first the shapes are simply shelter. The Vagrant crouches behind a structure, leaning into boned fabric that gives but takes his weight. Breathing becomes less laboured and he looks around, running his fingers along the edge of the thing he sits by. Coarse plastic is stretched around a frame that juts out of the ground at a forty-degree angle. The external bars are two inches thick, made for burdens. His hand pauses as it reaches the frame’s end; the metal there is flat, edged.
Something has cut through it.
The Vagrant frowns, investigates further. Objects lie just beneath the surface, so badly broken they seem foreign. He tightens his grip on the baby, digging one handed.
Half buried in dirt and tipped on their sides, the waggons from the caravan are not immediately recognizable.
Neither are the bodies.
A face emerges, brushed into view. Sores stand proud on desiccated skin. Something has stolen the moisture, the eyes and more from the corpse. Further excavation allows it to be worked free. Tattered clothes hang loose on shrivelled bones, ridiculous, clown-like. The Vagrant slides his hand between the layers and new smells rise up. Muscles work in his jaw but he does not stop, exploring nooks and secrets.
When his hand seeks air again, it brings out a prize. Small, silver, shining: a coin. The Vagrant stares at it, emotions threatening at the edges of his face. Amber eyes look back from the coin’s flawless surface, accusing. Under that stare his compsure breaks, swept away by grief and guilt.
Disturbed, the baby stirs in his arms, wriggling until a more comfortable position is found. Sleepy hands find the Vagrant’s thumb and establish a firm grip.
The Vagrant looks from coin to baby and back again.
Nodding grimly he puts it away.
When the winds falter after hours of pounding, and racing clouds slow and settle, the caravan’s inglorious end is revealed. The scene appears ancient, aged by the elements.
The waggon’s roof moves, rising at the centre, a plastic pyramid. Dirt rolls off as it sweeps upward, folding, falling aside to reveal its treasures. From the hole, the Vagrant pulls himself into the afternoon, squinting against the light. He walks around the wreckage, baby tucked under his arm. It sucks on his sleeve, watching his fingers as they tick off the bodies, one by one.
There should be more bodies than fingers but there are not.
Beneath the Vagrant’s boot, things crunch. He steps to the side, finding more uneven ground; it flattens under his weight with a long wheeze.
The baby giggles.
Crouching, the Vagrant finds a blob of black rubber as big as his fist, trailing tubes, a backup lung now redundant. Standing, he drops it back in the dirt and it wheezes again.
The baby laughs louder, reaching for the sound.
He goes to move on but urgent tugging at his collar demands attention. He looks down at the baby, raising his eyebrows; in miniature, his gesture is mirrored. The Vagrant’s eyebrows stretch a little higher, again he is matched. For a time both hold their position. There is no obvious winner in this contest, no clear rules.
Both parties break with dignity intact.
However the baby is dissatisfied. Straining against his arm, it points at the discarded respirator. Victorious or otherwise, it wants a prize.
Dutifully, the Vagrant delivers the lung to its new owner.
The Vagrant searches for abandoned treasure. From the wreckage he finds a crate full of decorated fabric. Some he cuts for the baby; a new wrap of shimmering girls and imaginary lakes. Some he cuts into a long strip, which he folds thick and lays across the goat’s back. For himself, the Vagrant makes a scarf, covering his face with softness.
Further hunting procures food containers, a cracked scope and a navpack. He holds the projector high to help ailing solar cells. Sunslight seeps through and in return they stutter out an image, low-res and incomplete, mapping the land that was. A ribbon of blue light marks the caravan’s route. Verdigris, the next place never visited, is close by. Further north are mountains and beyond them swirl meaningless logos; broken cities reshaped and remade by the Uncivil.
Lifting the scope to his eye, the Vagrant searches the horizon, turning slowly. In the distance he sees a figure watching, stone still, shaped like a person.
Soon they leave the caravan, striking out towards the mountains. A fast pace is kept and the nameless figure is left behind.
The Vagrant does not relax.
Sometimes they march to false wheezing and laughter, sometimes to muffled snoring but they do not stop until it is dark.
Their arrival has been noticed. From a crack in the ground rises a head, curious, leathery. The local peers at their camp but does not like what it sees, returning to the earth.
At first light the Vagrant looks through the scope again. Two figures stand distantly behind, unmoving. To the south east is a third figure, apart from the first pair, yet like them.
Frowning, he lowers the scope. Small hands tug at his collar and he looks down. The baby raises its eyebrows but this time the Vagrant’s brow does not lift. He grabs the goat’s leash and pulls it sharply, taking them away from their pursuers.
In his arms the baby freezes, shocked. Possibilities cross the tiny face. With renewed force, it tries again; eyes grow wide, stretching towards its forehead.
Glancing down, the Vagrant’s mouth twitches but his attention soon flickers north, then south, scowling both ways. Dust rises at their feet, stirred by the returning wind.
Again his collar is tugged. His sharp look down is met by surprise; little features collapse inward, forming thunder. With all its might, the baby glowers.
Stolen from tension, two smiles bloom.
They press on. Dirty clouds belch over them, shrinking the world. The Vagrant stares into the obscuring mass, eyes watering. Often he glances over his shoulder, the view frustrating in every direction.
Ahead, a fence-like arrangement of bones stands tall, as if propped up like a proudly cleaned plate. The ribcage is several metres high, made massive by its infernal patron, now abandoned. The Vagrant attaches fabric to them, forming a colourful shelter. With each gust threaded women dance manically.
They wait for the winds to ease, eating, resting, and milking.
When calm comes again, the Vagrant jumps up, swinging the scope from left to right. He finds the three, still separate, closer now. A fourth and fifth emerge from the dust to the south west.
He rips the shelter down, splitting lakes, and prepares to run.
The dust retreats with them, offering a first glimpse of Verdigris. Four of its towers have fallen but three remain defiant, high discs glinting on their tops; golden ears warmed by the second sunset.
Between the travellers and the towers stands a sixth figure, too low now for the light to reach it.
The Vagrant slows, a muscle flexes in his jaw. Trapped.
Slow and inevitable, the hunters
