Grit

Truth is perhaps the rarest commodity in our grit-scarred world. In the days before the End, it was said that information flowed freely, that facts could be verified and lies exposed. Now, we live in a haze of rumor and myth, where even our own memories can be as unreliable as quicksand.

I have seen entire communities built on foundations of falsehood, their inhabitants clinging desperately to comforting lies rather than face harsh realities.

Yet, I have also seen the devastating power of truth revealed. Like a grit-storm, it can scour away the familiar, leaving raw uncertainty in its wake. Communities fracture, alliances crumble, and long-held beliefs turn to dust.

But from this upheaval, something new can emerge. For truth, painful as it may be, is the bedrock upon which we must rebuild our world. Without it, we are merely play-acting at civilization, constructing elaborate facades that will inevitably collapse.

To those who would be leaders in these times, I say this: Truth is your most potent weapon and your heaviest burden. Wield it with care, but never shy from its use. For in a world buried in grit, only truth can truly set us free.

- From the Writings of Brother Felix St George

The journey back to Dustbowl passed in shell-shocked silence. November field-stripped her grit-jammed rifle and cleaned its parts obsessively, as if hoping to wash away its betrayal.

Scout tinkered with Rattler at every stop, making sure its stand was secure and ammo refilled. Both the Librarian and November heard her occasionally croon to it, “Who’s a good boy then? Who’s my good boy?” Neither commented.

For the Librarian, the journey was not silent and he had begun to fear he might never experience true quiet again. The voices were not as loud as they had been at the crag, but they were much clearer, filling his head with their nonsense ramblings. He took to drinking even more than usual to dull them and spent his time flipping through his books, gazing sightlessly at their pages.

Their night was quiet as well, with little of their usual chatter. The Librarian took to bed early, woozy from liquor and both Scout and November spent their time in silence, gazing at the horizon, both expecting a red-covered shabby figure to be headed inexorably towards them.

As Scout made to turn in, November spoke, surprising her. “The people of Dustbowl might not like what we have to say.”

Scout nodded. “I guess so.”

“Keep that button handy.”

Scout’s face twisted. “November…Rattler won’t differentiate any targets except the three of us. If I set him off in town, he’ll kill everybody, armed or not. Men, women….there were kids there”

“I know,” she replied. “But keep it handy.”

Scout had no reply.

****

It was a different town that they saw as they crested the valley ridge. Grit had already coated the houses and the gardens, and the grass was stained in many places with yellow and brown. Two guards had been posted at the entrance. They did not look pleased to see the Winnebago.

By the time Scout had parked, the townies had gathered. Gone were the welcoming smiles, in their place were hard glares and weapons.

Shouldn’t have come back, girl, the Old Man said. Trying to find some kind of justice just gets soldiers killed.

The crowd's hostility was palpable as November, Scout, and the Librarian faced them. Maria, her face contorted with rage, pushed to the front.

"Where is he?" she demanded, her voice cracking with emotion. "What have you done to our Saint?"

Father Levy placed a calming hand on her shoulder, but his own expression was guarded. "Now, Maria, let's hear them out. But," he added, turning to the trio, "I hope you understand our concern. Saint Gabriel's absence has... changed things here."

November licked dry lips. She had been hoping the Librarian would handle this, but he was still unfocused and distant, squinting in the light from the after-effects of his over-indulgence. Even Scout was quiet for once, looking to her in mute supplication.

“This…is a Mark-IV Argus Auto-Turret, capable of firing 100 rounds a second, with automatic motion-tracking, thermal imaging and basic targeting AI,” she said weakly.

The crowd growled. “Are you threatening us?” snarled Maria. “Did you use it on Saint Gabriel?”

November figured it was best to not actually admit that. “Warning you. Not to do anything rash.” The crowd growled again. She heard mutters in the crowd. ‘No way that actually works...’ ‘Grit would have broken it…’ ’…just a bluff.’

“Saint Gabriel was not the man you thought he was,” November tried. “He killed everyone at Four Fields! And he probably would have done the same to you when he got bored here!”

The accusation hung in the air for a moment before chaos erupted. Shouts of disbelief and outrage filled the air. Maria lunged forward, only to be held back by Father Levy.

"You dare slander our savior?" she screamed. "He brought life back to this wasteland!"

A man near the front raised his rifle. "Maybe we should see how your fancy vehicle holds up against some real firepower!"

November's hand twitched towards her own weapon, but she knew drawing it would only escalate things further. She locked eyes with Scout, silently pleading. Scout's face was a mask of anguish, her hand still in her pocket but not moving.

Just as the situation seemed about to boil over, two guns spoke as one. The town guards at the front of the crowd cried out, clutching their legs as they fell.

“I know the truth of Four Fields, and I know these people,” Josiah called from the edge of the yellowing grass. “And if they tell it true then I’ve been hunting your Saint for his crimes.”

The crowd's anger gave way to fear as whispers of "gun-saint" rippled through their ranks. It seemed the townies might be doubtful of technology, but they had clearly heard of the Order of the Eastern Wood.

“Now I’ve got eleven rounds left before I need to reload,” Josiah continued, his voice carrying easily in the stunned silence. “I can’t get you all but eleven men will die out of your number before I fall. Do you like those odds? Are you prepared to risk being one of the eleven to receive the Lead Mercy? In the words of my order, you need to ask yourself: ‘Do you feel fortunate?’”

It seemed the townies did not.

Father Levy stepped forward, his hands raised in a placating gesture. "Please, there's no need for further violence. We can discuss this civilly."

"Can we?" Maria spat, her eyes wild. "They've poisoned our Saint's name! They've—"

"They've given us information we need to consider," Father Levy interrupted firmly. He turned to November. "You say Saint Gabriel was responsible for Four Fields. Do you have proof?"

November hesitated, realizing how flimsy their evidence might sound. "He... he admitted it to us.”

The Librarian, who had been silent until now, suddenly spoke up. "He said he brought one town down and raised another up. A grand experiment, he called it."

Murmurs of disbelief rippled through the crowd, but they were tinged with uncertainty now.

"But why?" someone called out. "Why would he do that?"

November seized on the opening. "Because he wasn't a saint. He was... something else. Something that could control the grit itself."

This revelation sent a new wave of shock through the gathering. Father Levy's face paled.

"Is this true?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

November nodded grimly. "We saw him float on streams of grit. When we... when we fought him, he bled grit instead of blood."

The silence that followed was deafening. The townspeople looked at each other, fear and confusion replacing their earlier anger.

The Librarian stepped forwards. "Good people of Dustbowl," he began, his voice wavering at first but growing stronger with each word. "I understand your anger and confusion. As a keeper of knowledge, I've spent my life seeking truth, and I know how painful it can be when that truth challenges our beliefs." The voices in his head seemed to quiet, as if listening too.

“But I've also learned that the most dangerous lies are the ones we tell ourselves. Your Saint Gabriel brought you hope, yes, but at what cost? The people of Four Fields paid with their lives. Who will be next?"

“You are strong people,” he concluded. “You survived in this harsh world before Saint Gabriel arrived, and you will survive now that he's gone.”

Maria, however, wasn't ready to give up. "No," she said, shaking her head violently. "No, I don't believe it. This is all lies!"

"Maria," Father Levy said gently, "we must consider the possibility—"

"No!" she screamed. "Saint Gabriel saved us! He brought life back to this place! He... he..." Her voice broke, and she collapsed to her knees, sobbing.

The fight seemed to drain out of the crowd. Weapons lowered, and people began to disperse, muttering among themselves.

Father Levy approached November and her companions. "I think," he said heavily, "we have much to discuss. And much to reconsider about our future. It would be best if you, and your friend," he inclined his head towards Josiah, ”left us to our business. I can’t guarantee your safety, even with such a formidable protector, if those discussions…go the wrong way.”

“We will leave you to your deliberations,” said the Librarian sympathetically. “And if I may…” He pressed a small black book with a gold cross on the cover into Father Levy’s hands. “You might have one already, but if not, it may help you guide your flock.”

Father Levy’s eyes filled with tears and he struggled to find words. The Librarian smiled gently and walked back to Win.

****

Josiah stared into the middle distance and for the first time, November saw something like real anger on his normally-placid face. They had parked Win back over the ridge to avoid provoking the people of Dustbowl further

“I was so close,” he bit out. “If I hadn’t turned back to Haven to sell my horse for supplies, I would have had the bastard.”

Scout looked doubtful. “I don’t know. No disrespect, but Rattler put some very big holes in him and we’re not sure he’s dead.”

Josiah shook his head dismissively. “I have taken the Oath of One Bullet and meditated upon my chosen round every night since. It will fell him.”

November was unconvinced on the efficacy of meditation as a weapon-enhancer, but felt it best not to push the point. “Well, we don’t have any idea where he went after the storm. I mean, if he can really fly -”

“What about his cave?” the Librarian broke in suddenly. “Maybe he left something there which might give Josiah a lead? We could drive around the edges of Dustbowl to avoid further confrontation and climb up to look.”

Josiah nodded. “Anything to get me back on his scent.”

****

The Winnebago's engine growled as Scout carefully navigated the vehicle around the outskirts of Dustbowl. November kept her rifle ready, eyes scanning the town's perimeter for any sign of pursuit or ambush.

"I don't like this," Scout muttered, her knuckles white on the steering wheel. "It feels like we're sneaking around our own crime scene."

The Librarian peered out the window. "Sometimes, my dear, the pursuit of knowledge requires... unorthodox methods."

Josiah sat silently, his hand resting on his holstered weapon, a faraway look in his eyes as if already imagining his confrontation with Saint Gabriel.

As they approached the base of the rocky outcropping that housed the cave, Scout brought Win to a halt. "This is as far as we can go by vehicle," she announced. "We'll have to climb from here."

They disembarked, the tension palpable. November took point, her rifle at the ready. Scout hesitated by Win's door.

"What about Rattler?" she asked, concern evident in her voice.

"Leave him active," November replied. "If things go south, we might need covering fire for our retreat."

The climb was arduous, made more challenging by the need for stealth. Loose rocks threatened to give away their position with every step. The Librarian struggled, his breath coming in ragged gasps, but he waved away offers of assistance.

As they neared the cave entrance, Josiah held up a hand, signaling them to stop. He drew his guns with fluid grace, approaching the dark opening with cautious steps.

"Wait," November whispered, moving to join him. "We don't know what might be in there."

Josiah nodded, acknowledging her point. Together, they edged closer to the cave mouth, weapons at the ready.

The stench hit them first – a nauseating mix of unwashed body and something else, something alien and wrong. November fought the urge to gag.

"By the Editor," the Librarian murmured, his face pale.

Scout produced a small flashlight from her pocket, its beam cutting through the gloom. They could see into Saint Gabriel’s little cave, and the candles he had lit to provide light on their last visit. At the back, the dirty curtain hung undisturbed.

November and Josiah carefully edged closer and closer to the curtain. As they drew closer, November heard a low, rapid sound, a maddeningly familiar ticking. Then she froze. “Don’t move. Nobody move.”

“Scout,” she continued through stiff lips. “I don’t know how, but I think there’s an auto-turret back here behind the curtain.”

Scout scrambled closer, face scrunching with incredulity. “What? You can’t be - “

“I said don’t move!” November hissed. Scout stopped, flushing with embarrassment. “You know Rattler inside and out,” November continued. “Is there anything we can do to turn it off?”

Scout frowned. “It should be using thermal imaging in a cave like this, and it’s obviously been set to a close firing range or we’d already be paste. Probably it goes off if you cross the curtain.”

November sighed with relief. “Okay, so we just back up.”

“Nope,” Scout said, shaking her head. “Here how the clicking has accelerated? It’s already flagged you and Josiah as potential targets. It might have alternate instructions for what to do if you retreat, particularly now you’ve been close enough to identify it.”

“Great. So what do we do?”

Scout suddenly smiled. “I’ve got an idea. Be right back!”

She disappeared out of the cave and November heard her scrambling back down the mountain side. A few minutes passed, but to November they felt like years. She was used to spending long periods lying still with her rifle, but this was different, frozen in an unfamiliar standing position. Her left calf was cramping. How could her calf already be cramping? Where the hell was Scout?

“I’m back,” Scout gasped, holding a bright red tube. “Road flare. If I set it off, it should blind the IR sensors. Then if I can get behind it, I can pull the power unit before it switches over to another target identification method.”

“How long will we have?” asked Josiah, statue-still.

Scout gave him a sickly grin. “Um, three or four seconds.”

He shook his head. “Pass me the flare. I have the fastest hands - I’ll pull aside the curtain and set it off.”

“Okay,” she said walking slowly towards them. The turret’s clicking intensified as it registered her as a target. Like some macabre children’s game, she passed the flare to him with painstaking slowness. The ticking accelerated for a moment and she froze, and then continued to move even more slowly.

The Librarian wrung his hands by the cave entrance. There was nothing he could do, and the wretched voices were ringing in his ears.

Move. Watch. Wait. Move. Watch. Wait.

There had to be something he could do. He briefly entertained the wild fantasy of charging the cannon and pointing it up harmlessly towards the roof. The tenor of the voices changed.

Jam. Jam. Stop. Jam.

Abruptly, the clicking stopped.

Josiah glanced back at Scout, whose jaw was agape. “Go!” she squealed. The gun-saint snatched the curtain away, the flare searing their eyes and Scout threw herself past the suddenly-immobile gun, grabbing at the back - there was a solitary click and then a gentle whine as the turret powered down.

Scout breathed a sigh of relief, the power unit clutched in her sweaty hand. And then she looked up, past the turret at the space the flare had now revealed. “Oh. Wow.”

Fine blue lines cut through the air with geometric precision, swirling in a hypnotic pattern. They traced back to small silver discs set into the floor in a neat circle.

Her face lit with excitement, Scout stood up, batting at the lines. They moved almost playfully away from her hands. “A holographic interface! I’ve never seen one of these in real life before!”

November stared, bewildered. “This is Old One tech.”

“Yeah, serious Old One tech. Makes poor Rattler look like a simpleton.” The lines swept up and down Scout’s body as she spoke and then abruptly flashed red as if offended. A woman’s voice spoke out of thin air. “Invalid User.”

The lights swiveled around and played over Josiah and November in term. “Invalid User. Invalid User. Terminal Lock.”

The lights blinked out. “Aw,” said Scout deflating. “Security measures.”

The Librarian stared in fascination. “Can you,” he struggled to find the old word, ”’crack’ it?”

“It’s ‘hack’. And maybe. If I had a month and it wasn’t five minutes away from a town full of people who hate us. And the terminal wasn’t already locked.” She shook her head. “This baby isn’t giving up her secrets to anyone except ‘Saint’ Gabriel.”

Josiah frowned. “So he has power over the grit as some kind of shaman, but also access to Old One technology? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Maybe it does,” said the Librarian. “He protected Dustbowl from the grit’s effects. Maybe he used the same abilities to restore ancient technology and to let it run undisrupted?”

Scout beamed. “Well, at least we can take the gun. Rattler would love a brother.”

“No,” said November flatly. “We are not lugging an auto-turret down a mountainside which is as you pointed out ‘five minutes from a town which hates us’. That is a recipe for disaster.”

“November!” Scout protested.

She relented slightly. “We can take the ammo.”

****

“You know,” said the Librarian as they lugged the ammo box into Win. “This many .50 caliber rounds would be a fortune in the right trading posts.”

“No way,” said Scout. “This is all for Rattler’s dinner. I’ve had the poor guy on ammo-conservation mode for ages!”

Josiah nodded approvingly. “The destiny of a bullet is to be fired.”

The Librarian shook his head slightly. “I’m just saying, this could buy a lot of books.”

“Not a chance,” said November. “Spending that kind of ammo would attract too much attention.”

“Plus, I was the one who disabled the gun, so I get to decide what to do with the spoils. Yay me!” bounced Scout.

The Librarian licked his lips. “About that - “ he stopped in the face of three expectant faces. What was he going to say? That he thought he stopped the gun with his mind? That he was hearing voices? That he might be going as crazy as Saint Gabriel?

He changed tack. “All three of you were very brave, and I did nothing. I should cook supper tonight to celebrate your heroism. I’ll break out one of my recipe books and see if I can apply it to what we have.”

“See, Rattler?” Scout said cheerfully. “Best. Day. Ever.”

The Librarian forced a smile as the voices whispered to him.

Food. Food? Food!

****

The Librarian found himself in a vast library, its shelves stretching impossibly high into darkness. Each book pulsed with a faint red glow, and as he walked past, he could hear them whispering.

He reached for a tome, its leather binding warm to the touch. As he opened it, grit spilled from between the pages, forming words in the air.

Jam. Stop. Protect.

The words swirled around him, echoing his own thoughts from the cave. He moved to another shelf, pulled down another book.

Knowledge is power. Power is change.

The Librarian nodded, recognizing one of the Order’s precepts. "Yes," he murmured, "but change can be dangerous."

The grit-words shifted, reforming.

Danger is opportunity. Opportunity is growth.

He frowned, unsure if this was still his own thinking or something else. The whispers grew louder, more insistent.

Suddenly, the library began to shift. Shelves rearranged themselves, books flew from one place to another. The Librarian stumbled, trying to make sense of the chaos.

Order from chaos. Creation from destruction.

"No," he protested, "knowledge should be preserved, not destroyed!"

But even as he spoke, he saw new books forming from the swirling grit, their pages filled with strange symbols and diagrams he'd never seen before.

Old gives way to new. Adapt or perish.

The Librarian's head swam. These were his fears given voice, his secret excitement at new discoveries warring with his duty to preserve the old.

The library continued to transform around him. Now he stood before a great machine, its gears and levers made of solidified grit. Books fed into one end, emerging changed from the other.

You stopped the gun. You can control the grit.

"I... I don't know if I did that," he stammered.

You did. You can. You will.

The machine's gears began to turn. The Librarian felt drawn towards it, both terrified and fascinated.

Learn. Grow. Become.

As he reached out to touch the machine, he jolted awake, his heart pounding. The voices lingered, softer now but still present.

Remember, they whispered. Remember and choose.

The Librarian lay in his bunk, staring at the ceiling of Win, wondering if he was going mad or on the verge of a terrible, wonderful discovery.