The Starchild

Chapter 2

I still could taste the powdered egg substitute that my mom made for me on my breath—along with that second (not so healthy!) helping of the green pepper stew that still had some leftover bite to it.

Why did it have to have spicy beans in it again for the fourth time this week? I thought with some pent up misery—knowing the kind of trouble that would spell later on for anyone within firing range of me personally.

But that was the least of my problems coming out of the house today.

I carried with me my travel pack and a canister of vacuum sealed bean paste and spicy lentil curry that was intended to be my first lunch for later on when I arrived at Shark's Bay in a few hours time.

Yes...

A few hours.

That's how long it was going to take for me to complete the five hundred mile trip one way. (Never mind coming back.)

The door slammed shut in my face afterwards as I finished stepping out onto the front porch leading down the one side of our ground level home—the wind playing with my hair like a fucking tease.

I certainly could feel the cold wind blowing through these parts with unrelenting mercy. The top layers of nearby sand dunes up on top of Robber Hill were still covered in a layer of thick frost and patches of snow that hadn't melted yet—but winter for me personally was a real headache for those of us who chose the desert life over anything else that was less than cushy.

I still couldn't recall the last time it had rained here. It had to be awhile. Maybe five years at the least. I simply could not remember.

But for now, it wasn't the fierce heat or scorching temperatures which had me concerned at this moment. The cold winters in the Golan Desert were a bit on the harsh side—survivable—but harsh.

What worried me now as I looked over at the clear horizon just above my head was the tell tale signs of an approaching storm front that had thrown up a lot of ice water vapor into the air—giving it a strangely yellow tinge to it.

Like I said, water by itself was a rare sight and even rarer commodity in the desert regions that made up the Barren Wastelands.

But the glaring sunlight above me was playing havoc with whatever was going on and it was just making me feel very unsettled. Mom may have said that I had a four hour window, but even from where I stood...? (And looked?)

I was going to be caught up in it right as I got to the settlement itself.

"God Almighty..." I complained to nobody in particular—after I had turned around and started walking down the stairs—hitting the bottom step and crossing the small landing which still had my rows of potted desert plants and a few cacti that I managed to coax to life through some good old fashioned TLC and a lot of mental guesswork on my younger brother's part. (He helped chip in a bit on that front.)

Then I took the last few stairs to ground level and started across what passed for a yard full of broken wood, timber, rusted tools, a few pieces of dilapidated machinery—which had been turned into monuments of past victories and conquests—and the rising hulk of my dad's work shed and machine shop—coming just into view from over the hill.

It still had the original paint scheme on it along with the sign which bore the name of an old friend of the family's, along with sand covered windows that were either beaten by the elements over the course of time, or had a few noticeable cracks in the polythene plastic coating.

But this was my home away from home. Everything that I had which was a leftover childhood memory of my time here with my father. And mom. And Scratch Jones. Calis too. And a few other people I had called friends, racing colleagues, and sleepover buddies.