Carrion

Near the horizon she saw the dim outline of a settlement. She listened and heard the low, steady throbbing of a condenser and felt the stillness of the air about her. Even from this distance, the signs of man were evident. He had gone there, he had had to. She got to her feet and strode towards the distant shadow, her coat flapping about her legs, her long blonde hair streaming out behind her.

'Sugar and spice and all things nice, that's what little girls are made of.'
She joined in with rapturous pleasure at the last part, gleefully clapping her hands to the rhythm of the words. Her father smiled and gently poked at her belly with his enormous fingers.
'Good night, pet,' he said.
The lights went out and she fell asleep instantly.

At the gate they searched her. She surrendered her firearms without protest. She watched them label and store them in the guardroom. They knew who she was. They regarded her with suspicion and wariness. The captain came forward and spoke.

'You will agree to abide by the rules.'
She nodded and passed through without comment.

The streets were arid and dusty and the air was thin. The townscape was peaked by the condensing towers and, behind a fortified wall, the shining dome of the hydroponics centre. The heart of the settlement beat loudly.

Two camels sat placidly tethered to a post outside a nearby bar. She went inside. Several swarthy workers were seated in small groups. Quiet drifters were seated alone in darkened corners. The barman watched her approach.

'What will you have?' he asked.
'What can I have?' she replied.
'Raw, DeSal, Condensed, Purified or Recycled. Fifty per cent off Recycled if you make a contribution before you leave.'

She looked around behind the counter. The walls were covered with paraphernalia; meaningless icons hopeful of ambience. The bar spoke of the old world, of alcohol and tobacco consumed for pleasure and indulgence; but neither the goods nor the spirit were for sale anymore.

'Do you serve food?' she asked.
'Yes Ma'am, finest cakes in town - soy or natural veg,' he said with pride.
'Do you serve meat?' she asked without emphasis.
The man shifted uncomfortably and glanced urgently off to his right at a small group of interested patrons.
'No. Of course not,' he said.
'Of course not,' she said, 'DeSal please; just a glass to start with. Then maybe a container.'

He relaxed and came to life. He produced an unmarked bottle of opaque liquid from beneath the counter and poured a glass.
'And how will you be paying?' he asked courteously.
She reached into her coat and produced a handful of coins. The man stared at the pile in wonder. He extracted one shiny object with tender fingers and widening eyes.
'You've been to the Wetlands,' he said.
'No,' she replied.

'Please don't kill me.'
The man was lying on his back. Blood ran from his nose and the corner of his mouth. She stood over him, her shotgun hovering above his face.
'Give me a good reason,' she said.
The man fumbled desperately in his waistcoat and thrust a small handful of coins towards her. Most of them fell about his head.
'That's not good enough,' she said.
'Look at them!' he screamed, 'Please.'
She studied one lain beside his left ear. It bore a peculiar symbol.
'What are they?'
'Wetlands coinage. I'm in water. I'm a harvester from the South American Delta. Those coins are good anywhere. They're yours, take them.'
She was unmoved.
'You're a long way from home.'
'I'm in business, I'm doing business here. I arrange shipments of pure water to the Drylands.'
'You arrange shipments of meat too, right? The sheet says you're a trafficker - wanted dead.'
His face lost its anxiety and filled instead with malice.
'Fuck you, bitch,' he said.
'I don't make the rules,' she replied.
When she strapped his body to her camel, she took the coins anyway.

The barman's eyes glistened. He wiped his lips with a sweaty hand.
'A man came through here today,' she said.
He stopped staring at the coins. He was a frightened mouse. She trapped him with her steel blue eyes.
'I don't know anything. I'm just a bartender,' he said.
'He was six foot two, black hair, brown eyes, walked with a slight limp, smelled of fowl.'
There was an ominous silence behind her. The barman shook his head.
'I don't know him, I told you.'
She had one more question.
'Has he left?'
The man's lower lip trembled slightly. She didn't need anything else. She dropped the coin on the counter top.
'I'll take the DeSal. Fill my container,' she said.

'A blue-eyed blonde - you're going to break some hearts.'
'Da-ad.'
His care-worn face and bright grey eyes smiled out at her.
'Listen to me. You don't have to hate men; they don't hate you. Just respect who and what they are and they'll have to respect you.'
She was quiet for a moment.
'Not all men are like you, Daddy,' she said.
He smiled and held her close to him.
'All men are different, pet,' he said.

'Hey you,' came a voice from behind her in the darkened barroom. She didn't turn around. She didn't have to - she'd heard this song before.
'Shut up, Earl,' said another voice.
'Why?'
'Don't make trouble. We've got to go back to work soon.'
'Who cares? Think I want to go back to that sweat-pit? Think I enjoy shoving that goddamn dynamo?'
'Don't start on me, Earl. I'm not gonna go with you on this.'
'See if I care. Hey you! I'm talking to you.'
She sipped at her water.
'You're the Harlot, ain't you? Sell dead men for bounty. Recognise you by the hair.'
The barman moved over to where the man was speaking from. He poured out another glass of Raw for him.
'Drink up, Earl. It's almost time for work.'
Earl was having none of it.
'Want to kill me? Want to know if I've ever eaten bovine? Hell, I've never even seen a bovine. I hear they got some down around the Wetlands. Hear they got big horns on the sides of their heads.'
Muffled conversation followed. Earl's friends were evidently trying to explain things to him.
'I know who she is, dammit. I know what she does. Don't treat me like I'm ignorant. I studied elementary ecology and biodynamics. I earned my job running that damn machine like some damn prehistoric slave...'
Earl wasn't even speaking to her now. He was addressing the assembly. She did not consider herself a part of it.

Bleeding, crawling, dying - her father reached out towards her with incredible slowness. Her hand moved towards his. His ruined socket gawked uselessly at her, the crimson line from his nostrils pooling on his perfect white teeth and fulsome lower lip. In the distance she could hear the frenzied bloodlust of the meat eaters. They were chanting. The words did not matter. They were coming for the man and his daughter. Cannibals had entered the settlement.
'We have to go, Dad,' she pleaded.
His lower body was immobile. He could not even drag his blood-soaked limbs. He shook his head with visible emphasis, but no sounds escaped his trembling mouth. Then, as if granted one final burst of strength by the eternal forces, his outward reaching arm fell short of her grasping fingers, dipped and pulled his pistol from its holster. He toppled into a defensive posture, facing away from his only child.
'Dad, no!' she screamed.
His free arm flailed at her, keeping her from him as he cocked the hammer.
She could see their shadows. Their darkness filled the corners of the empty streets. The dust began to rise.
'We have to go now, Dad,' she said, reaching for his arm once again.
His shattered face turned towards her for the very last time. A throaty voice came from larynx bathed in blood.
'I will protect you,' he said.
She screamed.

She finished her water, picked up the sealed container the barman had left for her on the counter and made for the door. Earl had fallen silent. His companions were tense as they watched her leave.

When it came she was ready for it. The big man slapped the underside of the table in front of him, tossing it up end over, and flung himself clumsily towards her. He had produced a knife from somewhere in his filthy overalls and was holding it underhand like the amateur he was. His momentum did not carry him nearly far enough. His foot caught on the flailing legs of the stricken furniture.

She dropped her container on the floor gently enough not to break it, whipped around underneath the falling behemoth and grabbed his wrist as he hurtled to the ground. In one easy movement she was out from under him and had twisted his arm right round so that the knife was between them. He landed heavily on his belly, knocking all the air out of his well-built workman's body. She rested one knee in the centre of his spine and pressed her weight upon him as she pushed the knife-bearing arm towards the nape of his neck. As the dull blade made contact, the big man froze instantly. He realised he was beaten.

She could see the sweat-streaked dirt on his neck, and smelled the pungency of toil on the factory floor upon him. His face had turned to one side and she could see the white terror in his dog-like eyes. She leaned over him, pressing her weight firmly enough for him to feel the pressure, but not enough to do the damage he was afraid of. She placed her lips by his ear and whispered; 'Your fight today is not with me.'

With that she released him, turned, grabbed her container and strode through the door. The barman waddled after her, feeling the need of a final word.
'You need anything else, Ma'am?' he asked.
'I can take care of myself,' she replied.