by L. T. Vargus
Mia grunted from her corner. They’re an odd couple, really. Kristoff is chatty as hell, always going on about his various conspiracy theories and whatnot. Mia, on the other hand, rarely utters a full sentence. But she’s definitely no doormouse. I get the impression that she’s the brains behind the operation, really. The boss or whatever. She has this way of watching over everything. Not just their shop, but the crowd and the rest of the market, too. And even though Kristoff always has a pistol on his belt, Mia’s the one with the AR-15 slung over her shoulder.
Kristoff opened the plastic bag and took a whiff of the “coffee.”
“Have you tried it?”
“Yeah.”
“What’d you think?”
“I prefer the dandelion root.”
Kristoff shook his head.
“Me too. Even chicory is better than this. But we can charge double for this stuff. I think it’s the look of it. And probably the name. Says coffee right there, you know?”
“I was kind of glad it sucked,” I said. “I’m not tempted to keep any of it that way.”
Kristoff chuckled. “Smart girl.”
He and Mia have a way of communicating with just a few glances. Kristoff would look at the goods, often announcing them out loud. Then he’d look over at Mia, and she’d give the barest hint of a nod or shake of the head.
They’d been having one of these silent conversations while we chit-chatted about the coffee.
Finally, Kristoff said, “We’ll take all the Kentucky coffee you got. What do you want for it?”
“Salt.”
His eyes flicked over to Mia.
“Done. What else ya got?”
I laid out a list of things he’d specifically requested the last time I was here. Soap, deodorant, shampoo, toilet paper, cigarettes, and booze.
“Good stuff,” Kristoff said.
“How much 9 mm ammo can I get for it?”
“Three boxes.”
“Deal.”
After that, we went out to the bikes so I could show him the rest of what I’d brought. As Izzy and I unpacked the goods, Kristoff told us yes or no, and we made two piles accordingly. Mia brought out a dolly to move the Yes pile inside, and I noticed how even as she bent to stack the items on the cart, she kept her gaze flicking around the street and her rifle within easy reach.
We stowed everything they hadn’t wanted back on the bikes and returned inside to finish the trade.
I waited until the door had closed behind us before I broached the subject.
“We need antibiotics.”
Kristoff’s eyes twinkled.
“We’ve got a tincture made from acorns. A by-product of leaching the tannins when we make flour. It’s a natural antiseptic and antibiotic.”
“Yeah… I’m looking for the pharmaceutical variety.”
For the first time, Kristoff’s smile disappeared. And suddenly Mia was there, stepping between us.
“We told you last time, that was a one time deal,” her voice was low and cold.
I almost took a step back, surprised at her intensity.
“I know, but — ”
She shook her head, cutting me off.
“If the Squadron got wind that we traded you even that single half a bottle, we’d be in deep shit. They don’t take kindly to anyone else having even a small corner of that market.”
Kristoff put a hand on Mia’s shoulder, but she wasn’t done. She held up a finger.
“If you ever bring up the fact that we gave you those meds ever again — to us or anyone else — you’re done here.”
I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised at her reaction. I’d seen what the Storm Squadron was capable of.
“Alright. I’m sorry. I’ll never mention it again, but…”
Kristoff spoke up, trying to smooth things over.
“Hey, we like you, OK? You know the good merchandise from the crap, and you’re trustworthy. Marissa wouldn’t be with you otherwise,” he said.
I swallowed in a dry throat, worried that I would be pushing this too far. But we needed those fucking meds. “Do you know anyone that isn’t SS that might have some?”
I waited a few moments while they had one of their wordless conversations.
“Check Spider’s cart. He’s got some… rarities. And since he’s a nomad the SS are less likely to hassle him if he is selling drugs.”
I didn’t exactly like the idea of doing business with someone named Spider, but it had to be better than the SS. Kristoff gave me directions to this Spider fellow’s cart, and then I traded most of what we’d brought for coal and jerky.
Kristoff and Mia are one of the few shops that aren’t affiliated with one of the raider factions. I could buy coal directly from the Militia, but I don’t really want to trade with raiders. That means I’m paying a mark-up. I know that. It’s a price I’m willing to pay for not doing business with the raiders. Though I guess you could say that my money still goes to them anyway, since that’s certainly where Mia and Kristoff are getting their supply of coal. But whatever. At least I don’t have to deal with the scummy bastards directly. I guess some might argue that the Militia aren’t as bad as the SS or some of the other groups, but raiders are raiders to me.
As for the jerky, I didn’t ask what kind it was. I don’t think I want to know. Meat is meat, and though I’ve tried a little bit of hunting and trapping myself, so far I haven’t been very good at it.
“Anything in particular you guys are looking for? For next time,” I ask.
“Toiletries, tobacco, and booze are still the big three. Also how-to books. We’ve had a lot of interest in those lately. And like I told you last time, assume we’ll take as much Kentucky coffee as you can bring.”
A thought struck me then.
“What would you trade for a seedling?”
“For one of the coffee trees? You have one?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I even noticed Mia stir at that, her interest clearly piqued.
“Not yet. But we’re trying.”
There was another shared glance between Kristoff and Mia.
“We’d be very interested. I could do a case of ammo for two seedlings. Or equal value.”
Shit. I was starting to think I could have gotten double the amount of salt for the coffee I gave them earlier. But it’s bad form to haggle after a deal is closed, so I let it go. Something to remember for next time.
“OK.”
“What kinds of how-to books should I keep an eye out for?”
Bending down to unload the dolly full of our trade goods, Kristoff listed them off.
“Anything about homesteading and preserving food. Farming and gardening. But even things like bicycle repair and home improvement will sell. Hell. We’ll take stuff on sewing and knitting.”
I didn’t say so, but I already have a lot of books like that at home. I’m not sure I’m willing to part with them.
He paused in his work and propped an elbow on the counter.
“I’m still surprised they left us any books,” he said. “It would have been a perfect Fuck You to destroy all the libraries, you know? Leave us with a few million Danielle Steele books and nothing else.”
The “they” Kristoff was referring to was aliens. Or maybe rich people. See, Kristoff’s pet conspiracy theory is that before everything went to shit, all the rich people, everyone in power, escaped into space. He thinks the aliens were running things since the Roswell crash, or maybe they were just in cahoots with the government, I’m not exactly sure. In any case, he believes it was their secret experiments with alien technology and bioweapons that got loose and that’s what caused… well, how things are now.
One of the big pieces of evidence he likes to cite is the fact that there aren’t any rich people around anymore.
“Think about it, in all of your travels, you seen any wealthy people? Any politicians or talking heads from TV? Famous rappers? Actresses? Some of them would have survived, surely! So where are they?”
<
br /> He pointed to the sky.
“Up there in their state-of-the-art spacecraft, looking down at us — the riff-raff that survived — while we fight over garbage like a bunch of rats. Hell, maybe this was the plan all along. We’re like guinea pigs for their little experiment. Whatever the case, I guarantee they’re drinking Dom Perignon or maybe some crazy alien shit and laughing their asses off.”
I wasn’t sure how I was supposed to tell a formerly rich person from the rest of us at this point. Would they be wearing fur coats and diamond necklaces? But I didn’t say any of that to Kristoff. His version of crazy is pretty harmless, and besides, I figure the nicer I am, the better future bargaining will go.
We said our goodbyes, gathered up what we’d traded for, and went out to our bikes. A few of the bordello women were still outside. (Am I supposed to call them whores? It seems unnecessarily harsh.) The young one with the bruised face was staring at us. She watched us packing up our goods, and I felt her gaze on me the whole time, like something hot and accusatory.
I felt a twinge of pity and then a flash of anger. I thought of Mia’s words. No one is going to fight your battles for you. If you can’t fight them yourself, you shouldn’t be here.
I’m sorry for that girl. I really am. But there’s nothing I can do about it.
We rolled our bikes along the street until we reached the open section of the market. It took a few minutes of weaving between the various stalls before I finally spotted Spider’s cart. It looked like one of those big bike campers that had been augmented to haul as much gear as possible. It was painted a garish combination of red and yellow with a giant tarantula and the words “Spider’s Warez” adorning the side.
Izzy and I approached from the back side of the trailer, and I could hear voices coming from around the front.
“Awfully skinny, ain’t he?” One man’s voice said.
“It’s the teeth you gotta look at. He’s got all of his own. That’s a true sign of health.”
“How old did you say?”
“Seven or thereabouts.”
“Won’t be much good for hard workin’ for another five years at least.”
I figured they were talking about a horse. I could see the back end of it, tail busy flicking away flies. But as we rounded the corner, I saw that the two men weren’t looking at the horse. In fact, they stood with their backs to the animal. One of the men bent down to the figure standing between them, gripped the sides of his face with one hand.
“Open your mouth, boy. Let ‘im see your teeth.”
It was a child.
A human child.
Jeremiah
Rural Maryland
10 years, 41 days after
Suicidal ideation. That’s the fancy term for picturing yourself sucking on the barrel of a gun.
I have to think all of us, the soldiers out here now, have experienced a bit of this. I know I have and do.
When the night comes on, these thoughts of suicide wash over me in waves. Strangely anesthetic. Numbing. A little cold.
Ugly pictures opening in my head. Vivid and violent. I don’t understand them. I don’t want them. But they are there.
But then maybe I do understand them in a certain way. We wander around out here for no good reason. Aimless and anchorless. Roaming out into the big nothing. Marching to nonsense orders that flit us here and there at random.
None of this makes sense.
The emptiness stares us in the face.
And when that chaos, that utter meaninglessness, spirals its way into my brain, it creates tension that cannot resolve. A melody hanging on a deeply unsatisfying end note, discordant and maddening, wanting to find its way back to a root note — a tonic — that doesn’t exist. This song sucks. It provides neither satisfaction nor relief.
There is no correct answer to this question. There is no way to compute this nonsense equation, no way to render this data into the cause and effect relationship that my mind seems to demand of all things.
It’s a restless sensation. Makes my skin tingle. Vibrates my thoughts. Pulses the words in my head into endless circles like water twirling down the drain.
No order is possible. No meaning is possible.
So we drift in empty space. Alone. Apart. Uncomfortable.
What hurts more than anything, I think, is the way these thoughts suck the meaning out of things, rip the soul out of things, leave only the surface to contemplate, an empty shell of physicality, territory, bodies. All else, if there even is anything else, hides down in the muck. Out of sight. Unknowable. And we spend a lifetime flailing after it, after anything beyond what’s here. Desperate and frightened and small.
So I sit here at night, shrouded in dark, and I point my gun out at the emptiness for no good reason. Let my finger hover over the trigger like I can kill this problem. Poke holes in its guts and make it go away. Resolve this tension that shivers and thrums in my skull and never lets me sleep. All I have to do is squeeze and it all goes away.
Erin
Roanoke, Virginia
1 year, 297 days after
I couldn’t stop staring at the kid. Breaking one of my own rules.
Spider and the other man were still talking.
“How much?”
“Two of your horses.”
“Two? Are you insane? I can trade one for two-years’ credit in coal, and you think two for the price of one sickly lookin’ whelp is a fair trade?”
“You gotta think about the future. He’s scrawny now, but he isn’t grown yet. And I’ve got him trained good. He can do most of the household chores. In a few years, he’s another set of hands. A strong back to help bale hay and wrangle horses.”
Wiping a fleck of spittle from the corner of his lips, Spider continued.
“His people — the ones that gave him to me — they were hardy folk. Once he comes of age, he’ll be a nice strapping specimen. Good worker.”
“And in the meantime, I gotta feed him, clothe him.” The man shook his head.
“So don’t buy him for a farmhand.”
“What in the hell else would I need him for?”
“I told you I got him trained good. He don’t fight. Does just what he’s told. That can be useful.”
Spider gave the man a suggestive look, and I felt a sick feeling curdle my stomach.
To his credit, the other man recoiled.
“Jesus, I ain’t got no interest in little boys.”
Spider raised his hands, and smiled apologetically.
“Didn’t mean to suggest you did, sir. But there are others who do, and they’d pay a hefty price for one so young and well-trained.”
The man grabbed up the supplies he’d purchased, and I thought for sure he’d stomp away, offended and horrified. But to my disgust, he paused to eyeball the kid somewhat thoughtfully.
“How much longer will you be in town?”
Spider’s head bobbed from side-to-side.
“Another day or two,” he said, then cleared his throat. “In the interests of full disclosure, he needs to be restrained at night.”
“Restrained?”
“He gets into the food, and no manner of corrective measures made him stop. Can’t have that. That’s my livelihood. So I chain him to the hitch there on my trailer. Problem solved.”
I noticed for the first time that what Spider said was true. The boy wasn’t chained up at the moment. Why didn’t he run?
But then where would he go?
With a final glance at the boy, the man turned and left.
I wanted to leave, too. Wanted nothing to do with this scumbag, but it was too late now. He’d seen me standing there and was asking how he could help.
Spider himself was a few inches taller than me and lean the way most people tend to be now. He had the kind of eyes that were always open a little too wide, and they darted around the market, always on the lookout for potential threats.
I knew then that Spider was a self-appointed nickname. A spooky moniker int
ended to suggest he was dangerous. Scary.
I stared the shifty-eyed bastard in the face and pretended the dirt-smeared little boy only a few feet away didn’t exist.
“I’m looking for antibiotics,” I said, keeping my features hard and blank.
Spider leaned in, a smug little smirk touching his lips.
“Are you now?”
He reeked of old, sour sweat, but I forced myself to stand my ground. I did not flinch or blink. It was a test. He wanted to know if I’d back down. Turn into a stuttering idiot at the merest push.
Just the way I could see past his tough guy nickname, I wondered if Spider saw right through my so-called costume.
I glared back and added the slightest edge to my voice.
“Do you have them or not?”
He retreated then, accepting that I wasn’t going to be pushed.
“Depends on what you got for trade.”
I set down a ten pound bag of roasted dandelion root and two small mason jars of maple syrup.
“Dandelion coffee. This is the best substitute there is.”
“What’s in the piss jars?”
“Maple syrup. Homemade. There’s still some sugar and other sweeteners to be found, but it’s starting to get scarce. Pretty soon it’ll be gone. This is going to be what replaces it.”
He studied me, then the bag of coffee. Opened it. Smelled it.
“Smells like shit.”
“Well luckily it doesn’t taste like it.”
“I’m just supposed to trust you on that? How do I know this isn’t dirt and dried up pigshit?”
“Try it, then. Boil some water. I have time.”
The shopkeeper snapped his fingers and the boy approached, eyes focused on the ground.
It took everything I had not to look at him.
“Go boil a kettle of water. When it’s ready, bring it to me with a cup and a tea strainer.”
The boy turned and just before he disappeared inside the small camper, I glanced at him. He was so small. Smaller than Izzy.
Fuck.
Izzy.
I’d been so shocked at seeing a little boy chained up like livestock that I’d forgotten about Izzy. Again I wondered at the wisdom of bringing her along with me.