“Patience,” Gaul muttered to himself, “Patience is what it takes to survive in the wastelands.”

This was the trait that had allowed him to wait for days in abandon buildings for bone ripping shatterstorms to pass, and let him wait until water from a well had passed all its purity checks before drinking.  It was the trait that had made him leader of this small band of skavengers and it was the trait that would keep his band from walking into an ambush now.

Gaul lifted his binoculars and scanned the area 300 meters below again.  His eyes lingered greedily on the rusty dunebuggie.  Its sides and top bulged with artifacts scavenged from the waste.  Next he shifted his focus to the old man still standing among the foundation of an ancient building.  The old one had been standing there motionless since Gaul and his gang spotted him almost three hours ago.  Finally Gaul took in the ruins themselves.  Waist high walls and broken piles of plasticrete were all he could see.

By this time the gang had finished its sweep of the surrounding dunes and was back to report that there was no one else within half a kilometer.  Gaul nodded and rolled over on his back to contemplate the gray-green clouds above and consider this info.

Either the ambush was too good for him and his followers to detect, or this guy was a major psycher, or nuts.  Gaul didn’t think the first option was too likely.  Ambushes always left a trace that could be picked up by watching and waiting.  It just took a little patience.  The psycher option   didn’t make sense either.  Gaul had seen a lot of young psychers and a lot of old men, but never any old psychers.  Most who used mind powers went insane and died long before they could reach old age.  That left just one conclusion.  This old man was nuts.

Gaul congratulated himself on taking the time to reason things out and turned to his band to issue orders.  It was a simple plan.  The four members of the gang would each come in from a different side to prevent the old man from running.  They’d use clubs instead of their guns so they could keep it quiet and conserve ammo.  Plus with blunt weapons the old man might live, and it never hurt to have a prisoner who obviously knew where to find ancient artifacts.

Soon the gang was moving down the slope and fanning out to surround the old guy.  Lechie went north,  Savo south, Lou to the east and Gaul himself took up the west position directly in front of the guy.

They came in slowly from fifty meters out, taking their time and sizing up every aspect of the situation.  Gaul himself kept his eyes on the old man.  The guys rebreather mask hung from his neck instead of covering the wrinkled face.  Not smart in the poisoned air of this land.  His clothes were simple robes tattered at the edges, his rifle was still slung across his back, and his eyes were closed.  The gang crunched over bits of plasticrete, stumbled over low sand covered walls, and cursed the flies that hung in the air.  Still the old man never moved or opened his eyes.

“Yep, an old nut case who had come out in the desert to die.”  “Maybe he’d get his wish today.”

The band was three meters from the still figure when things went bad.  Lechie gave a shriek and went down hard behind a one meter tall wall.

Lou screamed, “Psycher!” and rushed in swinging.  Microseconds later he fell face first into the rubble.

Savo and Gaul charged forth to put the mind burner down before he fried them all.

“How could this be?”  Wondered Gaul, “Psychers needed to have their eyes focused on a person before they could fry him.”

He and Savo were nearly on the old fool when the Karnoplant, buried beneath the sand, sensed their movement and vibration and reached out with its last two tentacles.  Both men were quickly wrapped up and pulled below the surface to the plants hungry maw.

The old man, stiff from days of waiting, turned around and hobbled away.  Congratulating himself on his patience.