By G.R. Nanda
He was rooted to the spot. Nickel pressed his feet into the ground in an effort to make himself feel as if he was doing something other than hiding still. His feet suddenly slipped across the ground. Nickel yelped as he fell over. He grunted as he fell on his stomach and his helmet smacked the flagpole.
He gasped, afraid to move.
Nickel clawed at the ground. He grabbed at the flagpole and tried to pull himself over his back, so he could slowly scale the pole until he was up. Instead, when he turned over, the docking chain’s entrance in his pack clicked when it pushed against the ground.
He felt a winding force against his back dragging him to the ground. He was suddenly swivelled around and he yelped. He began to be dragged backwards next to the flagpole. His heels dug through the stones in the earth and kicked up orange dust.
The cord was contracting and Nickel was being pulled back to the Eagle.
Nickel howled in panic and flailed his limbs through the air. He struck the earth with hands and feet. As the flagpole slid past him, Nickel quickly hooked his legs around it.
There was muffled shouting which was then blocked out by an increased wind whistling over the far off strangers. Air pushed at Nickel’s side.
“Who’s there?” growled the old stranger. He coughed. He coughed. “Who’s there?”
Nickel pulled his legs in, and having reached close enough to the pole, he quickly slapped a hand around it and closed it in a tight fist.
“Steve!” moaned the younger boy. He continued speaking, but his voice trailed away.
Nickel grabbed the pole tighter and compressed his whole body against it. He inched his palms up the pole.
The sound of footsteps emerged, becoming louder with every step. “Aaauahh!” came the voice of the older man, louder than before.
A dark figure emerged out of the orange. Nickel clamped down on the flagpole with his limbs and shutting his eyes, pressed down with his limbs. He couldn’t hide. But he might as well pretend he was hiding.
“Who are you?” wheezed the old man. His voice was flat with congestion.
Nickel didn’t open his eyes.
“You have nothing to take from us. We’re sick and poor.”
Nickel opened his eyes.
A haggard and thin man with wrinkles compressed deeply into pale skin stood before him. Shaggy brown hair hung loose from his temple and from around his mouth.
Over a puffy gray turtleneck outfit, hung a withered black cloak that seeped onto the ground.
“Who-are you?” gasped Nickel.
“I asked you first, boy,” said the old man. He sniffled. “Or girl.” he waved his arm out at Nickel’s body. “Can’t tell under your armor.”
“I’ve already got one sick man-child to care for. I’m not sure if I want another.”
Dep ringlets of purple hung below his sunken bloodshot eyes. Eyes that stared deeply, intently at Nickel, while hanging on a gaunt body.
“Are you sick?” he asked. “Can you answer that?”
“No, I’m not sick,” said Nickel.
“Are you here to steal?” asked the old man.
“Are you?” asked Nickel. The old man laughed loudly, leaning backwards to allow his long wheezing chortles to shoot out of his diaphragm.
“No-I mean it!” said Nickel. “How do I know you won’t steal from me or kill me and sell my organs on a black market?” The old man had began coughing and shaking violently. Once he stopped he stood still and grinned at Nickel.
“So what is it?” he asked. “Am I your friend or your enemy?”
“I’ve got plenty of enemies. Enemies in the weather. Enemies in this god awful hellhole that the civilized world calls the Desolate Plains of the Atlantic. Sometimes Farrul when he’s being stupid.”
“But you could be a friend, just like Farrul is to me when he wants to be-and when he’s not being stupid.”
Nickel said nothing.
“I don’t know if I can trust you,” he said.
“What do you have to lose?” asked the old man. “You have resources,” he said pointing to Nickel’s suit. “I have knowledge. We can help each other out. Long before I was stuck here I was a cook for explorers, and travelled aboard their expedition craft. I’ve seen many things, son. And I’ve lived many years. I know what the world looked like before all of this, this- orange.”
“Steve!” yelled the boy from far away. “What the glibb are you doing?” The old man’s head perked up at the voice. He sniffled. “STEVE!” His voice was raspy and shrill; an adolescent voice on the cusp on manhood, but not having quite reached the baritone of manliness. Quick sputters of coughing followed and shortly died.
A tiny figure emerged in the orange depths behind the old man. It grew longer and wider. A dark face suddenly appeared in the fog. While the head disappeared, moving limbs appeared, tearing through the orange curtain. Suddenly Farrul came up to them. He was a thin boy with scraggly facial hair and a face caked with grime. A hat covered his temple and he was clad in free flowing and dirty rags.
He bent over panting. When his eyes caught a glance of Nickel hooked to the flagpole, he jerked upwards and gawked at him.
“Steve, who the glibb is this guy?” asked Farrul.
“It depends,” Steve answered. “On him,” he said, looking into Nickel’s helmet.
“What?” said Farrul scrunching up his face in exasperation. “Does he have meds?” he asked suddenly. “Doesn’t matter if he doesn’t. He’s got more than enough anyways. Grab him!”
Steve turned around to face Farrul.
“Don’t do it, boy!” he yelled.
Farrul growled and lunged towards Nickel.
G.R. Nanda 