Sand and Scrap

by Chris R. Sendrowski

  “Very well,” the gob said. “But I work for coinage, nothing more. If any of these fools find trouble out there, they’re on their own.”

  The Garfaxman laughed, spitting the last of his tobacco into the sand. “I’ll make sure to remember that.”

  The mystic took a deep, nervous breath. “We’ll be heading out in less than a call. Report to the cleanser tents and file your names with the scribes.”

  Michael watched as the boy stepped down from the box. So this is to be our leader, he thought with a nervous sigh. May the gods watch over us. But as he watched the elementals coiling in the east, he doubted they would.

  3

  The area around the cleanser tents was nothing more than a trash strewn clearing crusted in dried mud and tattered work parchments. Hundreds of slogs crowded the space, though; their sour stink encapsulated within the twenty-foot wind walls circumventing the area.

  Michael stood at the back of the grumbling crowd, a sweat-soaked rag clutched to his mouth and nose. He’d been waiting for almost three calls, baking beneath the merciless sun as countless draba birds circled above.

  Atop a small rise at the northern end of the field, a row of tired-looking mystics sat silent behind rotting desks. A large tarp flapped above them, shading their weathered flesh from the elements. As they stared into the crowd, their brittle, gray beards wafted in the acrid Culver breeze like threadbare standards. More cast outs and failures, Michael thought. For why else would these men of magic be stationed here?

  Behind the mystics, a mud-splattered tarp danced gently in the wind. Beyond that stood a cluster of red tents from which shocked cries occasionally erupted.

  A haggard mystic marched down the hill and halted before the crowd. “All those for Sector 5WX2234 move to the westernmost line!”

  Michael glanced down at the numbers a guard had stamped onto his arm. The oily scorpion ink glistened in the sweltering sun, smudged and faded by his sweat. Branded, just like a cow, he thought.

  On either side of him, Culver’s worst denizens waited with work forms in hand. Carrion-brutes, crippled Tritanese, emaciated Garfaxmen, blind thieves, rapists, and drunkards — the refuse of humanity standing cracked and blistered beneath the sun. A disheartening sight, especially when he counted himself amongst their numbers.

  Michael squinted, his eyes locked onto one of the distant clerks. A frail, broken old coot, he bore a large brand upon his neck: a single crossed bone angled atop a cracked ring. A mark reserved for a meridium thief, Michael thought. It wasn’t unheard of for Chargers to steal from their brother’s caches. But to be caught . . . I’m surprised he still breathes.

  A guttural horn bellowed in the distance.

  The branded clerk immediately rose onto warbling feet, his faded black robe flapping wildly against his body. “Have your parchments marked before you reach my desk,” he shouted in a hoarse voice. “And as for any gobs here, be prepared to except a Circle tax of twelve percent on your daily coinage.”

  “Tax!” the same gob from earlier spat. “What for?”

  Michael smiled inwardly. Let him pay us back . . . tenfold if he has to. For my father’s sake . . . and the thousands like him.

  “For your shame, slog!” the mystic replied.

  The gob scooped up a handful of mud and tossed it at the coot. “For your shame, cast out.”

  Laughter broke out across the line as the mystic wiped the sludge from his cloak.

  A pair of guards approached the grinning gob. And judging by the gleeful look in their eyes, they had waited long for such a commotion.

  “Let him be!” the branded mystic shouted.

  The guards halted, clearly disappointed.

  “Laugh it up, slog,” the mystic said. “Laugh all you want. You won’t find it so funny where you’re going.”

  “And where’s that?” the gob laughed.

  The mystic smiled. “Hell, my friend. The very bowels of hell.”

  Another call came and went as heatstrokes and thirst thinned the haggard line.

  Michael squinted against the sun. His face and neck throbbed with sunburn, and his stomach ached. By the gods, how much longer? he wondered.

  The Garfaxman approached one of the clerks, a work parchment clenched in his gnarled tentacle. “How far in are we going?” the mutant asked.

  The clerk eyed him with disdain. “Just step up to the platform and move beyond the tarp. You’ll be given further instructions inside.”

  Without a word, the Garfaxman dropped the parchment onto the desk and ducked down through the tarp. Seconds later, a shrill cry erupted on the opposite side.

  The gob came next. “Best they don’t do the same to me,” he warned, gesturing toward the tarp.

  The clerk snatched the parchment from his claws. “Circle tax 4452 will be incurred upon return.”

  The gob flushed with anger. “Do you really think I’ll work for less than these slogs?”

  “It’s Circle law,” the clerk said. “No gob’s getting full pay. Not today, not ever!”

  The Tritan man growled, his yellow teeth glistening beneath snarling lips.

  “Next!” the clerk spat.

  “Don’t ignore me, coot!”

  “Next I say!”

  With a loud thud, the gob slammed his parchment on the desk. “I come for work, and work is what I’ll get. But not at twelve less!” Michael took in the scene with calm indifference. If the gob kept it up, he would either be throttled or worse. Worse suited Michael just fine, though.

  “Take the tax,” the clerk said, “or slog back to whatever hole you crawled out of. It makes no difference to me.” He turned to Michael. “Next!”

  Michael pushed past the Tritan man. “Just take it, gob,” he said. “Pissing about it won’t change a thing.”

  The gob’s bloodshot eyes narrowed. “Best you just mind your business, boy. This doesn’t concern you.”

  Michael felt his pulse quicken as adrenaline plowed through his veins. “As long as we’re working together, you are my business, gob.”

  The gob moved to within an inch of his face, his taut, diseased flesh radiating heat. “And is that a problem you’ll pay for with blood, boy?”

  Michael swallowed. He was crossing a line here. A deadly line. “I’ve been walking in your tracks for almost three calls now, and I’m tired. Either shut up and take the cut, or leave the line and let me pass.”

  The gob’s rotten, metallic breath blasted between its lips like poisonous vapor. “A fight then, eh, boy?”

  A sudden hush fell upon the lines. And much like before, several enterprising slogs quietly began taking bets.

  Michael stood silent, his heart pounding in his throat. Sweat trickled down his back, and his bowels felt as if they were turning to water. There’s no turning back now.

  The gob straightened, rising several inches above Michael. His black, decaying nails glinted like razors at his side and his lesion-encrusted face curled into a vulpine grin.

  “Guards!” the clerk shouted. “Guards to the line!”

  The gob winced as several bonelike protrusions poked through his shoulders and back. Dozens more quickly bristled across his body, trickles of blood flowing from the fresh wounds. Michael stepped back; he’d heard of this before but never had he seen it with his own eyes. Like an inside-out porcupine, the gob’s mutated skeletal system bristled with thousands of flattened barbs.

  In the distance, two guards pushed through the crowd, their armor clanking together like tumbling trash.

  The onlookers stepped back, forming a ring of anxious flesh around the two.

  The gob smiled. “You will die here, boy.”

  Michael stood fast, common sense slipping like sand through his fingers. He felt himself hovering beyond the constraints of his body, watching as the scene unfolded like a nightmare. I might die here, he thought. But he didn’t care. He had a blood feud with these people, whether they knew it or not.

  A lumbering guard thrust the onlookers aside. “Yo
u there!” he shouted, waving a steel club at the gob. “Break it up.”

  The gob turned toward the guard, his yellow teeth dripping saliva onto the ground. “This is no concern of yours.”

  The guard smacked his mace against his palm. “No one spills blood on the lines. At least not without my orders.” Three more guards took up positions behind him, their rusty weapons glittering in the blazing sun.

  The gob turned to Michael. “You and me,” he said, pointing a crusty finger at Michael. “We have a debt to settle. But not here, not now.” And with that, he turned back to the clerk. “Take your tax, mystic. It’s a small price to pay to suckle off the Culver tit a little while longer.”

  The clerk snatched the parchment from his hand. “You’ll earn these coins, dreg. That I promise you.” Grinning, he stamped the parchment and tossed it on the ground. “Move up to the platform and through the tarp. You’ll be instructed further on the other side.”

  The gob picked up his paper and glanced one last time at Michael. “Best you mind your own out there, boy. No guard will stand between us on the sands.” And with that, he vanished beneath the tarp.

  Michael took a deep breath, his hands still trembling.

  “Next!” the mystic shouted.

  There was mud everywhere, inch after inch of foul, stinking slop.

  Michael watched the two coots lurking on the far side of the platform. They stood spattered with filth, each gripping a leather hose in their skeletal hands.

  “Cover your eyes and hold your breath,” a guard shouted on the opposite side of a wooden divider.

  One of the coots lifted his hose. “I’d suggest doing as he said, dreg.”

  Michael raised his hands to his face just as a stream of grit raked hard across his flesh. “Damn!” he spat, letting in a river of putrid mud.

  The guard chuckled. “I said hold your breath, ya damned fool.”

  Michael tried turning away, but the coots only hammered him harder.

  “Gotta get every inch, boy,” one chuckled, wiggling the hose back and forth. “Gotta wash away all that Culver stink!” Behind him, a guard sat silent atop a pile of sun-bleached crates, picking at his filth-stained fingernails.

  “That’s enough, Jimbo,” the sleepy guard said.

  “Just a few more seconds.”

  “I said enough, ya old bastard! Unless you want my fist down your throat.”

  Frowning, Jimbo lowered the hose.

  Michael crouched in a puddle of muck, his body raw and torn. When he wiped his lips, sour grit crunched between his teeth.

  “Leave it alone!” a voice hissed.

  Michael looked up. A tall figure stood in the shadows, an adreena stick glowing beneath his hood.

  “Listen and live,” the man said. “Or die like the rest of ’em. It’s no matter to me.”

  Michael sat silent, transfixed by the wraithlike stranger. He was the tallest man he had ever seen, three, perhaps even four footfalls taller than himself. A Charger, he thought. The man’s flesh was cracked and peeling, a pallid patchwork of stitches and disease. Meridium withdrawal, he thought with a chill. Mark of a magic man.

  “That which you scratch will keep you alive,” the Charger continued. “Flake it off and you’ll be another mummy rotting beneath the sun.” And with that, he turned and exited the tent.

  Michael stood, shivering. Afternoon sunlight peeked through the tent’s flap, an air of urgency culminating amidst the growing clatter outside. “Come on, slog,” one of the guard’s spat, grabbing him by the arm. “Time to earn your pay.”

  4

  Harold Waxguard stood silent atop his rusted wagon, a spec of a mystic looming against the darkening horizon. They think me a fool, he thought, glancing over his shoulder. The boy and gob sat silent in the back of the wagon, staring at the shimmering horizon. The boy itched his suit, tugging and scraping at the rubbery flesh.

  He’s new to this as well, Harold thought. I wonder whether he can sense my fear?

  The sun melted into midday, its golden wash slithering across the putrid sands like a molten tide. Harold sighed. It was time to go to work.

  “Listen up,” he said. “We’re leaving soon. If there’s anything you need . . . ” He pointed a finger at the rows of filthy merchants nestled along the edge of town, “now is the time to get it.”

  In the distance, the Garfaxman haggled with a toothless merchant whose massive pack swayed with safety gear and digging tools. It’d be nice to have such gear rather than this garbage, Harold thought as he glanced at the weatherworn meridium rods stacked at his feet. Each was infused with a twist of meridium, just enough to counteract the contaminants in the sands.

  “Where, exactly, are we going?” the gob asked.

  “Sector 5WX2234,” Harold replied. “Eastern side of the Blackened Stix.”

  The gob sat back and closed his eyes. “My metal for blood,” he whispered. “May Dranimen watch over me.”

  Harold ignored him. He was focused on the Garfaxman, who was shouting at a merchant.

  “I agreed to two coinage! Not three!” the mutant cried.

  The desert cloaked merchant scoffed. “Two? For a mutie?” He shook his head. “Three!”

  “Bullshit!” the Garfaxman shouted. “I saw you sell a pair of nagra boots to a scrapper for less than four! And you haggle three over this rusty piece of scrap?”

  “You don’t like it, take your business elsewhere!”

  The Charger emerged from one of the tattered black tents erected beside the field. “A dispute?” he asked.

  Those within earshot froze, staring at the Charger.

  Harold saw several merchants quickly slipping trays of black market adreena out of sight. Others stuffed unchecked antiquities and weapons beneath hay bales and cloth tarps.

  “Have I not spoken?” the Charger asked.

  The entire field was still.

  The merchant bowed, his face paling as the Charger approached. “N—no. None at all.”

  “You,” he said, turning his cloaked face toward the Garfaxman. “Has a trade been broken here?”

  The Garfaxman met his gaze with head held high. “He’s charging me one atop normal rate . . . due to my skin. But I don’t pay for my flesh.”

  The Charger turned back to the merchant. “Is this true?”

  “N—not at all,” the merchant stammered. “We simply had a m—misunderstanding. No trouble at all.”

  The Charger swept the crowd with his gaze. “Mark this, each of you. All shall be deemed equal in the Culver. To break this is a breach of Overwatch law!” He grabbed the merchant by the throat. “And to breach the law is a forfeit of your life!” In a blur of motion, he thrust a dagger deep into the merchant’s chest.

  The Garfaxman recoiled as blood spurted across the sand. The merchant struggled against the Charger’s grasp, gurgling his final breaths as his eyes widened with shock. Indifferent, the Charger tossed him aside and tucked the bloody blade back into his cloak.

  “Collect your wares and no more,” he told the mutant as the merchant gasped his last breath. “We leave in one call.”

  The Garfaxman looked down at the merchant’s blood-soaked pack and snatched up the shovel. A piece of junk, its surface was pitted and dull, the wooden handle dried and cracked. The mutant shook his head as he stared at the merchant’s corpse.

  The Charger pulled his cloak tight about his skeletal body and climbed aboard Harold’s wagon. “Mark the site, gentlemen,” he said. “Anyone else tries to circumvent the law, and the flies will know you well.”

  Harold sat down, shaken. “One of the Chelder clan, that one,” he heard the gob whisper behind him. “His own people probably set the very traps we’ll be disarming. Circle must be desperate indeed.”

  Harold swallowed. He’d heard the same rumor as well: too many sectors to clean and not enough Chargers to infuse the rods. But to draw from the Black Order? Most Chargers were nothing more than meridium addicts seeking another dose. But those of Menutee’s
stock were drawn to another purpose. They still seek his atuan, Harold thought. The same atuan that drove the realm to war.

  Harold glanced at the Charger. His name was Nicodemus, one of the more entrenched Menutee enthusiasts he’d heard about on the Isle. Countless rumors surrounded him — a fanatic, murderer, meridium hoarder. Whatever the case, most ended in blood, or worse. The madmen hold the reigns now, Harold thought. I pray for the future.

  “We depart before sundown,” Nicodemus grumbled, adreena smoke curling from his blistered nostrils. “Many nagra upon the plains. Many corialis eyes. Keep quiet and you might live.”

  Harold glanced at Nicodemus’s pale, spotted hand. Snaking purple veins pulsed beneath stitched flesh, a patchwork of rot and disease akin to intense meridium withdrawal. The men are right to fear this one, he thought. The Charger’s hand trembled as he adjusted the wagon’s guide wheel. He stunk of decay and adreena fumes, and his cloak was covered in flakes of dead flesh.

  The withdrawal runs deep within him, Harold thought. A mark of great rank amongst his clan. I wonder what he did to be stripped of his right?

  Harold caught a glimpse of the clan mark partially concealed on the wraith’s wrist. A primitive brand, it consisted of a ring of intertwined circles encircling a single black star. Harold’s heart sank. Chelder clan indeed.

  “We leave on the next call,” Nicodemus said as he gazed north toward the distant ruins of Cremwall. The City of Art, as it was once called, was now nothing more than a scattering of giant cement skeletons half buried in the sand.

  Harold swallowed. “Very well.”

  For a time after, the Charger sat silent, adreena vapors pouring from his nostrils. When next he spoke, though, his voice was deep and intense. “You will perform well on this run, mystic. I will not have dealings with the Overwatch due to your incompetence.”

  “I will not shame you,” Harold said.

  Nicodemus reached out and lifted the back of Harold’s collar. A waxen X glistened on his flesh in the fading sunlight. Harold flinched, as if the glowing hot iron was being reapplied.