I acknowledge his wave with a grin. “Okay. Now! Criers do for survival alone and nothing else. You will never find one sleeping or resting in direct sunlight. Well now...okay, an answer.
“I discovered Crier milk is worse than I’d been warned. Damn awful altogether. But I was starved. I puked and lost my grip on the sting-claw. More important than being stung, their poison has a cumulative effect.
“After the first time stung, be shy. The next will be twice as deadly at half the quantity. No matter how long between episodes.”
“Interesting,” he mutters.
“Now. I’ll open the pouch but you drink the water. Okay?”
“I don’t think so. Doesn’t work for me.”
“Just once and you’ll know how. You should go a few times. Definitely help if you get stranded.”
“The hell with you Once-Other.”
“I can’t force you, Peter, but—”
“No!” he snarls.
He stares at the Crier burrow and rubs his ear. Glances my way and seems to find something about my face of which I am unaware. “Come on Once-Other, don’t take me so...ah jeez...okay...meeting halfway. When the pouch is open maybe I’ll drink—and the taste is?”
“Damn fine Peter.”
“Yeah. Everything’s damn fine! You still haven’t told me where they find water.”
“Here’s how,” and I pause for I am no fool.
That he found signs of dejection on my face is pure conjecture on his part. Which once again begs a question. Is Peter steering me towards something? Alas, I have no idea. Damn! Without his thoughts I’m blinded.
Yet ever hopeful I say, “Well now...Criers roam the night appearing to cry at the moon while circling in a decreasing radius. They use a form of sonar as echolocation to detect water. They’ll circle until zeroed in. We could experience that live tonight.”
“I’ll pass,” he snaps back.
“Well okay. They do so only when digging a new burrow. Now. Once water is located they head out and collect Arzern feathers along with any bone-strewn about.
“Back at the chosen location it digs into sand. And here’s something strange. Its companion burrow dwellers all help with the digging. Each Crier has a gland located at the end of the sting-claw cover from which they can excrete a wax-like substance. Using it they cement feathers together to create a nest.”
He makes to interrupt. I wave him silent.
“While waiting for the feather-n-wax to harden they chew the bones into gravel like pieces. Next, they bite open a hole in the center of the new nest and dig down into sand creating a pipeline. As they dig down towards the water they use their wax to seal the pipe with feathers-n-bone-gravel.”
“What the hell?” he says.
“I’ll back up for you. They dig downwards with their front paws and scoop sand into their pouch. Next! Each one returns with sand in its pouch and dumps it.”
I draw a diagram in sand and say, “The feathers-n-bones-n-wax are used to make and seal the pipe they’re digging. They shuffle these along held between forelegs and rear ones. Once it hardens the pipe is about twenty fingers in diameter, wide enough to accommodate them and it’s flexible.”
“Quite fascinating,” he says.
“Yes. Below sand, they attach the pipe to the waxy-oil pod that seals off the water rising from below. Ah? Remember, in the museum. Pod over water? Good.
“Next. All the Criers turn face upwards. The first one down, being the last one going back up, slices the pod open with a hind-leg claw. Their feather-like hair acts as a seal to hold the rising water at bay and the Criers return to the surface.
“The last one out is of course the burrow owner.”
I glance at him and he waves me on.
“The burrow owner settles in, camouflages itself by scooping sand over its back and gives the top end of the feather pipe a new wax cover with a plug in the center of it. That attaches to a mouth in its belly, through which it drinks. If danger is about they can instantly detach the plug leaving the water pipe sealed.
“And as we say, waste not, want not. Please note! There’s a double negative there. So if you want something you must first be able to waste it!”
“Thanks for the info despite that I’ve no use for it,” he says.
“Imagine if you will. I board my SandRider and race away never to return. So! Look around. What do you see?”
“Sand Once-Other.”
“Pray tell...how are you going to survive...alone?”
He smiles like a child caught with forbidden candy. “Ah? Oh yeah...you got me there. Let’s do this.” He pauses and adds, “I’ll definitely drink a little water.”
Pleased, I reach over and fan sand off the sting-claw, expose an eye the same way and tick-tock the fan until the eye glazes over. “Move around. Come in from the opposite side facing me when I lift. Remember. The teat on its left. Don’t touch the other one.”
“Yeah.”
He edges closer. I hook a finger under the sting-claw. The folds of skin around its neck cascade back-n-forth like ocean waves upon a beach. I wait until the Crier calms and then lift the pouch.
“This one’s edgy. Be careful. Don’t drink the milk.”
“Yeah. I got that.”
The tail end of the pouch stiffens. “Don’t move!” I command in a hoarse whisper.
Peter’s face turns ashen, sweat pops out on his upper lip.
“He’s suspicious. Hold still. Wait for my okay.”
I tick-tock the fan in a wider arc moving closer-n-back at the same time. Once it’s relaxed I open the cover another fraction. I sigh on finding no young present, open it wider and nod towards the teats.
Peter edges closer, stops and asks, “Why milk, absent young?”
“They share those duties. You’ll always find some.”
“Ah.”
“Recycled daily,” I add. “Don’t drink any.”
I open the pouch fully. He leans in instead of working his way to the other side as I’d instructed. I grin at that. That’s EB tourists for one-n-all—always forgetful. I bend my elbow so he can get under it while keeping a watchful eye on the Crier’s tail and head.
Peter shuffles forward blocking my view. He leans further in and the sting-claw cover tenses and relaxes, and I sigh. Peter exhales, takes several sharp breaths, pauses and takes a long hard suck. He swallows, shudders and lurches backward slamming into my arm. My finger holding the sting-claw slips free.
Peter stumbles off and drops to sand puking Crier milk plus the remains of his breakfast. The fan shifts sideways on the Crier. It spots me and with fangs bared lunges. In the same instant, the pouch-cover opens fully and holds, poised to strike.
I snap my fan closed and thrust it into the Crier’s mouth with a mere two fingers distance remaining between its fangs and my face. It bites down hard and pauses for a second then jerks backward pulling me off balance. I manage to wrap my free arm around my throat.
The Crier’s pouch-cover descends over my head and tightens like shrink-wrap. The sting-claw touches down softly behind my ear and its hind-legs swing up and settle on my arms. The Crier pauses savoring its moment. The sting-claw thrusts deep and pulses, injecting venom until the sack is empty.
Pain from hell explodes in my head.
The pouch-cover tightens.
My skull creaks.
Its razor sharp claws slice at my forearm in search of a path to my throat.
Out there, Peter thrashes in stomach wrenching agony punctuated by groans of utter disgust.
Damn this feeling of hopelessness, I must fight, I must win. For if I die here, Wernt—who has not learned to survive will die as well. That would not good for Peter, not good for my campaign let alone my Neatness.
Worse! I have little time; Death already caresses me with its insatiable desire.
CHAPTER 33
Of Crier Milk And Poison Old And New
My blood runs freely and preservatives kick-alive. Earlier poison awakens
and joins the new and together, drive a powerful current of red-hot needles into my brain. I hold on for dear life as the Crier pulls at the fan seeking to sink its fangs into my hand. If it does, it will instantly release my head from its pouch and take me at the throat.
Its vicious growls send shivers down my back.
Wernt groans.
The Crier pauses, listens, then rages on.
I must somehow switch hands and get my free hand onto the fan so I can reach its stun-spot with the hand desperately holding onto the fan.
The pouch-cover squeezes tighter flattening my nose and barely able to breathe I pull the fan closer to my other hand. My arms shake with effort. I kick at sand, as does a wounded animal in the throes of death.
My hands touch each other.
With a final desperate effort, I switch hands and of its own accord, my free hand searches for the base of the Crier’s skull.
My other arm I surrender up to keep its claws at bay.
I reach upward, grab hold and squeeze but the Crier’s attack rages on. I pinch harder. There comes no surrender, no respite. I adjust my grip and pinch as hard as I can and the Crier finally goes slack but its sting-claw keeps pumping.
Head screaming in agony, vision blurred by dripping blood and cascading pain, I ease the sting-claw free. With extreme care, I lift the pouch-cover off, roll away, stagger to my feet and sway as though beset by raging winds.
Nearly blinded, I head for my SandRider taking care not to step into a burrow. My knees suddenly give. I struggle back to my feet and keep going. I stumble by Wernt who lies prone next to a rank pool of his own design.
“I’m sorry Once-Other. Didn’t mean for....” and he heaves once again.
I note there’s a difference between his words and his emotion despite the lightning, bombs and needle storms assaulting me. Contrary to those words, his attitude seems almost triumphant in nature.
Nevertheless, I keep going for now is not the moment for petty foibles. Each step I take sends fists from my feet upwards to explode inside my head. Each one threatens to lay me flat upon sand and from there never to rise.
I trip over my own feet and collapse across Hellbent II’s rear wheel. I drag myself up and reach for the emergency kit. Slip sideways, strike my head on the saddle, slide down it, bump the footrest with my chin and end up flat on my face, nose buried in sand.
I turn my head sideways and breathe.
Wernt’s footsteps shuffle closer. He stops, braces himself, drops to his hand-n-knees and convulses. Grim, I yet smile inside. Like me, his stomach does not deal well with Crier milk.
There are those who can take it, we are not of that ilk.
I climb to feet unwilling to bear weight, cling to the saddle and rest a moment. I jolt awake swaying and almost fall. I open the emergency kit, grab a scalpel and hand mirror. I pause for breath then locate the poison blister in a rear-view mirror. Another deep breath in and I cut the two and a half finger wide poison blister open edge-to-edge.
Blood and poison pour down my neck, under my collar and drip to sand. I drop the scalpel and squeeze the blister fighting a darkness that threatens to send me crashing to sand. I keep pressing until no cream colored poison is visible. Barely able to stand I fumble about the emergency kit for a spray can of antidote, and forcing the blister open spray inside it.
Several industrial sized smelting furnaces explode spraying molten pain in all directions. Bombs of the planet busting variety erupt between each exploding furnace. I land on my hands and knees and glancing over my shoulder find Peter lying flat on his face.
Between his dry retches and my personal lesson in tactical bombing he groans pitifully. He rolls away from his latest deposit upon sand, curls up, hugs himself and rocks on his side moaning a dirge.
That dirge of all lost and demented souls.
I smile the coldest of smiles, never in the annals of this universe’s history has nutrition come with such horrific, foul and vile flavoring as Crier milk. It’s a worthy defense in both action and design.
I drag myself to my feet and swaying, apply an antidote pad to the wound and wrap a bandage around it. With my last strength, I reach over, press the SOS button and slip to sand.
Resting with my back against the front wheel, I watch Wernt rocking back-n-forth. Inside my head bombs, lightning and needle storms perform a symphony dedicated to a World War II bombardment. I pop an antidote pill into my mouth and chew.
Once swallowed, I shuffle away from the blood-n-poison patch leaving it to the flies. I check the bandage and it’s good. I take a sip of water and about to offer Wernt some but reconsider. Yes. It’s the last thing he would entertain right now. I examine my tattered and ripped arm and scoop sand over the wounds.
“What for?” Peter asks in a dry croak.
“In sand across all of Here-Born are preservatives. All released into the atmosphere and sand back when the first wave of immigrants arrived. This is why we don’t need refrigeration for many weeks...with pre-owned parts.”
“That makes no sense—argh!” and he pukes once again.
When he is done I add, “The crew on board those immigration space-liners carelessly miscalculated the size and therefore the gravity of Here-Born. We are far larger than Earth-Born yet our day lasts only four hours longer. Here-Born rotates far faster than Earth-Born.”
“And...?”
“Your scientists were conducting experiments. They were trying to preserve and regrow human tissue. The crash landings released their newly engineered cocktail into the atmosphere.”
“Whatever!”
“No, Peter, no....”
He closes his eyes and groans.
I examine our vicinity and find nothing dangerous lurking about. Therefore, other than sand, sun, heat, and night with its deep freeze, all is well. We are by SandRider, some four to six hours out of Sand Lake Flats. An Evac will take far less time to reach us but it may be dark by then.
I should prepare for night but find myself unwilling or perhaps unable to move. I pat my new favorite, Hellbent II. Its homing device and expanded emergency kit may yet save our lives. And if push comes to shove the tent will see us through the night.
I give a silent thanks to Soonsaan’s sales techniques.
We are relatively safe, somewhat hydrated, have extra water and food should not be an issue. Unless it is food we are to become.
I smile as Peter heaves once again, another dry one.
My eyes close of their own accord and darkness descends without invitation.
From out my inner darkness my old school teacher’s words echo, weaving and slithering around the savage pain inside my head. “Water Crier poison is hallucinogenic Once-Other. Wild visions of water have killed more tourists than the direct effects of poison. You’ll find most of them end up drinking sand in the belief they’re consuming water.”
“Not I,” I whisper and cross my fingers.
Darkness.
CHAPTER 34
Of No Comfortable A Seat And Visitors
The sharp edge of tire tread presses hard against my spine. The muffled tread of boots crunches upon sand. A droning hum draws closer. Madsen’s voice sneaks to the fore and drones on. Words mingle with the roar of exploding furnaces, the groan of a bomb-bay door opening. The screech of plummeting bombs.
The butt of a Browning five-oh thuds at my shoulder.
My eyes open and night fills my senses.
Madsen shouts from mere fingers away and vanishes.
He returns and stares in silence while his hand at my shoulder shakes me awake.
There’s a dream comes in the moments before death.
Why mine is of Madsen, I cannot tell. Why is it not instead Maggie or Karrell? I accept nonetheless. What else can one do? My hand floats into view seeming to move of its own volition. It touches Madsen, Browning says farewell to my shoulder and a hand touches my cheek.
Madsen raises his nose in a questioning fashion.
“Ah yes. You’re not wel
comed Madsen. But it’s good you’re here...despite that you have become a Rocklands sized pain in the rear these last years. I must be alive—I can feel you.
I offer him a hand.
He pulls me to my feet.
At the Evac, he links his fingers into a foothold. I step up, the Medic grabs my arm, hoists me, swings me around and straps me into a seat in one fluid motion. He gives the pilot the thumbs up and with sand swirling we take off.
Through the open hatch, Madsen waves farewell midst running a check on Hellbent II. I glance across at Wernt. He’s curled up in his seat, groaning in agony but okay save for the effects of Crier milk.
The Medic hovers over me clucking like a mother hen. He connects an IV-line, starts the antidote drip, checks my pulse and without warning shines a blinding light in my eyes. He holds it there, mutters his approval, undoes my bandage, checks the wound and ever-so chipper says, “This will hurt a little laddie,” and he sprays antidote.
And he lied—it hurt a lot.
I glare my displeasure at him. He ignores me, slaps a new antidote pad on and using my bandage wraps it tight. He fixes an oxygen mask in place and as he turns to Wernt says ever-more chipper, “You’ll probably live, laddie-me-boy.”
He shakes and opens a can of Milk-n-Fix and hands it to Peter—desperation and questions quickly populate Peter’s face.
“That will fix you one-two-three,” I say. “But! Pinch your nose closed and drink it all in one breath. Then hold your breath as long as you can.”
Hurricanes of doubt rage across his face. His eyebrows dance a jerk-n-jump in perfect time with each other. “You sure?”
“Go ahead. You’ll be fixed more-or-less instantly.”
“Yeah. Right. Instantly.”
He pinches his nose closed, drinks and waits as his face turns red. He lets out a long breath and surprised says, “Relief already!”
I smile but he turns away, rests his head on the seat back, closes his eyes and nods off. With his eyes closed, with Crier milk still in play and hoping his defenses are down, I search for his thoughts only to find nothing but barriers.
Perhaps the battle raging in my head inhibits my own natural skills.
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