In the wasteland, trust is as precious as clean water and as fragile as a pre-End glass bauble. I have seen it built painstakingly over years, only to shatter in an instant. The aftermath of broken trust is a wound that festers, poisoning not just individuals, but entire communities.
There was a settlement I visited, nestled in the lee of a great red dune, where trust had been the very foundation of their survival. They shared everything - food, water, ammunition - believing that their collective strength would see them through. Then came the revelation that their leader had been hoarding supplies, preparing to abandon them at the first sign of real trouble.
The reaction was swift and terrible. Suspicion spread like wildfire, neighbor turning against neighbor. Within days, what had been a thriving outpost became a ghost town, its inhabitants scattered to the unforgiving winds.
So we must trust, but trust wisely. And above all, we must remember that trust, once broken, can be rebuilt - but it requires effort from both the betrayer and the betrayed.
In the end, it is not the absence of betrayal that defines us, but how we choose to move forward in its wake.
- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George
“I told you not to even think about it,” snapped November.
The Librarian wheeled on her. “What? You even discussed this? Of all the stupid, irresponsible -”
“You’re blaming me?” said November, stung. “I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“I saw a chance and I took it,” interrupted Scout hotly. “Everyone was running about and shouting, so I just dove into the tent and took it. It fell off the passenger seat while we were driving - I had both hands on the wheel and I couldn’t grab it in time. I’m sorry, but I can fix it!”
“All that knowledge, lost,” moaned the Librarian, his head in his hands,” because of one impulsive child…”
“I’m not a child!” Scout yelled. “And I’m telling you, I can fix it!”
“Really,” said November, nastily. “This isn’t a truck or a big gun. How exactly do you plan to fix the magic book we don’t understand?”
“It’s just the screen and button that’s broken!” Scout snapped back. ”See?” She trailed her hand over the Book’s surface and it lit up with patches of fuzzy color, distorted but still nearly identifiable.
“And I’m sure we can just pick up a new one in town for a few bullets,” sneered November. “No problem.”
“I know where we can find one!” Scout shouted.
“Where?” November bellowed, punching the dashboard in fury.
“In the City!” Win went dead silent in the aftermath of Scout’s cry. They all looked at each other.
“I need to take a walk,” muttered November.
“And I need a drink,” said the Librarian, heading to the back of the Winnebago.
Scout looked at Josiah, tears in her eyes. “I can fix it! You believe me, right?”
Josiah gazed back at her, his eyes red-rimmed. “What?” he mumbled.
Scout started. “The book? You believe I can fix it, right?”
“I killed an innocent man,” he whispered.
Scout felt suddenly sick to her stomach. She had been so completely wrapped up in her own situation that she hadn’t even noticed Josiah hadn’t been speaking during their argument. “No, that wasn’t your fault. There was no way you could have known that wasn’t a real Duster!”
Josiah’s face firmed, doubt and anguish wiped away. “My path is clear to me now. Brother, I would ask that you be my second.” He spun his left-hand gun from its holster and offered it to the Librarian, who was pouring himself a second drink.
The Librarian spluttered, staring at the polished handle of the immaculate weapon. “Your second? What do you —” A horrible realization struck him. “—no, you can’t be serious.”
“My second,” Josiah said firmly. “I will place my gun to my temple and give unto myself the Lead Mercy. If my nerve fails me, or if the shot does not kill me outright, I would ask you to finish what I cannot.”
“No,” said the Librarian, sickened. “You cannot ask me to do that - no!”
Josiah did not seem to have heard him. “We will do it at dawn. I would like to greet the sun one last time.” He pushed open Win’s door and walked calmly out on to the grit.
November was standing a few feet away, staring angrily at the horizon. “What is it now?”
"Josiah’s going to shoot himself!” yelped Scout, their earlier argument forgotten in this new crisis.
“What?” said November, incredulously. “Everyone take a minute.” She turned to face Josiah. “You’re going to kill yourself? Over a Book?”
Josiah turned his calm, fatalistic gaze on her. “I have failed to bring the Man Who Walks On Air to justice. And I have killed an unarmed man, and perhaps unleashed a horde of Dusters on an innocent town.”
Scout broke in. “We haven’t found Saint Gabriel yet, but that doesn’t mean we won’t! And the circus was a freak accident! You were acting to save people!”
“When a man speaks, it can be taken back,” said Josiah calmly. “When a gun speaks, it is irrevocable.”
The Librarian stared into the face of the man who had become their friend, unwilling to touch the gun that he had been offered.
Protocol, whispered the grit. Complexity. Hierarchy.
He was seized by inspiration. “Scout makes a good point. You feel you have failed, but in neither case is the matter clear. Saint Gabriel might still be uncovered. And you fired to save a crowd of innocents, with no knowledge of the true state of affairs when you pulled the trigger. I refuse to act as your second until we have consulted a another Brother of the Eastern Wood and had him render judgment on your conduct. I am unfit to do so.”
Josiah stared at the grit-coated ground. “And where would you find such a Brother?”
“At the Glass Castle, of course,” said the Librarian. “As you well know, often Brothers travel from far and wide to study our lore on gunfighting. Even if there is not one currently in residence, I’m sure they will have had recent contact and be able to give us direction.” He sighed. “Put your gun away, Josiah. I know you see this as the only way for you to reclaim your honor, but this have been uncertain times and you have acted with imperfect information. I beg you, my friend, seek counsel from another from your Order. As you say, the speech of a gun is irrevocable. Do not let it speak your death until we are sure it is deserved.”
Silence hung heavy for a long moment. Then Josiah nodded once, slowly, and holstered his weapon. “You speak wisdom. And as for this Book, our duty is clear. It could help many people and it is our responsibility to try and repair it.”
“You’re just saying that because you don’t care if you live or die,” muttered November. “Going into a city is suicide.”
“Not necessarily,” said the Librarian, relieved Josiah’s gun was safely away. ”I have heard tell of a gang called the Wired Boys who make their home in the outskirts of the City and raid its heart for supplies. My Order has even traded with them. If anyone has the equipment that Scout needs, it will be them.”
****
The fact that one of their own had been so determined to end his own life seemed to broker some kind of fragile peace regarding the earlier disagreements over the Book.
As they made camp, Scout and November avoided talking, and the Librarian was more than a little unsteady on his feet. Josiah went about his duties with grim determination.
Discord. Conflict. Uncertainty, whispered the grit to the Librarian. Humans are complex creatures, he thought back. Take myself, he thought looking to the bottle in his hand. A man who lives for his mind and intellect and yet seeks every opportunity to deaden them.
“All right,” November said heavily, as she sat down by the fire. “Let’s hear more about this fool’s errand.”
They all looked expectedly at the Librarian. “Well, I haven’t met the Wired Boys myself, unfortunately.”
“Have you at least been to a city before?” said Scout doubtfully.
“I have…read accounts from other Brothers who have.”
November threw her arms in the air. “Oh great!”
For a moment, it seemed like the tension in the air would boil over again, and then Josiah said firmly. "We have made our decision. Any guidance, even second-hand, is welcome.”
All was still for a moment. “Well,” said the Librarian. “General consensus is that cities were the worst hit by the grit. Whether this was because they were deliberate targets, or perhaps the grit was drawn to their advanced technology…or some other reason entirely, remains the subject of much debate. On the positive, the Old One’s ‘sky scrapers’ were so tall that many of them still protrude from the grit, which means we should have plenty of cover.
On the negative, they are often homes to hordes of Dusters. So stealth is essential.”
“What condition are the Dusters in?” asked November.
The Librarian frowned. “Condition?”
“Well, when I go out hunting, there are Dusters which are fresh and could almost pass for people, and there are others who are barely more than grit, skin and bone. Seems to me,” she said, warming to her topic. “If no one goes into the cities, then the Dusters don’t get to replenish their ranks. Means they should be in a bad state. Slower. More prone to break down like a grit-stuffed engine.” She glanced at Scout, then looked away. “No offense.”
“Okay,” said Scout slowly. “So there are going to be more Dusters, but they might be slower and weaker?”
November nodded. “But they’ll have the numbers by far. Stealth is our best defense. Even a fresh Duster has worse eyesight and hearing than a live human. If these are far gone, we might be able to get past them.”
Scout looked over her shoulder. “What about Win? Should we leave him…” she struggled to get the words out,”…behind?”
November shook her head. “No, we’ll need transpo if things go south and we need to evac. But anything you can do to quiet his - its - engine, I suggest you do, and we take it very slow. And we keep Rattler off so the clicking doesn’t stir the Dusters. If these Wired Boys really do live in the outskirts, then maybe we can make contact without setting off the horde.”
The Librarian took a swig. “Then we have a plan, my friends.” Their responses were desultory at best.
****
It took two slow days of travel - often delayed by Scout stopping to rummage in Win, muttering about ‘exhaust mufflers’ - to reach the City. But when they did, it shocked them into silence. Even Win and Rattler seemed to mute their mechanical noises in awe.
“I never imagined something could be so…big,” breathed Scout.
The dark spires of the city spread out beneath them, grit-stained and ancient.
“It’s like you said,” November glanced at the Librarian. “Cover. Lots of it. Okay,” she said sternly. “From now on, we run dark. No one talks unless they need to. Rattler off and we drive as slow as we can without stalling. No - I repeat no - weapons’ fire.” She snagged the Librarian’s bottle. “And no more drinking. Last thing we need is you falling on your face.”
The Librarian spluttered in outrage.
“I said no more talking,” she glowered.
****
The silence inside Win was so thick, it seemed to strangle the breath from their lungs. Every tiny sound from Win’s engine made them wince.
Slowly, the shadows of the great buildings fell over them and they entered the city proper. At a nod from November, Scout turned the Winnebago left, starting what would become a great spiral around the city. If the Wired Boys truly lived on the outskirts, they didn’t want to risk plunging for the city center and missing them entirely.
Gazing out of the vehicle’s window at the marvelously tall buildings, November began to notice things that didn’t fit with the timeless spires. Planks laid between buildings. Rope tied around handholds. Painted arrows on walls. She tapped Scout’s and pointed.
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Scout nodded. Then stiffened. Waving her hand frantically, she pointed upwards. November leaned still further out of the window, gazing up, and froze. A small black shape flew between two buildings.
There were no birds in the wastelands. Aided by the grit, even a mild breeze would strip the flesh and feathers from them. November brought her scope to her eye and beheld a small device with whirling rotors, hovering impossibly above them. She’d seen drawings in the Old Man’s books.
She leaned in close and whispered in Scout’s ear. “Drone.”
The little machine seemed to twitch impatiently in the air and then took off down a street in the opposite direction to their intended path. Scout stared after it, and looked back at November.
November nodded.
****
Scout struggled to keep the little shape in sight without over-revving the engine. She wasn’t helped by the fact that half her brain seemed determined to spend itself figuring out the workings of the small drone. Was it entirely remote-controlled? Or did it have an on-board AI? Maybe just basic collision-detection to stop it getting too close to hazards…
November glared at her and Scout realized her foot had become a little too heavy on the pedal. ‘Sorry’ she mouthed.
Finally, the drone flew in to roost in one of the many sky scrapers. This particular one was different in two notable ways.
One was its entirely flat roof and the rope and plank lift being carefully lowered to the street. The other was the bizarrely-bedecked people on the lift, and the spears they wielded.
The strange people drew closer, still in absolute silence. They were ‘Wired’ indeed, Scout realized, with old cabling threaded through their skin and ear-lobes.
November slowly brought her rifle down in line with the leader. The Wired Boys froze and shook their heads urgently, then gestured at the lift.
The four of them exchanged glances from within the confines of the Winnebago. Then November shouldered her rifle and very deliberately drew her skinning knife. Josiah also produced a large knife from somewhere beneath his cloak. The Librarian gingerly picked up the shotgun they had taken from Haven and hefted it as an improvised club. And Scout?
Scout had the Button, for all the good it did her.
They emerged from the Winnebago and the two groups circled in a careful dance. The Wired Boys approached Win, questing hands out, grabbing, touching and exploring in a way that left Scout feeling decidedly uncomfortable. At least the Infinite Book was safe, tucked in a cubby behind a set of tomes that even the Librarian deemed ‘a little dry’.
Meanwhile, the four of them approached the lift. Two Wired Boys had remained on it and as they boarded, they tugged sharply twice on the rope leading up to the roof. And the lift creaked slowly upwards.
They flinched at every creak of wood or slip of rope, but the Wired Boys’ casual confidence gave them some small comfort until they reached the roof.
And a deep voice said, “Welcome to the Roof of the World.”
****
It seemed deafening to hear a normal voice after such silence. The Librarian fought the instinctive urge to shush it.
The man who had spoken wore a great coat over a bare black chest. Wires threaded across his chest, through the skin above his pectoral muscles and curved around his neck into a strange, disjointed crown. He carried a long silver scepter with a mechanical bauble at its head, and spun it idly as he spread his arms, as if inviting their stares.
“I…am Mr. Thunder,” he said, in his deep mellifluous voice. “Leader of the Wired Boys. Quite a wonder you have brought us.”
“Win is not for sale,” said Scout sharply.
“No?” he sighed. “How disappointing. Are you not disappointed, Boys?” The group of spear-wielding men flanking him shook their weapons and jeered.
“Strikes me,” said November slowly. “That your spears have the advantage down below, where the Dusters roam. But I don’t see any Dusters up here.” She unslung her rifle deliberately. “The man to my left is a gun-saint.” Josiah tipped his hat. “You know what that means?”
Mr. Thunder smiled a bright white smile. “It means that we are all friends and should treat each other with…mutual respect. What is your name, my friend?”
“November,” she said. “My friends are Scout, Josiah and the Librarian.”
Mr. Thunder turned with his bright smile to the Librarian. “Oh, another travelling Brother seeking written wisdom in the ruins! We see a few of your kind every year. Some of them even make it out again.”
The Librarian shifted his grip on the shotgun in a way he hoped straddled the line between competently threatening and diplomatic. Judging from November’s glance, it did not. “Actually, we’re not looking for books. My friend Scout needs a device from you.”
Scout cleared her throat. “An 11-inch touchscreen interface. Standard configuration and adapters.”
Mr. Thunder started. “Very few machines still working that can use a touchscreen. You must have made quite the find!”
“If so, it’s no business of yours,” she said defiantly. “So do you have one or not?”
“I might,” he allowed. “But it’ll cost.”
“We have .50 cal ammunition to spend,” said November coolly. “I’m sure we can spend it…one way or another.”
There was a long pause. Then Mr. Thunder laughed. “I like you, my new friends! I like your boxy little car with the big gun, and I like that you’re my kind of crazy!”
He raised his arms. “Drink some engine juice with me and let us be merry!”
****
Engine juice tasted as foul as its name suggested. Everybody choked down a cup, except for the Librarian, who had two, earning the grudging respect of the Wired Boy serving them.
“So how does this work,” growled November, her throat still burning. “Do you have a stash somewhere? Do we go to collect it, or do you bring it here?”
“No, no!” Mr. Thunder said. “There is a way to these things. First, we drink engine juice to show your fortitude. Then you do the Devil’s Run, to show your courage. After that, you will be considered a member of our family, and we will give you whatever you ask.” He chuckled. “For a fair price, of course. Say twenty of those fine .50 cal rounds.”
“And what, exactly, is the Devil’s Run?” November asked guardedly.
He laughed. “Nothing could be simpler. You see those arrows painted on the buildings below, at street level? They looked where he pointed and there were large red arrows painted on the buildings. One of the arrows pointed sideways, out of sight. You follow the arrows around in a circle,” he gestured, describing a rough circuit of perhaps five blocks with his finger, “and return to the starting point.”
“And how does that test our courage?” returned November.
He laughed still louder. “Because you will not be the only runners!”
****
The other Wired Boys were still admiring Win when they were lowered back to street level. With great ceremony, a Wired Boy lowered a rope necklace around their heads, holding a sheet of faded paper each. On each sheet was drawn a seemingly random number.
“What is this for?” Scout whispered to the Boy. He looked over his shoulder at his fellows on the lift and then whispered back, “Your race number. It is tradition.”
The Boy hastened to join his companions on the lift and they were hauled upwards, leaving the four of them alone on the street with Win.
Mr. Thunder adjusted something on the bauble on the end of his scepter and then spoke into it.
“NOW YOU SEE WHY I AM CALLED MR THUNDER!”
His voice seemed to come from all around them. Nathaniel’s huckster roar had been the merest whisper by comparison - this felt like a physical blow to the ears!
And then, as the echoes faded in the air around them, they heard the Dusters coming.
Mr. Thunder beamed. “AND THEY’RE OFF!”
****
The scrambling mass of red-covered figures burst onto the streets behind them. They were too many to count. November had been right, many of them were broken, shambling things, but there were still enough capable of a proper run to sweep over them like a wave.
“Go! Go! Go!” November shouted, jolting them out of their shock. They took off towards the nearest red arrow, feet hammering on the grit.
From the first turn, it was already clear that the Librarian was in a bad way. He was older, and unfit, and they could all hear his wheezes as he struggled to keep pace. “Go on!” he choked out. “Fix the Book! Leave me!”
Josiah dropped back and scooped him smoothly up onto his shoulder. “Silence, Brother. I will not hear of it.”
November brought up her rifle and fired, taking out some of the Dusters as they rounded the corner and dashed towards the two men.
They move…and the rifle moves…they move…and the rifle moves…
Dusters dropped one by one as she fired, but she was buying them mere seconds.
Josiah and the Librarian reached her and Scout and they turned back to their desperate run. Another sign, another corner.
Josiah was perhaps the fittest of them, excepting maybe November, but even he could not maintain the same pace with the Librarian over his shoulder. Slowly they were losing ground.
After sign, another corner.
The Dusters were close enough to hear their snarls now.
Another sign…another corner…a dead end. A giant wall marked with a huge red X. The street in front of them was filled with bones.
****
Scout felt sick to her stomach, staring at the horrible, massive, unfair wall. She reached into her pocket and pushed the Button. For all the good it would do - Win would never reach them in time. But maybe Rattler could avenge them on the wretched Wire Boys.
In the distance, she heard the low booming of Rattler starting up as the Dusters rounded the corner…and stopped.
November brought up her rifle and Scout frantically shook her head. She could see the nearest Duster clearly now. Its eye sockets were empty and grit poured from them in crimson tears. November has been right. These Dusters were indeed far gone. So far gone their eyes had rotted in their sockets, despite the preserving influence of the grit.
The Dusters cocked their heads curiously, bare meters from the four of them. Then they turned their backs and started running towards the sound of Rattler firing.
A minute or so later, they heard the first Wired Boys scream.
****
November wouldn’t let anybody move from the alley until ten minutes after the last gunshot. Then they slowly picked their way back to the start of the Devil’s Race.
The grim tableau was easy enough to read. The Wired Boys had descended from their rooftop to raid Win while the Duster horde was distracted. Some bodies were shattered as if by massive hammers - those were obviously the first caught out in the open when Rattler went online. Others had obviously been caught when the Dusters returned. Those bodies were hard to look at.
Distantly, November heard Scout retching behind her.
“This must be how the Wired Boys do -did- business,” the Librarian said. “Trade for small items, but if something too rare or too valuable comes along, send the owners to certain death on the ‘Devil’s Run’ and pick over it while the Dusters are away.” The Librarian shook his head. “No doubt that explains why only some of my Brothers returned from trade with them.”
“Look,” Josiah murmured, pointing upwards. A small figure was on still visible on top of the building. Mr. Thunder, all alone on the Roof of the World.
****
“What do we do?” said Scout, uncertainly. “I don’t fancy a ride up that lift with him up there.”
“He’ll come down,” November said confidently. “He’ll try and negotiate.”
The Librarian’s face creased in puzzlement. “How can you be so sure?
“I didn’t see proper food and drink up there, did you?” she said. “Just engine juice. They must keep the supplies with their cache. We can easily starve him out, and he knows it.”
“He could use that scepter again, call the Dusters back on us,” said Josiah.
November shook his head. “For all he knows, Rattler has enough ammo to kill the whole lot of them. And even if it doesn’t he’s going to call a mob of Dusters back to the only place he can safely reach the ground?” She glanced back at Scout curiously. “Do you think Rattler could - you know, handle that many?”
“I hope to never find out,” Scout said fervently.
The rope jerked. Mr. Thunder was coming down. November smiled in satisfaction, but she still trained her rifle on him every inch of the way.
“My friends!” Mr. Thunder said as the lift settled into place. “I am sure we can work an arrangement ou-” There was suddenly a revolver pressed hard against his forehead.
“This man vexes me,” Josiah said, conversationally. “I wish to shoot him.”
Mr. Thunder raised his hands in surrender. “I will do whatever my friends ask.”
“This is the deal,” November said coldly. “You lead us to your cache. You try anything, Josiah shoots you somewhere you’ll survive. You delay - same answer. You speak without being spoken to - same answer. He’s an expert, I’m sure he knows everywhere that hurts to shoot a man without killing him.”
“My best is twenty-two rounds,” Josiah said casually. “Then he bled out.” November wasn’t sure if he was bluffing.
“You do right by us and we let you go at the end,” she said. “We’re not cold-blooded killers.”
Oh yes, you are, chided the Old Man. No matter what new friends you’ve made.
Mr Thunder seemed about to speak, then thought better of it. He gave a tight nod.
****
The Wired Boys’ cache was a short walk from their building, in what had once been some kind of garage. Mr Thunder unlocked a padlock with a small key, and lifted the door upwards.
As the garage door creaked open, the group was met with a sight that took their breath away. The Wired Boys' cache was a veritable treasure trove of survival goods, a testament to years of trading, stealing, and looting.
Shelves lined the walls, stacked high with canned goods - some with faded labels from before the End, others clearly more recent preserves. Barrels of clean water stood in neat rows, their surfaces marked with dates and sources.
Medical supplies occupied another section - everything from basic first aid kits to more specialized equipment like IV bags and surgical tools. Bottles of antibiotics and painkillers, rare and precious in the wasteland, were locked in a separate cabinet.
Tech gear filled several workbenches - circuit boards, wires, and components salvaged from Old World devices. Solar panels leaned against one wall.
The Librarian wondered how many of those items had been legitimately traded, and how many were the property of those sent to their doom on the Devil’s Run.
November moved quickly and efficiently through the supplies, picking small, easily portable items while Josiah kept his gun on Mr Thunder. They’d already discussed what they could afford to fit on Win without slowing it down - and without displacing any books. The Librarian stood firm on that matter.
Scout was picking desperately through the tech, “No…no…no…yes!” With a smile of triumph she hefted what looked like just a plain, if thin, piece of glass. “An 11-inch touchscreen interface. Standard configuration and adapters.”
Mr Thunder made a small open-handed gesture and pointed at his throat.
“What? Yes, you may speak,” said the Librarian irritably.
“You have what you sought, my friends. Now what happens to me?”
“Simple,” said November. “You’ve got more food, supplies and survival gear here than most people will ever see in their lifetimes. Live.”
He shook his head. “But the Dusters will find me, I cannot -”
“Then pack a bag and run. Take as much water as you can carry and maybe you make it to the next settlement before it runs out. But you’re not setting one murdering foot in Win, and if you say another word to me, I’ll shoot you here and now.”
Mr Thunder hesitated for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped. They left him, standing there, rich beyond compare.
****
November drove Win cautiously out of the City. Scout had been showing her the basics, and she was busy hunkered over the Infinite Book with a tiny array of screwdrivers, too busy to drive herself.
November brought the Winnebago to an unsteady halt on a dune overlooking the city. Scout worked on.
They made camp. Scout worked.
They brought her some of the canned food, freshly-heated from the fire. Scout ignored it and she worked.
Eventually, they left her to it, sitting outside by the fire in thoughtful silence. November was going over a mental inventory of their recent acquisitions, thinking back to if she’d missed anything important at the cache.
The Librarian was glumly pondering what had happened to his fallen Brothers’ books - there had been none in the cache. He had to assume that the Wired Boys deemed them as worthless and abandoned them. He winced at the thought and took an extra long swig of liquor.
Eventually, Scout emerged from Win, the Book in her hands. Her smile was radiant. “What are you?” she asked the Book.
“I am a Mark VII personal data device,” it said calmly. “I search, store, retrieve and display data. Unfortunately connectivity is currently down so I am unable to conduct wider searches beyond what is currently downloaded. Please check with your service provider when connectivity will be restored.”
The Librarian’s eyes filled with tears like a parent united with a long-lost child.
“Fine work, indeed,” said Josiah, slapping the Librarian on the back. “Congratulations, Brother.”
November looked at Scout across the fire, smiled slightly and gave a small nod.
****
They whiled away hours under the stars, asking the Book questions and listening with fascination to its answers. Some answers they didn’t understand, and sometimes it would apologetically say that the answer was not with the information it had downloaded (whatever that meant) and once again plaintively request this mysterious ‘connectivity’.
But their wonder was not diminished. The finest moment was undoubtedly when the Librarian thoughtfully asked the Book how many books it held.
“Twenty-five thousand, three hundred and sixty seven,” it said helpfully. “Would you like them listed alphabetically by title or by author?” He sank to the grit, suddenly weak-kneed. “This will change…everything,” he gasped.
They drank and praised Scout’s cleverness, and November’s cunning, and Josiah’s courage and the Librarian’s wisdom. They drank until the Book complained it could no longer understand their slurred questions and prissily requested they enunciate more clearly.
This they took as a sign to bring the night’s festivities to an end. “Tomorrow,” cheered the Librarian, as Josiah helped him to bed, ”we start the drive to the Glass Castle.”
****
It was with a decided lack of grace that Scout half-rolled, half-fell out of bed. But no one heard - their snores filled the Winnebago.
Unsteadily, she climbed the ladder to Rattler and punched in a code. A blue light flashed orange. She swore quietly and punched in the code again, with greater care. A blue light turned red.
“This…this is S-Scout-Seventeen,” she mumbled.
The woman’s voice responded briskly. “Your signal is unclear, Scout-Seventeen. Are you injured?”
Scout was momentarily crippled by silent giggles, then shook her head to clear it.
“This is Scout-Seventeen. I am on-route to Site A,” she said calmly.