66 - In Straited Circumstance

For a long, long moment Darcy stood looking at the toppled machine.  Then turned around slowly trying to see how far he could track in the rain. He could barely see the road and he was standing four rows over from it.

The ruined rows of Lifeweed were already turning colour as the Puffrot took over.  He couldn’t even see the sealed ends of the covers and the one next to him was locked down tight to protect the crop.

“Literate Redcap,” he said and waited.  Then he shouted it.  And waited.  The wind picked up and dumped a colder gust of rain over him.  There was no response from the horse.  There was even wet sand starting to build up on the windward side.  “Damned fakkin ink!”  He swung a kick at the horse and his boot rang off one leg.  It contracted slowly but only a small amount, then stopped.  “You… you… drag me out here in the rain.”  He looked around more wildly.  “Don’t panic,” he told himself.  “Don’t…”

He could barely see the white row cover beside him now, and he was cold enough to shiver.  “Damn, damn, damn, what am I going to do?”  A twist on the handle of his puller… his multi-tool, thankfully, started his flashlight but the beam only showed the heavy rain and nothing else.  He turned it off because it was actually making things worse in the half-light.

He needed shelter of some kind, and quickly, but he didn’t dare loosen the intact covers and crawl in with the precious plants that Prime loved.  But there were at least four sections of damaged row cover that he could cannabilize.  If the wind hadn’t shifted then the last folded and pinned cover was directly downwind about a dozen steps and he counted them off in his head, waving his cover puller ahead of him in the dimness until it clicked against the edge.

Redcap had pinned it down with such a large rock that he couldn’t pick it up, but with the puller as a lever, squealing as it struggled not to bend, he managed to pry the stone over and the cover, behind him, flipped up and over and plastered him against the rock, knocking the breath out of him.  He thought of trying to pull a chunk of the nearly indestructible fabric over the defunct horse but the wind was too much.  It would be enough if he managed to rig a shelter for himself.

He managed to squeeze out of his sudden trap and ease around to find there was enough of the cover freed, flapping and cracking like a three metre wide whip, that if he could pin it down he would have a secure tent.  The puller snagged one corner, nearly dragging him off his feet as he hauled it down into the lee of the rock and the pinned stack.  It nearly got away from him a dozen times as he sat on that corner and gathered the rest of the free end in. It left him sitting on the bulging, booming fabric but he could bunch it together as he felt along the multi-tool’s setting. He felt the ring click and  managed to get it to ‘stake setter’ by feel alone.

The outer corner punctured with a ‘pop’ as he set a stake through it into the ground.  That let him feed the rest slowly out from under himself, stitching the edge to the dirt behind him.  He tucked himself back under the straining bulging fabric, leaving barely enough room for him to squeeze between the row cover and the rock.

Being out of the rain was heaven, even if he couldn’t take off his mask.  He could get out of soaked clothes though because being dry would warm him up faster in his straited circumstances.  He had an extra fold of cloth pulled in and around that he could wrap himself up in and keep off the sodden ground.  The light in his multi-tool showed him only the wiggling roof he’d made, folded over the rock and keeping the tiny space in the lee clear.  He spread his shirt and pants out as much as he could, in the vain hope that they would dry somewhat. The tool fit, barely wedged into the angle between the rock and the cover.

“Fakin blanketty blank page,” he said, realizing that most of his skin stung from the grating sand and the scrapes he’d picked up.  “I suppose I should try ‘n load my edge down w’ more sand but I’m not going back out there.” His filter canteen was about half full and he drained it and managed to set it under a trailing dribble of water at his makeshift door.

His body heat had already warmed the tiny space enough that he couldn’t see his breath anymore.  He adjusted the trailing end of the shelter he’d made so he could lie half suspended, wrapped in the harsh fabric, and closed his eyes.  “No sense in wishin’ for anythin’ else.” The next day would be warm enough that he’d be able to slog back to the camp, and report to Redcap what had happened when the horse went offline.

“I really wish I had some’tin t’… nah, stupid me…” his stomach rumbled at him.  The water had helped but it wasn’t food.  “It’s only fourteen and a bit hours before things warm up.  Shuttup, you,” he said to his groaning gut.  “I don’t even have a break ration bar left.”