Snippet #1988065

A few tense moments passed for Mike as no response came from the house. The silence from that direction made him nervous, as did the thought of suddenly being left alone in the desert, with no other human beings around--or worse, angry human beings. It wasn't like he hadn't seen looters before, they had escaped a few raider parties within the city, when the group was still building the bus. they'd taken a few passes at the bus, once they'd taken a couple days' worth of food, another day a few gallons of gasoline. A third attack was driven off when Mike got a solid hit with the shaft of his axe on the leader, a fourth by judicious application of fire extinguisher. But raiders out here, in between cities... He didn't know much about them, but he assumed they could be vicious. And he really didn't want to have to actually fight anyone at the moment.

So it came as a relief when, a few moments later, Scout's voice echoed back across the yard. Mike let out the breath he didn't realize he was holding as she spoke. Soon after, she appeared at the porch rail. Even from here, Mike cringed a little, watching as the railing rocked under her grip, threatening to give way. He almost called out a word of caution before, thankfully, she leaned back, and the railing returned to its original place. He risked a little smile, leaning against the door of the barn. "If you're going to start calling me baby, at least get me dinner first!" He let out a little laugh and stamped back into the barn, a small cloud of dust and sand rising at his heels.

It was all for a laugh, of course. In situations like these, it was the small things that kept you sane. Mock-flirting, jabbing fun at each-other while scrounging--it staved off the boredom, and also the onset of anxiety, fear and anger. Not that Mike wouldn't settle with Scout if given the opportunity, of course. Just that right now, survival was on the top of the list and romance wasn't. Maybe one day, a long time down the road...

No. No no no no. Mike shook his head as Scout disappeared through a window of the house; cringing inwardly at the sound of more shattering glass. The former fireman shouted back a half-hearted "Okay!" and then moved back to the fuel siphon. He let the calming hiss and whoosh of the pump focus him on the task at hand, and within minutes the gas tank of the tractor had run dry. Mike gave a few more heaves at the pump, then ran a hand through his beard and wiped the sweat from his brow. Inwardly, he thought he could go for a shave. The weeks and miles had not been kind to his face; he was dirty and his beard was prodigious but unkempt. He sighed, thinking about what had caused the beard to grow in the first place, then shook the thought free of his head.

He moved quickly to the porch of the house, setting down the fuel can and the siphon pump. He looked to the window, and saw Scout's shadow moving around inside. He shook his head, giving her shadow a look, and then sat down against a porch support beam, watching the breeze toss the low scrub grass. Distantly, he thought of using the old well pump in the yard, but the thought never crossed his mind again--it looked disused, dry, more like a decoration than anything. So he cast his eyes about for a family car, a lawn tractor, any motor vehicle--nothing he could see.

So he rested for the moment. It was a precious commodity for him, rest. All too hard for him to come by nowadays.