Grit

In the wasteland, blood ties often mean little. The grit has a way of scouring away old connections, leaving us adrift in a sea of red. Yet from this isolation, new bonds are forged, stronger perhaps than those dictated by mere genetics.

I have witnessed unlikely alliances bloom into something deeper - a hardened mercenary adopting an orphaned child, a band of scavengers becoming as close as siblings. These 'found families' are not bound by shared history, but by shared struggle and mutual choice.

In Haven, I met a group who had banded together after losing everything to a grit-storm. They spoke of each other as brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles, though no blood relation existed between them. Their bond was forged in survival, tempered by hardship, and ultimately stronger for it.

We must remember that family is not just who we're born to, but who we choose to stand beside when the storms come. In a world where so much has been lost, the ability to form these new connections may be our greatest strength.

The next morning was a delicate affair. After a rhetorical question prompted a length response from the Infinite Book, it was banished by unanimous agreement to its cubby-hole.

Even Josiah forwent his usual morning practice. No one wanted repeated gunfire to add to their woes.

Over a breakfast of stolen Wired Boy rations, Scout was the first to raise her voice above of a whisper. “Okay…okay. So we’re headed to the Glass Castle now. Where exactly is that?”

The Librarian’s voice came out raw. “The best route would be to take the High Way south of Haven.”

November shook her head, then winced. “No way am I going through Dustbowl again. That town has seen enough of us, and vice versa.”

“I agree,” he said. “Best not to strain their patience further. But with our renewed supplies we could detour round them, through the deep dunes, and still make it to Haven with food and water to spare. A brief stop to stock up, and then the High Way beckons.”

“Through the deep dunes?” Josiah said. “I have heard tell that the grit-storms are even worse there.”

The Librarian paused, chewing over his answer, and then spoke. “I’m not so concerned about the storms. I think I would…hear them coming now. We could detour around.”

“That’s a lot to trust to these new abilities of yours,” Scout said dubiously. “Considering the alternative is skin-stripping death.”

“Versus the warm welcome of Dustbowl?” countered the Librarian. “Not to mention if we ran into anyone on the road who’d been as the Circus Lazarus’s latest show?”

“Win won’t like it,” she said. “We’ll have to spend a lot of time digging him free.”

November considered their options. Heading south at all was unattractive.

Never re-visit a previous area of operations, the Old Man advised. Keep it unstructured. Unpredictable. Then again, what could be more unpredictable than to risk the deep dunes?

She decided. “All right, Librarian. We trust to your…connection to the grit. But I expect you to warn us of a storm before it even darkens the horizon. Any sign you aren’t getting warning early enough, and we go back to the High Way and take our chances with human problems.”

The Librarian nodded. “I can’t argue with that. Then it’s settled!” he beamed. “I can’t wait until you get to see the Glass Castle…I’ve traveled far and wide, and there’s still nothing like it in the wasteland.”

****

The deep dunes stretched endlessly before them, vast waves of red grit that seemed to shift and change even as they watched. Win's engine strained against the loose terrain, forcing them to a crawl.

"Left," the Librarian said suddenly, his eyes unfocused. "There's a storm building to the northeast."

November nodded, guiding Win onto a new heading without question. After three days of this, they'd learned to trust the Librarian's newfound sense. Twice already, they'd seen the telltale red wall on the horizon, exactly where he'd warned them it would be.

As they settled into their new course, Scout produced the Infinite Book from its cubby. "So," she said, a mischievous glint in her eye, "who wants to play 'stump the magic book' today?"

Josiah chuckled. "I believe it's my turn to ask first." He thought for a moment. "Book, what is the most effective way to maintain a revolver in desert conditions?"

The Book's crisp voice filled Win's interior. "In desert environments, the primary concerns for revolver maintenance are preventing sand and grit infiltration, managing heat exposure, and combating increased wear from dry conditions. Key steps include, regular cleaning with a dry brush to remove sand particles, minimal lubrication to avoid attracting more grit, storing the weapon in a protective case when not in use, frequent inspection of moving parts for wear, and using high-temperature lubricants that won't break down in extreme heat."

Josiah nodded appreciatively. "Fascinating. Some of that aligns with our Order's teachings, but I've never considered using different lubricants for different climates."

"My turn," said November. "Book, what's the longest confirmed sniper kill in history?"

As the Book launched into its answer, the Librarian tensed. "Another storm," he murmured. "This one's moving fast. We need to head west."

They fell into a familiar routine – Scout adjusting their course while November and Josiah quickly secured any loose items. The Librarian's eyes remained distant, tracking the unseen threat.

As the day wore on, they continued their game with the Book, peppered with occasional course corrections from the Librarian. The sun sank lower, painting the dunes in shades of gold and crimson.

"We should make camp soon," November said, scanning the horizon for a suitable spot.

The Librarian nodded. "There's a relatively sheltered area about half a mile ahead. No storms nearby."

As they settled in for the night, the group gathered around a small fire, the Infinite Book propped up in their midst. Scout grinned. "Okay, Book. Tell us a bedtime story. Something from before the End."

The Book's voice took on an almost wistful tone as it began to recount a tale of adventure and wonder in a world without grit. As the stars emerged overhead, they lost themselves in the story, forgetting for a moment the harsh realities of their own world.

****

The next morning brought a familiar sight. The town of Haven, and it’s decidedly unwelcoming barbed wire maze. Compared to what they had faced in the past, the barbed wire seemed like arms outstretched in welcome.

As before, Scout was unable to guide Win through the tangled path of metal wire, so she brought it to halt before the maze entrance. The townsfolk let out a cheer, as the Librarian poked his head out of a window. “Friends! I bring old classics, and new discoveries! I trust you have been keeping the children up to date with their letters…” he said, mock-threateningly.

Children and adult townies alike were already threading their way through the maze towards him.

“All right,” said November. “Looks like it’s going to be a busy day. I’ll head into town and pick up supplies. You keep the townies happy and distracted.”

“Ooh!” said Scout. “Can you pick up some fresh tools for me? I need a new spanner set: an ACA combination set would be best.”

November looked at her blankly and she sighed. “I’ll do a drawing for you.”

“And bring back lunch!” the Librarian called. “No potatoes!”

****

November made her way against the flow of people through the town gates. As she emerged into the clear air, she heard a familiar voice.

“November? I can’t believe it’s you!” said Tobias, smiling as he emerged from the market. “Still travelling in that strange contraption?”

November felt a smile creep across her lips of its own volition. “I’ve grown rather fond of that…contraption.”

“The meat we get now isn’t anywhere near the quality we used to get from you,” he said earnestly. “Father says it needs to be boiled twice as long before it softens.”

November enjoyed a moment of professional pride. “The trick is to only go after the freshest Dusters, ideally those at the edg -”

“Let me buy you a drink,” he interrupted. “Again. Consider it a do-over.”

November glanced at the market. Their supplies could wait. And what did he mean a ‘do-over’?

****

The Librarian smiled broadly as he dispensed his stock to his young visitors from one of Win’s open windows. He had missed this, the joy on young faces as he gave them a little escape from the grim reality of daily life.

Scout and Josiah helped as well from outside Win, taking books and passing them out and making sure the children queued politely and did not push. Scout’s face held a broad smile, while the gun-saint had an expression of bemused pleasure as he patiently refused requests to touch his guns and passed out books.

A young man and woman watched fondly as the children sped away. The Librarian had assumed they were parents, but instead they waited until the last children had left and then walked forwards. The woman cradled a book to her chest like a child of her own, while the man wore an expression of regretful determination.

“I’m Mike and this is Juliet. We heard you trade bullets for books?”

“It was my grandma’s,” broke in Juliet. “Neither of us can make head nor tail of it, but she said it was a book of words.” She flushed. “Well obviously, all books are of words but this one is about the meaning of words.”

The Librarian smiled broadly. It had been ages since he found a new dictionary. “May I?”

Juliet held the book out reluctantly and the Librarian had to lean out of the window to reach for it. Then things happened very fast. Juliet dropped the book and grabbed his wrist, dragging him through the window with a clean short jerk. She twisted his arm behind his back, and pressed a gun to his chin.

In the same moment, Mike smoothly grabbed Scout and pulled her close, a knife appearing in his hand as if by magic as he pressed it to her neck, close enough to draw a bead of blood. Both of them stepped closer to Win, out of Rattler’s firing range as the cannon buzzed impotently above them.

Josiah’s hands blurred as he drew his guns, but there was a half-second of hesitation before he brought them to bear, during which they both shifted position, bringing their profiles behind their human shields as much as possible.

“Okay,” said Juliet in a curt voice, completely at odds with her previous demeanor. “My weapon is cocked and my finger is on the trigger, and Mike has already drawn blood. Even if you hit both of us at this angle, Mr. Gun-Saint, our death spasms could still take your friends out. So I guess, as your order would put it,” she smiled unpleasantly. “Do you feel fortunate?”

Josiah was still a long moment. “What do you want?”

“You know what I always heard about you gun-saints,” said Mike, searching Scout’s pockets with his off-hand, though the knife remained statue-steady at her neck. He pocketed the Button and tucked her .22 into his belt. “I heard you’re over-rated. Lower left quadrant!” he shouted at the dunes.

In answer, there was the crack of rifle fire and blood blossomed across Josiah’s side. Scout’s scream cut off abruptly as Mike pressed the knife tighter to her throat. His face white with shock, Josiah toppled, his guns spilling from his hands as he pressed them to his wound.

The Librarian struggled in Juliet’s iron grip. “Keep that up and I’ll dislocate the shoulder,” she said matter-of-factly. “You, girl. Turn the gun off. Vocal command, full shutdown. No tricks or the next shot goes through the gun-saint’s head.”

Scout’s face twisted. “Rattler, full shutdown,” she said reluctantly. The cannon sagged into immobility.

“Right,” said Mike, his breath hot on her ear. “Girl, you run and fetch November. Tell her to come out clean, weapon high and clip out. Tell her if she doesn’t we’ll do this town like Burberry.”

“Don’t bother asking the locals for help,” said Juliet. “We’ve invested a fair few bullets so they won’t interfere.”

Mike shoved her and she stumbled to her knees. “Go!”

****

It was pleasant to be back in Haven after so long, and even to see Tobias. November even treated herself to half the cup of moonshine, though the rest she stashed. No sense in being profligate.

For his part, Tobias sat and stared as she told him of the grass of Dustbowl, the wonders of Win, and the Circus Lazarus. She left a few key details out - no sense advertising that Saint Gabriel might be out there nursing a grudge or sharing the existence of the Infinite Book.

She was just explaining how Win could produce hot water on command, when Scout burst into the Last Round. November experienced the strangest sense of Deja vu - it seemed a lifetime since the Librarian had done the same, with much the same expression on his face.

“Two people, at least one more,” gasped Scout. “Josiah’s down. Librarian captive. Said their names were Mike and Juliet. Come out with gun high and empty or they’ll do…what they did…in Burberry…” Her lungs heaved as she forced the words out.

The bottom fell out of November’s world. On some level, she’d known this was coming. It had been too good for too long. She’d had friends, and a purpose…all things she didn’t deserve.

There was something strange in Tobias’s face. “Sorry, November. They gave me a .50 cal to ask you here.” November nursed the sudden unfamiliar sting of betrayal, and briefly considered shooting him. But he wasn’t worth the bullet.

It was time to face her family.

****

The Librarian’s shoulder was in agony. The grit whispered in his ear insistently.

Help. Rescue. Save!

He ignored it. His meagre tricks were no match for these clearly well-trained people. He’d just embarrass himself, or worse, get Josiah killed.

With Scout gone, Mike had retrieved Josiah’s guns and quickly rummaged through Win. The Librarian winced with every crash.

“Eyes up, target on-site,” snapped Juliet. Mike emerged from Win, holding one of Josiah’s guns, two-handed in a strange angled stance.

November and Scout emerged from the barbed wire maze of Haven.

****

It had been surreal to walk through the town, rifle held high, everyone watching but doing nothing. The family must have spent a fortune in bullets to bribe everyone, or more likely, paid off a few key people and made a nasty example of some others so it was clear they were not to be crossed.

Regardless, November felt oddly flattered.

“They took the Button, but I could try and turn Rattler back on by voice,” hissed Scout. “Catch them off-guard?”

“No,” said November wearily. “There will be at least two riflemen outside Rattler’s range. You’ll just get the Librarian and Josiah killed. Redundancy wins battles.”

They came to a halt, ten meters from Win. “Juliet, Mike,” said November. “You’re looking…alive. Who’s on over watch? I’m guessing Oscar and Victor?”

Juliet sneered. “Welcome back, traitor. We’ve been watching this nothing town for weeks for you.”

“He trusted you to run point on this?” said November coldly. “His standards must be slipping.“

The Librarian gave a short gasp of pain as Juliet twisted his arm further. “Keep talking, bitch.”

“All right,“ said November heavily. “Let’s get this over with. I’m right here!” she yelled at the dunes. “Reporting for duty!”

Four more figures arose from a nearby dune, coming up out of the grit where they had dug themselves.

“At ease, soldier,” said the Old Man.

****

Scout had never been more frightened in her life. Four more attackers had basically just appeared out of thin air. Two of them, boys with rifles, were about her age and third was a girl who was probably only twelve or thirteen, but she held a pistol with easy confidence. All three of them stood with a kind of coiled lethality which made the hackles rise on her neck.

The fourth was a man, tall and old, with leathery, sun-worn skin. He wore faded military fatigues and wore big dark sunglasses, but he moved with the ease of a younger man, sliding down the dune towards them.

November seemed to stiffen, as though someone had threaded a rod of iron down her back. “General.”

“Girl,” he said, in a worn, hoarse voice, like the voice of the desert itself.

****

It was so strange, to hear the Old Man’s voice outside her own head. And yet so familiar, as if it was only yesterday that they were training on the range, him teaching her proper breath control, until she could bullseye a target every time.

She glanced around the hard, familiar faces that she knew as well as her own. “Not a full deployment, sir?”

He laughed throatily. “Don’t overestimate your value, girl. The rest of the squad are on other ops.” Ah, yes. ‘Ops’. Murder. Theft. Whatever put bullets in the Old Man’s pocket.

“I see Foxtrot made field duty,” she nodded her head at the youngest girl. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” she said sunnily, in a way that reminded November eerily of Scout.

“November,” said the Librarian through gritted teeth. “Won’t you introduce us to your…friends?” His request came across as bizarrely genteel, under the circumstances.

November shrugged. “Meet the Alphabet Kids.”

The Old Man crossed the distance between them in a moment and back-handed her casually. For a moment, she relished the familiarity of the pain. “You know I don’t care for that name, girl.”

She spat blood on to the grit. “Sorry, sir. Slipped my mind.” She turned to the Librarian. “This is my fam-the people I was raised with.”

The Old Man drew himself up. “Let’s make this quick. There’s other work to be done. You went AWOL, soldier.” He pulled a .50 cal Desert Eagle from his belt. A large, impractical weapon. A weapon for examples. He could fire it one-handed, despite his age, she knew. She’d seen examples before. “You know the price.”

November stared at her blood, red on the red grit. “And my friends?”

“Collateral damage,” he said coldly. “You know I don’t hold with witnesses.”

“Wait!” Scout cried out. “This isn’t fair! None of us did anything to you!” November sighed. But she had. She’d done the worst thing of all. She’d left. And now her friends would pay the price.

The Old Man seemed to pay the others proper attention for the first time. “Maybe we should start with your little pals first, girl. And then work up to-“ his voice cut out.

November looked up. He was staring at Scout, the strangest expression on his face. It twisted, like warring emotions were tearing him up inside. “Ultraviolet-235,” he gasped.

Scout frowned. “What?”

“Ultraviolet…235,” he forced out again.

“Um, excuse me?” she said.

He seemed to gather himself, like he was re-assembling fragments into the hard, implacable man she knew. “Right. Probably out of date. Foxtrot!” he yelled. “Fit our guests with vests. Our mission parameters just changed.”