As soon as they returned to the basement, Red wasted no time.
Red: Everyone, listen up.
The Marauders are getting too damn close. It’s only a matter of time before they find us, and we can’t take that risk.
The basement is no longer safe — we need to move, and we need to move tonight. Pack what you need, whatever food we have left, a bottle of water, and be ready to move as soon as we can. Help each other.
Note: If you haven’t read Short Story 4.0: The Arctic Incident —it’s recommended you start there—this story follows directly on.
A pale, skinny youth of around thirteen was picking through the piles of debris, looking for anything that might be useful, either to keep or trade. The pickings were slim, as these piles had already been picked over several times by others. A bottle or two here, a battered bicycle helmet, and some plastic bags there.
This was the world now.
The Mammothants were on the move. The harsh winter conditions of the Cyanos Northern Tundra had driven the herd southwards in search of fresh food.
Food. Their one constant need — shared by all in the herd, except for the little ones who still relied on their mothers for milk. The herd held a mixture of adult females and juveniles. The males, once they reached maturity, had left and formed their own bachelor groups, returning only during the mating season.
Crossing the last exposed reaches of the northern plains, the herd neared the foothills of the mountains. Here, in a crisscrossed maze of valleys, they would find fresh food, trees with bark to strip, and plentiful grasses buried beneath the snow. Most of the valleys also held wide braided rivers that flowed down from the high mountain glaciers.
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Screw Pile Developments 