A Good Way

He had died poorly, whoever it was. Not that there was a good way to die. Dead was dead, after all, and no matter the cause the result was always the same.

Talbot had come across the body by accident. It was dark, for one thing, and Talbot and Pritchard had wandered into the open air pit with nothing but weak halogen torches. With the ravagers patrolling the area, they had not wanted to risk a greater light that might draw their attention.

The second problem was the gas masks they both wore were bulky as hell. They offered reasonable protection for all but the worst acid rain storms, but you couldn’t see for shit most of the time. Talbot’s, in particular, was bad, with the double thick lenses scratched and pitted from years of use and abuse.

One second Talbot was carefully picking his way through the dark and uneven path, and the next he was sprawled out flat on his face, the rotting corpse tangled at his feet. Talbot’s pack had hit him in the back of the head, nearly knocking his mask off. After quickly inspecting the fit of his mask - this far south, it was common to find deadly pockets of poison air which could kill you in seconds - he scooted back away from the body and crouched next to Pritchard.

“What the hell happened to him?” Pritchard whispered beside him. His voice was muffled under the confines of the mask, but Talbot could hear him well enough.

“Nothing good,” Talbot said in response.

Under the muted light, they studied the body. Given the overall size, it was clearly a man. The flesh hung off the bones like rags. Impossible to tell how long he had been there. Time and the caustic rain would have similar effects. He could have been here for two weeks. Or two months. Not much longer than that, certainly. He would be nothing but bones, otherwise.

The cause of death was plainly obvious. The skull, revealed here and there among the decomposing flesh, was caved in from multiple impacts. He was wearing dark clothing, black shirt, black pants. No shoes. Talbot thought they might have been taken, stripped from the body after death. Or perhaps before.

He was laying on his back, arms out to his sides, his nearly fleshless hands bawled into fists. A flash of a gold chain hung from his fingers on his right hand.

Pritchard noticed it too. He tugged at the chain but it was held firmly in the dead man’s hand. A final death grip, hard, unyielding.

Talbot looked up. Partly to make sure they weren’t being watched. Ravagers were brutal, but not exactly stupid. Not all of them, anyway. Advance scouts were sometimes sent out to find easy prey. They’d return to the larger hive where an attack party would be assembled. He didn’t see anything past the rim of the pit and got the sense that he and Pritchard were still alone.

The decline into the pit was steep. Talbot and Pritchard, both relatively young men, had to pick their way down carefully to avoid falling. For a second, Talbot wondered if the dead guy had simply fallen down the pit. Maybe it had been dark and he came upon it suddenly. Maybe he died from the long fall down the hill. But, no, that didn’t track. His head wouldn’t be stoved in like this from an accident. More likely, he had been attacked, beaten to death for what he had. Boots, maybe a functioning gas mask, maybe food.

A crunch drew Talbot’s attention back to the body. Pritchard had succeeded in wrenching the gold chain free by breaking the dead man’s fingers. He held up his prize. It was a gold chain, a necklace, and at the end was a locket. It was gold as well, matching the chain, and was some kind of leaf design. It had been a few years since Talbot had seen a leaf, outside of a picture book. It twisted and turned slightly in Pritchard’s grasp, and Talbot could see writing on the back.

He motioned for the jewelry and Pritchard handed it over. Pritchard returned to searching the body as Talbot inspected the item. Holding it close to the lens of his gas mask, he tried to make out the writing. The words were faint, worn down over time, friction, or exposure to the elements. Talbot thought he could make out the word love, but that could have just been his imagination. Turning it back around, he tried to work it open. Talbot was wearing thick leather gloves and he struggled with the locking mechanism. Eventually, it yielded with a snick, and it split open in the middle.

There were two pictures, one on either side. On the left was an image of a young boy. Fair haired and pale skinned, he was smiling. Talbot put him at about seven years old. On the right side was a picture of a woman. Close to Talbot’s age, she shared enough features of the boy that she was clearly his mother. She had an easy relaxed smile, no cares in the world, no concerns about the future, just loving whatever moment had been captured in time.

Talbot looked past the locket to the dead body. Who was he? The husband? Maybe the boy in the picture. The boy who had grown up in the blasted remains of the new world. His mother would be long dead by now, Talbot was certain of that. If it was the husband, or boyfriend, then where was the woman? Maybe she had been taken when the man had been attacked and killed. Talbot didn’t want to think about where she could be now. What horrors she was facing. Maybe she was dead. Hopefully.

“Do you think it’s worth anything?” Pritchard asked beside him. He had finished with his search of the body. Unsurprisingly, he had found nothing else of value. Whoever had attacked the man, whoever had killed him, had already grabbed everything. Except, of course, for the locket. They must have missed it. The man had had a death’s grip on it, only revealed when enough flesh had rotted away so that the chain slipped away.

Talbot held it up again in front of his eyes. “Maybe,” he said, somewhat reluctantly. Gold meant little these days. Food was more important. Or shelter. Or even clothing. What use was money when you were starving to death? Or choking on toxic air?

Even so, he handed the locket back to Pritchard and they picked up their packs. They had lingered in the pit for too long and Talbot felt exposed and in danger. The presence of the dead body did little to alleviate his fears.

They began their slow ascent up the side of the pit, away from the body, and opposite from the way they had entered. As they climbed, Talbot kept his ears open, aware of any sound, any movement. He heard nothing. By the time they reached the top, they were both out of breath, gasping under the claustrophobic confines of their gas masks.

“Let’s go,” Pritchard said, after they had rested a short spell. He made to leave, but Talbot stayed where he was. He was looking over the horizon, past the depression of the pit. The distant lights of roving teams of ravagers could be seen patrolling. Noticing that Talbot hadn’t moved, Pritchard came back, putting a hand on his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Swearing to himself, Talbot asked for the locket. Pritchard handed it over. Talbot couldn’t see his face but he could imagine his questioning glance. Taking his knife out of his pack, Talbot opened the locket, and carefully removed both pictures. He handed the jewelry back to Pritchard and without a word started back down the pit. He slid along, careful not to fall, and eventually returned to the body.

He dug a small hole next to the right side of the man, and laid the pictures carefully down. He covered it with dirt and stepped back. For a moment, Talbot considered his actions. It seemed pointless, in reflection, and he wondered what had come over him.

After lingering another moment, he readjusted his pack, and took a final look around. He spared a final glance at the man of the pit and then began his climb back up to Pritchard. He was careful not to slip or fall, and he didn’t look back.