There are surprisingly a few who remain with the sunmad ghosts watching the two convoys depart—one heading north, the other south to avoid a gang of scavengers patrolling the path to Outpost Theta. The mood is somber, and within minutes, one of the convoys has already disappeared into the dunes, blending with the shimmering sands.
The remaining group grows uneasy, even though they’re among the wildest and most foolhardy, if not outright suicidal of the sand nomads. Of the hundreds, only 12 stayed behind, carrying their loads in synth bags designed for hauling sand. Among them are 10 sandbreathers who have decided to test themselves against the scavengers.
"Everyone ready?" Lisin calls out.
"No. What’s the plan?" asks the largest of the newcomers.
"Who among you is a fighter?" Doxy asks as the sandbreathers form a half-circle, facing the outnumbered newbies.
No one steps forward, eyeing each other warily.
"Who among you is willing to fight?" Doxy repeats, hands on hips, her gaze sharp as she sizes them up.
Still, no one moves, frustrating Doxy as she scans their faces, searching for any sign of resolve. "Did you not volunteer for the most dangerous route, and yet you're not willing to fight? No plans of your own?" She steps into the proudest-looking one’s face, mocking him.
He swings at her abdomen, but she dodges easily, twisting his arm in a brutal grip.
In an instant, he’s screaming, tapping her shoulder gently as she controls him forcing him to tiptoe in pain. She pulls him this way and that until he’s on his knees, teary-eyed, before releasing his arm. "Say thank you, Aunty Doxy, for giving me my arm back."
A vein bulges in his flushed face. Doxy grins cruelly.
"Thank you for my arm," he mutters, stumbling away to seek comfort in the group, only to find fear reflected in their eyes. Around them stands a menacing pack of sandbreathers, wrapped in desert garb so seamlessly they appear as second skin, armed only with their bare hands and sharp predatory eyes.
"What is this?" Someone croaks, lifting his heat-rod.
He’s swiftly pulled forward, bent over with his arm twisted, and a foot presses on his neck until a crackling pop echoes. A small fart escapes from the now moaning figure face down in the sand.
"You are sheep," Lorsa declares, pointing at the 12 nomads not sandbreathers.
"None of you can fight. You’re slow, burdened with loads too ambitious for you to carry long. Are you sand mules or warriors who kill scavengers?" Lorsa's presence demands their attention, and no one can meet her gaze even though her dainty figure had previously seemed harmless.
Who are these people? the regular nomads wonder, trembling before what seems a pack of predators wearing human flesh.
Is it too late to catch up with the others? they think, regretting their choice to stay and be bait.
"What my friends are trying to understand is why you’ve chosen to stay and fight the scavengers with us. You clearly don’t value your chances of survival very highly," Lisin adds, noting their lack of gear and provisions—one isn’t even wearing a rebreather, blood staining his lips.
An old man, still spry, spits and cocks his head defiantly. "I just wanted to see how you’d do it. I heard you say we’d ambush the scavenger group, and by the gods, I saw you meant it. They’ve taken much from me, and I want to see their blood." He spits again, standing tall, bracing for a gut punch.
Doxy, Lisin, and Lorsa all grin.
"Good. The plan is simple."
----------------------------------------
Crackling. "Nothing on my side of the fence. Over."
Pieter rolls his eyes, grabbing his radio. "Kid, we’re glorified fence posts, relax. They’ll walk right to us. Over." He checks the dunes through his magnifiers. "Nothing on my side either." With a sigh, he leans back under the shade of his vehicle.
Crackling. "Uncle Sam, Uncle Sam! I see them!"
"What?"
"Two kilometers out, coming this way. I count... 12, no 14... 20 sandmen."
"Roger. I see them now. Good job, kid. I’ll call it in."
----------------------------------------
Twenty kilometers inward, in a loose circle of desert vehicles, the scavenger camp buzzes with bored merriment as they wait for their payday.
"Was it a good idea getting here so early? What if the storm comes back?" Vasper grumbles.
"You’re always complaining," Vincent snaps, pacing around the camp, scowling.
"I just... I put everything into this trip. If it doesn’t work out—"
"How much are you in for this time, you degenerate ingrate?"
Vasper frowns. "No need for name-calling. It’s an investment, like you said. I invested in us."
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Vincent gives him a look of disdain. "Do you know why I’m mean to you, Vasper?"
"My dear Vincent, I knew you'd realize your bad ways and come to appreciate me—"
"It’s because you’re a fuck-up. Worse, you’re a spectacular fuck-up, almost like it’s intentional."
"How dare you! I’m just the right amount of fuck-up to be useful without being vital to any operation."
"Exactly," Vincent says, eyeing Vasper's slouched posture, bowed head, and thin frame. "You’re always around, annoying everyone, but never an actual threat."
"I don’t like the way you're looking at me," Vasper mutters following behind.
The camp is made up of 30 rough men and women, armed with outdated soon to be demolished pee shooters—deadly to the unprepared but generations behind the latest arms. Dirty, desperate, with little to no prospects outside a life of crime, they sit gambling and drinking in the shade of tents and vehicles.
Crackling. "Boss, a scout spotted a convoy of sandmen."
"How many?"
"About 20, maybe fewer." the scout reports.
Vincent considers. His people are bored. A little action might be worth it, but chasing sandmen into the deep desert could mean losing vehicles and equipment. It’s only worth it if they have full sandbags, 20 people can't be carrying enough sand to make the trip worth it.
"Let them come to us."
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The nomads spot the scavenger patrol long before being seen but walk straight toward them. Nervously, the regular nomads follow the confident sandbreathers, silent in their submission though likely marching to their deaths.
"They must have a plan," they whisper amongst each other.
"Even if the sun’s fried their brains, surely they’re not knowingly walking into a trap without a plan," they hope.
The small convoy heads directly toward Outpost Theta, crossing the boundary known as the Fence, where lighter desert sands give way to solid firmer ground where even scrubs may grow. The scavenger scouts retreat wanting to be spotted creating dust clouds rising around the sandmen, herding them exactly where the scavengers want them.
From there the 'chase' is on as the scouts herd them from behind.
"That’s far enough," a voice says as they’re surrounded by four vehicles. "Drop the sand, and you’ll leave here alive." A short, ugly scavenger steps forward, emphasizing his point with a car-mounted repeater rifle.
All 20 sandmen drop their bags without straightening, making themselves small as they raise their hands in surrender. Rough hands pull them apart, kicks and rifle butts meting out cruelty to any who look defiant.
Within minutes, the sandmen are bound, and over a ton of crystal sand is loaded into the scavenger vehicles. A heroic amount considering only 20 people were hurling it, ''see that, we'll be in booze and whores for weeks with this hail alone boy!''
Vasper’s team is greeted like heroes as they return to camp, celebratory shots fired into the air.
Doxy, Lorsa, and two other women are pulled toward Vincent’s tent amidst jeers. Vincent eyes the captives, focusing on the weakest, oldest among them. "Kill him."
A shot rings out, a skull cracks, and the sandmen whimper in fear.
"My name is Vincent of the Gold River Organization. Your lives and labour now belong to us," he declares as rough hands yank the prisoners to their feet. "Where are the rest of you? There’s always more out in the sands." His gaze lands on one of the more defiant captives.
Anger calm, zealotry dispassion, depression excitement, life and death. Vincent's world is still as he drowns in the dicotomy of the myriad minds behind the eyes he finds himself falling into. Lies truths failures triumphs existence and erasure, everything is everything else. Vincent as he stares into the man’s eyes. Then, pain explodes in his gut, folding him over. His reflexes kick in, reaching for his pistol, but his hand is twisted, and a blow to the face sends him into the sand spitting teeth.
"What the fuck?"
A metal rod to his temple silences him.
*
Lisin POV
The Scavanger scouts try keep 'hidden' but we saw them long before they saw us and we walk straight towards them to the discomfort of the brave or foolish stranglers we've taken. Back bowed we 10 sandbreathers carry our sand while the others mostly pull slieghs over the sand for easier transport. Their 'ambush' is obvious and we walk right into it to guns and bathons pointed at us to sneering and cheering by preditory humans stealing from those weaker, scum all of them.
We are abused, beaten robbed tied up and mocked but then led to through the Wet Desert for miles their camp minus our burdens. All this time we subtly keep the sandbreathing to keep energy levels high keeping the power within ourselves as we're deposited between a group of baying predatators salivating like we're food for them to devour. Discipline is kept with not one person amongst us attacking too early even as one of the stranglers is shot dead right in the mists of us.
Our greatest advantage is that we're underestimated and so guns are carried with lacking discipline, the rope binding us is already old and fraying, the people surrounding us are mostly clump together in close proximity.
Without warning we lift our heads each sandbreather locking eyes with a person closest or carrying the most threat which has my eyes connected to their scowling leader, Vincent. The moment our eyes meet I push as much of my presence through my eyes into his while simultaneously pulling his attention into my eyes such that we 'see' each other. He looks deep into me as i look deep into him but my advantage is that in me are a myriad other minds and perspectives that pull him into drowning in my eyes. Almost in symmetry the 7 of us approach 7 of them locked into our gazes unmoving and we disarm them.
''Hey what's going on?''
''Boss, what's this?
''Stop right there. Argg...''
Metro vaults over the down sandmen to knock two scavengers down.
Ramie steps forward crushing the groin of his captured with a knee.
Torek whips his captured about to use as a shield as he steps forward.
Nitro crushes a trachea before grabbing a gun from his captor now captive.
A gun fires with screaming and shouting, people scatter about as the controlled chaos starts going wild at the seams.
We attack those momentariry frozen by our eyes first, with me gut punching Vincent hard stunning him before pulling out his pistol and whipping it centre mass into his face. He goes down with a spray of blood with those Scavangers not frozen by our eyes frozen from their own so easily overcome. The first counter shot is from Lorsa taking out one of the younger ones aiming a rifle from behind a vehicle.
The ladies come out of Vincent's tent unbound and shooting like professionals. The guns drown put the notices nd within seconds silence pervades the camp, all threats are down.
"Everyone alright?" Doxy calls from her vantage covering Doxy's back.
I look about eyes connecting with ..., we're all good.
Nodding I lower my stollen weapon to look at all the downed scavengers, some of the sandmen are still making themselves small posturing as the serfs they were almost made into. "We're all good, let's tie them up and be on our way to the outpost."
Like that we do something I've never heard done before, we collect all our diamond sand, their tents, their firearms and tools. Most of them are on their Last legs, rusted, outdated sacrificed to the desert in hopes they don't breakdown quickly but they'll take us as far as the outpost at least.
"Everyone move out!"
We leave the living scavangers tied together with a sand-water flusk and a few rebreathers, maybe they'll make it or maybe they'll die here. Either way their fight is with the desert now.