Desert Caravan

Two short unpleasant coughs are heard from outside a beige, rusted and sun stained caravan in a silent land of red desert. Without wheels, the tarnished grey hubs sink into the lose clay earth like anchors of a corrupted ship, scorned from the abandoned embrace of its ocean. *Pshhhhhhhhh* The four tinted, cracked windows quickly fill with dark condensed smoke, seeping through slightly and swirling as it dances with the heated outside air.

*BOOMP!* The caravan door bursts outward as an elderly man holding a makeshift cloth mask to his face, casually steps down and out of the decayed automobile. The smoke wafts around him as he steps onto the volcanic red sand. The calm old man carries a weighty pile of white, silver trimmed rags to his chest with one arm and shoos the thick smoke away with the other. He tosses his improvised mask to the ground, takes a few delicate steps into the shade of a blue, ad-lib tarp roof and sets his precious, tightly wrapped package gently on the shaded sand.

Before the elderly man can posture up *Erghough!! Ack KERQUE!* as he expels swallowed fumes from his lungs and falls to his knees. The scarlet dust pluming upward as a result, inferior to the dense clouds that bellow from the caravan. The unqualified hinges of the door squeal with tension as it swings back and forth but its suppressed by a muffled newborn's giggle. The exhausted man smiles and wipes his smog caked face with his wrist, his wrinkles creased with soot and pride.

On all fours, he swiftly crawls towards the pile of wriggling and chuckling cloth that lays carefully in the dust. Looming over the assembled package, the man briefly scrapes his hands clean on his patchwork leather coat before cautiously unwrapping the layers of expensive cloth with his fingertips. After a few seconds, a heavy-duty gas mask patterned with desert camouflage is revealed, covering a healthy, pleasant and humored baby boy protected by a timeless heart shaped locket.

Over the next 20 years, the deteriorated shell of a caravan would see astounding developments. The walls would be reinforced with sheets of scrap metal scavenged from the neighboring desert caravan graveyards. The roof would be insulated with fibers and plastics to keep the vehicle cool in the sweltering, windless heat. An accessible well would be installed, and over seasons, a garden would flourish due to a reasonable sprinkler and aqueduct scheme. Fractured glass windows would be reinstalled and fitted with a gear-driven instant evacuation structure. The skeletal, sharp and rusted metal wheels would be converted to light tank treads, and an automated door and ramp system would allow the pair easy access to their refurbished home.

Over time, the child learned of the war, his glorious ancestry and of his parent's brutal fate. He would assist his grandfather as an alchemical apprentice but would rather tinker devices to aid the old man's experiments. Which would only leave him more time to hunt for scrap, explore and engineer.

Eventually, the old man grew ill and on his death bed shared knowledge of the boy's brother. He was given a name, a destination, and a jerrycan of homemade fuel. The boy, now 20, respectfully buried his grandfather in the luscious garden, carved a poem in the stone, took a deep breath, and trudged into the unknown heat to find his brother.

"Eat the greens that you value,

for we have bled to feed your travels,

A great man lay under your feet,

He wishes you knowledge of our struggle."

"Here lays Grandpa West, Hunter of knowledge"