The half-moon peeked over horizon, cascading its silver light on the cooling desert. Centuries ago, this land was dense with forests and home to a myriad of creatures. When the bombs fell, their fire and poison wiped out the almost all the life in this area; only small and mutated critters walk these lands, eating the brave little sprouts that try to reclaim their ancestry.
A breeze ruffled through the shrubs and half-dead trees. This gentle gust chilled two watchmen. They sat in a small outpost, overseeing the protection of their little farming compound. It had been built two years ago with limited success.
The men played cards during their watch. Despite having old and incomplete decks, the men would play several hands of Caravan before they felt bored.
The first man drew. He smiled and adjusted his broad-brimmed hat.
"Well, that's another win for me."
He placed his winning card and laughed.
"How do you keep winning tonight? Next round, I want to use your deck."
"I don't think we're going to have another round." The man with the hat stood up. "It looks like we have company."
The man opposite him turned around. His eyes focused upon the two stumbling figures. He pulled out his ancient revolver, opened the chamber, and counted his bullets. Four.
'Every shot will have to count,' he thought to himself.
Slowly, he moved into position and crouched behind a small barricade. As the men waited, the figures appeared more clearly. They were human. One male. One female. Their gait was irregular, but that could signal a number of things.
"What are you thinking?" he asked.
"They look too tired to be much of a threat." The man with the hat squinted back at the horizon. "Unless its a ruse."
"Do you think they would already be shooting if they were hostile?"
"A good rifle could probably get us from this distance, but it doesn't look like they have one."
The man lifted his arms and waved to the wanderers. The figures stopped their shambling. They stood motionless for several seconds. The male began to wave back.
A few minutes later, the couple reached the outskirts of their outpost.
"What brings you around these parts?" asked the man in the hat.
The couple lifted their heads, exposing their weary faces to the light.
The man had a bedraggled head of hair and an unkempt beard. By the looks of his clothing, he had undergone weight loss. Despite possessing echoes of his strength, his white t-shirt hung upon him loosely, having turned yellow with sweat. The collar of his leather jacket was lined with white salt stains.
The lady stood in worse shape. Her hair seemed bleached by the sun. Meanwhile, the bones in her face and body became ever more pronounced due to starvation. As she lifted her head, the two men could see her eyes dance in a haze of confusion. She opened her mouth to speak, but her no voice came from her dry cracked lips.
"Please, sir." The man turned to them. He spoke with a raspy voice. "Do you have any water?"
With a suspicious slowness, one of the men pulled out two chipped glasses. The other took his nightly ration of water and opened it. He poured a pittance into each glass, no more than a finger or two.
The couple took the liquid alm with a hesitant sort of greed. They shared a similar cautiousness with their host. Yet, with the immensity of their thirst, fear melted in the presence of burning need. The man helped his girlfriend drink her portion before starting his own. The lady smiled in a humble thanks. She wiped the residue from her face. Once done, the men could tell that their new guests desired more. With the weather being what it was, they could not afford to share more of their stock. Rations were tight.
The man in the hat took back their glasses and set them upon the table. After a brief silence, he spoke.
"Where are you coming from?"
"Granscon," the man replied.
"Why would you leave Granscon?" he asked. "The town is well-fortified, close to water, and, from what I hear, pretty darn exclusive."
"Trouble forced us out." The man bent his head toward his girlfriend.
"Will trouble be chasing you here?"
"No. At least, I don't think so."
"Look, stranger. We have this nice little compound and we want to keep it that way. What kind of trouble?"
The man sighed.
"My name is Robur."
"Morton," replied the man in the hat. "And this, here, is Brant."
"Pleasure." He continued his story, "I used to work for the Steer Mercenary Company. I didn't mind the job. In fact, I liked it. But, when I met Seren, I had to leave." He paused and looked to his girlfriend. In that brief moment, life came sparkling back into her eyes. "She was working in one of watering holes in town and I knew I wanted her to be mine - "
Seren started to waiver and lean on Robur.
"Do you mind if we had a seat?"
The men cleared their junk from the table and presented the two with chairs. Before they got comfortable, they gave the horizon a brief survey, dubious of this moment. The sights were clear. They leaned upon the makeshift pillars of their outpost.
"Within a month, Seren and I were a bit of an item," Robur continued. "But it seems as though another man from the company had eyes on her as well. He thought I was fair game since I left the crew. He probably thought that I was no longer a brother. Plus, he figured a month out of work is plenty of time for a man to get soft. He was wrong."
Robur paused and looked at the rations of water. After being dehydrated for so long, talking already took its toll.
"Rules are rules. The Company didn't like it, but according to their own precepts, a killing of their merc within city walls requires retribution. Seren and I had to leave town. It's been ten days. I couldn't have picked worse timing with this heatwave. What made matters worse was that on the second day, we had a bunch of our things stolen as we slept. Since then, we've had next to nothing to eat or drink since leaving Granscon. We just want to find some place to rest and settle down."
"I feel sorry for you," Morton said, "I really do."
"We're full," Brant interjected, "You're probably welcome to stay for a few days to recover your strength. I'd be more than happy to share some of my own food and water rations, despite the drought we've been having. But, after a few days, you're going to need to continue your journey. We can't be your salvation. We're struggling with our own as it is."
"Like I said, I feel sorry for you, but we can't help every person with a sad story." Morton adjusted his hat. He fiddled with it when he was nervous or excited. "Look, there's not much more we can hand out right now. Feel free to take your rest on this here wall. Our shift ends in a few hours. When it does, we'll tell the morning guards the situation. They won't harm you. We'll check on you when the sun rises, give you some food and drink, and introduce you to the rest of us."
Robur nodded and dropped his bag. He and Seren moved sluggishly against the wall. They took off as much gear as they could, slumped beside each other, and slept.
When the morning arrived, Brant and Morton returned to their outpost, laughing at a dumb joke. Their arms were full with extra rations: a loaf of maize-made bread, a few slices of meat, and a half portion of water for each of their visitors. They spread out the breakfast on the table with the utmost care. The water was poured into clean glasses and the plates were nicely laid out around the table. Brant even dug out some of his own tobacco and liquor to give as a gift, if the two wanted.
The men approached the sleeping couple. Morton tried to shake Robur awake.
"Good morning," he said softly.
No response.
'Must be in a really deep sleep,' he thought to himself.
He tried with Seren.
"Good morning, sleepyhead." He shook her gently.
No response.
The two were dead.