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Night Vision	By : ehiltebe Category: M through R > Pitch Black Views: 1117 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I don't own Pitch Black. All I can claim is Eileen, really; all else is borrowed, and profits me not at all!

Chapter List
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Chapter Four
Compared t’ where I started out on this dustball, th’ upper side of th’ cliffs is lush. Plenty of nice, potable water sources if ya know where t’ look, natural shelters, an’ some sizeable grazers I prob’ly wouldn’t’ve found without Dog. We’ve been here long enough for him t’ grow up; bigger than th’ ones I took him from, but that’s what happens when an animal don’t hafta worry ‘bout goin’ hungry.
I’ve not stayed in any one place very long over here. Built myself a travois, made some better clothin’ from grazer hides. We keep movin’ ‘cause I’m lookin’ for some hint of modern civilization I can use t’ help th’ girls find me. Prob’ly woulda gone savage without Dog around.
An’ I know that’s a dumb, obvious name for him. ‘S good enough for me, an’ he answers t’ it.
Kinda.
Speakin’ of th’ devil, I can just barely hear him runnin’ up behind me. I give him just long enough t’ think he’s got me before I crouch an’ he soars over my head. Undeterred, he spins t’ taunt me, ass end up in th’ air an’ front legs splayed t’ keep head an’ chest low. Can’t help but laugh at how silly he looks.
Dog replies with a chuffin’ sound of his own an’ shifts somethin’ around in his mouth. I sober up; he certainly don’t have a taste for rocks, so he found somethin’ odd while he was explorin’. I hold out a hand, palm up.
“Whatcha got over there?” Dog’s smart enough t’ understand me, gets up an’ steps toward me. But at th’ last second, he whirls away, actin’ like he’s bested me. “I thought we shared everythin’.” He comes close an’ then spins away again. I don’t ask a third time, just fix him with a glare an’ keep my hand out. Now Dog looks subdued, like he’s figurin’ out that I ain’t playin’.
Once he’s close enough, my other hand whips out, grabbin’ him by th’ scruff an’ makin’ sure his mouth’s over my open hand as I growl. “Drop it.” He complies with a whimper. “Stay.” All he does when I let go is lower his head an’ scoot his ass up so he can sit.
Dog knows his ‘daddy’ is mad at him.
His fun new toy is somethin’ I recognize: a golf ball. He only roams so far from me, so there’s somethin’ relatively modern close by. Somewhere somebody’s had th’ time an’ energy for a game like golf. Given that this’s th’ first sign of ‘em, it can’t be a long-term place.
“Show me,” I tell Dog. Perkin’ up, he heads off, goin’ ‘bout twenty or thirty meters an’ then boundin’ back t’ me. Within an hour, we’re standin’ on a low cliff, an’ I’m starin’ at th’ small outpost ahead. One story only, with a lookout position an’ a spotlight on th’ roof, louvered windows, completely metal structure. Simple, easy t’ throw up, has some value defensively. I’ve got a suspicion ‘bout exactly what it is. “Stay here.” Dog sits his butt down obediently an’ watches as I keep goin’.
One thing catches my eye as soon as I open th’ door: enormous steel-jawed traps hangin’ from an elevated rack. They’d be nice for takin’ out mudbugs, but there’s only a half-dozen of ‘em. I pass up th’ emergency beacon activator an’ check out some sheets of flimsy on a table.
“Bounty hunters.” Mug shots flicker between front an’ side images as I tilt th’ material. Th’ fact that th’ bounty sheets were just layin’ around makes me think that this’s a co-op merc station. A tiny part of me wants t’ just go ahead an’ hit th’ beacon, but more wants t’ avoid th’ bastards as long as I can. Nothin’ standin’ in th’ way of usin’ their supplies, though, so I grab a metal case marked ‘Emergency Rations’. Should be somethin’ good in there.
What th’ hell would mercs want with hundred an’ seven-centimeter traps, anyway?
~*~
Fuckin’ wonderful. Some genius decided t’ really pinch their UDs an’ stocked th’ station with MREs, Meals Refused by Everyone. What’s almost scary is that I’ve gone so long without processed foods that I actually want t’ eat one. Well, try. Whether I can manage t’ get it down is a different story entirely.
It takes me a few minutes t’ find somethin’ I think might be okay. ‘Crab Enchilada Hash,’ th’ package says.
“Sounds good.” Dog gives me a look that’s unconvinced, an’ he can’t even talk. Still, I’ve made my decision so I’m gonna try. ‘Course, then I cut open th’ package an’ get assaulted by th’ stench. Shit looks like mutant rat gonads in puke, smells that bad, too. On second thought, I’ll emulate my ancient ancestors on Old Earth.
“Mmm!” Th’ big doofus flicks an ear, an’ I grin as I toss it his way. “All yours.” He gets up an’ cautiously approaches. “It says ‘dog food’ on it. If ya could read.” Must be somethin’ in my tone of voice, ‘cause Dog crouches a bit an’ moves just close enough t’ sniff. An’ it must not be any more appetizin’ for him, since he immediately sneezes. ‘Course, then he shifts around an’ lifts a leg. “Come on.”
He ignores my half-hearted—at best—protest as he scratches dirt over th’ now-wet pack. So I give up on tryin’ t’ sound convincin’ right as his ears go back a bit.
“All right. Bring me my reserve.” That’s one word he’s learned well; he heads straight for th’ travois an’ pulls at th’ grazer haunch loosely tied onto it. Looks kinda like a giant bone-in ham, almost as big as Dog himself. He whines slightly as I start hackin’ off a chunk.
“Where’s yours?” I ask, which gets me a yip. Which, as usual, gets me smilin’ as I toss a piece his way.
There are some things, though, that even MREs can’t fuck up. Like chocolate an’ nuts—pistachios, in this package. Dog gets curious about ‘em; I’m gonna make him learn a trick t’ get th’ treat. It takes a while t’ get th’ message across, but I finally get a row of nuts balanced along his snout. He’s goin’ cross-eyed tryin’ t’ look at ‘em.
“Wait. Wait…” One pistachio wobbles an’ falls off. “Steady… Okay, now!” With a lightning-quick movement, Dog goes from balancin’ t’ devourin’. I can tell he’s tryin’ t’ decide whether or not he actually likes this treat, an’ as I chuckle, I reach over t’ ruffle his ears fondly.
It’s gettin’ late, accordin’ t’ my internal clock, so I close up th’ bag of pistachios an’ head for th’ cave I’ve claimed. Haven’t made many changes, other than carvin’ ‘Not Furya’ into an overhang. Th’ rest would prob’ly wash away if th’ system flooded.
Maybe I’ll dream about Eileen tonight.
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Night Vision