The image of Eli's still form held Solara's inner eye for many miles. She walked and refused her desire to drink – to save water. As she passed the useless vehicle she remembered Beveridge and the look on his face when the sun reached his unprotected eyes; it was thankful and penitent.
As expected, Solara heard the sound of footfalls behind her. She could see – in her mind's eye, three men – rising up from the dusty soil aside the sun-baked road. The blade on her back assured her that these brigands could not interfere with her return to the shanty town of Carnegie.
When the dust was close enough, Solara turned to face the rabble following her. The three dishevelled portraits stood vigilant; only one among them had a weapon – a pipe of imposing dimensions. Solara had no words to warn them of her purpose – her connection to fate, their fate. One of the broken vagrants spoke, "Drop the pack…" The image held in Solara's memory, unseen until now, was complete with the outcome she must now face.
The one wielding the pipe moved toward her, his confidence firm against a single girl. When he drew near, his shaky – human meat-eating voice beckoned her, "Drop the pack – or die!"
Solara's response was clear, "What pack?"
The pipe wielding man spoke again, to his cohorts, "Can you believe this bitch?!" After a brief pause, he spoke again to Solara, "Drop the pack or suffer!" He reached out a grubby paw to shove Solara – she hacked off his miserable hand with a swipe of her blade. Instantly he fell to his knees, mumbling something that made no sense.
"He meant to say, 'kill her'…" Solara held the blade at her side, low, near her right thigh.
The remaining two able thugs rushed the young woman, wailing some kind of pitiful battle cry. Solara side-stepped the first thug, and he stumbled clumsily past her. The second swung full at her face with clenched fist – his head fell free from his neck and his body crumpled inert, before the other could stand again.
Solara whispered a single word, "Repent". She did not know why she spoke that word – not yet, anyways. His grubby face attempted to spit at her, but again, his head was free from his neck also.
She already understood that her victims – the sufferers of Divine Fate, would hold the keys to sustaining her journey toward her home, and her mother – if Carnegie still lived – by supplying the means for her to preserver. Solara searched the thugs' pockets, their packs, and their boots for items that would improve her chances of continuing; nothing of more value than an undischarged 12 gauge shell found its way into her pack – not a bad find but really not worth the effort.
It was nearing dusk and there was no sign of safe haven for the night. As the wind grew chill and the sun's light had begun to weaken, Solara raised her shades from her eyes and pressed on into the long shadows that fell from the ruined city of poison behind her. Another day and the mountains would surround her; in another day there would be food.
Now in darkness, the cloud-filled sky revealed neither moon nor light from the stars. In darkness she pulled her pack from her shoulders, to check on its contents – to check on the book she carried. There was a moment of relief, then tension as she replaced the cloth wrapped package into her pack and tightened the pack-straps to lighten the feel of its weight. There was dried rations, meat, cheese, and another canteen of good water but these things were gifts, to be shared if possible. Solara shuddered at the thought of the old woman Martha, her shaking hands, and the graves behind her whitewashed house, the tray of human meat old Martha offered to share – Solara would be sure to remember the lesson of thanks that day had taught her, thanks for Eli and his own journey he had shared with her.
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