Scav

Scavs don’t live very long. I doubt I’ll be an exception. Every sundown I get to watch is one more than I expect. More than I deserve, perhaps, but I doubt that’s up to me. Sundown rakes the horizon in reds and purples. It should be at my back by now, but I barely have enough misc-scrap to trade for three days of food. If I want to eat, I have to scavenge. And, to find things that are worth the trade, I have to go farther and farther away from the sheet-metal defenses of Shanty. The ruins and bones of all types have been picked clean over the years since the sky fell and the earth burned; the time known as the Fall. Scavs like me are a dying breed- most of us struggle to find enough misc-scrap to trade for food, and it’s dangerous to go out into the violent sun of our blighted, dusty, world on an empty stomach.

I hike around old landmarks I picked clean months ago; quiet reminders that my hunt will only get longer with each outing. I tell myself that it’s worth it to stay out later and risk the dark if it means I’ll find enough to trade for more food- perhaps enough that I can afford to stay in the imagined safety of Shanty for an entire week. The idea is too comforting to hold on to. One foot plods in front of the other as I work around rocky dunes, looking for more signs of humanity’s former existence. I wipe the sweat off my brow to keep it from turning into mud when it mixes with the dust in the air; it almost distracts me from an unfamiliar silhouette I spot against the purple twilight. It’s only a few dunes away, not so far away that I’ve not worked it over before. Cautiously, I make my way to the top of the dune. My gratitude for the remaining light by which I can inspect my find is shadowed with somber recognition. It’s a body. Not a sun-bleached collection of old bones, but a new corpse, only days old. And it is the corpse of a woman I knew as Ren. Ren was a scav. She was older and fitter than I, a seasoned scav who had lived longer than anyone expected her to. Then again, our continued existence at all could be called a miracle- if anyone still believed in such things.

It might seem disrespectful that I have to cover my nose and mouth as I kneel next to Ren’s body; but she’d been out in the sun a while, and the smell was gagging. The sun or the heat must have finally struck her down; hunger and tenacity could only drive us so far. If propriety still existed, I would be harshly judged for pulling her pack off her back. If shame still existed, I may have felt it as I open her pack and rummage through her finds. I know, with no judgment or horror, that Ren would have done the same if it had been her to find my body in the dunes. My survival cannot be inconvenienced by her demise. There’s little of interest in her pack. She must have known, as she picked her way through the path I’d already harvested, that she trod over another scav’s trail, and she was unlikely to find anything that would help fill her belly. Still, there were a few pieces of misc-scrap that she had discovered from elsewhere in her ventures. There was a plastic bottle in the odd shape of a rounded hourglass. The cap was missing, and the label had long worn away. Still, not a bad find. Plastic was a rare commodity. There were a few pieces of scrap metal and bolts that had been taken from larger pieces of machinery- vehicles perhaps, or something from the blighted valley that had once been the location of a manufacturing plant. The valley was a dangerous place to hunt, but Ren was a veteran and- like all of us- had little to lose. I put her scrap into my pack and throw her empty sack over my shoulder. It would sell.

I turn her over, and cloudy eyes watch me without blame as I root through her pockets. She carries nothing in her pants pockets and I move up to her coat with no anticipation of finding anything, but I am wrong. There’s a small pocket sewn into the inside of her jacket. It looks like it was sewn on by an unpracticed hand- not a part of the original piece; perhaps stitched by the wearer herself. My bony fingers reach into the pocket and pull out a piece of shiny metal. Even in the dimming light of evening, with the sky no longer purple but a shade of blue that was threatening black, the little piece glows in my hand. I know what I’m looking at, even though I don’t recognize it from personal memory. I’m holding a metal heart, a golden locket. It was once part of a greater piece- a piece of jewelry that adorned the neck of a person that has long since passed away. The golden locket was old- too old to have even once belonged to Ren in the days before the Fall. From what I’ve seen before, it’s years- perhaps decades older than the Fall. It’s make is unlike anything I’ve held in my hands before, and it weighs down my palm with it’s incomprehensible value. This would fill my belly not for a week- but for weeks. I wouldn’t have to set foot in the blighted dunes for a month, at least. I strip Ren of one last thing- her jacket- before I pay her one last nod of respect. She will never know my gratitude.

I grip the locket tightly in my hand as I finally turn my back against the night and head back towards Shanty. Only as I make my way through the darkness, do questions flood my mind that had not occurred to me upon my initial discovery. Why, with such a miraculous find, did Ren venture out into the dunes on her final, fatal, hunt? And why, with such a treasure, had she chosen to keep it instead of trading it for food or comfort? Sentiment is unheard of in these times; traded away for days or hours of survival. She could not have found it on that day. No. Ren had found it before that last day- no telling how long ago. She had cleaned it, polished it carefully, and carried it with her. I hold up my hand and look at the heart-shaped symbol again, still glowing in the darkness- like what I remember stars looked like. Why did she keep you? Carrying you close to her heart? There are no answers to be found, and I don’t have the imagination to dream one up.

Shanty’s lights are dim, even against the backdrop of starless night. The one guard opens the gate when he recognizes me. Without realizing, I grip my mysterious prize in my hand more tightly and give him a brief nod as I pass by. I take my findings straight to Shanty’s most reputable trader- Urtha. Her resources are more vast than other traders, and her connections go higher. I’ve developed a solid accord with her over the years, and we deal fairly with each other. Whatever I bring back from the blighted lands, she trades with me for food and water. Her stall is always open; I’ve come to doubt that she has a need for sleep.

Urtha watches my approach with anticipation. Perhaps she can see what I’m trying so desperately to conceal in my fist; though, I cannot say why I still grip it so tightly. Is it because Ren kept it a secret that I have the urge to do the same? I am certain that I will not do as she did and sit on this ancient treasure, for a reason I have yet to understand.

“You’ve stayed out too late,” Urtha remarks. “The darkness isn’t sympathetic to your daring.”

“Not daring. Necessity.” I slide Ren’s pack off my shoulder and lay it on the rusty counter between us.

Urtha inspects the pack with her dark eyes. Then, with her darkly tanned fingers, she turns over the patchwork pack with a sigh. She recognizes it.

“Ren.”

“Found her in the dunes.”

Urtha nods and slides the pack to the side. “Half a ration.”

I nod in return, accepting the offer. I slide my pack off my back and unload its unimpressive contents onto the counter. Urtha recognizes Ren’s jacket as well and leans on the counter. She spreads her hands out on the countertop and takes stock of the plastic bottle, the bolts and metal, and the broken piece of wood I found that had once been part of a bedframe- as near as I could tell.

Urtha turns over each piece, marveling for a moment at the plastic bottle. I watch as she tallies the lot in her head.

“Five rations for the whole.”

I had expected four. She was a fair woman for such an unfair time. “Accept.”

She walks to the back of her stall and opens her makeshift chest, pulling out pre-wrapped rations. My belly growls just thinking about being able to eat tonight. She lays the five rations on the counter and places the misc-scrap to the side.

The locket burns in my hand, my trembling hand that begins to drip with sweat. I should lay it on the counter. I should hold it out to the white-haired trader and collect- what would doubtless be- the largest bounty I had ever (and would ever) collect. My hand will not open. My cramping fingers will not unfurl. My jaw clenches in sympathy with my fist and my head begins to ache for the conflict. Urtha reads it on my face.

“Something else?” Her dark eyes squint at me as I hover over the counter.

Through grit teeth, and without my consent, the words come forth, “No. Be well, Urtha.” With one hand and one fist, I scoop up the rations and make my way to my stall in the Commons.

Scavs and beggars live side-by-side in the Commons, in metal stalls- single rooms with four walls and a door. I’m one of the fortunate few to have a roof, and I carved a window in the door so I have a little bit of light and air. I set my rations aside and sit on my mattress, a self-made bundle of blankets and sand. I finally open my sweaty hand to wonder at the compelling power of the locket. It would not let me part with it. Somewhere between it’s discovery on Ren’s body and my arrival at Urtha’s stall, it had weaved a spell over me and I cannot- will not- be parted from it. Something once lost pulled at a part of me that had been forgotten for years; a part that I had given up for dead long ago. I can’t recall the sensation of tears, but my body suddenly remembers how to cry. I hold in my hand the power to survive, to stave off death for a little while longer and feel a slight bit of comfort in the doing. I play with the heart in my hands and discover the little latch. With great carefulness, I slide my thick, dirty thumbnail between the slight indentation that separates the two pieces and the latch catches with a click. I open the heart and read the message inside. It might be a name. It might be a wish, or a prayer. I do not know. But now I know why Ren kept it. She kept it to remind herself of things she’d never known. To dream that, perhaps, someone would know it again.