OTHERBORN: IN THE WASTELANDS ALONE

Chapter 7

MADDIE

The painted boy named Able takes us to his camp. It's been set up where the hillside opens out to overlook the valley.

He gives us a tour, shows us his tents, dozens of them flapping as the gust assaults them, many of them containing sleeping bags for his group, but other of the tarped dwellings are filled with supplies: canned goods, stacked bags of dog kibble, power tools dangling by ropes from what look like ancient, rusty clothing store racks.

Up here the band of painted children can easily monitor from the horizon. Some have field glasses, others tin cans with a lens mounted in them between twisted strings.

We observe with their leader on the tallest crest, see the caravans of strangers far below, tiny as ants in the distance, and they toil, scouts say, chopping wood, haggling for cloth from neighboring factions, all unaware of us.

The people down there seem to be grown: adults in assorted military gear—none of it cohesive enough in style or marking to be attributed to any army I remember from the old days. Alarmingly though, men haul large missiles to and fro on their backs. I'm grateful they're so far beneath.

"Document!" yells Able to my left, craning his neck.

A tall, lanky boy with red and blue spirals on his face runs up and takes out a crinkled notepad and a pen that he moistens with his tongue.

"That's Unable," whispers another painted child in my ear.

Kai, beside me, cocks an ear imperceptibly sideways.

Able dictates.

"The invaders toil, the vagabonds, the losers, the freaks—" He goes hoarse on the last word, pauses, clears his throat. "Enterers of the second year of abundance in nearly a decade of drought . . ."

Unable scribbles furiously, chronicling every word.

"Cityless," Able goes on. "Hopeless. Year: unknown. Truths: unneeded." He leans dramatically toward the lankier boy. "The fools outnumber us. We ought to fear them, the louder they get."

"Fact!" shrieks a little painted girl wearing a baseball cap with spikes on the brim.

"We'll integrate them into our group," mutters the orator. "We'll befriend them, maybe trick them. Jot that down, Unable!"

Unable licks his pen, then writes on in manic shuffles.

"Critically assess the wanderers," continues Able in a practiced monotone. "You see them roam and where do they go? Absolute machinery, the failed abortions of God, unthinking, silly beasts."

"Fact!" yips the little painted girl with the spiky-brimmed cap.

"Oho!" Able claps his hands once, definitively, and begins to pace. "We could negotiate with them, get supplies! Listen well, Unable, you dumbass scribe, and write! And you, Fact Girl, with your pinchy hat, take up your attention conch! And you, my sorcerers, bring me your bubbly potions. No?"

"Yes!" several painted children shout back at once.

The little girl with the spiky ballcap picks up a large shell and blows into it, filling the wilderness with a deafening, low boom that makes me, Kai, Fin, and the rest of our group palm our ears.

Some of the strange military men toiling below, stop. I imagine that they must look up, then anxiously return to their many tasks.

Other painted boys arrive with buckets of frothing black liquid.

"What the hell is going on?!" Jayden screams.

The buckets are emptied over the rocks before us, and the spilling black liquid steams.