Science, Eternal Life, and a Traveling Circus |1|

Chapter Sixteen

Filth and grime stuck to Abraham's perspiration as though glued, but he paid little heed. He'd been filthy for months. What was a little more dirt? He buried his front into the steel garbage can. It tipped, and he fell with it. The restaurant's waste spilled over his head. He coughed and scrambled out, spitting and throwing the juices and maggots off.

Quales was a large enough town that food scraps were allowed to waste, which was a stroke of luck that Abraham was grateful for, though the state of the scraps was not agreeable. Alas, he took whatever he could get to keep himself going. His eyes were on the prize.

He almost cried at the very thought of silk sheets and fresh fruit and clean showers. The life of a street scavenger was not for him.

He tossed a partially eaten apple, dressed in white mold that stood like hairs, to his unnamed horse. The equine was breathing heavily. He devoured the apple and nudged his cruel rider for more. Abraham, though he had trouble with getting the horse to work with him, had driven the beast to ride for the whole night for the second time in a row. Neither of them had slept for days. The horse's eyes watered. His ears twitched.

Abraham delved back into the trash can and found a spoiled carrot. A logo imprinted on its leaves gave away its artificial properties. The horse chowed down. His rider pulled out a handful more of treats, then searched in a second can to feed himself.

Still starving, but too queasy to carry on after mouthfuls of mold and rot, Abraham eventually pulled his satchel over his shoulder, dryly gagged, and stumbled out of the alley. He led the horse with him by a rope that he had managed to salvage in his digging. The horse resisted at first, but tiredly gave in at Abraham's pleading, and they wearily followed his map's direction on wobbling legs.

He stopped to vomit not long after. He searched over the map, then angrily balled it up and threw it against a wall. Lost and aggravated and losing hope, he despondently retrieved it and tucked it away for later.

"This way," he mumbled, and pulled his horse onwards.

His purpose gradually depleted, and he began to question his own determination and hazy goal. His feet dragged at length into an open square and he recalled his bearings. The technology vendor, marked on the map, was near. Did it matter?

He drew out the map once again to determine his location, and pointed to the side street where the vendor's shop resided. His finger lowered upon the sight of a black horse tied at the street's corner, equipped with green and gold saddle and reins.

"No..." he whispered. He weakly giggled. His eyes wet and he staggered nearer. He stroked the mare's sleek hide and fingered the Shir family emblem engraved into its tack. The horse shifted and shook its head, snorting threats. Abraham's stallion, finicky, pulled to get away. Abraham fell back, clutching his horse's rope lead, and his steed fearfully dragged him away from the mare. Abraham held on, twinkling eyes quivering over the familiar messenger steed. His run-down mixed-breed stopped at the other side of the side street. Abraham weakly pushed himself up and leaned against the wall. He peered around the corner and squealed, then pressed his knuckles to his lips.

The black mare's rider ambled from a shop, with eyes on the purchase in his hands. He dressed in the distinctive uniform of an officer, two promotions higher than Abraham's former captain position in the glorified loyalty system of the eternals—the Shir's faithfully employed. A tailored army-style jacket in forest green, adorned with four polished badges, hung open around a gold-trimmed pale lime waistcoat. Golden buttons would be added to the jacket at the next rank; colonel. It wasn't the civil clothing that delighted the former guard so, however, but the face of the messenger.

Abraham hid behind his horse and peeked wondrously over at Officer Derrick Walsh, who had formerly attended the same school and class. They had never been friends, but at the very least they were familiar, always next to each other on the roll and in seating arrangements. Derrick, as the athlete between the pair, had been offered employment in the Shir ranks two years earlier than Abraham, who had earned his placement via a mathematics competition on the year of his high school graduation. They had always lived separate lives, but one thing that Abraham knew of the young man was that he enjoyed writing, and ever since the third grade had boasted the goal to—and this is what truly cheered Abraham—purchase a device for recording spoken notes. He pressed his hands together and wept gratefully to the sky.