Chapter 3

On the fourth morning of their travels together, the two men entered into a detailed discussion on the anatomy of a good bow and potential of ironwood. Zeb dug out his small bow from the pack animal and let Porter practice on a target placed twenty paces up the trail while they took a lunch break. Porter was a little rusty, but he soon had a decent shot again. His aim was nowhere near perfect, but adequate was a fair assessment. He took a mental swipe at his memory of humiliation, ‘If only those high school goons could see me now as they looked up at me from their sewer certified environmental suits.’

Zeb delved into more detail of how the ironwood had to be carved in order to make a bow. The weapon did not need to be as wide in the middle because of the strength of the wood itself, its iron-like quality, but the grain had to be consistent, without scoring or mis-strokes of the blade. The best arrows were ironwood as well because there was no question of the absolute straightness of the shaft, just follow the grain. Such bows and arrows were rare because few dared an adventure in the Waste to retrieve the wood.

In the afternoon, Porter received a complete dissertation on the incongruous nature of the Waste and its recent history. The trail that they traversed was cut by the first generation of settlers who still had machines that worked. At the far end of the trail, in the middle of the Waste was a site of some archeological significance, but nothing that gave a clue as to who built it or what they did there. Some still claimed that there is a treasure buried beneath the building footprints that remain, but Zeb believed that was just people talking. The question of treasure was moot anyway because the end of the trail was another seven days beyond Porter’s capsule and no one had the resources, time or inclination to outfit an expedition to disprove a fanciful legend.

The Waste itself was a confederation of sandy soil, brackish streams and nasty, vociferous life; not much worth eating either. Zeb was one of the only ones, if not the only one who traversed this land; he made an income in part by harvesting vines with thick thorns for use in weaving pasture fences. Bramble laced fences kept domesticated animals in and predators out. Cut brambles from the Waste did not rot either; they turned hard and dry, easily lasting a lifetime of a human. He harvested and gathered other things as well but he was reticent to share his trade secrets.

Zeb argued with the zeal of a philosopher that the Waste had its own beauty. Porter really did not agree but kept that thought private as he did not want to insult his rescuer. Porter’s proof was his encounter with his first stink bush that morning where he barely avoided being covered in a putrid smelling powder when one of its sacs burst next to him. He was still haunted by a lingering smell in his sinuses.

More than one thinker had suggested that the Waste was actually a type of garden or a farm left untended and gone awry, Zeb explained. Some suggested it was a cultivated, natural barrier that protected the site in the middle from attack on the ground. Most people ignored it and avoided it; of course, most people were jerks, jackasses, and louts to Zeb. Porter had no inclination to accept either hypothesis. He surmised that Zeb’s point of view explained why the old man lived by himself on the edge of the Waste; Zeb and the Waste were both just about as prickly. If it worked for the old man, then who was Porter to judge?

Porter failed several times to convince Zeb to talk about Anshar and her human history. The old man acted like he did not hear the questions of what happened to the machines or how the settlement slid backwards. Porter could not determine if the old man did not like the subject or if there was something more sinister behind the evasion. What had happened?

When they stopped for the evening, Porter laid out Zeb’s bow and used it as a template for his longer bow that he began carving; the bow would require a number of soakings in water and then binding to take the shape that he wanted, but it was a start. As he held the knife he realized that the tingling was back. No part of his body was unaffected for all of his nerve endings burned slightly. Porter tried to ignore ramping pain, deliberately not mentioning a word of the discomfort to the old man. What was the big deal: he could drop dead tomorrow from an exploding nervous system or he could wallow through the pain of building a miserable life in the midst of a devolved, primitive society. They probably did not even know the word “accountant.”

He gave himself a chuckle; at least he would die thin and sleek. Nothing like a bit of black humor to keep a man awake at first watch.

Zeb woke him up at daybreak and the morning began as a repetition of the previous days since Porter’s rescue. He walked though heat and humidity with sweat pouring freely from his skin. The sun beat down upon him and he sweated some more. The bushes rustled and the birds, he was sure they were birds, twittered and chirped as they launched themselves from bush to bush. There was one with bright red plumage on its belly that he wanted to net for fetching arrows, but none ever flew near enough to snag or net.

Porter was walking a few paces ahead of the lead hamox when he heard a distinctly different sound just off to his right, a mewing. He stopped short and held out his un-worked pole towards the sound. The mew sounded as if it came from the bushes.

“What’s ya got there,” the old man leaned over while his saddle creaked.

“Don’t know for sure,” Porter replied not taking his eyes off of the bush, “but it sounds like a cat.”

“Shit,” cussed the old man and trotted his hamox back to the pack animal for his bow and arrows. “Wastecats are big, mean and don’t discriminate much, boy. The only good news is that I’m tough and rangy, and you’re young and tender. Go slow.”

Porter nodded and slowly probed the long leaved thorny bush with his pole. He swept it around until he hit something. He looked back and saw that the dismounted Zeb had an arrow cocked in the bow. As he turned his attention back to the bush, something took a swack at the end of his stick. Porter suppressed the urge to jump back, and gently pushed his stick back where it was. With a tiny growl, something latched onto the pole and began to shake it.

Porter began to pull the two and a half meter pole back hand over hand. Whatever had attached itself to the pole would not let go and was not coming out without a fight. Hand over hand he reeled in his unseen catch with his feet planted firmly on the trail. Finally a black nose, surrounded by whiskers appeared from between the leaves.

“That’s a kitten, boy,” the old man whispered unnecessarily.

Porter continued to haul in the pole until the full half meter body with its claws firmly embedded in his wood. Only the tail was still hidden.

A rasp of thorns and an unearthly hiss broke the spell as a black skinned serpent reared its huge triangular head from behind the next bush aiming at the kitten. Porter feared and despised snakes. This reptilian beast was in a size category all by itself, making the kitten look like a morsel.

Zeb let fly the arrow, which bounced harmlessly off of the snake’s snout. However, he did get the serpent’s attention which reared up on its coils above their heads.

Zeb grabbed for another arrow and the kitten, hearing the danger, leapt back to the safety of the sharp edged bush. Porter swung his pole to face the snake, not knowing what he was going to do. His feet were frozen in place as the snake eased back to strike at him and his measly stick.

Fear became anger. He had survived a wreck, a crash landing, and a miserable trek across a wasteland only to be killed by a snake? ‘God, I hate snakes,’ he thought with a shivered resolution.

“NO!” screamed Porter at the top his lungs. The tingling in his arms suddenly surged into pinpricks of pains and his hands clamped unmoving around the wood. With a surge that began with a tightening of the muscles in his chest, Porter felt power dash from his body and up the pole. Blue lightening fired into the open gullet of the beast, which promptly fell down to the ground, dead.

“Holy Mother of All!” screamed the old man, jumping like he was standing on hot coals. “You got the Blue Hand, Porter boy. You got the hand,” he chanted a few times over while he did a small jig.

All Porter saw for the moment was two nasty fangs coming out of one evil looking mouth. He remembered to breathe again and then checked his pants to make sure that he had not wet himself.

When he was certain that the snake was dead, Porter let his pole drop to the ground with a thud. Immediately, a tawny streak ran out from its bush and latched it claws back into the wood with a furious immature growl.

“Grab him by the scruff of the neck,” Zeb said, ordering him as if time was wasting away. Porter reached over and took the ball of fur and claws by the hand, hoisting the kitten up for a better look. He was heavy. “Drop him in one of the empty grub sacks to keep him safe. He’s worth money, you know.”

Porter shook his head at the disjunction between nearly dying gruesomely and discussing money. Even so, the old man’s one track mind was a welcome release to his second near death. As he dropped the kitten in the sack Porter did glance underneath and announced, “This ‘he’ is a ‘she’.”

He wanted to ask about the blue lightning and ‘blue hand” comment but Zeb called for one of the empty water casks on the quick. Apparently snake venom was a precious commodity.