It has been months since Jackson last saw clean water. They and their companions were still in the Eastern Sector, meaning there was nothing here but hills and cliffs. The last time the group had seen a village was equally long ago.
Bug was complaining that its gears were getting clogged with ashes at this point, which didn't shock Jackson but it was concerning even so; Jackson could feel their own joints slowing as they walked. It wouldn't be so bad if it weren't for the wind.
At least they didn't get tired the way Roland did. Jackson was doing their best to pull him along, but he was slowing down with every passing day. He needed food and water, and the rations were running dangerously low.
Shingles, at least, seemed unbothered by anything. He bounded ahead constantly or lagged behind, going his own way and returning hours or days later covered in dust and ash, or sometimes blood. He shuffled along behind Bug now, an empty grin plastered on his stitched face.
"Where are we going again?" Bug demanded, knees creaking.
"North," Jackson said wearily. "There's a haven another week from here, once we're out of the hills. We just have to make it that far."
"I need oil."
"I know. So do I."
"I bet we'd get there faster if we dropped meatsack here." Bug tugged at Roland's shift. "Look at him; he's deadweight!"
"He's an important inventor, as I've explained," Jackson sighed.
"It might be easier if I made my own way," Roland suggested tentatively. "You have no need for rations and yet you carry mine. I could just walk to the village and get there after you."
"No." Jackson shook their head. "You're too fragile; look at all those scratches and scrapes! It's best if we escort you."
(@ChieRynn)
Gender:
Points: 2094
Reviews: 112