Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Farmer on the Road

Sometimes wandering aimlessly did wonders for the sinking brain. Fresh air hushing through the untrimmed wild grass could coax ideas out of the deep dark wrinkles of the brain. Sunlight, even pale and waxen, warmed the skin and all the vessels below. It was soothing, strolling kept the body in motion and relaxed and loosened the mind.

That was, when every inch of said body didn't ache. When said brain had been allowed more than five minutes of sleep. When the damned grass wasn't making you sneezed every other minute.

True stomped their way through the one billionth sneezing fit. Each stomp heavier than the last, as if they could crush the sneezes under their hell and make them stop. It was childish. They were find with that. Radio walked quietly behind them, it wore soft-soled shoes that probably wouldn't make noise even if it did stomp. Which it didn't. It should learn to keep up if it was going to stalk them. They grumbled about it to themselves to kill a couple klicks. Grumbling about Radio was becoming somewhat of a hobby. As if it wasn't enough of a nuisance haunting their every move, now it was popping up inside their head. Miserable creature.

They kicked a rock and listened to the crack of it against a distant tree trunk with an inkling of satisfaction. Focus, they had to focus. If al the other scavengers were going to be yellow bellies about the Red Faction—and after Jonesy, True decided they would be—they needed a new plan.

Option one: ignore the problem. Watch from a distance while the Red Faction dismantled every After Market and enjoy a few days of bittersweet satisfaction that they had been right before they were sniffed out and killed, too.

Option two: keep warning other scavengers. Deal with increasing frustration and despair when they were inevitably dismissed. Be extremely annoyed while either succumbing to either the elements or heaven forbid, a factioneer.

Option three: take down the Red Faction. Go down swinging.

Death, death, and death with a side of fighting. What a fun variety of options.

There was one other key detail they were missing. They still didn't know why the Red Faction was attacking the After Market in the first place. For its entire life the Faction had been limited to attacking scavengers on the roadside and trying to undermine the After Market. It was foolhardy. Maybe even the actions of a crazed outlier group. Unless... True slowed to a stop, squinting at the cracked asphalt.

Unless the Faction had a way to replace the Market.

"Anything interesting down there?" A deep voice startled True about six inches into the air and hard left of their skeletal system.

"Motherfuck!" they swore when their lungs relocated inside their ribcage.

"Caught you sleeping, did I?" the culprit, a suntanned farmer-looking behemoth, chuckled. True didn't share his amusement, instead eyeing the three other, smaller lurking forms. Four against one, those were bad odds.

"You look rough, bud, got into a tussle, huh?" The farmboy, who was batting three for three on opening his mouth to ask a question, stared openly south of True's eyes. Grimacing, True turned their bad side away from him and watched him from the corner of their eye.

"The After Market was attacked," they said. Farmboy blinked slow and hemmed and hawed and nodded for what felt like an eternity, rocking his whole body with the waggles of his head. When he'd finally digested, he bobbed once more and thought hard for a good long minute. Like he was working up to something. Then he opened his mouth.

"What's your name there, bud?"

True bit their tongue to keep from snapping at Farmboy only because they had just enough active braincells to know they'd lose that fight.