Book One Chapter Two

Chapter II

Rygel had been right in his assumption; the far off twinkle of unnatural light turned out to be Sandy Point. He rode into the city during the early hours of the morning, just before the molten gold platter that passed for the sun in the Wastelands oozed over the horizon to sear the face of the planet as it had been doing for time out of mind. Sandy Point, in all fairness, could be called no more than a village, regardless of what the Scavvies in Dust Hole had said. It was little more than a collection of tired adobe edifices huddled around a small town square. There were five major buildings: the obligatory tavern, a jail complete with barred windows, a dry goods store, and two other rectangular shelters which looked ready to cough up their dusty innards and succumb to the cancer of inactivity. A collection of smaller hovels dotted the surrounding area, residences of the locals, Rygel guessed.

He guided Strider toward the tavern, keeping his hat pulled far enough over his eyes so that he could observe his surroundings without bringing attention to his interest. The hamlet was stirring to life, the cool period of the day before sunrise making it possible to move around with a minimum of discomfort. A teen wearing a once-white apron swept the wooden sidewalk in front of the dry-goods store with a savage vengeance, his Beta-human status painfully obvious due to the insectile wings that sprouted from his shoulder blades. The creature observed Rygel with faceted eyes a little too large for his face and twittered the twin antennae toward the horse before skittering back into the safety of the store on thin, segmented legs confined within human trousers. A pair of hulking brutes Rygel recognized as Outlanders spat large globs of violet into the dust of the road while leaning against the concrete posts outside the tavern. The jail appeared serene, but Rygel's tuned ears picked up the sounds of a drunk heaving up whatever passed as liquor in this forsaken desert echoing from its confines. The only other movement came from one of the buildings Rygel had labeled abandoned from afar; an elderly matron sang of pleasant days in pleasant places while hanging a collection of colorful red flowers from hooks set into the adobe roof above the door to what appeared to be a kind of restaurant. The other building appeared to get some kind of use, but what kind remained to be seen.

Rygel pulled up in front of the tavern, steering clear of not only the watchful Outsiders but also the three Raptors that were tethered to the railing of the porch against which the large men leaned. Strider chuffed his dislike of the reptilian presence and shied further away, but his rider lashed him tightly to the railing as far from the Raptors as he could, whispered a few calming phrases into his ear, and loosened the straps on the saddle. Raptors were, by far, the preferred method of transport across the Wastelands. Their huge bipedal frame, relative indifference to heat, and unearthly serpentine stamina made them far more suited to the harshness of the area. A quick glance told Rygel the lizards didn't belong to the Outsiders; the saddles were normal-sized. He shrugged indifference, pulled both his pistols from their saddlebags, checked their chambers, tucked them into their holsters on his hips, and climbed the warped wooden stairs to enter the tavern. A bleached sign hung crookedly above the door, but years of lackadaisical maintenance had rendered whatever legend it bore illegible. Rygel pushed aside half the saloon door and stepped inside, his boots crunching on a mixture of sand and sawdust.

Several seconds passed before Rygel's eyes adjusted to the lack of light in the tavern, but he wasn't surprised when the dark shapes gained definition. A few weary tables lay scattered about the floor, most surrounded by chairs held together by fraying twine. A simple staircase hugged the south and west walls and connected to a balcony of sorts that hung above the barkeep's bald head. Rygel could see four doors at the top of the stairs, doors he assumed opened into run-down lodgings, each having a lifetime of stories to tell. The bar itself was long, deep, scarred, and currently served to keep three uninterested patrons upright atop stools that threatened destruction with every movement. The man behind the bar was tall, slender, and wore a scar that ran from his hairline over his milky left eye and down to the tip of his pointed chin.

"Well, Stranger, ya jus' gonna stan' there, or are ya gonna come in?" The bartender picked up a glass, spat into it, and proceeded to shine it with a grayish rag.

Rygel blinked, scratched his stubble, and sauntered up to the bar, picking the sturdiest of a sad lot of stools. He settled into it gingerly, the feel of something other than a saddle under him unsettling.

"We don' get many strangers 'round here. What brings ya here, anyway?" The bartender finished with the glass and perched himself before Rygel, setting both his hands on the bar.

"Something stronger than water to slake my thirst, for starters."

"Good choice. Water's pretty darn 'xpensive roun' these parts. Strongest thing I got is Whitesnake."

"Strong enough, Barkeep. Pour me a double. And some pulque for a chaser, if you have any."

"That I do, Stranger, that I do. M'name's Gareth. You are. . ?" Gareth placed a large tumbler before Rygel and filled it half-full of clear liquor.

"Nobody." Rygel poured half the Whitesnake down his throat and grimaced as the bartender filled another tumbler with milky-white agave juice. He tossed back most of the pulque to kill its caustic predecessor.

"Well, Nobody, it's nice t' meecha. Seems like Nobody's a common name these days, least among Wanderers it is. Where ya from?"

Rygel thumbed back over his shoulder.

"Goin?"

Rygel pointed forward and sighed. "Got any tobacco? These Reds've all I've had for weeks. Don't know what I'd do for a cheroot."

"Nope, an' I wish I did. Ya might have better luck with the resident Scavvies, they seem to keep a few twists about 'em. Fer trade, ya know. Try ol' Twisted Fist. He can be reasonable, from time t' time."

Rygel nodded. "I'm lookin' to hole up for a few days, maybe find some work. You got room?"

"Now room's somethin' I got plenty of. Gotta tell ya, though, Miss Lydia, our sheriff, doan cotton tuh newcomers much. She might give ya a healthy dose a' trouble."

"It's nothin' I haven't dealt with in other places. Can you deal with it?"

"Sheeit, money's money. Creds or trade?"

"Creds. How much for a week?"

"Ten."

"Food, water, and stable for my horse?"

The sound of Gareth's booming laughter struck Rygel as strange, considering his emaciated frame. "Hell, I ain't seen a horse in years. I'll put 'er up fer free."

"Thanks. And for me?"

"Ten Creds don' buy much out here. Iff'n ya wanta chip in a couple more, I'll pitch in grub. The room comes with a ration a' water."

"I'll think about the food. Where's the stable?"

"Roun' back. I'll have Cory come 'roun fer 'er."

"I'll bring him around, if you got nothin' against it."

"Nope. Yer room'll be ready fer ya when ya get back in."

Rygel nodded, stood, and pulled a wadded mess of sweaty bills from the inside pocket of his vest. He peeled a five and five scraggly ones from the pile and laid it on the counter, nodding at Gareth. The bartender muttered incoherencies as he scooped the proffered currency and tucked it behind his apron as his newest patron trudged back the way he came, the weariness in his stride almost painful to watch. Shaking his head, Gareth checked the bills for their magnetic strips, grunted his acceptance, and returned to spit-shining decanters.

The Outsiders had disappeared by the time Rygel exited the tavern, and he breathed an inward sigh of relief. One of the Raptors reared back and belched a challenging hiss at the approaching man, but Rygel paid it no mind. Strider, on the other hand, whinnied and tugged at his bonds, his eyes wide. Rygel took a firm grasp on the reigns, untied them, and led his exhausted mount behind the adobe structure, surprised at the amount of energy left in his only friend. The smell of the Raptors must have tapped an unknown reservoir of adrenaline in the poor horse.

The stable was small, smelled of reptiles and burros, but was empty except for a small boy who was busy examining the backside of his eyelids. Rygel walked over to him and nudged his bare feet with the toe of his boots.

"Oh! Sowry, sir, sowry. Gawdamighty, is 'at a harse?"

"Yep."

"Ain't seen one o' those in a long time, Misser. Y'all stain' here?"

"Yep."

"Fer how long?"

"Till I leave. Curry him up real good, and if you've some oats, I'd be much obliged."

"Nope, ain't got no oats. Jus' hay."

"Well, I guess that'll have to work." Rygel dug in the pocket of his vest and flipped a thin plastic DekaCred toward the boy, who snatched it from the air. "There's another of those for you if you oil up my saddle, too."

"Yessir!" Cory reached for the reigns.

Rygel shouldered his saddlebags, claimed his carbine from its saddle holster, and freed an oddly shaped case from the saddle horn. He tipped his hat to the boy, who was already unlashing the saddle from Strider, and headed back into the Inn. The sun was climbing steadily in the east, and he wanted to be inside and asleep by the time it got too much farther along its course. He nodded to Gareth as he entered from the back door, claimed his key from the bar, mounted the creaking stairs, found his room, hung his guns on the headboard, and fell into bed, instantly asleep.

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