There is a rectangular metal canister in one of the train's less wrecked cars. The bottom is stamped with "5 L" and it smells faintly of gasoline. After some searching around the yard, you find a pump and wash the canister out with slightly rusty water, then fill it. It isn't the cleanest you've ever seen, but it should do.
The soldier drinks for a long time as you hold the heavy canister for him. When he's done, he looks a bit better, and his voice comes back to him - it's still hoarse and strained, but it's no longer a whispery croak.
-Thanks.
You ask where you are, explaining that you are a shipwreck survivor, and don't know where you are.
-You sure picked a place to get washed ashore. This town is Meshta. Used to ship seafood inland, before all this war business started. Trawlers would stop at the pier, then the catch would be dried, smoked, or what have you at the smokehouse next to here - here is the storehouse, and also the train stop. Then the fish would be loaded onto the train and shipped off to Dorshen - big city further inland. Those fucking traitors are there now.
With less certainty, you ask what happened to him. His lips stretch in a not-smile.
-Honor. We of his Highness' 43rd Volunteer Infantry Regiment decided not to abandon our posts and stay in our city after everybody ran away like rats. We thought we could hold an army off here until the Crown Prince retook Meshta.
A manic giggle escapes his lips.
We were fools, and the Prince can't retake his own ass with a company of dragoons. Bastards had some problems with the door, and we held our own even after they blew it to bits - but then it turned out they had a drummer who could tap Hummingbird. I blacked out, and when I came to, they'd already shot all my friends - even shot Crazy Martha from the house down the street. Stupid old hag, told her to leave. But who cares, now. The bastards figured I was Marked, and if I died, not one of them would leave this place alive...So they broke my arms, my legs, half my ribs, and left me here to die.
He coughs.
- Bastards. I almost like the Divisionists now - they're not rats. The traitors are the worst. Too scared to die proper, too scared to live proper. So they killed us. For a trainload of dried fish. Didn't get that, either, made sure of that. They can all starve in Dorshen. Bastards.
He spits, hitting his boot, swears, then shakes his head.
Hey, can you do something for me? One of the indefs back there - the one with the black hair. The pretty one. It has a coin in its breast pocket. Brass, about a thumb wide. Can you bring it to me?
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Topic: Wrecked Land [SG] (Read 11287 times)