4338.210 · July 29, 2018 AD
Cargo with a Pulse
There's a special kind of dignity in being strapped to a mule because you're too broken to walk and too potentially valuable to leave behind. Joel learns the rules quickly: speak when spoken to, don't expect water, don't expect explanations. Behind him, Nelson stumbles on a rope. Ahead, the mountains grow closer with every step. Something waits at the end of this march. Something his captors call home.
They left Joel face-down in the dirt while they dealt with more pressing concerns. The dead. The wounded. The Pirata who'd caused all of it.
When the mules arrived—grey-coated animals with eyes too large, bred for terrain that would break ordinary beasts—Joel was strapped to a cargo frame. His useless legs secured. His bound arms screaming. He could sit upright, at least. Could see where they were taking him.
Small mercy.
Nelson was roped to another mule's saddle. Walk or be dragged—the terrain would decide which.
The march takes hours. The rocks grow rougher. The temperature drops. The luminescent threads in his captors' clothing begin to glow brighter as darkness gathers. Joel watches everything: the coordinated movements, the hand signals, the way these people operate like a single organism responding to commands he can't perceive.
They stop once for water. No one offers any to the cargo.
Nelson stumbles. A whip cracks. He rises. Keeps walking.
And ahead, growing closer with every step, the mountains hold something. Joel can feel it—the weight of a destination he can't imagine, a door he hasn't seen yet, answers that wait behind stone.
