THE SUN WAS high up over the Barrens in a nearly cloudless sky, driving away what little moisture remained in the parched soil. A small farmhouse sat amidst the sprawling fields; dry stalks filled them like tombstones for the crops that would never be harvested. The lonely wooden structure stood less than proud at the end of a long and dusty road. Many blistering summers had grayed its rough-hewn clapboard and tanks, filled via leaky gutters that lined the gabled roof when it rained, were bleached and nearly empty.
The plot was owned by Grant Boone, the eldest member of the family. He had inherited the land after his father passed away from farmer’s lung. They were prosperous by wasteland standards, expanding from selling potatoes and corn to livestock and eggs. But judging by the current state of the home, the broken fencing that held no animals, and the array of antiquated steam equipment kit-bashed with bot parts, things had taken a turn for the worse.
There was a low hiss just before a motor carriage crested a small hill. It was old and rickety, heading for the house. Its thin wheels found every uneven bit of ground along the way and steam belched from pipes at the rear, mixed with wisps of fine black smoke. It was hardly an elegant sight: the female driver bobbing so terribly on the bench seat that her leather head-covering threatened to abandon ship. She had shoved two baskets of meager goods – some salted meat and a few bunches of strange, wilting vegetables – in the foot well to secure them. Seated next to her was an adorable badger-like creature called a lutrine; he was doing well to steady himself while sliding around on tiny paws.
Jenny Boone was the driver. She was in her mid-twenties, without a husband or children, and Grant’s granddaughter. A fair-skinned and pretty girl, she could have fit right in with the elites. Life would have been free of hardships with ample access to food, water that wasn’t fresh out of a creek or rain barrel, and cleanliness. But she happened to be born to the wrong people in the wrong place. Perhaps it was for the best though, her personality might have raised a lot more hackles than gentlemanly parts.
The difficult wasteland life was starting to show in her face, lines taking hold on the corners of her eyes and brow. Her nails were unladylike: chipped and dirtied by hard and repetitive work, but she was used to it. Like clockwork, Jenny would rise each morning before the sun to complete what chores she could before heading into town. It was something she did at least once daily, performing errands like paying bills or picking up supplies. None of those journeys were remotely enjoyable. The name of the place itself, Hondo Gulch, was hardly inviting, less so now that her family was in such a dire position. Yet, her petite traveling companion managed to take the edge off, which is why he rode there with her every single day. It was hard to look at his button nose or big eyes without a smile.
The house grew closer and the route smoothed out. Jenny drove past several gaps in the shoddy fence, surveying each one through a pair of chipped goggles. She shook her head.
… three, four, five gaps to repair, she thought, sighing loudly. Yet more things to add to the list. I must’ve passed a thousand things that need doing by now.
She looked for a silver lining in the bleak situation; it was a stretch to find one.
Well, she continued thinking, at least you’ll never be bored…
The path unexpectedly became bumpy again, shaking her from those thoughts. Jenny snapped her attention forward. A large sinkhole had formed up ahead, approaching fast.
“If it isn’t one thing, it’s another,” she snarled. “Bip, hold on, it’s about to get a lot bumpier.”
The little creature looked up in her direction as she quickly pulled on one of the steering handles while pushing on the other. The vehicle sputtered and the wheels took a sharp left, kicking up loose debris. At the very last moment the vehicle dodged the depression but the back tire didn’t clear in time. It slipped off the edge into the hole then quickly out again. Bip was sent bouncing right out of the vehicle into a patch of dried vegetation.
Jenny brought her foot down hard on the brake pedal and the carriage skidded to a stop, sputtering and rattling in protest. It sounded as though the whole thing could fall apart at any moment.
“Bip!” she yelled over the settling noise. “Bip!”
There were a few seconds of unwelcome silence, then the sound of scurrying. Tufts of the dying grass swayed just before a furry face burst through, letting out a disapproving squeak.
Jenny beamed, her smile nearly as bright as the sun.
“So glad you’re okay!” she said apologetically and with relief. “But it wasn’t my fault; sinkholes are popping up all over the area.”
Bip let out a quick bark as if to say it was indeed her fault, and his wide eyes informed her that she owed him for it.
“Fine,” she said. “I’ll spend extra time petting you tonight, okay?”
Bip snorted, bounding from the grass.
“Now come on, I’ll see you at the house.”
Letting her foot off the pedal, the carriage pulled away. Bip scurried happily behind and Jenny briefly smiled at him, then looked out over the plains.
It was just sky and endless brown as far she could see, but over the Western horizon Diablo loomed and far to the northeast, the foothills of the Splintered Range began to rise. Having been in the Barrens her entire life, she thought it would be lovely to see those slopes one day, imagining them to be far different than what she had come to know as normal.
As far as Diablo went, she had no interest in the city, even after hearing of all their technological wonders. With the amount of grief that she faced with small town egos at the helm, a bigger population – especially one with millions like Diablo – would surely only lead to bigger issues. That Winthrope character who was often mentioned in the Gulch was probably the biggest offender. A man that rich could only be one thing: full of himself.
It wasn’t even half past eleven and Jenny had already had her fill for the day. Looking for solace, she grabbed the chain around her neck. It was adorned with small, tin gears that she caressed longingly.
“I wish you were here,” she whispered, speaking to her parents; the necklace was her mother’s. “Could really do with your strength Pa, and Ma, your love… and cooking skills.” She let out a laugh riddled with pain. “Things here aren’t quite how you two left them, I’m afraid. I’m hoping that something happens soon to make things right. Make things happy again.”
Seemingly in answer, a warm breeze blew out of the west. Jenny felt like hope was wrapping around her like a tight, comforting blanket. Optimistic tears welled.
Stopping just ahead of the ramshackle building, she lifted her goggles and wiped her eyes clear. She then got out of the carriage, strolled to the side, pulled up the sleeves of her faded lace shirt, and extinguished the boiler beneath the chassis. Bip was dancing around in her worn boots as she snatched the baskets from the foot well then walked, her frayed and frilly dress swaying with each step. It resembled a cream flower blooming from beneath her leather waistcoat.
There were three stairs that led up to a side door; they creaked as she stepped on them. She rummaged through her many pockets for a key, nearly dropping one of the baskets. A short time later, a woodsy smell greeted her upon stepping inside.
Dusty shafts of sunlight streamed into the kitchen through both the windows and gaps in the siding. The room was quaint but choky; the furniture, the drapes, the cabinetry – everything basic and rundown as if frozen in a moment of grungy time. Along the countertops, an array of glassware and metal utensils glimmered in the few spots not coated in grime.
Bip zoomed by. He tore across the room and beneath a table that was missing one of its four chairs. His claws were clacking wildly on the wood floor right up to the point his tiny tongue started lapping water from a bowl.
“Thirsty, are we?” Jenny asked with a light chuckle, stepping over a pair of her father’s old rubber boots.
They were dry rotted and useless but she was unable to bring herself to part with them, or any of the other pairs that were there. The collection had become nothing more than a sentimental dust magnet; one more thing to clean if she had the time.
She strode up to the table in the center of the room. Setting the baskets on top of it, she noted it was very quiet, which was strange since there was always a low rattle from the appliances. She could clearly hear Bip lapping up water as she looked around.
Her gaze wound up in the corner where a chunky, rectangular thing sat silently. Her eyebrow crested since that was normally the source of most of the noise. It was an icebox, one of the first powered models invented, and it was off. Thankfully, the food inside hadn’t spoiled but upon closer investigation, none of the other appliances that were tied into the home’s main power were on. Checking the breakers that were in a box beside the door, the fuses were okay. There was just nothing running to them; the power had been switched off.
Jenny let out a tremendous moan when it dawned on her why; she had forgotten to take the bill and payment to the Generator and it was bordering a week overdue. She pulled out a small satchel from a waistcoat pocket, untied it, and dumped its contents into her hands. Small copper and brass coins glimmered and clinked as they fell. Counting them, there was enough to cover the bill and what would likely be a hefty late charge.
“Guess I’m headed back to the Gulch,” she said miserably to Bip. “You can stay here with Papa, though.”
Bip didn’t seem bothered either way.
Putting the money back into her bag, she returned it to her pocket. Jenny resumed unpacking the baskets in silence before clattering around, retrieving two bowls from the cupboard and a jar of broth from the icebox. She quickly closed the door to preserve what cold air was still inside.
Emptying the liquid into a beat-up pan, she lit the burner – fueled by scraps of downtrodden fence – and tossed in some of the ‘fresh’ vegetables and chunks of salted meat. She stirred until the mixture was piping hot, tossing a small sliver of meat to Bip, who ate it right up. After filling the bowls, she rinsed the pan and fetched a couple of foggy glasses for some water. Placing everything on a dull metal tray, she added a few slices of hardening bread to complete the less than savory meal.
Carrying everything through an archway she entered a small and relatively cramped living room. The chairs were worn out and the fireplace dark and ashy. On the far wall was a short cabinet stacked high with books. Above it hung a decorative clock; the hands indicated it was nearing noon. Breezing through, she entered a short hall and passed her own simple bedroom on the way to a closed door at the end. There she stopped and rapped a knuckle on the wood.
“C-come in,” said a cracking voice on the other side.
Opening the door, Jenny walked in. It was notably darker inside since a couple of heavy curtains had been drawn. The smell shifted, growing offensive. Except for her footsteps and the jostling of the tray, it was quiet, like death had crept in the room alongside her.
The truth of the situation that became her current life was not that far off.
An elderly man was slumped in a small bed, rubbing his temples. He wore a loose tee and threadbare pants. It was Grant, the checkerboard bedding laid casually over his narrow thighs. The room itself was without many frills, short of a couple family lumographs hanging on the wall. On the nightstand, Jenny had folded a few drab clothes. On top of those were a beat-up hat and a pair of thick-framed glasses.
“Swear I c-can’t keep myself c-comfortable,” he said, kicking off the blanket as Jenny leaned over to set the tray in his lap. She kissed his forehead before straightening back up.
There was an awful looking bandage wrapped around the lower half of his leg. Dark and discolored, it gave off a pungent odor. It was covering a nasty stinger wound Grant had received out in the fields from a Deathneedle – a scorpion-like creature with translucent, almost plastic skin and a fat tail.
The wound started off small and innocuous. Grant was still able to work the farm with Jenny even with the puncture, but in no time the searing pain spread, placing him out of commission on a gradual slide downhill. Without the funds to see a physician (the so-called doctors that were in the Gulch preferred profit over patient care), the family – especially Jenny – was left to treat it as best she could. She managed to stop any skin infections with topical remedies made from Bip’s protective saliva, but the problem was the poison itself. Potent, it continued to spread, bringing with it great pain, fever, and heart palpitations. Things were very grim.
“Nothin’ c-can keep off the dreaded c-chill,” Grant continued. Jenny swore his voice was getting worse with each word. “That is, until the damned fever c-comes along. Then you’re wishin’ for the c-cold again.”
“I gather you’re feeling worse today, Papa?” she asked, knowing full well he was no better.
“Shit, darlin’, I don’t think I c-can feel any worse than I do today,” he said, eyes darting over to hers apologetically. “My apologies about the swearin’.”
Jenny took a seat in a chair beside the headboard; it was the missing one from the kitchen. Grinning, she grabbed a bowl and spoon for herself.
“I think I can overlook that. Given the state you’re in, I think you’re entitled to forgo some manners,” she replied. Tasting a spoonful of the thin soup, it was surprisingly good, if not a little salty.
“Maybe you can overlook it, but your gran would’ve popped me ‘round the back of my head with this tray had she heard me say that. She firmly believed men ought not be so foul in front of a lady, even if they’re kin.”
“Mother would have done the same to Father as well,” Jenny replied with deliberate formality.
“That demeanor doesn’t fit you at all,” Grant said instantly. “You’ll be much happier if you stay true to who you are, Jen. The Boones have always had a few sturdy women at the helm…” His eyes shrank in sadness. “What’s left of us anyway.”
They both stared at each other. Grant took a wrinkled hand and lifted some of the broth to his lips. Shaking, he slurped it then smacked his lips a few times.
“Too bad ya didn’t inherit any of their c-cookin’ abilities.”
“Maybe I like the challenge of it.”
“Well, judgin’ by this you should try harder,” he joked, coughing painfully instead of laughing.
Jenny cringed at the sound, like phlegm had free reign of his chest. She produced a small vial and leaned over his bowl. Three drops fell in.
“That’s the last of the serum. It should help,” she said worryingly, setting the now empty bottle on the tray.
Grant continued to cough; it had never been this bad before. He nodded instead of speaking, then proceeded to consume about half the bowl. Each spoonful was studded with hacking but after a few minutes, it all started to subside.
“Thank you,” Grant said, clearing his throat. “So, how’re the supplies?”
Jenny told him all about the day, beginning with the state of the icebox and working back from there. There was a litany of things mounting around the property.
“I also had to sell the last bo just to have enough money for what I brought home. There’s still some left over and thankfully I was able to take some of her waste to use as fuel in the boiler.”
“It’s bad, ain’t it?” he replied, almost in tears. “Everythin’ was doin’ so well and now it’s all c-come a c-cropper ‘cause of this injury. I’m so sorry I c-can’t be more help to ya, Jen.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Jenny said reassuringly. Her heart was beating faster as she rested a hand on his thigh, patting it gently. “You need to focus on recovering, first and foremost.”
He cringed upon hearing those words, lips staying a scowl that denied recovery was ever happening. Maybe if he was a decade or two younger there would have been a better chance.
“Now Jenny, ya know that I –”
She looked away; he stopped.
“You’re gonna have to face the facts one day, my dearest granddaughter.”
But she didn’t want to face it; she wanted it like it was before.
Life didn’t afford such luxuries, especially to the lesser of society who could dream all they wanted but never have the means to see those thoughts realized. She was stubborn though, just like her mother, giving the impossible situation too much thought. Her father had been killed by raiders three years earlier during a livestock drive up from Seco Basin while her mother befell a much more sinister fate at the hands of drunkards in an alleyway outside a saloon in the Gulch. Grant pursued the perpetrators, making sure those lowlifes paid penance with their own lives.
“Jen, I need ya to speak with Mr. Johnston at the general store,” Grant urged, “as soon as you c-can.”
“I can do that today. I have to head back into town and pay the Generator his bill,” she replied coyly.
Grant rolled his eyes a bit.
“Greedy sumbitch that Bartholomew,” he said, “tackin’ on those extra fees.”
“Exactly,” Jenny smiled in reply, thankful he hadn’t realized the bill was late. “Back to Mr. Johnston; he is a busy man. Should I call ahead and set up an appointment?”
“No, no, you shouldn’t have to,” Grant responded. “He and I had a c-conversation a while back, as things started to go downhill for me. All ya should need to tell him is that it’s time.”
Jenny was worried that what she suspected he was talking about was correct. Judging by his manner and face, it was.
“You… aren’t giving up are you?” she asked, not waiting for an answer before raising her voice. “You can’t!”
“I ain’t givin’ up Jen! It’s just the truth of things. C-cold, hard fact. Ya know as well as I do that if I’m not here the authorities from that shit-hole town will come collectin’ by hook or crook. There ain’t no male around to inherit the property – not that it’s right – so the bank’ll just take…”
Heart sinking, tears started running down Jenny’s cheeks.
“… take everything,” Grant sighed; his chest rattled. “Have more faith in yourself, Jen. Your future is gonna be fine. Mr. Johnston will make sure things are okay.”
“But I can’t do all this on my own,” she said, almost pleading.
“I have no doubt that ya c-can,” he replied. “Ya always find a way to overcome the difficulties situations present. Hittin’ bottom in this life means ya can’t get any worse, only better. Remember that.”
After thinking things to herself, Jenny reluctantly bobbed her head.
“Well then, that’s settled,” Grant said, finishing off his soup. His spoon clanged against the bowl. “So, speakin’ of the shit-hole, did any blowhards give ya trouble today?”
“When don’t they?” she answered, telling him of her encounter with Jebidiah Crow and his ilk.
Grant didn’t like hearing that his granddaughter was cornered and felt up, especially by authorities that were gladly misusing their bought positions of power. His withered fists balled up.
“I managed to handle myself,” she said, noticing Grant’s stressed features. “Jebidiah didn’t like having his arm twisted and the business end of my pistol in his ear. Especially by a woman in front of his other men.”
“Good girl,” Grant replied proudly, fists relaxing. “Sounds like you won’t have any trouble on your return trip then.”
“No, I should be fine,” she replied, “although I did see something a little out of the ordinary on my way back earlier.”
Creases formed between Grant’s anxious eyes.
“What was it?”
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it was a raider, up high on an outcrop of rock down by the creek.”
“This c-close to a settlement? Ya sure it wasn’t just one of the town hooligans?”
“I can’t say I’ve ever seen him before. Looking at him through the spyglass was quite a sight,” she said, describing his shirtless and muscular body, bald head, and colorful tattoos. She almost sounded infatuated, her cheeks ever so slightly pink. “I couldn’t see his face though. He had on some kind of gas mask, but there was a bushy beard sticking out the bottom of it. From what I could see, though, he was nothing at all like the men in town…”
“And by the sound of it nothin’ at all like most raiders,” Grant snipped. “Don’t get all dewy-eyed, Jen. If he were a raider that means he’s nothin’ but trouble. If he ain’t one, the fact he’s all gussied up with tattoos means just the same.”
Jenny had a few more fleeting thoughts about the man, then slid back to reality.
“Assuming he was a raider; why would he be that close? Scouting?”
“I don’t know,” Grant said, a fit of coughing starting again. “But like all vermin, where there’s one, there’s more. This ain’t nothing good, of that I’m sure.”
This world’s equivalent of a cow, the bo is the primary source of both meat (beef) and milk.