Project Purple

49 - The Buckskinner

The temperature plunged in October. A somber starkness replaced the breath-taking explosion of color in the leaves of September, and the autumn birds of passage flew to the south as other animals prepared for the lengthy, severe winter.

The colonists were all skeletally gaunt, and they had yellowed skin from the jaundice. Some of them were vomiting greenish bile. They needed to eat or the end would come soon.

But the Goatwench hung tough, "No one's starving, I won't allow the embarrassment."

Grant reacted to the reduced intake of food with periods of dizziness, and his lung capacity greatly diminished; he was exhausted all the time now. Even after the mundane chore of wood chopping, he had to sit a spell or risk collapsing. It was a brave front they were all putting on, but Grant knew the colonists were indeed famishing in an ill-bequeathing, merciless land.

One night he gave the besieged colonists some needed comfort: On a random night patrol of the fort he spotted a black-clad technician standing under one of the birch trees on the west side-some guy trying to fix a small sway camera on one of the lower branches of the tree. The technician scurried away under the dark canopy of night, dropping his tools in a headless get away to a snowmobile-one that dumbfounded Grant, because the thing made no noise whatsoever.

Fort Hemi now had a nice set of socket wrenches. More importantly, everyone shared a stronger sentiment: Their oppressor-the Rhizome-was not as infallible as they all had thought.

Other than that, the news in October was grim. He saw animal tracks, footprints in the snow, at first a few, but amassing in number-wolves. Grant didn't like wolves; they were too determined, too smart. He felt more exposed than ever.

"I wouldn't worry much about the wildlife," their team leader sneered, now ensconced in the hut with the others, "You've got other challenges, Americans."

The team leader was right. It was getting colder and hypothermia was beginning to pray on everyone's mind. Their clothes were always damp now. No one was bathing anymore - there was just no way to do it. The fleas, the lice, the bedbugs infested their bedding with even more bloody virulence than in the summer. Their one small cabin reeked of stink-urine, excrement, wet wool, unwashed bodies; no one would go outside to squat in the cold, cutting snow.

Henri was petting the frail goat, Nanny, their only remaining animal, their pet, their much-loved talisman. Even Grant had a fondness for the little doe. But it was the weakest creature in the fort.

"It's time, isn't it?" Manny asked with a meaningful eye on the little doe. Their team leader's limbs were free, but he stayed tied to a leather collar around his neck that stretched to a sturdy beam in the corner of the hut. He looked like a mean dog that was better left untouched.

Henri gave Manny a cold look, "It's time when I say it's time."

"We all need the protein," Grant said, and he glanced at Nanny before turning away in shamefaced desperation.

They had to eat. The food barrels were empty and sat as cover on the fort's meager ramparts, scraped meticulously free of any remnants of prior filling.

As if to answer, the little goat bayed. It was time. Even Henri knew it.

"I'll do it," Grant said, holding out his arms.

Henri eyed the others, her expression changing from cool defiance to feeble submission. She slowly transferred Nanni to the Buckskinner, standing unmoving as Grant took Nanny away, and the three women comforted her like she was some distressed mother.