all different shapes huddled against one central shed made entirely of plastic sheeting. “That is our greenhouse. Without it, we might very well starve.
“And finally, behind me,” he indicated the cone of the volcano, “is Mount Elvis, our King. The volcano has lain dormant for as many years as we’ve been here, so don’t worry about Pompeii as you sleep. And, no, we don’t make sacrifices to keep Elvis happy.” He meant it as a joke, but the very notion of sacrifice didn’t sit well with his audience.
“Tonight you will retire to Departure Camp, outside the Great Wall. You may spend the rest of the day in rest to regain your strength. In the morning you will be assigned a work detail. Then you’ll get a first-hand look at our operations.”
Two men with ominous looking spears appeared on either side of Tuk. Lauren recognized them as the guardians of the Gate. “These gentlemen will take you to your camp.” You are welcome to sleep and recover, and we will see you in the morning.” Lauren trudged silently, too tired to speak.
They followed the trail that led away from the Gate directly into the dunes. The guards refused to escort them, only making rude comments and pointing down the trail. Someone from another boat volunteered to lead the way, following a well-worn path due East.
Ten minutes into the dunes they reached what they hoped was not Departure Camp. A serious of twenty huts tumbled against one another in a semicircle, none of them assembled from the same materials. Plastic sheeting of every color and thickness held together sun bleached planks, styrofoam blocks, ravaged metal sheets, and bits and pieces of boats in an architect’s nightmare. The charred remains of a campfire glowered above a circle of black stones.
“Look at all that rust!” said Emily. “I hope my tetanus shots are current.”
Lauren checked the horizon for a timely rescue. No ships out there. She turned back to the hovels. “They look cozy. Rather… Shabby Chic,” She said, trying to be funny.
Carter frowned. “They look like shabby shi…”
“Hello!” interrupted a man coming out of one of the huts. He looked like Robinson Crusoe in Hilfiger, pushing sixty, skin tanned to the complexion of bookends, chinos shredded into shorts, white shirt unbuttoned exposing a paunch of flaccid skin. He had been fat, once, some time ago. Now only the excess skin remained, hanging like melted ice cream. A small but heavy looking bag hung from the loops of his shorts, stained red around the top. The only part of him that gleamed was his teeth – dentures. Unlike the rest of the natives, he had dark brown hair.
“Hello, hello, hello. You must be the new recruits! I’ve been expecting you!”
He walked up and down the line of survivors, shaking hands like a tour guide. As he shook each hand, he reached up with his left hand and squeezed the recipients’ bicep. “Making them a bit soft in America now, eh?” he said, now and then.
“I’m Paul and I’ll be with you until your ship comes in. I’m sorry I can’t offer you any games or local tours, but I can keep you company. I know you must all be anxious to get on your way, but I have to tell you it could be a week, a month, or even longer before a ship comes by. No need to grumble or kick sand at me. I don’t make the schedules. But I can make you feel at home while you wait.
“And home is right behind me. They’re not much to look at, I know, but each one will keep you dry when it rains, cool when it shines, and safe when the wind blows.” Behind him, a gust of wind opened the door of one hut and slammed it into the other. “They’re pretty sturdy, most of them.”
“Before I go on, do any of you need to use the restroom? It’s the hut over there on the left.”
He pointed at what appeared to be a pile of car hoods stuck in the sand over a large pot. All around the structure was some kind of red powder.
Emily covered her mouth. “Oh my god, I think I
“And finally, behind me,” he indicated the cone of the volcano, “is Mount Elvis, our King. The volcano has lain dormant for as many years as we’ve been here, so don’t worry about Pompeii as you sleep. And, no, we don’t make sacrifices to keep Elvis happy.” He meant it as a joke, but the very notion of sacrifice didn’t sit well with his audience.
“Tonight you will retire to Departure Camp, outside the Great Wall. You may spend the rest of the day in rest to regain your strength. In the morning you will be assigned a work detail. Then you’ll get a first-hand look at our operations.”
Two men with ominous looking spears appeared on either side of Tuk. Lauren recognized them as the guardians of the Gate. “These gentlemen will take you to your camp.” You are welcome to sleep and recover, and we will see you in the morning.” Lauren trudged silently, too tired to speak.
They followed the trail that led away from the Gate directly into the dunes. The guards refused to escort them, only making rude comments and pointing down the trail. Someone from another boat volunteered to lead the way, following a well-worn path due East.
Ten minutes into the dunes they reached what they hoped was not Departure Camp. A serious of twenty huts tumbled against one another in a semicircle, none of them assembled from the same materials. Plastic sheeting of every color and thickness held together sun bleached planks, styrofoam blocks, ravaged metal sheets, and bits and pieces of boats in an architect’s nightmare. The charred remains of a campfire glowered above a circle of black stones.
“Look at all that rust!” said Emily. “I hope my tetanus shots are current.”
Lauren checked the horizon for a timely rescue. No ships out there. She turned back to the hovels. “They look cozy. Rather… Shabby Chic,” She said, trying to be funny.
Carter frowned. “They look like shabby shi…”
“Hello!” interrupted a man coming out of one of the huts. He looked like Robinson Crusoe in Hilfiger, pushing sixty, skin tanned to the complexion of bookends, chinos shredded into shorts, white shirt unbuttoned exposing a paunch of flaccid skin. He had been fat, once, some time ago. Now only the excess skin remained, hanging like melted ice cream. A small but heavy looking bag hung from the loops of his shorts, stained red around the top. The only part of him that gleamed was his teeth – dentures. Unlike the rest of the natives, he had dark brown hair.
“Hello, hello, hello. You must be the new recruits! I’ve been expecting you!”
He walked up and down the line of survivors, shaking hands like a tour guide. As he shook each hand, he reached up with his left hand and squeezed the recipients’ bicep. “Making them a bit soft in America now, eh?” he said, now and then.
“I’m Paul and I’ll be with you until your ship comes in. I’m sorry I can’t offer you any games or local tours, but I can keep you company. I know you must all be anxious to get on your way, but I have to tell you it could be a week, a month, or even longer before a ship comes by. No need to grumble or kick sand at me. I don’t make the schedules. But I can make you feel at home while you wait.
“And home is right behind me. They’re not much to look at, I know, but each one will keep you dry when it rains, cool when it shines, and safe when the wind blows.” Behind him, a gust of wind opened the door of one hut and slammed it into the other. “They’re pretty sturdy, most of them.”
“Before I go on, do any of you need to use the restroom? It’s the hut over there on the left.”
He pointed at what appeared to be a pile of car hoods stuck in the sand over a large pot. All around the structure was some kind of red powder.
Emily covered her mouth. “Oh my god, I think I
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