The Crater Chronicles

The Sentinel

Once again, I found myself wasting away under the strange green and orange glow of The Oasis (if I ever find a more ironic name in this cold world, I'll let you know). It had become a hebdomadal ritual: set aside a little of my scavenging profits each day, set aside my weapons each sunless Sunday, and forget the world. Brutus insisted that I was destroying myself; I told him I could not care less. Messes with the brain, he claimed.

You know what else messes with the brain? A bullet.

Not much point in trying to keep my half-splattered brain intact, the way I saw it. In hindsight, he may have been right--may still be right. I wish I could say I have since changed my ways, but I remain a high-functioning alcoholic. Pele knows if I'll ever break the habit.

At any rate, I was drunk. Per schedule. And if nothing else, Drunk Kit is creative--perhaps too creative.

"But creativity is a good trait!" you might be saying, "Useful, and marketable!"

Have you ever held a conversation with a can of beans? Because that is what I was doing that night.

Well, it was not exactly a can of beans. The beans themselves were long since gone, and it was serving as a miniature trashcan fire, but the fading orange and yellow label told me it had once contained beans. Bush's baked beans, if my pre-aphasia memory served me. I named it Jorje. Nice guy really. A little old and irritable, but he had plenty of stories to tell. How many years he had sat in that same spot, watching the Crater's nomads drown their sorrows, I do not know, but he had become a vast repository of knowledge. I cannot remember how we got to talking, but I do remember him telling me about his life.

"It is simple, Marin, I am older than this world. I was born into a time where food was born from machines, as most items were," he said. "I remember the Eruption, and its hail of fire. Since then, I have taken the spirit of fire as my own. Fire is my purpose, and in return, I hear stories."

"I'd imagine you've h-heard the same sorta tale a thousand times," I replied.

"That is true, yes. But I have also heard many a peculiar one. The Crater is unpredictable, and its denizens tend to reflect that."

"Maybe, but I've heard the s-same story from 'alf the people in Sierra Ceniza. Born here, grew up scrabbling for life and then either continued the f-f-family business or took t' scavenging. You haven' heard that one ad n-nauseam?"

"I have, but I do not mind it much. What about you? You speak as if the same does not go for you."

"Is it the st-stutter?"

"Partially."

"Well... Guess I've 'ad a bit of a strange upbringing. Parents weren't exactly the most m-moral people... Kind and loyal enough to their own, but monstrous to just about anyone else. D-didn' sit right with me. Struck off on my own as soon as I was able--took to scavenging. That's where the interesting stuff ends, r-right?" I gave a grim laugh, and let my throbbing head rest against the table, "Woulda been, 'cept for the bit where I took a rifle round to the head."

I reckon any other lout listening in confusion as the crazy lady talked to herself began to understand the situation at that point.

"E'rything's a little h-harder now, but I'm still gettin' by with my sc-scavving. Not much more t' tell."

To my mind, it seemed as if Jorje gave a slow nod.

We--or I--spoke a bit more after that, but that was the cutoff point where my alcohol saturated mind was able to commit anything to long term memory. I might have passed out a few minute later. I cannot be sure.

It has been a long time since I've been back to Sierra Ceniza, but each time I returned, I found myself on the lookout for that bean can. My logical side reminds me that it is but an inanimate object, without life or personality, but that night gave it some meaning to me. If I ever go back, I think I will try and locate it, and tuck it into my pack when no one is looking. Perhaps carrying a scorched can around is stupid and sentimental, but if nothing else, I reckon Jorje would make a good conversation starter. He would not be alone either. Darrel the lifesaving pipe and Lisa the power cord can keep him company.

I am sure the people of the past, the Proto-Troglodytes, would find me strange and irrational. But sometimes in a bleak world, you have to make your own fun. As much as Jorje may enjoy standing as the flaming watchman of The Oasis, I reckon he would jump at the chance to see more of the Crater.

I think I may have to make a trip back.

-Excerpt from the journal of a "Marin Kitania" found tucked away inside a large backpacking pack containing several other oddities (one of which was a dented can matching "Jorje"'s description). Undated. Assumed to be chronologically subsequent to previous excerpts.