Kidd Dustie's Arc

Chapter 6 of 7

Kidd's buggy jolted to a stop as the front wheel dropped into a hidden wash. Sand poured into the engine compartment, and the motor coughed once before dying. He climbed out and circled the vehicle. The axle had cracked clean through. No amount of tinkering would fix it here. He pulled his pack from the back seat and slung it over his shoulder. Walking would take twice as long, maybe three days instead of one. The sun beat down on his scales as he started northeast on foot. His canteens sloshed with water from the basin, enough for two days if he rationed carefully. After an hour, bright colors appeared ahead—a small booth decorated with cacti and desert flowers. Samples of dried fruit and flatbread sat on wooden trays. A sign read "Free Snacks for Desert Travelers." Kidd studied the weathered wooden posts around the booth. Each post had an arrow carved into it, but they all pointed different directions. One arrow aimed north, another east, and a third back the way he'd come. The signs made no sense together. Kidd pulled out his map and compass, trying to match them with what his ancestor's journal had described. The stone monument had pointed east, and the pools had all been northeast. But these arrows suggested three separate paths. He walked around the booth twice, checking each post. Someone had carved them at different times—the wood showed different levels of wear. Maybe other travelers had added their own markers, each one thinking they knew the right way. His confidence cracked worse than his buggy's axle. He'd been so certain the desert was guiding him, but now he stood alone with no clear direction. He ate a piece of flatbread and forced himself to choose. The compass pointed northeast, so he would trust that instead of the markers. Kidd adjusted his pack and walked away from the booth, leaving the arrows behind. But his steps felt heavier now, and doubt settled in his chest like sand in an engine. By late afternoon, Kidd found a sheltered spot between two boulders. He needed to rest before the sun dropped and the cold set in. A rustic cooking pot hung from a metal tripod over a ring of stones—someone had left a campfire setup here. Kidd gathered dried brush and lit a small fire. As the flames grew, they reflected off a broken mirror propped against one boulder. The glass had cracked into three pieces, each showing a different part of his face. One piece showed his goggles, another his snout, the third his scarred scales. He stared at the fragmented reflection and saw three different versions of himself, none of them whole. The broken mirror reminded him of the booth's arrows—everything splitting him in different directions. What if his ancestor's journal had been wrong? What if the markers he'd followed were just random chance? The fire crackled and popped, casting dancing shadows across the broken glass. Kidd turned away from his reflection and ate dried meat from his pack. Tomorrow he would keep walking northeast, but tonight the desert had shown him doubt instead of direction. The wind picked up after dark, cold and sharp against his scales. A metal pinwheel hung from a wooden post near the boulders, spinning and clicking in the gusts. The beige paint had worn away in patches, showing bare metal underneath. Sand had scratched deep grooves into the surface from years of storms. The clicking sound grew louder as the wind pushed harder. Kidd watched it spin, thinking about all the travelers who had passed this spot before him. They had all faced the same harsh weather, the same confusion, the same broken markers pointing nowhere. His ancestor had made it to the oasis, but how many others had failed? The pinwheel spun faster, its damaged blades catching the firelight. Kidd pulled his blanket tighter and closed his eyes. He had three days of walking ahead with two days of water. The desert had tested him with broken machines and false signs. Now it would test whether he could keep moving forward when everything pointed to failure.