The Conflict

“Look like we got somethin’ o’er yonder!” Bobby yells excitedly, pointing toward a patch of sickly bush just beyond our territory. As he nears the unsteady wooden fence that comprises our northern border, I squint my eyes and can barely distinguish a patch of blue among the browning bushes – denim jeans, perhaps, or a faded blue sweatshirt.

“That’s beyond our turf,” I caution Bobby. “Boss doesn’t want us beyond our turf.”

“I don’t give a dang,” Bobby retorts with a huff as he climbs clumsily over the border. I lift a loose wooden board on the fence and crawl underneath. Settled on the other side, Bobby continues, “Boss’ll be awful proud of us bringin’ in a haul. Won’t pay no never mind where it came from neither I bet, desp’rate as we all is.” Bobby approaches the bush as I scan the foreground intently, steadying my eyes for any shadow where there shouldn’t be, any wisp of dust from the dead ground, wary of any indication of a nearing predator. “HA!” Bobby shrieks, startling my nerves and breaking my focus. “Hey Jack, come take a look’a here!” He yells to me gleefully. I curse his raucousness under my breath as I approach the border.

“You’re gonna get us killed, Bobby,” I say as I cautiously enter the thicket. “This is Rippers’ territory, you know. They catch us out here, and they’ll put our heads—”

“Look’a what we got here, Jack,” Bobby interrupts, his head pointed towards the ground just beyond where he stands. I approach him and look down upon what was once a faint blue patch. A large denim jacket, propped up with a stick, giving little shade to the human body laying behind it.

“Looks to be an adult male,” I say. The man lays on his side, curled up in a fetal position, dirt-covered, and bare-skinned save for a pair of tattered corduroy pants. His hands are cupped and covering his entire face.

“Sun done got ‘im, ol’ boy is cooked,” Bobby says, laughing. I ignore him and continue my assessment.

“Middle-aged I’d guess, based on the graying in his hair.” I kneel and place my hand on the man’s bare side. “He’s breathing – for now, at least.”

“Oh, so we got a live ‘un, huh?” Bobby asks as he kneels beside me. “He ain’t no Ripper, is he?”

“Can’t be, he’s too small. Not one of ours, though. I suppose he could be a wanderer, but what would a wanderer be doing so far from the valley?”

“Just wand’rin’ I reckon. That’s all they known for, ain’t it?”

“Sure, but all alone? In Ripper territory? Something’s not right about that.” I stand up and look around, searching for anything that could help make sense of the scene before me.

“Well, he alive, ain’t he?” Bobby asks as he reaches for a stick near the curled-up man’s feet. “Let’s jus’ ask ‘im why he out here.” Bobby prods the man’s leg forcefully with the stick. “Hey you,” Bobby says, “whatchu doin’ out here all alone an’ such?”

“Lower your voice, Bobby,” I caution. “We don’t want to attract any attention. Especially not any Rippers.”

“Aw, to heck with them Rippers! What we care ‘bout some ol’ dang inbreds for an’way?”

“They’re not inbred,” I correct him, “they’re mutants. Radioactive ones. Strong ones.” I usually wouldn’t care to correct Bobby in his misinterpretations of our new reality, but I need him to fully realize the threat that even a single Ripper would pose to our existence. “Rippers are superhuman,” I continue, “they’re vicious things that only know to kill and eat. We don’t want to cross one, I promise you.”

“C’mon feller,” Bobby continues at the curled-up man, though in a much lower voice. “We jus’ tryin’a help is all.” Bobby leans in close to the man, his head tilted as if he’s listening for something. “Sound like he jus’ a mumblin’ on,” Bobby says, dropping the stick. “How ‘bout we move them hands outta way, poor feller.”

“Bobby, maybe we shouldn't—”

I pause, as Bobby pulls the man’s hands from his face. Curious, I kneel close to the man to get a better look.

“He seems younger than I thought,” I say, commenting on his wiry moustache and hairless chin. Nearly laying on the ground, I take in the entirely of his face. His eyes are shut so tight that his eyelids wrinkle. Streaks of white salt paint his tanned and dirty face, from his eyes across his cheeks and to the tip of his nose – has he been crying?

“So, what we gon’ do with this ‘un?” Bobby asks, poking at the man’s hands. “Reckon we can’t eat ‘im, he’s all skin an’ bones!”

“We can’t eat him because we don’t eat people, Bobby.”

“Not yet, we don’t. If human meat’s good ‘nough to keep some wand’rs in the valley yonder alive, it’s good ‘nough for me.” Bobby moves toward the man’s legs and shoves a hand in his pocket. “I suppose we can job ‘im out.”

“No, he seems awfully weak. I can’t imagine he’s strong enough to make it back to camp with us, let alone do any of our—hold on.” I notice the man’s mouth open partly. Is he trying to speak? I listen closely as faint sounds escape his trembling lips, as if he means to say something but is caught mid-syllable. “Mister?” I say, leaning nearer. “Excuse me, mister? Do you know where—”

“Woowee!” Bobby interrupts excitedly. I pop my head up, ready to curse him profusely, when I notice the gleam of something he is holding between his fingers. “Look’a what I got here!” Bobby hands me a heart-shaped locket, its front adorned with floral engraving and a blood-red gemstone. I turn the locket over in my hand, once and again, in awe at Bobby’s find.

“That’ar gotta be real gold, right?” Bobby asks.

“Looks to be. And a ruby, perhaps.” I put the locket in my palm and hold it up, watching it glisten as sunshine bounces off it. “This is a big find, Bobby.”

“Boy, don’t I know it! We don’ got us a haul, baby, we gon’ be made!”

“It’ll get us a bigger tent for sure, close to the river even, and food for a month, at least. Bobby, this could be our ticket out of scavenging! Give Boss a find like this, she’ll make us guards on the spot.”

“Well dang, lemme see what else this poor fool got hidin’ on ‘im.” As Bobby pats down the man’s pant legs, I turn the locket over in my hand yet again, this time noticing a rigid crease on its side.

“Bobby, I think it opens.”

“Can’t be much’a nothin’ in it, can there?” Bobby asks as I wedge my fingernail in the crease, cranking the locket open. “Tell ya’ what,” Bobby continues, “how’s about you take Boss that’ar half with the ruby, and I’ll take the rest o’er to . . .

I stop listening, and my gut wrenches as I take in the contents of the locket. On the right, laser-etched onto the locket, is a portrait of a young woman with a strikingly familiar face. On the left is a text engraving, in English, that reads:

My dearest Martha

Till I find you again

may your essence

ward off

my final breath

“Hey, uh, Bobby?” I say, my voice low and cracked. “You should . . . here.” I hand the open locket to Bobby, and watch the excitement leave his face as he catches sight of the portrait and its accompanying message.

We sit in uneasy seconds of silence. I want to say something, know that we can’t just sit here, but the impact of our discovery keeps me mute and motionless.

“Dang,” Bobby says, breaking the silence, “So this here’s her feller, huh? Welp, can’t do nothin’ with this now.” He throws the locket to the ground.

“Maybe we can get him back to camp,” I say.

“No chance, you don’ said it yourself, poor feller ain’t good to make it but a hundr’d feet even. And dang it if we gon’ haul ‘im all that way ourselves.” Thick silence settles back on us for more agonizing seconds, before Bobby speaks again. “Maybe if we ‘member our tracks an’ all, we come back tomorrow with a cart, or a coupl’a extra hands.”

“Cart’s not a bad idea, but I can’t imagine he makes it through the night. Not out here in Ripper territory, with no cover.”

“Well, maybe we put ‘im o’er on our land, under a tree or somethin’. Rippers ain’t gonna break border for a li’l skin an’ bones, you think?”

“Rippers would do more for less, I fear. But it’s worth a shot. Not like we have any better options.” I stand up and step over the man, grabbing him under his arm and around his chest. Bobby grabs his legs, and he lays limp in our arms as we carry him over to the border. Bobby climbs over first, and I lift the loose board as Bobby drags the man under by his arms. We stow him on his side beneath a dying White Pine tree nearby. “Almost forgot,” I say as I double back for the man’s jacket – and the locket. I drape the jacket over the man’s upper body. I give the locket one final glance-over, then dust it off the best I could, close it, and place it in the jacket’s breast pocket.

“Should we leave ‘im a scrap or somethin’?” Before I can respond, Bobby kneels beside me, holding a folded cheesecloth and a scuffed plastic bottle full of river water. “Here’s a li’l somethin’, feller,” he says, placing the scraps and water near the man’s head. “Ain’t much, but it might could getchu through the night at least.” Bobby and I stand over the man, apparently sharing in the same reluctance to leave.

“Well, we should—” I stop, as the man’s lips begin to tremble again. Some noise escapes his mouth just as before, but this time more pronounced, more determined. “Are you trying to say something?” I ask as I kneel again and lean in close to the man.

“Th—th—thank y—y—y . . .” The man exhaustedly lets out.

“Don’t worry about it,” I tell him. “Try to eat and get some rest. We’ll come back for you.”

I stand back up, and after a few more seconds of bleak observance, Bobby and I begin our trek back to camp. “What he say?” Bobby asks.

“Just giving thanks,” I say. “Thanked us too soon, perhaps. I don’t think he has any better chance of getting through the night than if we left him.”

“We did what we could’a, at least.”

“I guess you’re right, Bobby.”

“Reckon I am.”

We walk on and on, silently save for occasional grunts and coughs. After some time, Bobby asks, “Say, Jack, that’ar lady in the locket back there . . . s’pose that’ar warn’t Boss in that locket? I mean, we ain’t really got no clue how she done changed since b’fore the bombs?”

“I suppose we don’t,” I say lowly, “but I saw your face when you looked at the locket. You saw what I saw. That’s as much confirmation as we’re getting without getting Boss involved.”

“You mean you ain’t wantin’a tell her about it?”

“I . . . I don’t know. What do you think?”

“Well, I don’t rightly know neither . . . but I reckon it ain’t worth our hide worryin’ Boss if there ain’t gonna be nothin’ to tell by tomorrow . . . she ain’t missin’ what she don’t know she lost.”

“That’s a good thought,” I say, patting Bobby on his shoulder. As we walk on, side by side, I can’t help but to quietly reflect on that poor man’s message to his dearest Martha.