PRODROME (ch. 1): Shake On It

Choking on the stuffy interior of a glorified supply closet, Riley tried his hardest to listen to the words that trickled from an elderly woman's split lips. Dehydration sapped her face of color. She presented to him as the swaying, half-dead matriarch of a paranoid, Southern hamlet. A handful of seconds ticked by, and he drew in a breath so sharp, it stung his lungs. "Sorry, I—"

"—wasn't paying attention?" Marisa cocked her thin eyebrows. "It's because of my radiant beauty, I know." He opened his mouth to apologize, but she waved him away with a shake of the head. "Show me you're sorry by focusing."

Riley nodded and greasy, auburn wisps of his dense, shoulder-length hair shook out of place. As he corrected their placement, "Right."

The old woman leaned back in her chair and massaged the aching joints of her knuckles. "If you're interested, we'll start with three a week."

"Three... What? Trophies?" Her silence was affirmation. Riley considered the request. "Okay. That seems doable."

"Completely feasible for someone able-bodied and spry like yourself. After a month, we'll see how you're doing and adjust the weekly goals. Questions?"

Riley licked the padding of his forefinger and thumb, then twisted an errant lock into a temporary curl that hovered over his left eye. "So, I'm assuming there will be teams?"

"Yes, of course," Marisa leaned forward with a scoff. "But, I've paid my dues. You won't see me by your side out there."

He shook his head and made a sour face. "I, erm, didn't expect to. What? Is that rude to say?"

Marisa drew in a long, and impressively quiet breath before setting her hands in her lap. "No," she admitted with a smile. "It's just confirmation that I'm old. Don't fret, kid. Hopefully, you'll live to see what it's like. Now, PJ confiscated your weapons—"

"It's not like I had much on me," Riley scratched his brow and noted the chaff of dead skin thereafter. He knew she noticed and was thankful she didn't mention it. He continued, "Just some old snub I found and a — what do you call it? — whittling knife. Something like that."

She lifted her bony shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Yes, the 'snub' and that carving knife. Eh, they're better than what most people have when they run into us." Marisa stroked her prominent chin before asking, "Let me jump off the record for a second — just for fun. I gotta know, Riley: have you ever actually killed anything with that knife?"

"I mean..." Riley paused, rolled his eyes, and gathered himself. Scooting his wooden chair forward, the rascally lock fell out-of-place once again. The deep concentration on finding the right words superseded his desire to fix his hair. "I don't think the blade is long enough to kill anything. It'd be annoying, sure. The right — or wrong person, I should say — comes along, it'd definitely injure them." He swallowed while Marisa drilled a hot glare into his face. "I-I think."

"Do you have any reservations about killing?"

He paused long enough to elicit a worried expression from the matriarch. "Are we... Back on the record?"

"Definitely back on the record."

Riley's nostrils flared. In that moment, he could read her mind and decided it was easier to come clean than withhold an essential truth. "Yeah, a bit." After she silently raised her chin, he added, "But, only because I've never really had the chance. Never been in that... Scenario."

Marisa swatted a black fly from her nose and exhaled a snort. Unflinching, she asked, "Then, how'd you come into possession of your gun? The snub?" He scratched the top of his flat scalp and chewed on each syllable before they could escape his mouth. "I'm going to need an answer, Riley."

"Like I said," he forced a tacky gulp. "I — yeah, I found it."

"In the grass? In a car?"

"It was..."

"On a person?" She noted his internal retreat and clicked her tongue. "On a person. Let me clue you in on what's going to happen. Are you listening?"

Riley blinked once. A pink hue entered his face. He suddenly felt much more warm and wished he could pry off his long sleeve or hop in a creek. "Yeah. Yes, ma'am."

Marisa allowed him a few seconds to breathe — but only a few. "I'd ask you what number's engraved on the gun, but you won’t tell me. I already know that. Thirty-six. That gun is number thirty-six out of however-many-we-have. It belonged to someone who lived here, but now, seemingly, you have it. Now... It's yours."

"Ma'am," the greasy-haired fellow scrunched his face and leaned in. Their gaze connected, and he searched her face for empathy. "I'm telling you I found it."

She mimicked his behavior and pressed her chest into the desk. The hard edge pressed against just above her breasts and, after some time, bruised her ribcage. "And I'm asking you where specifically you found it." Marisa's voice was rough. "You're wasting my goddamned time, aren't you?" The woman hushed her tone, and she shook her head. "You're so fucking worried about what I'm going to say that you won't look beyond the room you're in. Yeah, this office is hot. Yeah, the walls are tall and the lack of a window is imposing, but, Riley, you gotta understand something..."

His nose twitched.

"Number thirty-six didn't make it," she said. Her brow clenched tight, wound like an inflexible coil desperate to pop. "But you did. Whatever happened, you made it."

Riley's face softened. The heat in his chest evaded him, and clear breath returned as though he’d been fed oxygen through a tube.

"You're here. Do you understand?"

He licked his lips and nodded. "I think so."

"So, at the risk of sounding like a broken record — if you're interested, we'll start with three a week."

Riley scratched the back of his neck. "Three, uh, trophies. Sure."

"Trophies, bounties. Whatever you want to call it." Marisa eased back into her seat and rubbed the meat of her palm, wincing all the while. "Three noses. Proof enough that you're capable. Capable enough for us to want to feed you."

The greasy man dropped a heavy sigh that stole the remaining breath from his lungs. Giving himself a moment to recover, he finally asked, "What about a shower?"

She hissed an airy laugh and crossed her short arms over her boxy torso. "Gimme five on day one and you'll get your shower. Ten, and I'll make the water hot."

He rubbed the underside of his nose with a balled fist and, with the same hand, extended a handshake. Marisa stretched a gummy smile and shifted in her seat. "Promise me," Riley gently demanded. "Promise me you'll make the water hot."

"Yes, Riley. I promise."

"Shake on it, then."

"I'm left-handed," Marisa said with a diminishing grin. She raised and wagged the fingers of her dominant hand.

Riley was slow to relinquish his outstretched hand. "That's alright," he eventually said. "I believe you."

The woman beamed another half-genuine smile. "My word is true. That's one thing you'll get to know about me."

He pinched his loose ends into another impermanent curl. Riley straightened his posture and examined Marisa with a kinder gaze, one weighed with a deeper understanding of who she might be. An old woman with a soft, square face riddled with wrinkles. A collared, denim jacket dyed navy. A sickening amount of intelligence was on display, whether he stared into her hazel eyes or read the minute twitches communicated from the corner of her mouth and the tip of her nose.

With renewed interest and with more spirit in his voice than before, he asked her when he could start.

"A team'll be waiting for you in the courthouse tomorrow evening."

Uncertainty splashed onto his face. "Evening?"

Marisa blinked and tilted her head. "Seven o'clock. Problem?"

"N-no. It's just—"

"You're afraid of the dark?"

"No," Riley subdued a frustrated huff. He composed himself and displayed a placid smile. "I'm good. I'll be there."

His resolve pleased The Matriarch of Oak Barn. She brushed her fingers along the surface of her empty, wooden table and spoke one syllable with perfect enunciation. "Good."

*

Two, friendly men apologized when they swung the barrels of their hunting rifles pointed at Riley’s ankles. They escorted him from Marisa’s to the main courtyard, a short expanse of rail cars, storage units, and makeshift shops all of which were walled in by towers of scrap.

"It’s just protocol," one man said, noting the discomfort on Riley’s face. He wore a mesh-backed hat with neon orange fish embroidered on the front panel. “No offense.”

"If you want, we can aim ‘em at your head." The other spat rancid chewing tobacco into a leafless bush. "But, heads don't heal."

The second man agreed with a dull, reminiscent smirk. "Heads don't heal."

Riley turned to glance at the second man's solemn face and empathically garnered a fraction of what it was the man ruminated over. His distant stare and disheartened scowl meant he was reliving a painful memory or trying his hardest to squash it.

To change the subject, Riley asked what their jobs were. "Like, officially. What is it you guys do around here?"

The first man took off his hat, wiped his brow, and placed it back on somewhat crooked. While he spoke, the trio moved through a once-abandoned rail yard, now rife with vitality and purpose. The community repatriated rail cars as cramped living spaces. A carefully fabricated roofing system carried the weight of standalone parlors and apartments. "Todd and I are local boys," the still-unnamed man stated with pride. "So we're, y’know, something of liaisons regarding the area."

Todd added, "We know every hill and creek for ten miles. Helped fortify The Yard pretty much day one."

Riley observed his surroundings while listening to their nostalgic lore. Street signs crafted out of scrap metal jutted from the gravel. Curious names like Old Digger Way and Nessa Was Right Road reflected the sun. He tuned back into Todd's diatribe.

"Being honest, though, we're just errand boys. Me and George do whatever's gotta be done."

George agreed with a confident wink. The unimpressive status didn't seem to bog them down, but appeared to fuel them instead. They had a purpose, and it appeared the people of Oak Barn relied on them to do whatever it was they did.

One of the first aspects of the town Riley paid attention to was how friendly everyone was. They nodded to him — a stranger — and said their greetings to Todd and George not out of obligation, but out of genuine respect. When they asked how they were, their gait slowed and their ears perked. This happened twice, which prolonged the short sojourn from Marisa's office to his new quarters.

During the second instance, the young woman and her daughter turned their attention to Riley.

"You're new," the mother said. Riley flashed a weak and awkward smile. "They haven't had you work yet, huh? Take it from me, kid. Cherish the rest of today. You'll be sleeping in a warm bed with a hand-knit quilt with a belly full of good food before long. Then," she raised her brows as high as they could reach. His companions, George and Todd, exchanged the same expectant look. "You'll be right back out there digging through shit, facing down ghosts and stuffing noses into your pockets."

"Leave the poor kid alone, Heather," George said through his teeth. "He's still shell-shocked from when Darren and the bunch found him."

"I'm just saying," she continued with a coy shrug. "He gets one free day. A handful of hours where he don't have to worry about nothing. You were given some peace," Heather said while maintaining a flouncy nod. Her daughter, who had darker skin and darker hair than her mother, stared at the space between her pink-and-white sneakers. "Which is the rarest commodity these days. You do right by us, hey, and there'll be more where that came from. Boys." She detached from the three and forced her daughter into a heel.

Once Heather was out of earshot, Riley opened his mouth to speak, but Todd was already answering his question. "Her man got himself killed a few months ago."

"Oh," Riley eventually vocalized. “Damn.”

George tacked on, "She's an alright girl. We're giving her some space to air out whatever hate she's got left in her heart. See that little bungalow? Up there, second story?" He nodded to a spacious, expertly carpentered home complete with two, wide windows and an A-frame roof. "You got some roommates waiting for you."

Todd said, "The car it's built on is our community thrift. Any shit you find on runs that could be useful, haul it there. We're always looking for shoes — especially kids’ shoes. Did you see Heather's daughter?" He spat more brown sludge to the ground.

"She's already outgrown that pink pair you found." George frowned. "Hard as shit to have children these days."

"Yep. Anyway, uh — yeah, there's a staircase around back. It'll lead you up. They'll take care of you there."

Riley blinked. "I can just... Walk in?" The two nodded in unison. "They won't shoot me or anything, right?"

"Son, you're in The Yard." Todd stated. "You know what that means? It means Marisa thinks you're a good guy, regardless of the whole ‘thirty-six’ business."

Riley's mouth fell open, and he stammered for a second before attempting to say, "How did you...? Listen, I-I found—"

"It don't matter to me." Todd shook his head. "We can't spend any amount of time in the past. Not anymore."

George curled his lips into a puffy smile. "There's just now and the future, bud." He pivoted the barrel of his rifle to the carved path ahead to help guide the newcomer to his destination. A young passerby exaggerated a funny face and raised his hands in mock surrender. Everyone but Riley chuckled.