by Shay Savage
I bow and head out the door before she can try to offer me anything else. The mat fits easily over my back with the strap, and it’s light enough that I can barely feel it.
Contemplating better sleep on the ground isn’t enough to distract me from my primary thoughts, though. In my head, I see Moustache Man coming out of Ava’s tent, and my body runs cold, then heats up.
Back in front of Ava’s tent, I see Jonny sitting on the ground and sharpening his axe. He stands as I approach.
“I need another favor,” I tell him. “Well, an extension of the first one, anyway.”
“Is everything all right?” Jonny asks. “You’re being dodgy.”
“Well, that’s just part of my charm!” I smile broadly, but I don’t feel the least bit jocular.
Jonny crosses his hefty arms over his chest and stares me down. It’s obvious he’s going to require more information, and I can’t afford the time to explain it all. I don’t know how long it will take me to get across the river and locate Ava’s assailant.
One thing is for sure—I don’t want to leave her here completely alone. I don’t know the man who attacked her, and it’s possible he could come back. I could miss him when I traverse the river since there is more than one place to cross, and I can’t risk that happening with Ava unprotected.
“I may not make it back before morning,” I tell him as I stash my new mat just inside Ava’s tent. “I have a few things I need to take care of, and I don’t want her left alone. She’s hurt and she doesn’t need any clients bothering her, and it’s Friday night.”
“I’ll have to talk to my other half.” Jonny narrows his eyes, but his look softens. “I’m not sure he’ll be happy about it.”
“I’ll wait.” I give him a nod, and Jonny heads toward the home he shares with Milo, his husband.
I debate going inside and checking on Ava, but I don’t want her to start questioning me about where I’m going and what I’m planning to do.
Jonny returns, led by Milo. Milo is about a foot shorter than Jonny and nowhere nearly as stocky, but he’s got a lot of attitude.
“What is this all about, Talen?” Milo asks as soon as he gets close enough. “I was in the middle of making dinner, and now I’m eating alone?”
“Sorry about that,” I say, trying to look contrite. “If it wasn’t important, I wouldn’t ask.”
Milo glares at me, hands on his hips, and taps his foot on the ground. A moment later he sighs.
“I suppose we owe you more than enough favors,” he finally says, “but I’ll not have dinner ruined. Jon, I’ll bring dinner here, and we can share it with Ava.”
“That would be perfect,” I say. “I’m sure she’d enjoy some friendly faces. Thank you.”
“We’ll be the talk of the town,” Jonny says as he elbows Milo in the shoulder. “People will think we switched sides!”
“Ought to create quite the scandal,” Milo says with a laugh. “Threesome with the gay guys. The news will make it across the river!”
“You tempted?” Jonny raises an eyebrow.
“Not in the slightest,” Milo says. “She doesn’t have the right equipment, and you’re more than enough for me to handle.”
They kiss briefly before Milo heads back to retrieve dinner.
“Thanks, Jonny.” I reach out to take his hand. “I appreciate it.”
With a nod, I head away from the tent area and make my way to the other side of Platterston.
The west and east sides of the valley are separated by a shallow, snaking river. It flows sluggishly along, the greyish, ashy water slipping around the river rocks and slapping against the scrubby brush along the banks.
The two local bridges—aptly named Northbridge and Southbridge—are little more than piles of rocks stacked high enough for people to avoid getting wet, along with a rope strung across the water for travelers to hold onto as they cross. Partway across are two posts pounded into the river bottom to attach the ropes and give a little more stability. Once there was a third post, but it was washed away during a spring rain. The two river crossings allow the people of Plastictown to move from one side of the valley to the other for trade and work.
I sit beside the riverbank, concealed by a group of ash-covered rocks, and wait for the evening foot traffic to die down. The number of people crossing the river dwindles as the hour grows late, but I don’t want to risk being seen. My face is too well known on the west side, and I don’t want anyone to see me cross to the east. Once the bridge is empty, I quickly and carefully traverse the rocky path of Northbridge and hide myself for a few minutes between piles of discarded plastic on the east side of the riverbank. I doubt I need the added touch of security, but the sky is still light enough to be seen, and I don’t take chances.
The smell of burned plastic is nearly overwhelming this close to the factory, and I adjust my scarf in hope of blocking out the odor. It doesn’t work. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as the fumes sting them. I clear my throat, open my eyes, and move closer.
I lean against the plastic pile and take out each of my daggers, carefully sharpening them both while I wait for nightfall in the shadow of a large warehouse, constructed of both plastic and concrete made from volcanic ash.
My body is tense. Every muscle is tight. I know the calm will come—it always does—but for now, all I can do is run the whetstone over my blades and imagine what they will do when they penetrate flesh. Images of warm, red liquid fill my mind.
I blink a few times and then stare up at the warehouse. It’s the home of Modern Plasticworks, which is the only local business where someone can earn real wages for very difficult, tedious work. Harley Junes is the owner, and the Junes family is the closest thing Plastictown has to wealth. Harley’s brother Greyson is Ava’s landlord.
As the only industrial workplace in the area, the locals refer to Modern Plasticworks as “The Plant.” They spend long days working in the heat and humidity as they first crush plastic into bales and then heat the bales until they melt together and solidify. Those who work there for a long time develop a deep and distinctive cough from inhaling the fumes all day, and they know they run the risk of accidental death from falling bales of plastic refuse. Still, the jobs there are highly coveted. As soon as an opening on the thirty-person crew is disclosed, people begin to line up at the door, begging for employment.
Little do they know that by tomorrow, the crew will be down to twenty-nine, and I wonder how long it will be before people realize a job is available. Does Harley Junes hire a replacement as soon as a worker is late to work? I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. In my experience, people don’t tend to make money by being understanding.
I have more experience regarding that topic than I care to admit.
The sun begins to set, and the usual blue-grey light of day fades to the grey-black of night. Once it’s dark enough, I slip my knives into their sheaths, pick up my pack, and follow the main road past the warehouse to the town square. During the day, this area would be filled with merchants and their carts, but it is empty and quiet now. The only noise comes from a short building made of plastic bales on the far side of the square. A half-rotten piece of wood paneling sits to one side of the opening, though it’s clear it can be used as a door. In the middle of the paneling is a painted cup, signifying the building as a tavern. Over the cup in white, scrawled letters is the name “Alexander’s,” though very few in this area would be able to read it.
Literacy in a Naught community isn’t completely unheard of but still quite rare. When people have to spend all their time just providing for their own basic needs, reading and writing simply aren’t a priority. As a generation passed, literacy diminished. Teachers became nonexistent, and reading became an extravagance. Thaves can read and pride themselves on it. They have the luxuries of time and resources.
I head to the door and peer through.
Inside the tavern, the bulk of the plastic workers spend their weekly wages on wine made from dandelions and h
oneysuckle. A grim faced, dark-skinned man behind the bar eyes me. I don’t frequent this side of the river, so my face isn’t known around here, and everyone is wary of strangers. He watches me as I walk up to the bar to order.
“Which do you prefer?” I point to the two casks of wine behind the bartender.
“I don’t give a shit,” he replies as he glares at me.
“All right, then.” I nod to the cask on the left. “I guess I’ll try that one.”
“Money only,” he says. “I don’t need any fucking services as barter.”
I slide a coin across the table, and he eyes it before pouring the wine into a clay mug and shoving it across the bar.
“Thanks!” I smile and hold the mug up to him, but he turns away without another word. I take a sip of the bitter wine and try to maintain my smile as I take a seat in the back corner of the room. I’m not even sure what kind of wine I have, but it doesn’t matter. It’s only for show.
I examine the crowd while holding the mug to my mouth but not actually drinking. I’ve never been a fan of any kind of alcohol, and the wine is foul-tasting anyway. The plastic workers are of a similar ilk, mostly burly men with a handful of burly women as well. Lifting the plastic bales is hard work and not for the slight of build.
They all seem to enjoy the drinking if not the drink itself.
“Pour me another mug of that shit!”
“It’s a good thing I’m drunk, or I wouldn’t pay ya for this swill!”
“If I puke, it’s from the taste!”
In another corner, a merchant peddles weed and small clay pipes. Marijuana is one of the few plentiful crops and is less expensive than the wine. The distinct smell of the smoke wafts around the enclosed area, and I’m tempted to cover my mouth and nose to avoid a contact buzz, but doing so would draw attention to me, and I don’t need that.
A woman approaches the merchant and leans in close to place coins in his hand. He nods once and slips a small plastic bag from his pack to her hand. She glances warily at the bartender as she checks her purchase, but his attention is directed at another patron. Without a word, she slips out the door.
Though weed is plentiful and used by many, weed merchants often sell hallucinogenic mushrooms, which can still be found in the northeast and aren’t too expensive. Such things are illegal in the east where laws are still enforced, but most are still cautious about the sale and distribution of the psychoactive fungus. It doesn’t stop those in the east from using it, and I recall seeing the illegal fungus as well as peyote when I lived near the coast. Peyote is extremely rare and has to be imported at great expense. I’ve heard that in the days before the Great Eruption, large quantities of multiple drugs could be found throughout the area, but now only these three remain in common use.
I notice the man I’m looking for fairly quickly. The tavern isn’t a large establishment, and the few battery-powered lamps offer enough light to see people’s faces. His long moustache makes him stand out, and he’s louder than anyone else in the bar.
“If I pissed in a cup,” Moustache Man says, “and placed it on a table, no one would ever know the difference!”
“Shut your mouth, Mack!” the bartender yells back. “You can just piss off as far as anyone is concerned!”
Mack makes an obscene gesture toward the bartender and then laughs before sitting at a table with two other men. He slams his mug down, splashing wine on the floor, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He leans over to his companions as if to speak secretly, but he’s still loud enough to hear.
“I’ve had real wine,” he says. “Made from grapes and all. It was sweet stuff, but not as sweet as the pussy I had last night!”
Laughter follows his comment. I close my eyes for a moment, teeth clenched.
“Nothin’ like stickin’ your cock in a nice, wet hole.”
“A hole you haveta pay for!” More laughing.
“Fuck you, Curtis!” Mack slams his mug on the table again. “I didn’t pay her a fucking cent, she liked it so much!”
“Cut that shit out!” the bartender yells. “Yer gonna break my cups!”
Mack ignores him as he leans over the table and brags.
“That bitch loved every inch of me,” he says. “She squirmed a bit, but she was so slick, I knew how much she wanted it.”
“Took both inches, did she?” His companions let out loud, more boisterous laughter.
“You wanna do some comparisons, Joe? I’m happy to show ya just what I got!”
“I’ve seen your dick,” Joe replies. “I think you don’t know what a real one looks like!”
“You’re just jealous!” Mack takes another big swig. “I had me a grand time, and in the end, she was shaking so much, you woulda thought there was a quake! I rocked her world!”
I glare in Mack’s direction, wondering how such a caricature of a man could even exist, a dull, violent brute who belongs in a comic book rather than actual life. But hard times create hard men, and he may be a product of the difficult life of a plastic worker. I assume there is more to him, though I don’t think I will have the opportunity to learn anything else about what has brought him to this point. He’s far beyond deserving any mercy from me.
The men continue to jabber and drink. As time passes, they get louder and drunker. The bartender yells at them several more times, including a threat to cut them off if they don’t settle down.
Mack leans back unsteadily, and his head bobs around on his wobbly neck. His eyes glaze over for a moment before he takes another large gulp from his cup.
“In the east they have real wine,” Mack says, “not the shit they serve here.”
“You’ve never been east,” Joe says.
“Fuck you!” Mack slams his mug down again. “I was there as a boy until my parents moved here.”
“No one moves west on purpose,” Joe says. He shakes his head and laughs. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You callin’ me a liar?”
Within seconds, a brawl breaks out. Joe, who is slightly less inebriated, ends up on top when they roll across the floor. He lands a couple of good punches before the bartender comes around the bar with a club in his hands.
It doesn’t take a clairvoyant to see what’s coming next, so I use the distraction to slip out the front door and around the side of the building. A couple of minutes later, the bartender throws both Mack and Joe out of the bar.
“I better not see you here tomorrow, either!” the bartender yells.
The two men eye each other for a moment before they burst into laughter. The bartender throws a few more curses at them before returning to his patrons inside.
“I guess I’m done for the night,” Joe says with a sigh.
“That’s what you get for being an asshole.” Mack runs his hands over his chest and thighs as if he’s looking for injuries.
“Fuck you.” Joe rubs at his chin as he laughs. “You going to go see that harlot of yours across the river?”
“I gave her a good fucking last night,” Mack says, snickering. “She’ll be sore for a month. After all the business I’ve given her, she refused me credit.”
“You fucked her anyway?”
“Bitch didn’t know who she was dealing with. I think I’m done with her, now. There are better whores on this side of the river.”
“More expensive ones,” Joe says. “How are you going to pay for that?”