Forever After (Post Apocalyptic Romance Boxed Set)

by Rose Francis

  “It’s part of my chores,” she said. “I magic for them, you cook, and we both salvage.”

  “There are worse methods to pay one’s way,” Tyson said. “My cousin prostitutes on the Escrima. The men are not gentle with him. But I’m not here to talk about my family,” he finished, setting one of the packs down at Christine’s feet. “That is one of the more impressive marvels left functioning in our age; it uses the same tech they used to have on off-world ships.”

  “Yeah,” Christine said. “Right. Off-world ships.”

  “Be skeptical as you like, but I had an astronaut in my family.” He stood up a little straighter.

  “And I had a unicorn.”

  “You do kind of have a face like an uppity horse,” he said with a smile. “But it’s no bullshit. Off-world. We weren’t always pigs half-drowned in our own shit. We used to dance among the stars.”

  “If I’ve learned only one thing about humanity, it’s that if we were reaching out to touch the stars—it was a bad touch.”

  “That I wouldn’t argue,” he said. “But believe what you want—this is old-world tech. Each pack contains three sorbent cannisters, fed from the bottom into a rotating cylinder—like a revolver. ” He set the one he was holding on the floor and pulled a long rod out of the top. “You pump the upper chamber to create a vacuum seal. Once you get outside, you open this valve here, and the pressure from the pump pulls in air from the outside, through the filtration system.

  “You can get about an hour from each of the sorbent cannisters; after that, they need to be regenerated back on the ship. But that’s all mostly a lie. We usually reuse cannisters. They’re big enough it would slow down salvage to carry extras with us, so we’ll usually re-cycle the used cannisters. It’s not great, but it keeps out most of the toxins; it helps if you’re extra cautious once you know you’re on re-cycled cannisters—you’re gonna get a little high, so you’ll be a little extra stupid—which means you got to be extra cautious. Actually,” he took the filter from Ilsa, and pointed it at Christine, “you’ll be a little high. You,” he slid the filter into Ilsa’s pack, “the captain has seen fit to provide a filter for.

  “Filter’s basically the same kind the Engineers use in their masks.” He lingered a moment on Ilsa, and she remembered she was wearing an Engineer mask when she arrived on ship. “Disposable, limited. We get a little extra mileage out of it, because it filters after air has been passed through the sorbent cannisters, so it’s essentially double-filtration.”

  “There are pockets where the gases get trapped. It happens in stairwells, lower floors, any place the heavier toxins can settle—especially underground. The sorbents aren’t enough there, and for those circumstances, we’ve got a small tank of compressed air on a completely separate system; the switch is here, opposite side of the valve. Don’t depend on it. It’s for emergency use—and won’t last long. If you find something good underground, let us know; we can use the bellows to pump clean air in to you—or figure something else out, if need be.

  “Those are, essentially, the ropes. I’ll be with the two of you, so if you’ve got any questions, I can answer as we go.”

  “We have any tools?” Christine asked.

  “Right. Should have thought to grab one. Each person gets a staff. On the bottom end there’s a pry, which can double as the point of a walking staff, since the terrain can be…untrustworthy. At the top, there’s a crescent wrench. Both are built into a wooden staff to keep the weight down. Some of the bigger men carry a pole that’s metal the whole way, through; if you need it, borrow one, instead of wrenching on your staff, because if you break it, it comes out of your rations, or you’ll have to make up the difference in higher quotas. Anyone carrying a metal stave will lend it to you, as they belong to the ship, same as the wooden—though politeness is always appreciated.”

  “Do you carry a metal staff?” Christine asked.

  “Not usually, but with you two, I will. The three of us will be functioning as a unit, likely within eye and earshot of the rest, but not in enough proximity to make tool-sharing simple.

  “We’ll be making land in a little under an hour. If you need to wash up, to eat, or nap, now’s the time. Once we land, there’s no breaks, there’s no stopping; we work until we leave. It’s too costly to do otherwise.”

  He handed Christine her pack, and the weight of it threw her enough off-balance she took a step back. “I suggest you familiarize yourselves with the pack. More than once we’ve had a new crewman walk on the wrong bit of floor and end up several levels down, without light. If they could work the pack, switch to the tank and cycle the cannisters in the dark, they were still breathing by the time we got down to them. And the captain would like me to keep the two of you breathing—but I can only do so much of that for you.”

  Tyson turned and left. “What’s your read on him?” Christine asked when he was gone.

  “I don’t know. The captain has him watching us. He’s probably stationed outside the door, even as we speak.”

  “Yeah,” Christine said, collapsing onto the bed.

  “You okay?”

  “That takes a lot out of me.”

  Ilsa sat down beside her. “So the day we met?”

  “Yeah. I was. I was trying to change who I am. I was Two. You saw the scar and the tattoo.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s too easy, once you’re a Two, to get to Three. Everyone has something to hold over you—you’re under everybody’s thumb. Some people just make shit up, because they figure Twos are bad enough news that their level is better off without them.”

  “I can understand,” Ilsa said, squeezing her hand. “We should rest. Sounds like we’re going to have a long day ahead.” She laid back on the bed.

  “I, uh, I wanted to give you this. A few of the crew helped me, leant me epoxy and fabric. They said a kid needs a toy.” She held out a doll, painstakingly pieced together despite her overworked eyes. The broken hands and twinkling eyes were instantly familiar. Christine didn't seem to actually enjoy handling the doll, but she clutched her a little too tight as she handed it to Ilsa. “We don't have materials for hair right now, so I just wrapped her head in some spare fabric. Babies are bald, right? I know it's not as nice as the ones you used to see—”

  Ilsa pulled Christine down to her. “Shut up, she's perfect.”

  Eighteen

  They didn’t get to sleep long. Tyson knocked on the door. “We’ve started our descent,” he said. “We’ll want to be on deck the moment we touch down—or all the best scavenge sites will be taken.”

  Christine rolled off the bed first and hoisted her pack. Ilsa rose more slowly, and Christine helped her slide her pack onto her shoulders.

  Christine opened the door to their room and had what looked like a spear thrust into her face. She recognized it as the staff Tyson had described earlier and handed the first one back to Ilsa, and took the second one he offered for herself. He had his own pack and mask already on, as well as an empty duffle under his arm.

  “Masks on,” he said.

  Ilsa hesitated, as if reluctant to slip it on, frightened she’d never be free of it again. Tyson took it for confusion and stretched the rubber of the mask around her cheeks, then let it snap shut around her. “Blow air out, as much as you've got in your lungs.” He watched the edge of her mask as she did. “Good seal.” He did the same with Christine, then smiled and turned to lead them up to the deck.

  The rest of the crew were already gathered on deck, save for the pilot. Potts shot Ilsa a look that Christine didn't like. She knew predators when she saw them. She'd have to warn Ilsa to watch out for him; that kind of look usually meant obsession, and some kind of lust or violence. Tyson shoved them as close to the ramp as they could get. It was hard to see the ground for pollution, but here and there Ilsa glimpsed a ruined building, or thin, sickly trees.

  “This place was settled during a gold rush,” Tyson said. “They even called that initial encampment Oro. But i
t didn't last. Gold rushes never do. What this is is alchemy in reverse—gold turned to lead. Welcome to Leadville. Not much left in the old Mine District, so we'll be continuing salvage at Camp Hale. There's still plenty uncorroded down there. But there's also unexploded ordinance. So have a care, unless you're itching for a peg-leg.”

  The ship puttered to a stop. The captain held up his hand. He pointed at the crewman nearest a lever, and the crewman pulled on it, releasing the ramp. The men waited, looking nervously at each other, and then to the captain. He pointed outward, and they ran off ship, filing messily down the ramp. Tyson held them back at the end.

  “Thought we wanted a good seat at the table,” Christine said through her mask.

  “We needed to be early to get one, but that doesn’t mean fighting the dogs for the table scraps,” Tyson said. He led them down the ramp at a rapid clip, but then turned right, where most of the other scavengers had gone left.

  “Do they know something we don’t?” Christine asked.

  “Carnideer,” Tyson said. “There’s a hole in the fence this side of the camp. The fence gives them trouble—they’re as like to get wound up in the downed section as through it, but if they get through… there’s strength in numbers. Carnideer are practically blind. Navigate by smell and warmth. They have teeth like ax-blades, and forelegs like spears. But they don’t come round often, and if you’re smart and wary, you can keep away.”

  “What about the rats?” Ilsa asked, stepping over a large pile of rodent droppings.

  “Unusually large rodents? Just give them a good bop in the nose with the pry. The rats don’t hunt in packs, so they aren’t likely to pursue a meal with any fight left in it. They’ll eat together if they find a body, and they aren’t particular as to whether or not the body’s dead when they start. Here,” he said, pointing at a large building to their left. “I’ve already been through those.” He gestured with his staff at several smaller buildings to their right.

  “How much are we expected to bring back?” Christine asked.

  “It’s not strictly an issue of quantity, you understand? If all you bring back is metal scrap, you might as well shit in your hands. The tougher the components are to come by—or manufacture or magic back to usability—the more value they’ve got back in the world, and the more value they got to the captain. Especially where they’re harder to scrounge or repair—things like machine belts, or sturdy component parts—in particular, things that might be used to maintain air filtration systems.”

  He stopped at a door inside the building. He tried the knob, but it was locked.

  “Window?” Christine asked. A fold-out window was open on the upper floor.

  “I wouldn’t trust anything to climb on,’ he said. “And you’ll have to learn to work smarter, not harder.” He jammed his pry between the frame and door, which was mostly rotted, and put his weight into it. The wood folded like moist cardboard, and the door swung inwards.

  There were stairs immediately inside. “Up?” Christine asked.

  Tyson shook his head. “Sometimes the upper floors aren’t so stable. So we scavenge here first. Otherwise, if there's a collapse, we'd lose anything left behind down here. Come on,” he said, nodding at the nearest door. “We’ll do the first together, so I can show you what to take and what not to waste time with.”

  He gave them a moment to take the room in. It had been a filing room, with wall-to-wall metal cabinets. Then he looked to Ilsa. “The, um, the radiator?” she offered.

  “Not a bad instinct,” he said, walking up to kick it. “But on the one hand, it’s still hooked up to the wall. That’s a job in itself, unscrewing it. It’s also heavy as hell, and the parts aren’t much more than metal scrap. And it’s also cracked along the base—so it would have to be melted down.” He turned to Christine.

  “I wouldn’t take anything from here.”

  “That’s correct. Why?”

  “The cabinets are just heavy scrap piles that would have to be broken into and emptied to be even possibly worth moving. And there aren’t any electronics or mechanical parts anywhere. Radiator was the only thing iffy.”

  “And if the ship needed parts, radiator would be the ticket,” he said, “but we’re full up on spares. The captain’s a cautious man. But she’s got it, in a nutshell. Electronics, mechanics, in that order, with a special premium on anything HVAC-related.”

  He led them back into the hall and turned his attention to Christine. “Take the door on the left. We’ll be across the hall, here.”

  Ilsa's face betrayed her feelings—she didn’t like being separated from Christine, and wondered if she was being punished for having a less correct answer about what to salvage. Though it changed to a forced bravado—she knew Christine would be more capable of taking care of herself without having to worry over her as well.

  They finished their room before her. Tyson came in in time to see Ilsa opening the case on an old computer. “Good,” he said. “The casing isn't even scrap metal—it's cheap, shitty plastic.” He had her take the useful components: boards, memory, and cards, while leaving behind the heavier drives. “This time, I'll go with the lady.”

  “Implying I'm not one?” Christine asked.

  “You've worked tools and machines before?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” Christine said, hoping that wasn't a euphemism.

  “Has she?” he asked, and Christine froze. She didn't know what Ilsa had told them earlier, and didn't want to sell her out. “I would think not. Look at her hands—she's got the hands of a real lady.” He said that last part almost sadly. Christine wondered if he was sad their work was going to spoil them. But she shrugged and took the next room.

  * * *

  Ilsa followed Tyson into the next room. She didn’t trust him, but she gripped her staff, and knowing she could swing it faster than he could bring his metal tool around did make her feel better. The room had been an office, and was filled with desks and chairs.

  “Motherfucker!” Ilsa heard yelled from the other room, followed by the clatter of wood and metal smashing together. Despite being further from the door, Tyson reacted faster and beat her through it. He didn’t hesitate, but rushed headlong into the room across the hall. Ilsa was about to follow when a large rat scampered out of the room and ran down the hall. She watched it turn and run up the stairs before she followed Tyson.

  Christine was was somewhat hidden behind a stack of desks that had been stored in the room previously, and fallen over with her behind them.

  “A rat?” Tyson asked.

  “Can’t be sure,” Christine said. “I didn’t know him when he was alive.”

  Tyson scowled and walked around the barricade.

  There was a body contorted on the floor at her feet. Its owner had been short, wiry, before he died, screaming. Ilsa could tell from the his hand stretched out that he was alive when the rats started eating him. Splatters of blood, along with whatever slopped out of the pierced organs in his torn belly, marked the boards around the corpse in a starburst pattern. Chunks of viscera dotted the dried puddle of human muck, morsels too small for the rats to worry about so long as there was still flesh on the bones. And there was just a hint of meat and skin atop the skull, adorned with a tribalistic tattoo of a simian with its tail curled around its own head.

  “Fuck, it’s Monkey,” Tyson said. Ilsa couldn’t help but stare at the little chimp tattoo, and the raw, torn flesh nipping at its heels like fire.

  “Monkey?” Christine asked.

  “Spindly, wiry little fucker. Deserted on our last trip out here. His name was Micah, but you put a big damn ape on your skull, and that's all anyone's ever gonna see. We looked for hours, and couldn’t find him.” She shot him a questioning look. “We bothered looking because he raided the cannisters and filters before he left. The captain was… unhappy about losing all of it. He’d probably be pretty thrilled to get it all back—assuming he didn’t burn through all of it before he keeled over.”

  A few fe
et behind the corpse was an air vent, its grating pried loose from the wall. “You,” he pointed at Christine, “check in there.”

  * * *

  Christine shot him a resentful glance, but kneeled and moved the grate, then laid it against the wall. She crawled inside. Ilsa glanced nervously from the stringy flesh still hanging partially chewed off the body’s bones, and wondered if there were more rats waiting for Christine inside the wall. She looked to Tyson for some comfort, but he didn’t have any to spare.

  Christine emerged a moment later, wriggling out of the duct.

  “He was sleeping in there, shitting in there. But there weren’t any filters.”

  Tyson narrowed his eyes. “You wouldn’t be lying to me, would you?” he asked.

  “You’re welcome to cram yourself into that vent,” she said. He eyeballed it, likely realizing there was no way his thick shoulders would pass inside. He had no choice but to trust her, or to ask another of the smaller men, but then he'd owe them a favor, if the crew was anything like the workers in the City.

  “Damn,” he said. “The captain might have offered us a damned fine reward. Grab what you can carry. We should tell him about Monkey now.”

  Ilsa didn’t like it; after all of the emphasis on the importance of quotas, they were abandoning their salvage. But this seemed to be a part of the unspoken rule on ship: you don't fuck with the captain, all other rules be damned.

  * * *

  They found him with the other men, digging through the heap of metal that had been the staging area for the camp’s metal reCycling program.

  “Sir!” Tyson yelled.

  “What?” the captain asked, without looking up.

  “We found Monkey—what remained of him, anyway.”

  “The rats get him?” the captain asked, pausing in his search. Tyson nodded, and he went back to shoveling through components. “Still probably too good a death for him.” He stopped again. “And what he stole?”

  “Took the location of that straight to hell with him,” Tyson said.

  “Damn. Well. We’ll do a more thorough search of the compound, then, knowing he didn’t make it far. Which building was he in?” he asked, looking in the direction they came from.