About
Nomad Waystation 37, last outpost on the edge of the Wastelands; a soft nerve-net picking up the tremors and undercurrents, the waves of energy and lines of flight; a faux-fur yurt on the edge of a desolation called peace, tin foil antennae and a half-burned copy of the Kama Sutra. Plenty of antibiotics, iodine, water-purification tablets, wool blankets, fat-cell batteries, MREs, and notebooks. And old hand-crank laptop with a durable chassis. Tea and coffee in tins you just can’t buy anymore. Stale crackers. Various animal-skin drums and stringed instruments. Sophisticated meteorological equipment with brass dials and handsome needle gauges. An old copy of Paris Match. Wooden crates that double as seats, and when you spread an oilskin in it, a bathtub. Russian Standard vodka in unmarked, frosted bottles. A short wave radio. Sewing needles and thread. A dead snake named Hector.