Mark jolted awake lying on a thin cot and staring up at the concrete ceiling supported by rotting wooden beams. Metal shelving lined the walls covered in dust and empty food cans. He had precious little food left now. Good thing that Amper would be passing by today. He had to get moving. A selection of tools leaned against the wall in a dark corner of the room. He got up and walked to the corner of the room where he picked up a shovel and a pick. He trudged to the stairs and hauled the tools up the creaking wooden steps. They lead up to a bolted metal door. He took an amulet from a peg hanging next to the door before unlocking it and walking out into the harsh red desert. Monoliths of rust and iron rose up into the fogged sky. Each breath brought red dust swirling into his mouth and nostrils and he had to pull a scarf over his face and goggles over his eyes to protect him from the swirling sand. Orange grains shifted and ground under his feet as he walked toward the nearest spire. His shovel drew a line in the sand behind him as he dragged it along the ground.
When he reached the pillar of metal he knelt, tracing a line in the sand from the base to a point ten feet away. He brought the pick up over his head and slammed it down into the hard earth. Sweat beaded across his brow dyed shades of red by the dust that he kicked up in his labor. His breath came out in puffs, fast and shallow. He dropped his pick and began to dig using the shovel. After some time digging the shovel went down and made a metallic clang. He dropped to all fours frantically scraping away at the ground with his hands. A shimmering blue metal was slowly revealed and he tore it from the ground as soon as it was uncovered.
He buried the small bar deep in his pack and pulled out a cloth bundle. He unwrapped the cloth to reveal a small working watch. It was almost time. He rewrapped the watch with utmost care and returned it to his bag. The place he had to go was not far off. He stood and walked through the maze of holes surrounding the pillar and into the red sunrise.
He saw the brown cloth tents and wooden crates of the wanderer set out between two of the spires from a good way off. As he approached the area he saw a silhouette sitting in the doorway of one of the tents by a small fire. He was turning a little spit with a small rodent roasting on it. He approached the fire and sat on an overturned crate standing in as a seat. The man across the fire was ragged and dirty. His long sparse beard was far from its old shade of black and his goggles were scratched and coated with grime. A single long strand of hair escaped from his hood and flicked back and forth across the scarf that covered his mouth. He wore a long trench coat and his hands were hidden inside large leather gloves.
The man grabbed a flask off of the ground and removed the cork offering it to him. He took it and gulped down a mouthful of the warm water. The man began to speak. “So, look who came back.”
“I always said I would.” He replied.
“Looking for the usual I suppose” Said the man, “your so boring Mark. Just because someone can live off canned soup for their entire life doesn’t mean you should.”
“Who said I eat nothing but canned soup?”
“Making deals behind my back now are we?” The man laughed.
“Depends on if your backs to the devil or not.”
The man laughed again and turned into the nearest tent, emerging with a small wagon filled with canned food. The wagon hobbled along on crooked wheels and the vibrant red that it had once been was not even remotely reflected in its current state.
“Thanks for your time, old friend.” he said.
“Wouldn’t dream of staying on course when you're nearby.”
“Greatly appreciated.”
“A greedy old man like myself can’t expect to dig anymore.”
“You just want the money you old bastard.” He dug in his pack and removed the blue metal, handing it to the man.
“Speaking of things I want. I have something that I would very much like to show you.” he pulled a small glass bottle out of his coat pocket. It had obviously seen better days and a crack down its side had been patched but it was nevertheless a great surprise to Mark. “Found this at one of my new spots. Two pieces lying there, almost like they had been left for me.”
“You and your superstitions. You truly are an old man.” he said, “Thank you.” He tucked away the glass bottle inside a blue handkerchief and walked away with a smile on his face.
–Three Days Later–
The old man hobbled behind his wagon whipping the groaning beasts that pulled it along. He looked off towards the mountain ridge in the distance. He removed a picture from his pocket showing the same mountain with blue sky just behind it. He had always wanted to see the blue sky. Just for a second he thought he saw a hint of blue on the red sand between two pillars of steel like a flapping piece of cloth. He shook his head and moved on mumbling to himself about his old brain playing tricks on him.
