Outside, dusk was settling over the Badlands. It had been so long that he almost missed the sight. The sun was lurid pink as it fell below the earth, painting every dune, each valley and mountain, in darkness. It was peaceful and beautiful.
Dust sighed. The Badlands looked so… normal at sunset, like any other part of the South. But there was still a feel that set them apart; a tension in the air, like a stench only your soul could smell. Something was coming to life out there, the grand and horrible power that pervaded and corrupted, and its presence was tangible.
That night there was another flavour mixed in with the cocktail of taint. A very familiar one. Dust sniffed the air, smelling only ozone and pollen, then scanned the horizon to pick out its source. Eventually he saw them.
He smiled to himself; now that was interesting.
Having seen that, Dust decided to activate the tent’s true defences. Those paintings wouldn’t keep them safe for long.
If all the tent did was act smaller than it was then it would’ve been sort-of useful but not really safe, even outside the Badlands. Which was why the space-saving trick was only its secondary function. Dust gave one of the copper wires a gentle pull to begin the magical chain reaction. Before it could start in earnest, he stepped inside the tent.
A moment later, the spell triggered; a compressed feeling surrounded him, like he was an infant swaddled by his mother, followed by a great disorientation. Having not felt such disconnection from reality for a while, he enjoyed the sensation.
“You oaf!” Naismith said. She was standing with her ride, fists balled. “You might have warned me!”
Dust shrugged. “I thought you’d expect it.”
She put her hands on her hips. “I did but not quite so early. Why flip it now?”
‘Flip it’. That was a good analogy for what the tent did; it flipped itself into the ground, merging with the soil to safely hide itself and its contents. Dust didn’t understand how it worked but he didn’t need to; all that mattered was that it worked.
“Safety. It’s best we not get noticed any further.”
She tapped her hip with her index finger. “Warn me the next time you do that,” she said, ignoring his slip of honesty. “I know we’re roughing it but there’s no excuse to act like a damn Indian or something.”
“That’s no way to talk about the Indians,” Dust warned.
“No?” she asked, mocking his gravel voice.
“No.”
Naismith stared at him. He stared back.
Her will broke first. “Anyway… how do we go to the bathroom whilst stuck down here?”
In answer, he reached into his pack and produced a bedpan.
“Surely you jest,” she hoped.
“It’s up to you,” he shrugged. “It’s either the pan or the corner.”
Her privileged eyes gave him a look which would have earned most men a lesson. He returned her gaze with placid honesty. She had no other option if she wanted to take a shit.
“I’m using the pan,” she said slowly. “You’re using the corner.”
“It’s my pan.”
Naismith stamped her foot. “And you’re my father’s man! You will do what I say. This isn’t some survival scenario – I don’t need you to survive this tent – so you are the one who will obey me. Do you understand?”
His tattoo shuddered along his ribs. Dust took a deep breath. “I’m not your father’s man.”
She took a step toward him and leant in, her face an inch from his. “No? You’re owned by the Solution, aren’t you? And my father funds the Solution, more even than the Government. So you are his man. He has bought and paid for you and everyone else there. You will do what he, and therefore what I, say. Do you understand?”
A good slap. That’s what she needed. And that was being kind; anyone else would get a broken nose. But it still wouldn’t be right; it wasn’t her fault she had a bad father.
“No,” he said.
“You don’t understand?” she asked with a sneer. “It’s pretty simple. Even a gun-lugger like you should be able to get it.”
Dust shook his head. He kept his tone even, placid. “No, I understand you but that’s not how this works. I do what I believe is best and nothing else. That doesn’t include bowing to someone just because they’ve got a pair of lungs on them and a rich daddy. So we either share a pan and take turns cleaning it and burying the scat or I use my pan and you shit with Horse.”
“Why you-”
“Horse it is then. I’m sure he won’t mind.”
He smiled when his tattoo remained inert; even it’d had enough of Naismith.
Naismith must’ve had enough of him too because she went to slap him. Dust blocked the attack with the dust pan. The blow rang out with a loud clang and her screwed-up, angry expression transformed into shock.
“I’m pretty sure you know what I am,” Dust said, gently pulling the bedpan away, “so trying to hit me was foolish. You’ll want to work on that temper of yours because it might get you in trouble one of these days.”
All the blood drained from her face but she was still so angry that her cheeks twitched. “Fine. We’ll share the pan.”
Dust shook his head. “Too late. Maybe tomorrow.”
Once again, his tattoo gave no warning.
Naismith curled her upper lip. She was so spoiled; Dust was surprised her skin wasn’t black as a month-old tomato. “Fine,” she said.
With that, she retired to the sleeping quarters. Dust figured she’d need to cool off so he tended to Horse and the other beast; brushed them down, checked their shoes for stones, applied cream to any bites he found. Then he serviced his guns. His other gun barely wore from use but he still cleaned, oiled and tuned both it and the Colt. The chores took maybe two hours. Dust decided to turn in. It was still early but his time as a ranger had taught him to sleep whenever he could.
He leaned against Horse and removed his shoes before stepping into the sleeping area. It smelled of woman, that strange, sweet smell that they give off. And she’d been busy too; her things had been arrayed into a wall, separated them with toiletries and food in case Dust felt an overwhelming urge to roll onto her in the night.
Dust smiled then rolled out his sleeping roll inches from her. Fully clothed, he lay on his sleeping roll, tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. He didn’t dream.
Dust woke around dawn. After a deep, large stretch, he sat up. Naismith was still in bed, her eyes open as she stared at the roof of the tent; she was pointedly ignoring him and having some difficulty in doing so. The wall of her personal items was in tact, if not taller. And the little flap of a door between them and the stable was closed exactly as he’d left it last night.
He stood, stretched again and left the sleeping quarters. Horse was still sleeping, his feet bent at all angles as he lay in a position that oughtn’t have been comfortable. Naismith’s ride was also asleep, though it looked more orderly in doing so; Horse always had been an untidy thing. Dust supposed he got that from him.
A powerful urge to take a piss overcame him. He fetched his pan and was surprised to find it empty and clean. After relieving himself, he checked each corner of the stable; none had been fouled. Naismith must have held her need all night to spite him. That must be hurting by now.
Another man might have let her suffer, let her stay in there with a bursting bladder, but Dust was just pleased she’d stuck to her word. He decided it was close enough to dusk to undo the protection on the tent and went to grab one of the poles.
“I’m going to pop us back up,” he called to Naismith, giving her the courtesy she’d asked for.
After a moment, she replied “Okay.”
He twisted one section of the pole and the disorientation, the feeling of not knowing where he was, returned. Then he felt the world expand around him, a sort of unpacked feeling, as the tent righted itself. A weak hint of sunlight spilled in through the tent’s opening to prove they were above the ground again.
Dust stepped out to empty the bedpan. The sun had almost risen, making the world as rich and golden as a good whiskey, and that feeling of cloying evil was gone. The Badlands was relatively safe again. He walked round the tent; from the lack of tracks around them, nothing had passed by during the night. The geniuses had done it again.
He emptied the bed pan a few feet from the tent then washed his hands with some Abraxo Cleaning Powder. It was time for breakfast.
With some Devilweed, one of the safer unnatural brushes that grew in abundance on the mountains, he built a fire and started to warm the food in a small tin pan. He settled down to cook breakfast; a tin of beans and some jerky.
The tent twitched behind him. He pretended he hadn’t noticed, let Naismith go off and find a safe place to do her business, especially as she had her rifle in hand. He passed no comment when she returned either, merely handed her a bowl of breakfast.
They ate, packed and got on their way again without a word between them.
Twenty minutes after they picked the trail back up, Dust felt the same sensation he’d felt at sunset. He reached into his pack for a small mirror and held it up as though checking his appearance; really, he used it to look behind him. In the distance, a dark shape followed them along the track down the mountain, backlit by the morning light. It walked low to the ground on all fours and so was not human.
