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Time was not on your side, but the tragic story of these unfortunate homesteaders tugged at you enough that you resolved to give them as proper a burial as could be given under the circumstances. Allie possibly being bricked for a few... hours or more shouldn't be an issue. You hope. The exact amount of time in a day on this world still eludes you without a watch, and Allie's software understandably wasn't intended to account for the finer points of being on a planet that wasn't Earth. Anyway, at least you had a shovel now.
The rain finally ceases as you finish one grave and move on to the next. You wonder who these people were, having been left nothing but their bones, their home, and rotten, illegible papers from which to identify them. One skeleton is significantly smaller than the other two. A family, you figure.
You give them the utmost care as you bear them to their final rest, facing their home, three slabs of corrugated metal to mark their presence, with a message crudely engraved on each with the back of your knife. "Here lies an unknown homesteader."
As the final shovelful of earth lands, you realize you have no formal prayers to offer, so you wing it. God should understand.
In a somber mood you march back down the road you came from, additionally laden with the homesteaders' farming tools and a burlap sack filled with their final harvest. The color of the overcast skies shifts as the day slowly yawns into what you figure is the late afternoon. You feel like the days are definitely longer than Earth's, but precision in the matter is impossible. Uphill, downhill, uphill, repeat. Your steps blur into a disassociative peace.
A peace you only notice because it suddenly deserts you. You freeze. Something isn't right.
Your head swivels sharply, attempting to find the source of your instinctual reaction.
<span class="mu-i">Buzzing.</span> <span class="mu-s">DRONE.</span>
A well-rehearsed series of actions quickly follow. You drop the tools, which fall onto the path with a clatter. Likewise the sack of potatoes. The tarp you formerly used as a poncho flies out of your pack as you plunge onto the grass besides the trail, tucking yourself into a ball underneath it.
You dare not look, lest your face reveal your heat.
You listen.
The buzzing comes from up ahead. It's following the trail. You lie completely still. Closer, closer, closer... It's right on top of you. You don't know what kind of drone it is. If it was a hunter-killer, the impact grenade would be on its way. You flinch. Your breath stops.
The buzzing continues behind you. No change in speed. No change in course. A deep sigh of relief. You wait for some minutes after to be sure the drone wasn't going to double-back before you scamper back onto the trail to pick up your fallen tools and potatoes.
It was a great struggle to meet with sleep hours later, your paranoia was refreshed far more than your body.
