Chapter 1: Bell View Outpost

Four women stand and watch as I set up my temporary shelter. It’s dark, but I’ve got a headlamp, and we had to set these things up about a hundred times during training, so I get it ready in no time at all. It looks like I’m the only drifter here tonight. My shelter seems so small, tucked away between the silhouettes of the mud-brick outpost shelters. Not that they look big.

The women seem rather impressed, and I shamelessly revel in their comments of praise as I assemble my little shelter. After all, it takes strong people to survive in the outposts. Their admiration is no small thing. “They sure train you young folks well these days. Before they sent me and my husband out here thirty years ago, they only gave us training on how to grow crops. How to shoot Mud Hoppers and how to grow crops. Then they sent us and 50 other couples right along with only a few measly supplies and a wagon full o’ guns.”

I reply by muttering a simple “huh” as I unstrap my bags from Angeles. I don’t mention the knot forming in my stomach. The Second Moon is only beginning to peak over the western horizon, but I can still tell by the light of the First that there are definitely not fifty shelters here. A couple dozen at most, I think, as I place my things in my temp shelter.

“Yeah, we had it real hard those first few years,” the woman continues.

“Mud Hoppers?” I ask, stroking Angeles’ mane.

“Well, yeah, but they wasn’t our first problem. First was tryin’ to grow crops. There was already grass and weeds out here, even some shrubs. But it took us several springs to get a decent harvest out of our crops.”

“Ah. I’ve heard that’s a common problem for the outposts.”

“Yeah. We lost a lot of folks,” another woman chimes in. “If there wasn’t a few good hunters among us, I reckon there wouldn’t be a Bell View Outpost at all.”

“Got that right.” A third in the group nods as she stares off at nothing. “Humanity can’t catch a break, huh? First meteors hit the planet and kill the billions of people who couldn’t manage a spot in a craft. Then a million more who could are still kilt floatin’ about in space all that time. And then not but fifty years after our forefolks come back to the only planet humans have ever called home, and a bunch o’ blood thirsty aliens try to take it for themselves.”

My mind fills with memories that were never mine as I rest the side of my face against Angeles’ neck. Being in a spacecraft. Looking down on Earth day after day after day, willing the atmosphere to clear. Waiting in line for rations that get smaller and smaller every meal until there is nothing left to wait for. Alarms going off as the captain tries in vain to avoid crashing into space debris. Rolling clouds of fire devouring the walls of our craft…

“That’s enough talk o' the past.” The fourth woman seems to know what day dreams the topic has sparked, so she changes it. “Right now we have a guest, and we oughtta see to it that she has everythin’ she needs. It’s a cold night, settlin’ in on us. Surely we got some supplies ‘round here she can borrow.” They’re all mothers, and rough as they are, they can’t help but be motherly. Pretty soon I’ve got an extra cushion to sleep on, an elk-skin blanket, and a lantern. There’s even an extra spot in the stable for Angeles.

Before going to bed, I join a couple of them around a fire and exchange stories. I tell them about how I’m from the American Central City, how I had just finished an assignment with a Mud Hopper scouting troupe in the Southern Outskirts, and how the assignment ended early and I’m now headed to another in the Eastern Outskirts. I even tell them about how I had originally been chosen as a teacher, and had taught at St. George’s outpost for years before requesting to join the troupes. They, in turn, tell me stories of when they were first assigned to the Outlands. What had then been the Outskirts, before Bell View had been deemed successful.

I love these moments. These moments that you could never have predicted.

Just last Wednesday I was in St. Claire’s outpost, assisting our arms trainer as she haggled for supplies in the local market. That outpost is the largest and most successful in the world…about 900 residents. We were able to load up on food and ammunition as if our 20-person troupe had another three weeks to survive.  

That night, we found out that it didn’t. We were informed that the American Government was concerned about increased Mud Hopper encounters in other areas, so the project would end two weeks early. In four days, we would all be sent to different troupes.

Friday night we had one last dinner with the whole troupe. Our government reps had gifts for all of us, and we laughed as we recalled the inside jokes and memories referenced by each one.

And now here I am, chatting by the fire with tried and true outpost women.  

When I finally retire to my shelter I’m so tired I fall asleep almost immediately. 

It’s only Sunday, and I won’t reach my next assignment until Wednesday. Tomorrow I can rest at Bell View, but on Tuesday I’ll be riding along a large stretch of uninhabited land. I’ve been reassured by the government reps that there are no reports of Mud Hopper hunting parties in that area. But I know full well that may only be a partial truth. After all, who can report seeing the thing that kills them?