Darius hobbled around his home under torchlight, clutching his pack and listening to the last of the loud voices outside. One or two colonists lingered near their homes, finalizing the last of their patchwork. Soon, they would be indoors for the evening, huddling by their hearths and cooking dinner. Later, they would settle into an exhaustive sleep after a trying day, squeezing their children and thanking the heavens for their good luck.
Darius had other plans.
Creeping over to one of the bins he had secured earlier, he opened it and tucked some items in his bag. He pulled out a few spears and knives and placed them back on his bench, where their owners could find them, should the worst happen.
When he finished packing, he tested the weight of the bag on his old shoulders. The goods never seemed to get any lighter. But then, they never did. Despite his aging body, Darius's mind felt the same as when he was a young man.
It was a cruel trick from the heavens about which he and Elmer often joked.
Opening another bin, Darius pulled out a long, sharpened knife he reserved for occasions such as this, slipped it into his sheath, and removed several torches, sticking them into his bag. He closed the sack in such a way that they hung out in easy reach.
Walking to the wall, he stared at the old, nostalgic spear. The long weapon would be no good in close quarters. His knife would be better.
Darius ambled over to his workbench, stuffed some dried vegetables into his mouth, and waited for the bustle of evening activity to give way to the flutter of bats.
Then he crept to the door and slipped out among them.
Under the cover of darkness, Darius snuck through Red Rock, quietly moving with his cane. The houses around him were little more than silhouettes under the light of the twin moons. Most of the haze had gone, but a thin layer hung in the air, giving him extra cover. Darius stuck to the shadows, using a lifetime of familiarity to guide him toward the eastern rock formation. Every so often, the skittering of a night creature made him pause, but none were loud enough to signify a notable threat.
He peered through the dark, finding a few bits of ambient light. A few times, he saw a glow under the cracks of hovels' doorways, but none of the lights moved, and none of the doors opened. Most in the colony were asleep, except The Watchers.
Darius stared up toward the moonlit cliffs, locating a few stationary torches. Only the bravest Watchers worked so late a shift. With their visibility limited, only a few observant ears were needed to listen for sandstorms.
Everyone knew the cliffs were even more dangerous at night than during the day.
For most of the night shifts, The Watchers trolled the alleys, searching for predators that wandered into Red Rock. Their shifts were dull, but occasionally, they encountered a speckled wolf prowling the shadows, or a dust beetle that was big enough to wake some of the colonists. Of the scarce animals that lived nearby, most were savvy enough to stay away from the colony.
All had learned to fear humans, except those in the caves.
Darius swallowed as a memory came back to him—as fresh and haunting as it had been two years prior.
He'd never forget the day he'd learned that Akron was missing. He'd been in his house, fixing spears, when he heard commotion. Breaking from his work, he went outside to discover his neighbors conversing with The Watchers. Akron's parents had reported him missing, and a search had begun.
Some in Darius's position might've kept hold of the damning information they had, but not him. As soon as he heard about the boy's disappearance, Darius had admitted his knowledge of Akron's exploration of the tunnels, thinking he might help.
The leaders had refused his assistance.
The Heads of Colony—and The Watchers—had forbidden him from going into the caves and helping with the search. No sooner had he spoken than people blamed him for the boy's interest in those prohibited explorations—especially the boy's parents, who had never let him forget, either in the days after, or the days since.
The Watchers had searched the caves for a while, but they never found Akron.
Eventually, everyone had accepted that the boy was dead, including the boy's parents, who hated Darius and wished him dead, too. Most days, Darius hated himself. His guilt ate away at him. If he had somehow slipped past The Watchers on those first days, perhaps he could've found the boy in time to save him. Of course, there was no chance that Akron was alive now.
All he could hope for was a proper burial.
Moving through the dark alleys, Darius kept an eye out for any of The Watchers' torches moving in his direction. Years of traveling in darkened conditions had ingrained a sense in him that he couldn't explain. Sometimes, it felt as if Darius had an animal's instincts. On nights like these, he was grateful for them.
Soon, he reached the last of the houses in a row.
Pausing to adjust his bag, he looked up at the cliffs. None of the torch lights had moved position. The alleys around him were as dark as the ones behind.
Seeing nothing suspicious, he trekked through the sand to the eastern rock formation and into the closest cave entrance. When he was far enough inside to avoid notice, he reached for a torch, lit it, and made his way deeper, undetected.