Insulin.

Sweat gathered on Sal’s upper lip. Not only was it a warm night, but Sal was afraid of the dark. Even knowing that most things in the woods at this hour were of no danger to them didn’t help. But, traveling by the light of the waning gibbous moon meant it was easier to avoid camps of roving marauders, and it was cooler by far – this part of the world was currently experiencing record breaking temperatures, and it was only going to get worse.

Their errand should be a simple one: make the two-day trek to the city and trade for as much insulin as possible. Despite the resourcefulness of the mutual aid collective Sal belonged to, they couldn’t create some life saving medicines. Pharmaceuticals were difficult to find and came at a high price, but, Sal wryly reflected, this wasn’t much different from the way it was before The Fall. In the before times, though, one was significantly less likely to be attacked on their way to the pharmacy.

It also wouldn’t have taken me four days to get there and back. Now, however, there were no cars or gasoline to run them, and the roads that were even still passable were heavily monitored – usually by the wrong sorts of people. The sorts of people Sal was currently trying to avoid.

A twig snapped with the decibel level of a gunshot several dozen paces to their right. Sal quickly squatted against the base of a tree, their breath competing with their thudding heart to see which would be the loudest and give them away first. Slowly, quietly, they patted first the large bushcraft knife at their belt and then the outline of the high-voltage taser in their pocket, taking comfort in its shape and heft. Minutes passed. Song Sparrows and Chickadees heralded the dawn starting to break through the sparse canopy overhead, a mix of deciduous and evergreens. Sal tucked the locket they wore inside their shirt so that it didn’t catch the light and act as a beacon.

Silver and inlaid with a golden triple spiral, they had found the heart-shaped locket wedged under a corner of worn carpet in a derelict FootLocker. Crouching in the corner, back unwisely to the door, Sal had wiped away some of the filth with their thumb, opened the locket, and laughed aloud. Their guffaw was startling in the tomb of the mall and dislodged a flock of pigeons from their perches above the old food court just outside. Even Sal was surprised by the sound – they’d had precious little to laugh about in the time since…well, since then. Inside the locket was a small photograph of a toad and on the back, in blue ballpoint ink it read “Love Alex”. Sal didn’t know what they had been expecting, but this wasn’t it and the delightful ridiculousness of it had caught them off guard.

Sal eventually developed a sentimental attachment to the locket, and it had even gotten them out of some grim places when they’d felt they could no longer go on. Somewhere in the world, such as it was, someone had gifted someone else a picture of a toad in an upmarket-style locket. Even now the silliness of it all made Sal smile. The unanswered questions and mysteries gave rise to story after story, one improbable explanation after the next, in Sal’s head. In a world that mostly lacked therapy and basic mental health services, Sal had held on to the locket’s promise of a small shred of humanity at its finest.

Huh, must have been nothing, Sal returned their thoughts to the present. They adjusted their pack and took a deep breath, time to find cover against the impending brutal heat. They had gone less than sixty paces when they heard voices. They couldn’t make out words, but the tones were unmistakable: one was taunting, the other pleading. Sal frowned, then sighed. This was not in the plan, but their conscience wouldn’t forgive them if they didn’t at least investigate.

Soundless as a mouse, Sal crept closer towards voices, keeping to the underbrush. Peeking through huckleberry branches, they quickly took in the scene: a single individual of indeterminate gender was lashed to an Alder tree on the far side of a clearing while a dozen men and women, most with weapons, prepared to leave on a patrol. The mix of camouflage and white and blue insignias told Sal that these were part of a local Jingoist marauder group.

Sal rolled their eyes. The Jingoists were as deadly as they were stupid, arrogant, and selfish. The mutual aid collective Sal belonged to had tried to positively engage with Jingoists multiple times in the past, only to end up regretting it. They were the kind of people who had refused to mask up during the plague years, they often picked fights, and were not genuinely interested in helping anyone but themselves. There was one positive thing about dealing with the Jingoists, though: their brand of masculinity often led them to make mistakes based on emotional and reactive bravado. Along with the capitalists, they were some of Sal’s least favorite people to deal with. But then there had always been those who would do everything they could to take advantage of others. Sal cynically believed that capitalism, selfishness, and greed would outlast anything else in this world. If The Fall hadn’t killed these evils off, Sal reckoned that nothing could.

Sal began fashioning a plan, but it was predicated on not getting caught by the patrol now exiting the clearing. They sunk down into the brush as deeply as they could, becoming one with the landscape. Whether it was that, or that the Jingoist marauders simply weren’t expecting such easy prey so nearby Sal didn’t know, but they passed just feet away. Sal lay still, listening. It was getting hotter as they laid in the underbrush and a bug was crawling in their pants. Or was that sweat trickling down the back of their knee? Gingerly they sat up and retrieved their binoculars to look over the clearing more thoroughly.

Two armed guards were left, sitting on makeshift stools in the shade and they were drinking. Sal was willing to bet it wasn’t water. Bedrolls and other items were in a haphazard ring around a central indentation in the ground, probably a fire pit.

Sal panned to the prisoner. They were short and stout with dark close-cropped hair and no identifying marks on their clothing. Sal had no idea who they were or what they had done to warrant being held captive by the Jingoists but, odds were that if the Jingoists disliked them, then they were probably Sal’s kind of people. Their head hung limp and their lips were cracked, sure signs of exposure and dehydration. Sal swore. That was going to make their extraction more difficult. The last thing Sal wanted was to cut their bonds only to have them fall face first into the clearing. Time to come up with a plan B.

As Sal waited for the two guards to be sufficiently intoxicated and inattentive, they worked their way slowly and as quietly as possible around to the other side of the clearing, stopping often to wipe the stinging sweat from their eyes. All the while the prisoner never moved. Not good. By the time Sal had made it behind the tree where they were tied, one guard was snoring softly. The other seemed to be talking and joking with herself, muttering punctuated by the occasional giggle. Both were faced away from Sal and the captive. Idiots.

”Hey, pssst,” Sal hissed softly from the other side of the trunk.

“Gnnumf” came the murmured reply.

Sal tried again, “Pssst, wake up. I have water.” This elicited more of a reaction as the captive raised their head slightly and squinted. After making sure that the guards were still occupied, Sal darted around the tree, canteen in hand. It took a few moments for the prisoner to figure out what was happening, but they took several gulps of water before Sal pulled the canteen away and retreated back to safety. Too much too fast would make them sicker at this point, and that was counterproductive.

Sal loosened the bonds enough to help with circulation, and eventually they were able to speak. Sal explained themself and how they’d come upon the Jingoist camp. In return, Sal learned that Charlie used to be a chemist. Their village was torched by raiders, and they were on their way to the city when the Jingoists captured them. “A BIO chemist,” Charlie clarified, stressing the word. “They’re pissed that I won’t make explosives for them.” Sal laughed softly. “I tried explaining it,” Charlie’s tone implied a shrug.

Over the next hour, Sal provided Charlie with water and even a bit of food. Once Charlie felt they could stand on their own and help participate in the escape, Sal began to untie them the rest of the way. As Sal started pulling the knots completely loose, the sound of the returning patrol brought them up short. Shit. Now what? Sal dropped into a defensive crouch in the brush.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?” a voice boomed. Sal almost jumped up, ready to fight, but hesitated just long enough to hear a snarky reply from one of the others. Before long, insults were cast, challenges were issued, and a fight had broken out. And that was before the intoxicated guards were discovered, which only added to the commotion. The Jingoists all chose sides, and those that weren’t physically throwing punches were doing their best to verbally abuse the others.

Looking around for inspiration, Sal spotted a broad oak nearby with low hanging branches and a dense canopy. Perfect! Moving as close to Charlie as possible without being seen, Sal whispered the plan as loud as they dared in order to be heard over the din. Charlie didn’t say anything, but shook their head in disbelief.

“Ready?” Sal hissed. Charlie nodded once curtly.

Sal quickly cut the knots with the knife at their belt and then they and Charlie were off! Given Charlie’s condition, Sal knew they wouldn’t make it far and certainly wouldn’t be able to outpace the Jingoists, but they could probably make it to the oak tree. They were almost there when a straggler from the returned patrol stepped into their path from out of nowhere. Surprised, she brought her weapon to bear and drew breath to yell to the others in the clearing. Sal wasn’t able to stop their momentum in time but managed to throw a wild punch at her face as they careened into her. It didn’t put her out of commission, but it did stop her warning shout, which is all of the time that Sal needed to whip the taser from their pocket and give her one good zap in the ribs. The electrical charge knocked her over backwards, and she hit her head against a tree trunk on the way down. Sal hoped she was still alive but didn’t stop to check.

When they reached the oak, Sal boosted Charlie into the lower branches and then clambered up after. They continued until they were about a third of the way up and well concealed from the ground, then sat astride broad branches, breathing heavily. Sal heard no pursuit. Eventually the sounds of the warring Jingoists died out. Sal explained that they would spend the rest of the day here, shaded and recuperating, then when evening fell they’d quietly slip away towards the city where Sal could procure insulin for the collective and Charlie could seek safety.

Wait a minute! Charlie was a biochemist! Sal wondered aloud if Charlie had ever considered living in the wilderness and contributing to a mutual aid collective.

“Well, I’ve already started over twice,” Charlie shrugged for real this time and smiled wanly, “maybe the third time is the charm.”