The Worst

It was the worst summer’s day she had ever experienced. Not because of the heat, although that was not helping the situation at all, and not because it was her 30th birthday - it was because her favourite t-shirt was ruined. With oil. That crap is impossible to clean.

She finished wiping the katana clean of oil – the one she found at a thrift store – and placed it back in its plastic sheath (it was, after all, from a thrift store.) She looked around, making sure there were no more of them around her. If you would have told her that Oil Monsters (or, as they call them – Greasers) would dominate the post-apocalyptic landscape, she would’ve drawn her cheap katana on you instead.

Carefully, she stepped over the Greaser – making sure to not step in its puddle of sickly sludge. Let’s be clear, they’re not human – nor were they ever human. It’s hard to explain, alright? Sara continued to curse the Greaser, blaming him entirely for the ruined t-shirt. If her father was alive, he would scold Sara for hours, possibly days, for ruining that shirt. It was his favourite band and a rare first print. She kind of missed him.

Looking around, she made sure no other surprise visitors would lurk out from the dark corners of the room. You know what’s weirder than a party store, with its brightly coloured costumes and garish decorations? A party store in a post-apocalyptic world. There is no weirder place.

A hospital? Kind of expected to be weird, even back in the “olden times”. A car dealership? The salespeople are worse than The Greasers. A gym? Okay, that’s also pretty weird.

The smell of helium canisters littered the air, piercing her senses with their metallic sharp tang. A sexy clown costume hung on the rack to her left, it had a picture of a model wearing the outfit – winking.

“Ali?”

No one responded. Sara called out again, her voice a little louder this time.

“Ali, stop messing around.”

A rustle at the back of the store gave him away. Sara walked towards it, her hand on the badly sewn hilt of her katana – ready for anything. She took a few tentative steps towards the rustling, aware that it could be Ali, or it could be something much worse.

“Ali, I’m warning you.”

Ali burst through from behind the clothing rack, his face animated in a boo expression. Sara jumped back; her katana half drawn. She stopped when Ali’s taunts began to percolate in the air.

“Got you!”

Ali was elated, Sara – not so much.

She let go of the hilt and rubbed her temples with both hands. She wished she was a worse person. She wished she could just leave him here and forget about him. But, against all odds, she felt protective of the kid.

Ali’s big brown eyes stared back at her, his hair in an absolute mess. He needed a wash, but so did she.

“Let’s go.”

Sara wasn’t asking, she was ordering. Ali, naïve and unaware of his surroundings, skipped back with her – staying close to her heels. He began to gently hum to himself, annoying the hell out of Sara in the process.

“Could you not?”

“But I love singing.”

“Ali, you’re the worst singer I’ve ever heard.”

Ali furrowed his brows.

“Well, you’re not much to listen to either.”

She heard footsteps.

“Ali, get down. Hide!”

They both dived behind the nearest counter – a section dedicated to birthday cards and celebrations. A giant gold balloon stared back at her with words tackily glittered on:

Thirty and Flirty!

Not now, her birthday would have to wait.

They held their breaths as they waited for the footsteps to pass by. Avoiding confrontation was her number one goal. You stay alive by hiding, not fighting.

The footsteps were heavy and deliberate. This was bad, there were still some mercenaries in the area. Unlike Greasers, they were great fighters; Sara would stand no chance.

“What’s going on?”

“Be quiet, Ali.”

Ali’s voice had dropped to a whimper. She had to remind herself that he was just a kid, to take it easy on him. She wondered if she’d ever have kids someday.

The footsteps stopped right outside the party store. Sara held her breath, forcing her heartbeat to slow down. She could feel her ears pump with blood. She held up a silent finger to Ali – thankfully he understood.

The footsteps entered the party store, just as careful and precise as before. Sara placed her hand on the hilt of her katana – praying that the footsteps would turn around and leave. A loud crash erupted nearby the mercenary.

“Crap!”

An entire shelf of plastic forks and swords came tumbling down, clunking and percolating around the store. Sara held her breath, but her mind reeled. The voice – it wasn’t what she expected.

“Ah, man.”

The voice, delicate and high pitched, startled her. Still, Sara held her ground – prepared for anything. She looked down to Ali to make sure he was still keeping quiet.

Ali wasn’t there.

She heard the mercenary say something. Sara couldn’t quite make it out, she was too busy scanning the room – wondering where the hell Ali had disappeared to.

“Not now, you little tyrant.” Sara muttered under her breath.

Her panicking heightened when she realised the mercenary was talking to someone. Slowly, the realisation hit her. Sara took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She would do anything for Ali, as much as she didn’t want to. She gripped the hilt of her katana.

Sara jumped out from behind the counter, ready to confront the mercenary. Her breath was slow and deliberate, her hands ready – just like she was taught. She paused when she saw the girl’s face.

“Who are you?” Sara demanded.

The girl - no older than sixteen - didn’t look at Sara, which was weird. Sara’s muscular build and tatty clothes gave her the appearance of someone you definitely didn’t want to run into outside in The Open. Sara’s blonde hair dangled in her dirty face, ratty and smelling worse than she had ever thought possible.

“Who are you?”

Sara repeated the question, not lowering her guard. The girl was bent down, stroking Ali’s furry tail.

“What a cute dog.”

Ali smiled, stupidly, as the girl stroked his back. Sara shot Ali a look, but he didn’t care.

“Answer the question.”

“I’m Jo.”

The girl’s voice was sweet and delicate, much to the contrast of their bizarre surroundings. Sara noticed she was wearing thick Doc Martens, which did not go well with her light green dress and red hair. She also wasn’t afraid of Sara – this was bad news.

“What do you want?”

Sara did her best to sound tough.

“I have never seen a dog in real life,” said Jo, “only in the films.”

Ali lay on his back, enjoying the belly rub, smiling like a moron.

“His name is Ali.”

Jo continued to stroke Ali, her voice playful and cooing.

“Hi Ali, I’m Jo.”

“Hi Jo,” Ali barked.

“What a good boy.”

There was something off about Jo. Her skin was pale and slightly translucent. Her hair, wild and lush, didn’t sway in the wind. Sara wondered if she existed in the same plain as her. She was just about to demand an answer from Jo, when she saw something right on the centre of Jo’s translucent forearm.

“Your arm,” said Sara, “where did you get that tattoo?”

“Oh this?”

Jo held her arm up so Sara could see it better. She had a black and grey tattoo of a heart-shaped locket on her arm. Jo shot Sara a knowing smile.

“You know what this is.”

Sara lowered her guard, her mind reeling and her body shaking. Her father told her stories about the people with the heart-shaped locket mark. He saw one right before he disappeared.