I found a backpack in the trailer. I put the container of water inside, as well as the rest of the granola – twenty four bars total. I could eat three a day, which gave me rations for eight days. Eight days to find a new home, or more food – though my caloric intake would be pitiful. I also packed some blankets. I could not count on finding shelter, and needed enough to shield me from the nighttime cold.
Finally, on the morning of the third day after arriving at the trailer, I set off, kissing the loose earth atop Khloe’s grave. I marked it, with rocks arranged in the shape of a heart.
I headed toward the sun, rising in the east.
Chapter 11
I knew of several settlements not far from 108 – Oasis, Last Town, and even L.A.. But L.A. was consumed with gang violence, so it wasn't an option.
My goal was to find one of the smaller settlements and try to get taken in. The only problem was, I had no idea where any of them were.
The morning warmed quickly, but it must have never gotten above fifty degrees. The wind was calm, which I was thankful for. It would be October soon, and I would need warmer clothes.
I didn't have much to my name: my pack, filled with granola and water; my blanket, rolled up and tied with some nylon rope, and the clothes on my back. I didn't even have a weapon. I had forgotten the handgun back in the tunnel – it had been out of ammo, anyway, but it still could have come in handy.
I left behind the line of red mountains where Bunker 108 was hidden. I crested a hill and turned back to see the metal trailer, glimmering in the red midmorning haze. I could see a small spot of turned earth, where Khloe lay. I looked out, north and east, surveying several ramshackle buildings spread over the vast tract of desert and dunes, long conquered by the victorious elements. A crumbled highway, half buried in sand, cut through the twisted landscape, maybe two klicks out. The red sky spread upward like something out of a nightmare. The day was relatively clear, yet still, the meteor fallout reduced the sun to a slightly brighter shimmer on a small part of the sky.
Nothing moved or breathed, save myself.
I walked on. I did not speak a word. In fact, I felt like I would never have reason to speak again.
I don’t remember that first week much. All the days blended and I cared for nothing, not even myself. I could only mourn my past life and everything I’d lost, and wonder if there was any point in going on.
At nights, I would hole up in some building that offered the least bit of protection. I would eat my stale granola, drink my water, and curl up in a corner with my blanket and shiver myself to sleep. I cried the first two nights. I had nightmares of Khloe rising from the grave.
I felt hungry and thirsty constantly. When I came across pools of water I would drink from them and refill my container. It was not cold enough to freeze except in the dead of night. I had expected to find food in the buildings. But every cabinet was bare. The Wastelanders had had thirty years to take everything.
I came across ruins often. But I had yet to come across any city, lived in or not.
On the third day, I arrived at a deep gully spanned by a collapsed bridge. I almost fell to my death while picking my path across it.
The Mojave Desert, even in the Old World, had been a dry, harsh place – scant of vegetation and hostile to life. Now, it was even more so. I did not see a single living thing other than the odd bush or barest wisps of grass. Red dunes slanted against the skeleton remains of civilization.
The mountains to the south were almost out of sight, now. They had once been my home.
There were mountains everywhere in the distance - to the south, to the east, to the west. Some areas I walked were flat and bare - others were hilly and mangled. I had no idea where I was going, so I followed the path of least resistance, which often meant following the old roads. In places, the asphalt and concrete still showed.
It was startling how much could be buried and lost in thirty years.
Often, when I camped for the night in a building, I would see a black spot on the floor from previous campfires. I would try to find another place in those cases.
It was a week after I had set out when I came across my first Wastelanders. I was camping in a small hole on the side of a bare, rocky hill, when I heard the laughter. At first, I thought it was my imagination and loneliness. Curiosity made me follow the sound.
As the voices grew louder, I noticed the smell of smoke borne by the wind. Mingled within was a savory aroma that made my stomach growl.
I climbed up the top of a rise, and laid low. Below, in a small depression, six people surrounded a low fire. A giant pot simmered over the flames. My heart raced.
There were five men and one woman, all dressed in dingy military apparel. They were too far to see clearly. All had weapons, mostly rifles, but the woman was armed with a pistol.
Any thought of approaching them was dashed from my mind. Their faces were so hardened they looked more like monsters than humans.
I guessed that these were raiders, the worst kind of Wastelanders, who robbed, stole, and murdered for a living. If I went up to them, they would kill me, or at best take me prisoner.
I would have snuck away, but for one reason: I was low on food, and I needed something to eat. If I waited for them to fall asleep, I could sneak into their camp and take some supplies.
It was desperate, but I saw no other choice. I hadn’t found any supplies in my few days out in the Wastes. It was death either way.
For now, they were eating. Each ladled stew into their bowls. While they ate, there was joking and laughing. But somewhere, the conversation took a turn for the worse. The raiders started arguing. One man threw his bowl on the ground in anger. Seeing that stew spill was torture.
The argument seemed to be about the woman. She had stopped looking bored and started looking attentive.
Then, a brawl started between two of the men. One of them raised a gun.
Another gun went off, shattering the silent night. A man with a blond crew cut had shot dead the man who had drawn the gun.
The man who was shot fell to his knees, then to the ground. Blood pooled by the light of the fire. The man twitched, and everyone watched. Then, he was still.
The three remaining men started stripping the dead man's body of clothing, jewelry, and useful things he had been carrying. The blond man took the dead man's rifle. No one argued. He was probably in charge.
The dead man, with only his clothes left, was hauled into the night by the men. The woman sat by the fire, watching. The men tossed their fallen comrade into the darkness like unwanted garbage.
After that, everyone was quiet. The blond man walked to the woman, and whispered something. She turned her face away. He left her to go back to his spot.
Everyone curled up for sleep.
I waited for at least an hour. When they all seemed good and asleep, I decided that now was my chance. I crept forward, toward the fire.
As I neared, I knew I would now be clearly visible to them. Just one look, and I was dead.
But if I did not eat, I was equally dead. I needed food and I needed a weapon.
I did not dare take any food from the pot, however much I wanted to. That risked too much noise.
All were sleeping, their backs to the flame. So far, so good.
I decided to find something immediately and take it away. Any of them could wake up at any moment.
My eyes set upon a hefty backpack sitting next to the man with the blond crew cut. I nearly jumped out of my skin when he rolled over to face me. Thankfully, his eyes stayed shut. His face had a long, deep scar, running diagonally from the top of his right eye to the left corner of his mouth, right across his pockmarked nose.
After a moment, I reached for the pack. I lifted it slowly, so it would not disturb the stones beneath it. But two of the stones clacked ever so slightly against each other. I winced. The sound must have been a lot louder in my head than in reality. Nothing happened.
