Derelict

In Desolate Wastelands at Night

Chapter Nine

Wyatt awoke with a sharp pain in his ribs. He had been kicked. Again. It was nothing unusual, for pain was a familiar and near-constant companion.

"Get on your feet you miserable Speck. By the Visitors, you're a pathetic waste of resources," growled a looming face. It was Kemp, angry and spewing venom. "You don't get to laze around while everyone's hard at it. And I'm certainly not gonna serve you like you're a king!" Wyatt realized now the source of the pain.

He fumbled, trying to rise. Sometime during the night, he had managed to slump to the ground and sit cross-legged, leaning and balancing himself against the pole which enabled him to catch a few moments of sleep. His legs were numb, having themselves fallen asleep and were now refusing to respond quickly enough to appease Kemp. Wyatt braced himself, knowing more pain would follow.

He staggered to his feet, amazed he could do so with no feeling below his hips and without receiving another kick to the ribs or cuff to the head. Around him the camp was breaking in the glow of the morning light. Draft animals were being led to their wagons and carts, children and adults bustled about the camp with quiet, efficient movements, stowing equipment, securing loads, and shoveling any remaining debris over the rails to the surface below. Kemp stood before him holding a small bowl and cup which explained why no further punishment had been administered.

"Even Specks get to eat once a day around here it seems. Total waste of food, if you ask me." Kemp thrust the bowl and cup Wyatt's hands. "Go on. Take it. The Touri told me to secure you, not get rid of you."

Wyatt looked at the bowl. It contained a pasty looking glob of an unidentifiable pale yellow substance. He assumed it to be food. His eyes rose from the bowl to Kemp who stood looking on in obvious disgust.

"You can eat or you can starve. It really don't matter to me. All I care about is keeping you secure and alive until the Touri returns. Then you're his problem."

Holding the cup, which contained water, in one hand and the bowl of paste in the other, Wyatt was left wondering by what means would he be able to eat. Another glance at Kemp told him he had but a few seconds to take action or the choice would be made for him. He raised the bowl to his face and sniffed the blob with some trepidation. It seemed odorless and he took a tiny bit in his mouth, recognizing it to be a mixture of ground grains; wheat, barley, and some corn, all cooked together into a bland lump of glue.

"You got about ten seconds to choke it down Speck. And you ain't gettin' any more today."

Wyatt didn't doubt him and he wolfed it down, ending up with as much smeared on his face as he was able to swallow. He washed it down with the with the warm water, wishing for more to drink but not daring to ask. It wasn't much and not nearly enough to satisfy, but it was far better than starving.

Kemp snatched the cup and bowl away. "Disgusting," he said. "You're nothing but a disgusting pig. You eat like one and smell even worse."

Wyatt hung his head in defeat. He was tired of this, bone weary and ready to give up. This was no way to live and he didn't want to. Every inch of his body ached, most of it covered in bruises and crusty blood. Some remote part of his mind was shouting that his bladder was about to burst but he couldn't form a plan of action about how to deal with it. To speak was to be punished, something he needed no more of. No one thought or even cared of any needs he may have, for he was a Speck. Then, he realized a warm stream was running down his leg and pooling around his feet. Upon reflection he further realized it didn't matter and he didn't care. He couldn't sink any lower or be any more miserable than this.

The wagon lurched to a start, jerking his neck and digging the leather deeply into the already chaffed skin around his neck. Stumbling and choking, he struggled to match the pace set by the oxen, pulling at the leather to allow freer breathing. The leather did seem less constrictive today, he noticed after a few moments. Sweat. The moisture from my sweat has softened and allowed the leather to stretch. But it was small comfort when the sun fully crested the eastern ridge and the inferno raged once again. Within minutes the air went from barely tolerable to blistering, so hot it hurt to breathe.