Bonepicker

II

It was another day waking up and looking over his old coat and thinking what a damned blessing it had been. If there even was blessings, now or then or ever. Be it what it was: a shield to the hot wind and rain of the day and the bitter cold of the night. A small comfort for the great waves of dread and maybe even something of a bare-threaded map of him and it and all their days just getting through and getting by. His battered old boots, too. All hanging in together like a scavenged marionette.

The clothes from his chest down were all he knew of himself. Those and his scarred and shredded hands. An odd reflection for an old man with a young memory. He hadn't seen himself looking back in anything for a long time. He was like a ghost that's come up from the ground or down from the sky. Anything living out in the wastes was like living death, just seeming to drift aimlessly as if the wind blew it into being from absolutely nothing. But he was always on his way to something, even if it was just another day to get by.

He had slept in the little cavern again. A dried out old dirt cave with nothing in it save for some wooden boards and dusty sacks scattered loosely in the dark. It was dry and sheltered from the winds at least.

There on the boards was his haul. Broken knife close by. Every morning he'd give it a quick run over the sharpening stone he kept in his pocket.

Most valuable thing I got.

Maybe both. 

Or either.

He never knew when he might need what and that was his day. Every day. A sharp knife and whatever it took to get through and by.

He had his knife and staff and a bag full of scraps and trinkets. He never knew what might catch the eye and earn a meal at a trademeet . He just hoped to score a round or two and maybe some day he'd have something to count. It had been a long long time since he was packing more than spoiled shell. Aside from the little secret. The pistol tucked away, ready if it was needed to square off, which felt like it could be anytime sometimes. 

Odd to think that he could be firing off the means to a meal, but fear buys a lot. There was  nothing more valuable than rounds and shell and here he was threatening but only one in the chamber and hiding his own fear just as good. Not that he'd had much call to pull that lever back. 

I'm banking on fear like it's banking on me.

Another one of his circular sayings. As meaningless as all the others:

We all are out here, saving what we think we've got and don't want to spend any.

We're not so afraid of the shot as we are the waste. 

The one that kills you could keep you alive awhile instead. 

He often would repeat the lines in his head to give himself a sense of things. They had a word for such at some such time. They used to have words and such all over but it was all gone now. 

He heard the winds starting to pick up outside and he realised it was time to wrap up and go. He'd been bonepicking all day and had filled his bag with various spoils of the sands. Some decent looking rope, a pile of shaped stones -some with sharp edges, a bundle of metal tools, and a modest collection of trinkets. Anything that could fetch him some food or drink. 

The sand storms had been without letting the past few and he was weary. He felt like he needed a longer break to catch his thoughts or chase them away but maybe if he had one he'd realise some harsh truths that he'd be best without.

Coat buttoned best it could be, boots tight, bag mounted, staff ready and blade to hand. It was time to head out.

He looked through to the winding passage that led out beyond. The old dirt cave had been a solid spot to and from the trademeet. He'd shared it with a few travellers and traded stories there at times. He thought that it was something odd that being so unsafe out in the wastes made the pickers take measures to try and at least remain safe in each other's company. 

You get calm once you accept it all. 

It seemed early for the winds to be back up already. With his goggles on he was barriered to the grains and dirt. He knew that with the cave to his back left and the sunken sun to his top right the trademeet pass would show by the time the day started to drop. He trudged on through the dry dirt with a slow pace as he got used to the feeling of the dull waves of aching in his feet.

 Soon that pain would fade but for those moments when it made itself known again, like so many and so much and again and again. It beat the night walks though. With the terrors out there. 

Or in here. Physical manifest gestations or whatever whathaveyou. 

They were somewhere he knew for sure. He couldn't bide the night walks. Cold and dark and still. 

Just the sounds abounding as they say - or don't.