of adjusting to being third.
Except they werenât even third world. They were worse than that. Fourth, maybe fifth, she said. Because that was how far theyâd slipped. Yes, agreed Daniel. Jeremiah stirred and whimpered, and Sarah offered him her finger to suck on, willing him back to sleep.
What would happen to him? she asked Daniel. Even if they found somewhere to settle, what sort of life could their grandson possibly have? The best they could give him, he replied. It was what Sarah had said when Anna was born, the same thing everyone who bore the burden of a child said: the best they could give him. Later, still thinking about it, she corrected herself. No, not a burden; Jeremiah was a blessing.
Had it not been for the dust storm, and if Cutler hadnât spotted the bowed shed almost obscured by driven sand; if theyâd been forced to shelter out in the open before continuing on, passing out of range and beyond all knowledge, they would never have come across the old man with his strange tale of hope. And if they hadnât listened, if they hadnât followed his advice and his directions, if Jon hadnât had the walkie-talkie and his compass, Sarah was almost certain they never would have reached the Citadel. It was a lot of ifs, but thatâs how the world was, she thought. Not a ball at all, but an endless maze offering too many avenues.
The towers of dust bore down, billowing black at their base and rising to orange-fired crests that curled and tumbled and snatched up the land, pushed to fury upon a screaming wind. There was no way to judge the speed of the storm, how long before it wouldenvelop them, and Cutlerâs shout, barely heard above the roar of air, his hand jabbing off to one side before the rest of them saw what he had â the small slope of roof atop a piled mound of sand â was their only salvation. Foregoing their usual caution, the group scrambled over the lip of the dune, slithering through what remained of the doorway, and piled headfirst into safety. So much sand had filled the interior they were forced to bend double while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. And thatâs when they saw him, squatting in a corner, the shotgun propped on one knee, its muzzle pointed in their direction.
Jon cursed, reaching for his own weapon, but the old man lifted the gun and shook his head. He wasnât worth eatinâ, he assured them, in case they was thinkinâ about it. And as he was real partial to what flesh he did have, heâd thank Jon to leave his weapon where it was. He had no quarrel with any of âem.
His voice was hoarse, worn-down and worn out, and his self-assessment hadnât been exaggerated; not enough flesh on him to make soup, Sarah thought, even the savages might have passed him up. More than gaunt, he was emaciated.
Daniel raised his hands to placate. They didnât do that, he told the man.
The shotgun didnât waver, and the man smiled, gap-toothed. Thatâs what they all said, he replied, but he reckoned heâd seen ânuff to know different.
They didnât do that, Daniel repeated, then added: and hadnât all of them seen enough?
There was no more talking while the man eyed them all, shifting his gaze to Sarah when Jeremiah squirmed and fretted in his sling, but the bellow of the wind outside made up for any silence. Then he gave a nod. Yeah, he reckoned Daniel might be right.
Daniel lowered his hands slowly. So would he mind pointing that gun somewhere else then?
The man wheezed a laugh and hoisted the weapon so it balanced upright on the butt. Damned thing was fucked, he told them. Barrelâs full oâ sand. Had no ammo neether. He stared at the gun morosely.
The tension lessened considerably as everyone relaxed, and Jon gave a short laugh. Itâd been a good bluff. So long as it worked, the man said, settling into his corner and jerking his head at Sarah. Besides, they had a kid. Anyone with a kid
Except they werenât even third world. They were worse than that. Fourth, maybe fifth, she said. Because that was how far theyâd slipped. Yes, agreed Daniel. Jeremiah stirred and whimpered, and Sarah offered him her finger to suck on, willing him back to sleep.
What would happen to him? she asked Daniel. Even if they found somewhere to settle, what sort of life could their grandson possibly have? The best they could give him, he replied. It was what Sarah had said when Anna was born, the same thing everyone who bore the burden of a child said: the best they could give him. Later, still thinking about it, she corrected herself. No, not a burden; Jeremiah was a blessing.
Had it not been for the dust storm, and if Cutler hadnât spotted the bowed shed almost obscured by driven sand; if theyâd been forced to shelter out in the open before continuing on, passing out of range and beyond all knowledge, they would never have come across the old man with his strange tale of hope. And if they hadnât listened, if they hadnât followed his advice and his directions, if Jon hadnât had the walkie-talkie and his compass, Sarah was almost certain they never would have reached the Citadel. It was a lot of ifs, but thatâs how the world was, she thought. Not a ball at all, but an endless maze offering too many avenues.
The towers of dust bore down, billowing black at their base and rising to orange-fired crests that curled and tumbled and snatched up the land, pushed to fury upon a screaming wind. There was no way to judge the speed of the storm, how long before it wouldenvelop them, and Cutlerâs shout, barely heard above the roar of air, his hand jabbing off to one side before the rest of them saw what he had â the small slope of roof atop a piled mound of sand â was their only salvation. Foregoing their usual caution, the group scrambled over the lip of the dune, slithering through what remained of the doorway, and piled headfirst into safety. So much sand had filled the interior they were forced to bend double while their eyes adjusted to the gloom. And thatâs when they saw him, squatting in a corner, the shotgun propped on one knee, its muzzle pointed in their direction.
Jon cursed, reaching for his own weapon, but the old man lifted the gun and shook his head. He wasnât worth eatinâ, he assured them, in case they was thinkinâ about it. And as he was real partial to what flesh he did have, heâd thank Jon to leave his weapon where it was. He had no quarrel with any of âem.
His voice was hoarse, worn-down and worn out, and his self-assessment hadnât been exaggerated; not enough flesh on him to make soup, Sarah thought, even the savages might have passed him up. More than gaunt, he was emaciated.
Daniel raised his hands to placate. They didnât do that, he told the man.
The shotgun didnât waver, and the man smiled, gap-toothed. Thatâs what they all said, he replied, but he reckoned heâd seen ânuff to know different.
They didnât do that, Daniel repeated, then added: and hadnât all of them seen enough?
There was no more talking while the man eyed them all, shifting his gaze to Sarah when Jeremiah squirmed and fretted in his sling, but the bellow of the wind outside made up for any silence. Then he gave a nod. Yeah, he reckoned Daniel might be right.
Daniel lowered his hands slowly. So would he mind pointing that gun somewhere else then?
The man wheezed a laugh and hoisted the weapon so it balanced upright on the butt. Damned thing was fucked, he told them. Barrelâs full oâ sand. Had no ammo neether. He stared at the gun morosely.
The tension lessened considerably as everyone relaxed, and Jon gave a short laugh. Itâd been a good bluff. So long as it worked, the man said, settling into his corner and jerking his head at Sarah. Besides, they had a kid. Anyone with a kid
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