The attic has a low ceiling, cracked flooring, and five mattresses spread out on the floor, three have quilted coverings while the other two are bare.
“Here,” she says, as she thrusts the rags – remnants of clothing, as it turns out - into my hands. “You can change up here while I get some tea going.” She heads back down the stairs, leaving me alone in the dusty space.
I take off my top and wring it dry, intending to put it back on later. Then I notice my glove has a nasty tear down the center of the palm. I remove it and stuff it into the pocket of my discarded pants. The material of the rags feels like sackcloth: rough and itchy. I pull the shirt over my head, don the pants, and take down my ponytail using my fingers as a comb to brush through the knots, removing debris as I go. I decide to leave my hair down so it can dry, then head back down stairs.
Quin is wearing the same type of clothing as I am, and looks just as uncomfortable. We are both instructed to take a seat at the table while Darla brings us cups of warm liquid that looks like tea, but upon first taste makes my stomach immediately hurt. She along with the other two women drags over the chairs that were sitting by the window and join us. I sip the drink sparingly and notice Quin is doing the same. The old woman seems to have remembered something, gets up, goes towards a cabinet above the sink next to the stove, and returns with a small plate filled with brown wafers. I take one and bite into it, almost chipping my tooth.
It’s difficult to choke the stuff down, but it’s clear, though, that these people are living on very little, so I thank them for the tea and biscuits, watching their faces light up in happiness.
“What is this place?” Quin asks, after having finished eating one of the biscuits.
“We live in a Bejaardes Camp, one mile north of the Factory Borough of Acheron,” Darla answers.
“What is a Bejaardes Camp?” I ask, setting down my teacup, not being able to swallow any more of the tepid, bitter liquid.
“It’s housing for the elders of the Boroughs,” the other woman responds in a whisper.
“Yes, where the High Ruler places us to die.” The anger in Darla’s voice is thick as she pounds the table, causing the cups to rattle.
“Now, dear, you just need to get used to it here. It’s not so bad.” The old woman gets up and opens the window to let some fresh air in.
“I don’t want to get used to it, Claire. You and Helen have been here too long; you have forgotten what life is like.”
“We didn’t have the same upbringing as you did, Darla. It’s not our fault you were banished to the Boroughs from the city all those years ago. This is where people our age live until it’s our time to pass.” Helen gets up from the table and climbs the stairs to the attic. Darla storms out of the house, leaving us with only Claire for company.
“You will have to forgive Darla; she’s only been with us for a month. She’s not used to the boredom and isolation.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how old is Darla?”
“I don’t mind at all, dear, but she might,” Claire answers with a smile on her face. “She must be approximately fifty or so, which is pretty old for the Boroughs, but young for the residents of this camp.” Claire pours herself a cup of tea. “Now, let me ask you two a question. Where did you come from?”
Quin tells her we stowed away on the cargo shuttle to escape the Wasteland and were washed up on the beach after it had exploded. She takes the tale in stride, but I can tell she isn’t completely buying it.
“Well, it sounds like you two have had one rough day. There is someone I would like you to meet, but first we need to eat. Young man, go outside and see Thomas. He will have you help him prepare the meat for roasting. Young lady, you come with me and we will go out into the garden for some vegetables.”
Before we leave the house, Claire gives us each a pair of handmade sandals to wear, just like the pair she has on. Once they’re on our feet, Quin goes to the house across the way, while Claire and I walk to the back of the camp and pick food from their garden for supper.
The meat is barely enough to feed four people, let alone the twenty that live in the camp. Quin and I are each given an extra helping of meat despite our protests, but each resident proudly gives up their portion. We all sit around the fire pit eating and telling stories. No one seems too afraid that Regulators will show up.
“They don’t bother with us,” Thomas says, putting another log on the fire. “We only see them once a month for our food rations. They don’t consider us much of a threat.” He begins to laugh, which causes the others to laugh too.
The sun has fully set and the temperature has dropped when everyone begins to wander back to their homes. Quin goes to stay the night with Thomas, while I take one of the empty mattresses in Claire’s house. Helen gives me her quilt to sleep with since she says she is warm, but I see her shake from the dampness that has settled in the attic. I’m about to give the blanket back to her when Claire lies down next to Helen, wrapping her blanket around the both of them. I don’t sleep well, but it’s not due to my surroundings. Helen’s quilt is soft and warm; the mattress is comfortable. The nightmares that keep coming leave me feeling unsettled and disturbed.
How I
