aberrant-eyes:

batscoundrel:

They simply
called themselves The Scouts. No one was entirely sure why, since scouting as
an action was only one of many things they did. With how many legends
surrounding them were popping up in the Wasteland like fresh new plant life, it
was an understatement to say I was honored to be invited to one of their
encampments.

As I walked
deeper into the heart of the outpost, I watched one of the younger initiates,
not even in her teens, sulk and frown. “No no, little trooper,” said her older
supervisor, slipping bullets into a salvaged ammo belt with a practiced,
mechanical efficiency. “You can’t be a gunner on a supply run yet. I know you’re
eager, but show me you can tie all your knots first. Show me you can start a
fire, both smokeless and signal. Tell me the names of some of the stars. Then
we can talk about you getting your marksmanship badge.”

Everyone in The Scouts knew what all their kind were capable of via a “badge”
system I’ve seen nowhere else in the Wasteland except old, creaking warlords
who clung to trophies from wars long past, and those pretending to be them. But
none of these simple glimmering objects—most often fashioned from scavenged
bottlecaps or mechanical washers—glorified war. They indicated which practical
skills an individual Scout had achieved recognized proficiency in, so that they
always knew who could do what, and assign things quickly—or spy teaching
opportunities. They even had sashes to attach them to that indicated rank—the newest
initiates’ made from simple cloth, often hemmed themselves as a first project,
the more experienced ones bearing their badges on ones made from seatbelts, a
prominent feature of cars from the Old World. The very oldest, the leaders, they
wore large ones fashioned from scraps of burst tire, sometimes decorated
further with old nails or bits of scrap metal.

“We survived the Last War,” the guide explained to me, “because we were damn
well taught how to.”

And it was this survival knowledge that was passed to their initiates, with the
hope that as long as there were groups like them in these barren, radiation-soaked
dunes, hope could exist. Life could slowly become more comfortable, even
regularly bearable, because people out there knew how to cope, how to survive,
how to bend even this unforgiving landscape to their will.

Out of what was, according to the guide, a proud tradition, they recruited only
women. This tradition, with some of the less pleasant cultures of the
Wasteland, had also made them into something of a rescue program—many of their
newer initiates were captured from the settlements of warlords; broken, angry
girls who would otherwise grow up to be thought of as things.

Continuing our tour, the guide waved over a friend, who accompanied me strictly
from behind. I felt the barrel of a gun press gently into my upper back.
“We don’t want to threaten you,” the guide said, “but you’re about to see some
particularly delicate secrets. You understand.”
I simply nodded. No one these days could be assumed to be entirely trustworthy.

I was led, prodded by the gun, into what was termed “the bakery.” My nose was
filled with the most pleasant scents I think I will ever encounter. Groups of
Scouts, sweating in the heat of the enclosure, which used lens-focused sunlight
to act as a natural oven, worked away mixing dough or setting small flat rounds
of some kind of bread to cool on mesh racks.
“We cannot show you where we get the wheat. Partially because we steal much of
it from those who hoard it, and we cannot afford to give our enemies more
reasons for a vendetta.”
Again, I simply nodded. My guide handed me one of the flat rounds.
“Try it. It’s called a cookie.”
It was a hearty thing, thick and chewy and heavy. It was immensely satisfying,
though the taste admittedly, in spite of the smell, left a little to be
desired.
“They’re rations we’ve carefully designed. One of these can sustain a person for
two days.”
Their efficiency continued to be impeccable. I ate half of the cookie and
slipped the rest into a pocket. She handed me a smaller one, ring shaped.
“Now try one of these.”
I had never tasted anything like it before or since. It was sweet. Very sweet.
Something about it made me smile. I started to laugh, and she laughed with me.
Even the guard chuckled.
“What about this one?” I asked. “What kind of ration is it?”
“It’s not a ration,” she said with a hint of pride. “Those ones are simply made
to be enjoyed. Hope is harder to spread if you don’t experience something nice
once in a while just for the sake of it. We call those ones ‘Samoas.’ There are
a few other recipes.”  
Something nice, just for its own sake. A concept that had almost been lost. As
I chewed and reflected on this, trying hard to restrain myself from just
gobbling the rest down at once, I overheard snippets of conversation, again
between the younger and older members.
“Now, some of you are probably asking, ‘how do we make caramel? Wasn’t that
made from sugar? Isn’t sugarcane extinct?’ Some of the very youngest of you are
probably asking ‘what’s sugar?’ to begin with. One of the breeds of lizard in
these dunes stores sugars extracted from its digestion in a special organ, and
when we gather it and boil it…”
More of the lesson was lost in the general din of the bakery. I had finished my
cookie, and thanked my guide profusely. She looked to the guard, then to me.
“Would you like to see a delivery run?”
It seemed like only minutes later I was a passenger in one of their vehicles,
the cargo bay of which had been loaded with containers all filled with cookies—half
of them the sustaining ration variety, half of them varieties of the sweet ones
I had experienced. My guide was the driver, the guard who had been trained on
me was one of two gunners. A new guard was assigned to me for safety’s sake. A
couple other Scouts, younger ones, were along to simply help unload the cargo
and provide lookout.
“We have a screening process,” the guide shouted to me over the roar of twin
V-8 engines. “We only deliver to settlements that are not ruled by a warlord.
Settlements we know will share with each other rather than having an elite hoard
it all. This shipment’s going to New Bartertown, on the coast of the Glowing
Sea.”
I ask what they traded.
“For the sweeter cookies, mostly metal, glass, and tires. For the rations?
Nothing. The rations are simply given because they ought to be.”
It was the first time I had heard such a sentiment stated so directly. It would
not be the last time I reflected on it.
Only eighty kilometers outside The Scouts’ camp, there was commotion, and I
could not be talked to, only watch.
“PINPOINT! WATCH YOUR NINE! CITADEL IS INCOMING!”
I heard the thud of drums in the distance and the thrum of a guitar, an
arrangement I had heard once or twice in my life. Immortan Joe and his warboys,
who lorded over nearly a third of the west of the continent. Their raids, from
my experience, were almost always successful. Joe himself was likely uninvolved
with such a trivial affair, but as the other vehicles roared closer I could
make out the unmistakable gangly white silhouettes of his infamous army of sons…
“TAKE WHAT YOU WILL, WARBOYS!” the closest one screamed even above the noise of
the cars and music. “TAKE WHAT YOU WILL, BUT LEAVE THE SAMOAS FOR THE IMMOR—”
and he was promptly cut off by a round through the throat. Pinpoint had earned
her name. I didn’t see more than three or four bullets wasted the entire trip.

My guide was right.
They survived because they were damn well taught how to.

 At the end of it all, I elected to stay in New Bartertown for a while, thanking
The Scouts for their time. I had to find paper and ink and write all this down.
It took nearly a week to trade for it, and until then I simply cycled these
words over and over in my head.
I don’t know if I’ll want to leave for a while yet. The smiles on the faces of
the people here are too infectious. It’s been too long since I’ve been around a
smile that wasn’t caused by the suffering of another, but rather by the most
elusive resource in all of the Wastes—hope.

Remember, it’s “ride eternal”, not “ride for a month or two and get bored”.