Bearing Fruit
Bascombe rode in the back of the Greyhawk, resting on his cloth throne and putting the weight of his hands on the shaft of his ancient walking-stick. The Flat rumbled beneath him in a beautiful jetstream. The Greyhawk was riding as smoothly as it ever had been, he reckoned. All over Bascombe felt a certain peace about his place here.
They were traveling towards the mountain today. Oesa said she saw rain and I trust her bright eyes to tell the truth. This is the time of year, and that was the type of place from my old memories, from way back, back when the rain was fresh and the earth would not sink so harshly. The Tapered Plum, how he wanted to taste it once again, how he wanted his grandchildren to taste of it.
The cruiser slowed to a stop, the ride growing rougher as their speed lowered. As promised, his tribe had led him to see the grove. The blooming of the Tapered Plum. It truly is a sight, the blood red flowers atop the deep purple fruit. Each fruit was plump with water and vinegar and sweetness, and when he tasted it he cried. As the tart acid stung his gums and throat, he cried still.
And when I was finished eating the plums, I turned to my family, but they had all walked off. I heard the Greyhawk slide gently to life, the pride of a lifetime. Each shiny bump on the surface and every system maximized by hand, kept perfect by obsession. He had carried that obsession over to his children, creatures of perfection. They grew up in that veritable mobile fortress, and they had been successful, and they are mostly alive.
Bascombe spent a few more minutes searching for more perfect plums. Once he had a small pile, carried in his shirt, he found shade under one of the towering fronds of the Tapered Plum plants. Very patiently, he stripped the thin, fibrous strips out, the ones that grew in the plums. He was always sure that the tart acid was contained within these green fibers, ever since he was a child and he had eaten these fruits.
Back then he was maybe eleven, maybe twelve. He had miraculously found his way to a plum sprout, which was a spot of land about an acre or two that all sprout these beautiful plum trees. It’s rare they last the 2 months it takes to mature the fruits, but when it happens there is a blooming of life on the Flat. The mammals work their way to the plants and grow fat for the first time. Birds will spread the plum seeds all around for 5 or 10 or 30 years from now. And humans will arrive too, and they almost always kill each other when they arrive. I was alone because my family was dead and I was wondering until I would be too. Then the Greyhawk galloped in, a thunderous tower of ruin and smog.
I took the Greyhawk from them, and left them there. I didn’t see how many there were; at least four, but in the end without the Greyhawk they were dead the moment I drove off. Little miracle that I found my own people again, and I was so popular that I got to start a family pretty young, pretty young. A long time I lived in that Greyhawk, I did. Nice place to have called home.
The Festival of Scroog
The Imperator WarKiller Squad tore over the sandy road at full speed, engines screaming in protest. The sun bore down relentless, a cloudless sky for the third day running, baking the brains of Yeller’s Killers. For two days, the 26 men and women have been burning fuel nonstop in a quest for food and water, of which they had none. The Imperators were not hunters, and they knew not what plants would provide water; they would take the water and food from the next caravan they saw, killing everyone.
Yankmash, First Commander of Yeller’s Killers, stood atop a lumbering fortress of steel, brass, and meat. It was composed of two Mustanga frames and bodies, fused together with a veritable crow’s nest atop it, standing nearly 4 meters tall. 14 people rode in this alone, with two drivers having to operate the two Mustanga in tandem, almost like they were treads to a top-heavy, terrible tank. The sides of the fortress were smeared with the pink gristle and bone mixture that the Imperators called ‘paint’; it was pink with gore and black with flies. This monstrosity was flanked by three smaller cars, overflowing with starving, brain-baked maniacs.
The land was long and flat finally, and they could see great distances. Yankmash saw the dust trail of a caravan not far away, perhaps a couple hours. It was large, and long, a very large group perhaps. There was no choice. Yeller’s Killers needed food and water. The flies would not sustain them for long
They decide to fight to the death to see who gets to claim the next bounty.