A Split Log and Dusting Pines

The hammer slipped, not with a ringing strike, but a dull, frustrating thump against the split timber. Cody bit back a groan, the metal vibrating through the scarred leather of his glove right up to his elbow. The fence post, ancient and sun-bleached, leaned precariously against the last intact wire, a symbol of everything that felt like it was coming apart. Spring, they called it. Another season, another layer of dust on everything. The air already tasted dry, even before the sun had fully cleared the ragged horizon line of the Crimson Badlands, a landscape that glowed a perpetual, bruised purple in the low light.

His shoulders ached. Not from the fence, not really. It was the weight of the coming week, of the 'Spring Muster' Tyler kept talking about, weighing on him like a sack of damp stones. He tugged at the wire again, testing it. Loose. Like everything else around here. He squinted towards the town, a collection of corrugated metal roofs and weathered wood shacks that looked like they'd been dropped from a great height and just… stayed.

"Still at it?" Mara’s voice, sharp and clear, cut through the morning stillness. She stood a few yards away, a faded canvas satchel slung across her chest, her dark hair pulled back in a practical, tight braid. She had a habit of appearing without making a sound, like some kind of desert fox.

Cody dropped the hammer, letting it thud softly into the dry earth. He wiped a hand across his brow, feeling the grit of dust against his skin. "It won't hold. Not another year." He gestured vaguely at the whole stretch of fence, not just the single post. "The whole damn line's rotting."

Mara picked up a loose stone, turning it over in her fingers. "Tyler thinks it will. He thinks we all will." Her gaze drifted to the east, towards the distant, hazy shimmer of the Badlands. "Said he's calling a meeting. Tonight. About the Muster."

Cody grunted. "Of course he is. Just what everyone needs. Another lecture about 'community spirit' and 'the old ways'." He picked up the hammer again, examining the worn head. "It's not the old ways that are going to hold this fence together, Mara. It's nails and good timber. And people who actually care enough to drive them in."

She tossed the stone, watching it bounce once before settling in the dust. "Maybe that's what the old ways were about, Cody. Getting people to care." She offered a small, crooked smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "He wants you there. Specifically. Says your input is… vital."

Vital. That was a laugh. He was seventeen, and half the town looked at him like he was already half-gone, half-dissolved into the Badlands themselves. "Fine," he mumbled, kicking at a loose clump of sagebrush. "Don't tell him I said that." He knew it was pointless. Tyler always knew everything anyway. The old man had a way of seeing right through the dust and bravado everyone tried to wear. He looked at the split log again, then at the distant, unnervingly still Badlands. A shiver, not from the cold, traced its way up his spine. The Badlands felt different this spring.

The air in the old meeting hall, usually stale and thick with the scent of aged paper and regret, felt charged tonight. A single, bare bulb hung from the ceiling, casting a harsh, unyielding light that etched deep lines on everyone’s faces. The wooden chairs scraped against the floor as people shifted, a low, nervous rumble. It wasn't the biggest turnout. A dozen or so faces, mostly older, a few like Cody and Mara who were still on the cusp of figuring out if they belonged or if they should just cut and run.

Tyler stood at the head of a long, scarred table, his hands resting on its surface. He wasn't a tall man, but he filled the space. His eyes, deep-set and flecked with grey, swept over them all. "Folks," he began, his voice a low gravel, "the Spring Muster is upon us. Another year, another season of turning the soil, mending the fences, and remembering what keeps us here."

A cough, dry and insistent, came from the back. Dillon, slouched in his chair, arms crossed, staring at a scuff on his boot. His presence here was more surprising than the lack of others. Usually, he’d be out on the fringe, somewhere the town rules didn’t quite reach.

"Times are lean, Tyler," Esther, a woman with weary eyes and hands perpetually stained with oil, spoke up. "We barely got enough for the essentials. And the 'Badlands Tax' this year… it’s a killer."

The 'Badlands Tax' wasn't levied by any government. It was the constant drain, the strange illnesses, the vanishing livestock, the odd, creeping distortions that bled from the glowing red horizon. It cost them more than money; it cost them spirit.

"I understand, Esther," Tyler said, his voice steady. "But the Muster is more than just a picnic. It's… a line in the sand. It's us saying we're still here. That we remember the old pacts, even if the words are long forgotten."

Cody watched Dillon pick at a loose thread on his jeans. The younger man didn’t look up, but Cody felt the weight of his apathy, a heavy, suffocating blanket. It wasn’t defiance; it was just… nothing. A complete, unshakeable indifference. And that was worse, somehow, than outright anger.

"Pacts don't pay for the new generator," someone muttered, barely audible. "Pacts don't bring back what gets lost out there."

Tyler paused, letting the words hang. He looked at Cody then, a slow, deliberate glance. Cody felt a prickle of unease. He was supposed to say something. But what? What could he say that wouldn't sound like more empty promises?

"We need to do something different this year," Tyler finally said, his gaze returning to the room. "Something that reminds everyone. Not just us. Everyone."

Mara leaned forward slightly, her brow furrowed. "What do you have in mind, Tyler?" Her voice held a note of genuine curiosity, a flicker of hope that hadn't entirely been extinguished.

"A full muster," Tyler announced, his voice gaining strength. "Every family. Every single one. We ride out to the old marker stones. The ones near the Canyon of Whispers. And we renew. We sing the old songs. We tell the old stories. We make a stand."

A collective intake of breath. The Canyon of Whispers. That was far, dangerously close to the heart of the Crimson Badlands. Not many ventured that deep anymore. It was a place where the air itself hummed with a strange, unsettling energy, where the rock formations seemed to shift and writhe in the heat haze.

"That's… a risk, Tyler," Esther said, her voice tight. "A big one. What if… what if something happens? We take everyone, especially the children, out there?"

Tyler held her gaze. "What if we don't, Esther? What if we let this place shrivel and die, piece by piece, fence post by fence post?" He looked around the room, meeting each reluctant gaze. "The Badlands are stirring. More than usual this spring. We all feel it. The tremors are getting closer. The distortions on the airwaves. This isn't just about tradition anymore. It's about survival."

Cody watched Dillon. For the first time, the younger man’s head had lifted. His eyes, usually clouded with boredom, held a strange, unreadable glint. Was it fear? Or something else? A morbid curiosity, perhaps. The kind that drew people to the edge of a cliff, just to see how far down it went.

The Old Stones, New Ground

The silence stretched, heavy and expectant. Tyler didn’t break it, just let the implications of his words settle like dust over everything. The air in the room felt thick with unspoken objections, with the weariness of people who had fought too many small battles and were tired of losing ground. But beneath that, Cody could sense something else. A flicker. A small, almost imperceptible spark of something that looked a lot like hope, buried deep under layers of cynicism and fear.

"How?" Mara finally asked, her voice quiet but firm. "How do we convince them, Tyler? Half the folks won't even talk about the Badlands, let alone ride out to the edge of them."

Tyler finally smiled, a slow, gentle curve that softened the hard lines of his face. "By showing them. By being the ones to stand. Cody, Mara, I need you. I need the young ones to lead this. To remind them what's worth holding onto." He looked directly at Cody, a gaze that felt like a physical hand on his shoulder. "You know these lands, boy. You've walked the edges more than any other. Your generation… you’re the ones who will inherit this."

Cody swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. His generation. What a joke. Half of them were glued to flickering screens, trying to find a signal out of this godforsaken valley, dreaming of cities they’d only seen in grainy broadcasts. But then he thought of the fence, the one he'd been struggling with all morning. The splinters under his fingernails. The ache in his shoulders. It was honest work, real work. And something inside him, a stubborn, dusty core, didn't want to see it all just fall apart.

He met Tyler's gaze, and nodded, a slight, almost imperceptible movement. But it was enough. Tyler's smile widened. Mara gave Cody a small, knowing look, a mixture of exasperation and understanding. Dillon, still watching from his corner, remained unreadable. He seemed to shrink back into the shadows the bare bulb cast.

"Good," Tyler said, his voice ringing with a renewed purpose. "Then let's talk logistics. Supplies. Horses. Food. And how we're going to get the word out. The old ways… they had their ceremonies. We need new ones. Or, at least, new reasons to believe in the old ones."

The conversation shifted, slowly, from weary resignation to a tentative, pragmatic planning. Ideas, small at first, began to surface. Who had spare parts for the old wagons? Who could talk to the families still living further out? The air began to buzz, not with fear, but with a fragile, determined energy. Cody found himself speaking up, suggesting routes, remembering old trails he'd stumbled upon during his solitary wanderings along the Badlands' edge. His voice, at first hesitant, grew steadier.

Mara, ever the organiser, pulled out a small, tattered notebook, making lists, her pencil scratching furiously. Even Esther, though still looking tired, offered advice on rationing water. It was a fragile thing, this newfound momentum, but it was there. A collective breath, drawn against the encroaching silence.

As the meeting finally began to wind down, people slowly pushed back their chairs, their faces still etched with concern, but now also with a glimmer of something more. Hope, perhaps, or at least a willingness to try. Cody stood near the window, looking out into the ink-black night. The moon, a sliver of silver, hung low over the Badlands, which no longer glowed with their bruised purple. Now, under the moonlight, they seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light, like a living thing drawing breath.

Dillon finally pushed himself up from his chair, walking past Cody without a word. Just as he reached the door, he paused, his back to Cody. "You really think it'll make a difference, Cody?" he asked, his voice low, devoid of its usual indifference. "All this… 'community'? Against what's really out there?"

Cody turned, but Dillon was already pulling open the door, letting in a gust of cool, night air that carried the faint, metallic tang of the Badlands. "I don't know, Dillon," Cody admitted, the honesty feeling raw in his throat. "But what else is there?"

Dillon didn't answer. He just stepped out into the night, and the door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Cody walked to the window, pressing his forehead against the cool glass. The Badlands pulsed again, a deeper, redder glow this time. It wasn't just stirring; it was watching. And waiting.