Grit

We call it grit now. And it is cruel and it is unpredictable. I can only imagine the panic when the first dead rose and the slowly-dawning horror as they realized the connection between the strange fine red powder and the newly-resurrected.

And yet there must have been doubters, because not every wound fouled by grit turned infected. And not every dead soul rose. Grit-storms would come out of nowhere, stripping the flesh from the bones of those unlucky enough to be caught in their path, and yet leave others unscathed. Some cities were buried to the tips of their tallest buildings and others left mostly clean. Grit-tainted food would sicken some and others would remain hearty.

And there were whispers of still stranger things. Rivers of grit that ran uphill, instead of down. Vast packs of Dusters who could not see through empty grit-stuffed sockets but tracked their prey by sound. Strange voices heard calling in the night where no one could be found.

And strangest of all, the tales in which the grit was not nemesis, but savior. The lost little girl who found her way home following a specter made of dust. The man who fell into quicksand and was gently expelled from it as if by a giant hand. The infected wounds that healed without a scar.

People being people, most of those fortunate enough to see the merciful side of the grit were lynched by their friends and neighbors afterwards.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

Haven was a small town, protected from Dusters by sheet metal walls and a simple fact - Dusters weren’t very bright. At some point in the past, some patient townies had painstakingly wound barbed-wire fence back and forth in an improvised maze at the town’s only entrance.

Whenever a large pack came by, they would inevitably ignore the flimsy metal walls - which would quickly fall if pressed by significant numbers - in favor of the welcoming entrance. And after a few turns, they would get caught up on the wire, making them easy prey for the town marksmen. Then later, the townies would wind their way through the maze with blades and baskets, and the town would eat well. It was a system that had served the town well for years.

It was not a system designed to accommodate a Winnebago.

November gritted her teeth as Scout jerked her way through a six-point turn at the maze entrance and said eventually, “Yeah, that’s not happening.”

Most of the town had already gathered at the other side of the maze to watch the spectacle and November could hear the frantic whine of Rattler as it jumped from target to target. After months of quiet trading and staying under the radar, often spending her nights making camp away from the town itself, it seemed she was about to lose her hard-won anonymity.

Scout jumped down from the driver’s seat. “Rattler, standard security protocol, please.” The auto-turret chirped in electronic relief and began to trace a perimeter around Win. The implied message to the townies was clear and November was forced to grudgingly admit the girl might have slightly more survival sense than had first appeared.

November re-assessed again as Scout snagged her jacket on the first turn of the maze. Unable to bear it any longer, she unhooked the other girl and stepped in front of her. “Follow me, and keep an eye on the bodies still hanging on the wire - sometimes people miss a few Dusters.”

In fact, the town militia had missed three, all of whom met a quick end at November’s knife and probably would have torn Scout to pieces. The townies murmured and whispered to each other as the pair emerged into the town proper.

“December, who’s your friend?” someone called.

November wasn’t good with crowds and her instinctive correction froze somewhere in her throat. Scout did not seem as inhibited.

“Her name is November, moron! And I’m Scout. I fix stuff and trade for salvage. Anybody wants to do business, we can do. Anybody tries to rip me off and they get turned into salsa.” The casual threat was almost more effective with the chipper delivery. “Mmm, salsa! Where’s good to eat around here?”

****

The Librarian stared from the crowd. He recognized the shape of the Winnebago and the weapon from old magazines - he tended to prefer the sort of camping magazine that featured the Winnebago’s ilk over the sort that featured the gun - they seemed to adore weapons to a degree which bordered on fetish. It had always puzzled the Librarian how the Old Ones, who lived in a time of such great peace, had been so fascinated by violence. Nowadays, with violence such a frequent feature of daily life, all anyone cared about a gun was whether it could shoot straight enough to put down a Duster and if the caliber was affordable.

A word began to roll around the Librarian’s mind. The word was ‘horsepower’. Engines were measured in horsepower, and if one’s actual horses had ended up feeding the locals, then surely an engine was a good replacement? A better one, even?

He hastened away towards his caravan, mentally tallying his ammunition.

****

There was no salsa, but that did not seem to dampen Scout’s spirits. Familiar now with the route of the maze, she wound her way back through it and back with a surprising speed, returning with a folding table and a leather bag from which were produced a array of well-worn but clearly well-maintained tools. November could not help taking mental inventory of them as potential weapons. The screwdrivers were mostly long enough to reach the brain if jammed somewhere soft and a few of the wrenches had enough heft to crack a skull.

Everything is a weapon, said the Old Man. And everything is war.

After a certain amount of hesitation, the townies started shuffling forwards the table, clutching grit-fouled weapons that wouldn’t fire or other trinkets. November noted approvingly that Scout had set her table up in clear view of the town entrance and well within the effective range of a Mark IV Argus Auto-Turret. Perhaps the girl was not quite as gormless as she had initially appeared.

“November!” said a voice cheerfully. Recognition stopped November’s hand half-way to her knife.

“Tobias,” she said flatly, turning to regard the lean boy, about her age who served as her best - indeed only - customer. Technically Tobias’s father, the owner of the local watering hole, was her customer, but the cook was rarely away from his stewpot, to hear Tobias tell it, so the two most often traded without his involvement.

“Quite the impression you made today,” he responded, undeterred by her reserve. “Let me buy you a drink at the Last Round and you can tell me about our new visitor.”

November considered the offer. “I’ll have water and whatever extra you were going to spend can go to filling my canteen,” she replied.

There was a slight hitch in Tobias’s response for some reason. “Sure. No problem.”

November re-acquired Scout - now the center of a thick crowd. She hefted her canteen over her head and jerked said head in the direction of the town’s only watering hole. Scout waved a wrench in response.

****

The eponymous saloon looked like the last round had been served - or fired - many years ago. The only part of the establishment that seemed to merit any care was the vegetable garden out back, whose root produce provided the speakeasy with its clear, but rough, moonshine.

Tobias’s father seemed to have no difficulty separating himself from his stewpot to serve his shabby clientele, though he seemed to keep his distance from Tobias and November’s table, for some reason. Tobias disappeared and re-appeared shortly with a jug of reddish water and two tin cups of liquor.

“I said the excess should go to my canteen,” November protested.

Tobias shrugged. “Pops said this was on the house for bringing us such an interesting visitor.” His father seemed to have somehow communicated this without actually speaking to his son, but November decided that was not her concern. She produced a small flask and decanted the cup into it. Properly diluted, it would clean her rifle quite well later.

This did not seem to be what Tobias was anticipating. “So, uh, .308 as usual, right? Freshly-caught stock? And clean?”

“Clean as can be expected.” No matter how carefully it was washed or filtered, it was impossible to eat or drink anything that wasn’t grit-tainted, but in such small doses, people said it had no deleterious effects. And it wasn’t like there was any other option.

Still sometimes, a person who had never felt a Duster’s teeth still rose up, but that was the dead-takers’ problem. It was not a popular job, though by the standard of November’s, it was seen as positively leisurely. She did not mind. Thanks to her rifle, she rarely got close enough to an active Duster to risk contamination, and it was close enough to the duty she had trained for since childhood that she thought the Old Man might have approved, in his gruff way.

The water tasted of grit, of course. November swilled it around her still-dry mouth as Tobias pestered her with questions about Scout. She answered what she could, which was little, and yet he continued to talk, for some reason, about the state of the Last Round’s meager crop and local gossip. November drank her water and said little.

****

Scout liked talking to people. It was in her nature, to find things out, to explore, to scout. And conversation was just another sort of exploration, except that you were exploring a person instead of a place.

The townies were far easier to explore than November had been, but that was fine. Scout could talk while she worked, and later she could meet up with November and try and draw her out of her shell a little. Scout certainly considered herself fortunate - out on her own for only two days, and already she had made a friend!

Scout worked at a brisk pace, and slowly the crowd began to thin, until at last there was just a small girl-child, about ten or twelve who had been unable to push her way forward in the mass. The child looked up from the book she had been reading to pass the time and closed it with great care, then drew herself up and said, with careful formality, ”Miss, my name is Eve-lyn Mac-Teague and I have come to re-quest that you a-ssist with our family’s water-pump.”

Scout smiled, charmed by the intense concentration with which the message was delivered. “Well no problem, spud. I’m about done here, so give me a minute to leave a message for my friend and then we’ll go check out that pump of yours.”

Evelyn sagged with relief. “Th-hank you, Miss.”

****

The Librarian finished rooting through drawers and shelves and gathered his brass findings together. Plenty of .38 and 9mm, the occasional shotgun shell, and some rifle rounds. He had no idea if it would be enough. He knew enough to haggle over the price of a horse, and infinitely more about the value and worth of books, but how much did it cost to rent an RV? And what did RV stand for again? He knew it was the correct term, but it was bothering him, and he considered checking his index for guidance, then dismissed the idea as foolhardy. While he continued to poke around to satisfy his curiosity, someone else might make the strange new visitor an offer, or even worse, she might just drive away.

He hurried back to the town entrance, his heart sinking as he saw the deserted folding table, but then rising again as he noted the RV remained parked, its sentry gun spinning evenly.

There was something white on the table - a scrap of paper, scrunched up and pinned to the table with a small screwdriver. The Librarian tsked reflexively at such cavalier treatment of paper and smoothed it out.

November, gone to fix MacTeague water-pump. Back in a bit.

The blood drained from the Librarian’s face. “Oh dear.”

The MacTeague’s did not have a water-pump.

****

Scout felt a twinge of hesitation as she followed Evelyn further and further away from the town entrance. But everyone had been so friendly so far, and surely no one would interfere with a task as vital as repairing a water-pump - such a deed would better the whole town.

Her hesitation deepened as Evelyn came to a halt outside a particularly shabby little house with boarded-up windows. “The pump is around the back,” Evelyn declaimed. The little girl did not move.

Scout did not move, either, until the pause had become awkward. “Aren’t your parents around?”

“No miss, they’re dead.”

Scout’s face softened. “I’m so sorry. What happened?”

The door to the house swung open and a rougher voice said, “I killed them and took their house.”

****

The Librarian, as he would be the first to admit, was not a man of action. He was a man of letters, a scholar of the holy orders, given to careful rumination and, if at all possible, the consulting of a few reference texts.

This did not seem to be a time for careful rumination. Frantically, he looked around the local vendors for a familiar face. There were many, but they were harder and more closed-off than they had seemed this morning. He doubted very much that any of them were ignorant as to the situation.

He fixed on one. “Stanley! Stanley Gibbs, what is going on here?”

Gibbs shrugged. “Girl is learning a life lesson. Was going to happen sooner or later. Might as well be here as anywhere else - there’ll be good salvage for sure.”

The Librarian was shocked by this cold-blooded assessment from someone who he had considered, if not a friend, then at least an acquaintance and regular customer. “Where’s that girl who was with her? The hunter?”

Gibbs shrugged. “Couldn’t say.”

The Librarian drew himself up. “Stan Gibbs, if you don’t cooperate with me, I will give a copy of your lending history to your wife!”

The other man flushed. “That ain’t reasonable. The girl’ll probably live - Kinsley acts bloodthirsty but he don’t kill for no reason.”

Kinsley was another customer whose taste ran more towards the gun-magazines the Librarian so disliked, which made his motivations quite clear. “Gibbs! Tell me where that hunter is right now!”

****

The man in the doorway with the shotgun seemed to be constructed all of hard edges and angles. Dirty brown stubble covered his chin and when he smiled, his teeth were yellowed and foul even by wasteland standards.

They were on fine display now.

“All right, girl. You’re going to tell me how to disarm that cannon of yours and hand over the keys to your ride, or I’m going to use one barrel of this gun on your knee. If you don’t cooperate then, I’ll use the other - and it won’t be on your knee.”

Scout’s face felt cold with sweat. Instinctively, her hand found the Button in her pocket, and she considered her situation. This was bad, for sure. Really bad.

But was it Button Bad?

Scout swallowed. Maybe someone else would come along and put a stop to this. In the meantime, she should keep him talking. “Why did you kill them?”

The man frowned. “What?”

“Evelyn’s parents, why did you kill them and take their house?”

He shifted the shotgun butt on his shoulder slightly. “What does it matter?”

Scout swallowed again. “Well, if you killed them because you’re a madman then you’ll probably kill me no matter what and I’ll have given you control of Rattler. Heck, you might kill this whole town just for sport. If you at least had a reason then I’d know if I could trust you.”

The yellow teeth gnashed. “They owed me bullets. Plenty of them. When I came to collect, MacTeague tried to pay me at speed, if you take my meaning. I defended myself. I even kept the girl after the business was done. Figured she could scrub floors.”

She considered. That didn’t sound too bad. Horrible, but not Button Bad.

The yellow smile widened. “And when she’s a bit older, she can buy her way free in trade.” Scout’s finger went immediately back to the Button.

She was about to press it, when there was a loud sound, and the man’s knee turned red. He screamed and collapsed.

****

November lowered the rifle slightly, satisfied. It had been an easy shot. Tobias whistled at her shoulder. “Nice one.”

“Indeed, fine work,” said the older man in the tatty suit, the one who had burst into the Last Round minutes earlier.

“Shotgun!” November called to Scout.

“What?” Scout yelled back.

“Get. The. Shotgun.”

“Oh, right!” Scout picked her way closer towards the shrieking man, somehow managing to stay in the firing arc of the shotgun the whole time. November grit her teeth.

Should have gone for the head, the Old Man chided her. One shot, one kill.

Scout plucked up the weapon and retreated.

“Looks like you got a fair amount of grit in that wound already,” November said coolly to the man. “But if someone washes it out for you, you might not turn. I hope you’ve got someone who cares for you, because I think that girl is done working for you.”

Remembering, Scout turned back to Evelyn, who had not moved the whole time. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

She looked at the man on the ground with a far too adult expression on her face. “She should have shot him in the head.”

Tobias crossed the street to her. “I won’t say you’re wrong, Evie. But Pops could do with another scrubber at the Last Round and there’s space for another bunk. What do you say?”

The little girl nodded.

“Ahem,” said the man in the tatty suit. With the tunnel vision of combat fading away, November took her first proper look at him as anything other than a non-combatant.

He wore a grey suit which was mostly red with grit and had red hair which was mostly grey with age. Around his neck hung a small brass key, which seemed to be the cleanest thing on him, as if he tended it as carefully as she did her rifle.

His eyes were watery but kind, at least that was the emotion November thought they expressed. She wasn’t much accustomed to kindness.

“What,” she said flatly.

The man seemed a little taken-aback but persevered. “I am a Brother Librarian of the Sacred Library of the Glass Castle.”

“And?”

“Perhaps I should buy you and your friend a drink first?” he said weakly. November considered it.

After all, her rifle could never be too clean.

****

The Librarian surveyed his audience. “I take it you are unfamiliar with the Sacred Order.”

November polished her rifle. Scout took a swig of moonshine and coughed loudly.

He waited until she could breathe again. “We travel the wasteland, recovering texts of the Old Ones and lending them out to those who wish to read them. We also instruct those who cannot read so that they too can profit from our knowledge.”

“Oh,” said November, “I’ve heard of your people. I heard about one of you who led an expedition into one of the cities looking for new books. No one came back. Well, a few did, but not alive.”

Scout’s eyes were big as saucers. “You’d really risk your life over some books?”

The Librarian drew himself up. Clearly he was dealing with savages, but he was used to that. “Not such ‘some books’. We seek to restore and reclaim the last embers of human knowledge and civilization. When we find a completely new text, it is our duty to return to the Glass Castle so it can be copied and preserved for all time.”

“So is that where you’re headed? Back to your castle with some new books?” said November, sighting down her rifle.

He flushed. “No, I have not been so blessed. My library is made up of books already with copies at the Castle. I am to travel and educate.” He could not help but tense a little as he came to the crucial moment. “But my horses were grit-poisoned and had to be put down and so I have been marooned here. You have a transport big enough for my library and I have bullets to offer…” he trailed off into hesitant silence.

“How many? What caliber?” said November.

“Of course we’ll help!” said Scout, at the same time.

November glared at her. “We haven’t made a deal. You and I haven’t even made a deal, I just offered to show you to town.”

Scout looked hurt. “But then you saved my life.”

November frowned slightly. “Good point. You owe me a bullet.”

“Oh come on,” Scout said, rolling her eyes. “What are you going to do, wait outside town and hunt Dusters for the rest of your life?”

“No,” retorted November. “I’m saving up.”

“For what?”

“For a horse.”

“Well, I have a Winnebago and you can ride in it for free, which is much better than a horse. You can even have most of the bullets, because I don’t have a gun.”

The Librarian thought this was a good moment to step in. “Wonderful, we all benefit. I get transport for as long as I can afford passage, and then you can drop me at the Castle, where you will receive any outstanding compensation and you - “

November cut across him like a knife. “What the fuck do you mean you don’t have a gun?”

The Librarian winced. “Language, please!”

November glanced back at him. “Sorry, mister. Your idea sounds good in theory, but right now - we need to get this girl a gun.”

****

The remainder of the day was a flurry of activity. Gun-shopping for Scout was an exercise in frustration for November, since she gravitated immediately to the largest and shiniest ones she could find. Having been well-trained to not wave a chrome beacon around a gun-fight, November eventually managed to get her to settle on a small, black .22 caliber semi-automatic. Reasonably idiot-proof, mechanical enough to be interesting and small enough caliber to be cheap - and also less likely to kill someone if Scout discharged it by accident.

Scout’s face lit up as November field-stripped the weapon in front of her, and she immediately set to work fiddling with the mechanisms. November decided she couldn’t watch this and retreated to the market.

She still wasn’t one hundred percent sure how this whole thing had fallen into place so fast, but Scout had made a good point. Win would be faster than a horse, and she was going to need to move on soon - her family would be looking for her.

She methodically went down a mental checklist, her face set in grim determination. She bartered with local traders, exchanging some of her Duster meat for additional ammunition, water purification tablets, and cured meat - most of which she’d caught herself earlier.

The Librarian seemed to spend most of his time surrounded by a mob of crying children, collecting books from their various holders. However, he did seem particularly pleased when he managed to trade some of his bullets for a set of detailed maps of the surrounding territories.

Bored with the gun by now, Scout bounced from stall to stall with infectious enthusiasm, picking up odds and ends that caught her eye. "Look at this!" she exclaimed, holding up a slightly rusted screwdriver. "This could come in handy, right?"

November sighed. "Focus, Scout. We need essentials, not trinkets."

“A good screwdriver isn’t a trinket! And I’m pretty sure I don’t have this size!”

The Librarian intervened. “Do we need to purchase…um, fuel? For your vehicle? I’ve only ever had horses before,” he apologized.

“Nope!” Scout beamed. “Win is fully solar-powered. Most of the Old Ones’ tech was solar just before the end. So long as we’re not stuck in a grit-storm for three days, we can drive anywhere.”

November, who had once been stuck in a grit-storm for two days, went back to get some extra rations.

As the night approached, Win's storage compartments filled with carefully packed supplies and books. Lots of books. But the Librarian organized everything meticulously, creating an inventory system that even November grudgingly admitted was efficient.

As the sun began to set, November did a final check of their supplies. She nodded, satisfied. "We're as ready as we'll ever be."

The Librarian looked nervous but resolute. "The road won't be easy, but with proper preparation, we stand a good chance."

Scout grinned, practically vibrating with excitement. "This is going to be amazing! When do we leave?"

November's expression remained serious. "First light. The wastelands don't forgive mistakes or half-measures. We leave prepared, or we don't leave at all."

“Great!” said Scout. She gestured proudly at Win. “Let me show you where you’ll be sleeping!”

****

November had glanced at the interior on the Winnebago briefly on their ride to town and it had seemed impressive enough, but she watched in astonishment as Scout proudly demonstrated its various features. Practically every wall section or flat surface could unfold or concertina into something else, whether a bed for sleeping, a cooking surface that actually heated up without a fire, or even a small shower.

After they had settled - a process that took November about five minutes and the Librarian about two hours - Scout heated up some Duster meat and served it with a smile. November wolfed it down. It had been months since she could afford to eat anything not cured for travel. The Librarian picked at it gingerly and she thought him mutter something about, ‘still better than potato’.

After supper, the Librarian produced a bottle and poured themselves a few drinks, favoring himself with a particularly heavy hand, and they settled into companionable silence.

November sat cross-legged, methodically cleaning her rifle, still trying to keep her awed gaze from straying to the interior lights. Scout sprawled on her back on one of the folding beds, tinkering with a small gadget, occasionally muttering to herself. The Librarian perched on a chair, drink in hand and a battered book open on his lap, his fingers tracing the words as if to absorb them through his skin.

"So," Scout broke the silence, "what's everyone's favorite book?"

November's hands stilled on her weapon. The Librarian looked up, a spark of interest in his eyes.

"That's... not a question I get asked often," November said slowly.

The Librarian cleared his throat. "Well, of course, I cherish all my books equally, so -”

Scout laughed. “Boo. Hiss. Cop-out!”

He smiled. “There’s a book I like called ‘the Road’. It was written before the End, but about how the author imagined the End might be. He got it wrong, obviously, but there’s something almost...prescient about it, anyway. Either that, or my index. It’s my book of books, my guide to the library.”

Scout wrinkled her nose. "Sounds depressing. I read a book about a spaceman who gets stuck on Mars once when his ship leaves without him. It's all about using your brain to survive impossible odds. And it’s funny, too!"

They both turned to November, who had resumed her cleaning. She felt their eyes on her and sighed. "There was a book... in the collection where I grew up. A field manual on long-range marksmanship. I read it so many times the spine broke."

Scout laughed. "That's not really a book-book though, is it?"

November shrugged. "It kept me alive. That's all that matters."

The Librarian nodded sagely. "All knowledge has value, especially now."

Silence fell again, but it felt different now. Less tense, more companionable. Scout returned to her tinkering, the Librarian to his book. November finished with her rifle and leaned back, allowing herself a moment of relaxation.

Above them, Rattler clicked to itself, watching over them.

****

Win’s beds, despite their folding nature, were far more comfortable than anything November or the Librarian were used to, and that - combined with the Librarian’s liquor - put them both out quickly.

Scout waited in the darkness, listening to their breathing even out and slow. Then she slid slowly from her bed, with an ease and grace that would have quite surprised November, had she been awake to see it. She slipped out of the Winnebago and climbed up the side-ladder carefully. Glancing cautiously at Haven, she satisfied herself she was unobserved and then leaned close to Rattler and punched a quick combination of buttons on its side.

A small blue light on the controls turned red. “This is Scout-Seventeen,” she whispered. “I have made local contact and have a cover established that allows me to move freely. Minor incident with the locals, but it was resolved without harm.” The red light turned blue again.

Scout rolled on to her back and smiled happily at the stars.