For The Price Of A Locket

It was a bright sunny day – there was no doubt about that. Not that anyone noticed or even cared to notice. Why would they when they were more concerned with surviving until their next meal and fighting like mad, often with nothing more than a splintered stick, for a spot to protect them as they catch a couple of hours of sleep? One day, people may come to realize that if a person is asleep, to let them sleep. Loot and inconvenience them yes, but not murder them, then carry on their merry way. Maybe one day they'll realize that sleep without fearing murder would greatly benefit even this country, where the criminally minded and the perverted outnumber the noble and good by a thousand to one.

On one of the ruined streets in a once glorious country, walked an imposing figure of a man. Tall, but not towering, the deep tan blazed into his flesh by the sun. Broad, but not impressively so. Well built, but the muscles were toned like a swimmer's. A half dozen cuts, bruises, burns, and scars stood out on his exposed upper body. His dress was a pair of pants patch-worked together by denim and leather and held up by a belt of rough rope. His feet were clad in crude sandals. The hair from the chest below was scruffy, dirty, and dark.

These adjectives could be used to describe all the other men also walking up and down the street. But what made people stare at this man were three things. The first: the hair on his young face, neck, and head was fairly well-groomed. Most let their beards and hair run long. The second: he carried two knives in his belt, and most strangely of all, a polished black pistol; weapons that outclassed most criminals of the day. But the third, and the strangest of all, was that he was smiling.

The man nodded and smiled at each man that walked by and to those that weren't deterred he stuck out his hand, smiled wider, and cried, “Good day!” and watched in amusement as they scampered off.

But he wasn't out here just for kicks. He had a goal in mind and was hopeful it would soon be accomplished.

He soon arrived at the base of the remains of a skyscraper. Remains, even though the first ten and a half floors were intact. Those that saw the man enter and who could feel pity, pitied that sinful man.

Without pausing, the man made his way across a cavernous room. The ceiling of the floors above him had been removed up to the fifth floor, leaving nothing but air fifty feet above his head. There was only one wall in the room, about a hundred fifty feet in, and it towered up to the ceiling and stretched to the outer walls. A single door admitted passage to the other side. In front of this door was one person sitting at a desk. Otherwise, the room was empty.

He arrived at the desk. A young woman commanded it. He carefully observed her profile as anyone could kill at a moment's notice. Unfortunately, he couldn't determine if she would kill based on her appearance. What he did determine by way of her outfit, wiped the smile away from his face. Yes, even in this rough world where every single living and non-living thing was valuable, humans were still trafficked.

Not that I can do anything about it, he thought.

The woman hadn't looked up yet, preoccupied with a piece of paper she was reading. He cleared his throat. Startled, she looked up. “What are you here for, sir?”

“That's between me and your boss,” he replied.

“Do you have a name?”

“Jason.”

She folded up the paper, “Empty your pockets.”

Jason hesitated then reached into his pocket. Slowly, he pulled out a gold, heart-shaped locket on a silver chain. He held it out to her.

She reached out her hand. “I need to inspect it.”

Jason reached out and let the chain slip through his fingers until the whole thing landed in her palm with a soft clink. “Careful,” he said. She opened up the locket. Nothing inside. She snapped the locket shut and handed it back. Jason took it back and replaced it into his pocket.

“That's all that I have. Let me in,” he told her. He erased all signs of frivolity off his face and replaced it with grimness.

Taking the hint, she nodded and tucked the paper into her waistband. As she swiftly and softly walked to the door, Jason noticed that her feet were bare. She knocked loudly on the door in an obvious code. A moment later, a large burly man opened it, his frame filling the doorway. The woman pointed to Jason, “He is here to see Al.”

The doorkeeper nodded and moved out of the way. Jason walked, smiling, through the opening. He entered a cramped room painted pitch black. Once the door had closed, it was completely dark except for one burning candle. Suddenly, another door opened directly in front of him, pouring light into the tiny room.

As he entered the next room, the door behind him closed. This time the thudding of a lock followed. Jason stopped, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the brightness.

This room was much more conventional than the previous two. It was a large rectangle, about ten by twelve feet. The ceiling was only ten feet high. The right and left walls had six windowless doors each, and all but the third on the right closed. At the very end was a single door.

This was the part that he hated most. As soon as he walked in, he could hear it. The sounds of humans forced to prostitute themselves. Even the drug lords, who still thrived, would blush and be ashamed if they ever found one of their number running such a place. Likewise, they'd kill you if you accused them of such.

Jason walked as fast as he dared to the end of the room, trying to not let righteous anger boil over. He knocked on the closed door and was quickly admitted inside. The room was empty of people, except the doorkeeper. This room was large, luxurious, and rather gaudy. Normally the room would be full of sad young people forced to exchange themselves for money. Jason was glad the room was empty. He'd stay calmer.

He placed himself in the middle of the room and let out a short loud whistle. A moment later part of the wall in front and slightly above him swung out to create a window-like opening. Behind the opening stood a short, bald man, dressed to the nines. “About time. Come on up!” The bald man said. The wall closed again.

A door swung out at the base of the wall, and Jason entered. The wall shut. With the grinding of gears and the groaning of pulleys, the large box that Jason stood in rose. Moments later the noise stopped, and the door opened.

Jason stepped into a richly furnished and brightly lit room. The door behind him closed and the now faint noise started again as the mechanism lowered the box back down. Unlike the rest of the building, the lamps here were electric. Jason sat down in one of the cushioned chairs and lazily kicked his feet up onto the oak desk. The man sitting in the opposite chair did the same, lighting a cigar as he did so. He looked at the gun Jason carried, “I see you were successful.”

Jason unholstered the gun and threw it onto the desk. “As always. If I may ask, why did I travel a thousand miles to get this?”

“For posterity, of course!” Al replied as he grabbed the gun. “Every bit of history from before 2097 helps myself and others to better...reconstruct the way life was.”

“Cut the bull,” Jason said. “You and the other faction chiefs want to rule this chaotic wasteland.”

“Someone needs to.”

Jason grinned tiredly. He reached into his pocket, and pulled out the golden locket, and threw it on the desk. He grinned as Al dropped the gun on the desk and snatched it up. The item was made of gold and silver – extremely rare and valuable. Jason stood up and leaned over the desk. “This should more than cover the cost of our arrangement. I'm ready to leave.”

Al looked up at Jason and pointed the gun at him. “Why should I let you leave? You're more valuable to me here.”

“Because you promised me.”

“Promises don't mean a thing today. You're staying.”

“Even a killer has honor these days.”

“I'm no killer. I'm a businessman.”

“Keep your contract.”

“No.”

At that, Al cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. Click. Jason grinned. “You asked for the gun, not the bullets.”

Al stood up and took a sudden swing at Jason. Jason dodged it contemptuously and yanked the gun out of Al's hand in one swift motion. Al jumped onto the desk and dove at Jason. Jason easily brushed him off. Quickly, Al was back on his feet. In one swift movement, Jason whipped out a knife, slashed it across Al's chest, and put it back again. Al fell to the ground, clutching his chest.

With a sigh of relief, Jason reached into a hidden pocket, pulled out a gun clip, and slammed it into the gun. He cocked it, aimed it at the floor, and pulled the trigger. The thundering of the shot startled Al. Jason cocked it again and aimed at Al. “Keep your contract.”

….

The people in that ruined town saw an amazing sight that morning. An enormous, red hot-air balloon lifted off a rooftop and sailed away to the west. Soon, however, they went about their business again.

Inside the balloon's gondola, Jason sat down and groaned in relief. He finally did it. He looked at one box. Inside was a large assortment of fruit and vegetable seeds. Another had fuel for making fires. Yet another box held soil and another, food and water. Others held elements of precious metals such as iron and copper. More boxes still held farm and mining tools. There were crates of stone and wood. But most precious of all were the three boxes of books. Books on farming, survival, economics, fighting, welding, forging iron, mechanics, engineering, history, art, philosophy, religion, and most importantly, various commentaries on those subjects. He had only a fool's hope of finding a little uninhabited island where he could master these subjects. He'd work on molding weapons and tools and anything else that would help him on his return.

He reached for the locket but remembered that the locket was now in the hands of a lowlife. That was the biggest sacrifice he had to make. But fortunately for him, he had many fond memories of his wife and didn't need that locket to remember her. Besides, she would've told him to sacrifice it. She was the only person he'd ever shed tears for. Her death, he had long promised himself, wouldn't be in vain.

Hours later, he peaked out over the top of the gondola, the setting sun lighting up his face. As he had correctly guessed, the wind had carried him to the western coast of what was once called North America. A moment later he was over the bay of the now-ruined city of San Francisco. It might take him days or weeks, but he'd find that quiet spot and with the proper amount of time, he'd return and would try to start turning things around.