Patchworld 5

Note to reviewers: please no nitpicks. Try to make the quality of the story better, not just simple mechanical issues. Those are irrelevant.

To anyone who has not read Patchworld before: these installments are not chapters. They are parts. I update the story whenever I need motivation, but there are no definitive beginnings and ends to the subplots of 'chapters'.

If you'd like to read more of this, join the club, 'Patchworld'. I notify members when I update the story, as well as sometimes post story-related art(there is a character sketch of Naz there so far).

enjoy part 5!

(From part 4... I told you these aren't chapters.)

“ Pass me the matches, will you?”

Naz glanced around at the floor. “Where?”

Alden gave an absentminded shrug. “Not sure. I think under a blanket somewhere...I didn’t want them to get wet.”

Naz began to search. “Try under there. That’s where I used to keep them,” he said, pointing to a heavy black iron pot lying facedown on the floor.

Alden turned it over with some difficulty. “Not here.”

Naz scowled. “Better be somewhere… they’re getting harder to find these days. But we picked some up on the way back here. I’ll go get them.”

The younger boy nodded, and turned back to the construction of the pyramid.

Shortly, there was a loud, surprised “Hey!” from the corner of the room, and Alden looked up, unsettled.

“What?”

Naz was put a hand to his chest, which was heaving slightly. “What. Yes, what, Al. What is he doing here?”

He was staring at the brown-and-white mound that was curled up next to the supply packs in the corner, pressed against the blackened brick wall.

It’s small back rose and fell, and shivered delicately, like a frightened mouse, and its hands settled over the face as if it was used to being slapped awake.

Naz loomed over it. He wasn’t angry, but he was a little exasperated. He pushed some slipping yellow hair behind his shoulder.

Alden’s shoulders unknotted. “Oh. Him. We call him Wyatt.”

Naz’s head tilted at the sleeping little boy.

He was skinny and dark-skinned, with a grey-faded white, oversized t-shirt, too-big jeans, and no shoes. As Naz looked closer, he realized that he had absolutely no hair on his head. None.

“He’s odd-looking, yeah.” Alden said. “He wandered in here about a week ago through the vent and hasn’t even said a word… We were going to chuck him out, but… I dunno, he’s kind of cute. And he doesn’t eat much.” Not too much more to feed, right?

Naz bent over the little boy. Alden was right. He was cute. Very skinny, and very small.

“Wyatt, huh… it’s not his name, is it.” He stated the question like it was a fact.

Alden smiled. “No, you’re right. Marie named him. I think she must’ve known somebody named that.”

“It..doesn’t look right on him. Wyatt. Wyatt.” He repeated, almost in distaste. “ Wyatt.”

Alden shrugged. “Can’t argue with Marie. And she found him first, gotta give her the credit.” He took a stick from the woodpile and pointed it at Naz. “You have the matches? Or what?”

Naz blinked. “Yeah…” he said finally. “ It’s in the white bag. But, er, this little guy is practically on top of it. I don’t want to wake him up.”

“You won’t. He doesn’t sleep that often. I’ve only seen him like this about three times since he’s been here… about ten days or so, so when he falls he crashes.” Alden flicked the twig he was holding at the unlit pyramid. “He’s like you.”

Naz’s eyebrows furrowed. “Not quite like me. I still hold the record. I can go for ten days without even...blinking.” He did not sound proud of this achievement, and Alden picked up on that. But he went along anyway- because that was the aim of the comment.

“He has room to practice. He looks like he’s around six, so that’s…” he paused.

“Seven years,” Naz reminded him. “I’m thirteen.” That, he did say a little proudly. Alden was twelve years old, which in theory gave Naz authority.

“Right… matches?”

Naz raised his eyebrows doubtfully at the crumpled heap that was Wyatt. It was shivering. It’s small, bony dark hands were folded over its face so protectively and consciously…

He swallowed and cautiously pulled the bag away. The burlap made a low whispering scratching sound on the pine-covered floor and he glanced back at the little boy nervously. The body did not move. He proceeded to fumble with the bag’s contents. Matches, Matches.

book, buttons, thread, pencils, knife, candles, compass. Matches.

There was a big full box of them somewhere, but it was hard to see without the fire, so it took longer than expected to find it.

The box was thin, cheap wood, with a rough strip along the side where the matches were supposed to be stricken. It had warped a little, felt arched and cool under Naz’s fingers.