![]() Nyx lingered in the bath, rubbing at old wounds that had started biting and aching again. The only upside to coming out to the coast was all the water. She parked her bakkie out front alongside flatbeds and rickshaws and a cart hitched to the front end of a converted bakkie. Nyx found a motel that night at a crossroads. Swarms of locusts, red flies, and ladybirds mobbed the fields, tailored to devour the less friendly bugs and fungi that ruined the staples. She came out of the mountains and onto the rolling veldt of red-tipped wheat, the broad pastureland that kept the big, hairy, shoulder-high omnivores they called pigs. ![]() She started checking her mirrors more often. She couldn’t see beyond the turns of the road. The trees were so big they blocked the big sky, the sun. The desert bled away and turned into long-needled pine trees, then tall oak hybrids with leaves the size of Nyx’s head, low ferns with thorns, tangles of wild roses, snake maples, amber ticklers, patches of low-spring wildflowers. She landed another night on the road, then climbed over the low mountains that divided the coast from the interior.Īs she came up over the other side, the terrain began to change. She kept as far off the road as she dared and was up before dawn and back on the road, out past Mushtallah and the central cities. She spent the night in the bakkie after making good time, about halfway to Mushtallah. ![]() Nyx blew out of Punjai and hit the radio a couple of times with her palm, but all she got was misty blue static. ![]()
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