. just reading through each chapter slowly, doing just some light edits.

I know what my bad tendencies are now, so they're easier to spot and fix. I tend to write very long sentences, which are technically proper sentences. They're just too long-winded, and they're a result of writing hot, keeping up with my thoughts. I've gotten pretty good at recognizing the ones that work better as two sentences. I also find myself using "that" instead of "which."

Other than my own bad habits, I did find a few holes in the story that needed filling. In the opening pages I said Huck had never been beyond the western mountains or seen the Pacific, but later I wrote that he was born near Los Angeles and lived there until the quake. There was a bit about Quigley being too old for any action, which is obviously not the case. I also realized the hydro station at Truck Stop settlement had absolutely no reason to exist.

No major edits, no big rewrites - just some paint and body work.

I still have two chapters to revise before I carry on, but the events of Part 2 have been setting themselves up in my mind.