Liquid Gold and a Pile of Bones

Luck.

That was different. He’d experienced it once or twice before, but it was rare. Mythic. But not as rare as fate. Fate, he knew was bull shit.

But today, he had luck.

He held his breath even though the mask was snug and deafened any sound. His lungs burned and sweat collected on the back of his neck. He watched the rusting armored van equipped with wide tires roll over the sand with ease. The raiders stuck their heads out the windows, hanging with their guns and knives close in hand. Dangerous folk. He'd met several, seen their kind do savage things—horrifying memories.

He waited. Hardly anyone came out this way anymore. They’d gone west, where there were more resources and a better chance of life. Though he doubted there was such a place—few but the rich survived. Here the air was thick, laden heavy with the weight of dust and chemicals. That was what the thick mask was for. The raider vehicle turned around the streets of the empty town; its engine groaned. If they saw him, they cared little. He waited still until the mass of the brown rusted vehicle became a distorted shifting shape along the horizon’s edge.

He adjusted the straps of his worn deer hyde jacket and continued to deeper into the wasteland.

The old church was mostly dust and a skeleton of broken brick. He’d passed it once before while scavenging about a week ago on his last outing into the wastelands. He figured it’d been damaged in the third war, but it was well constructed and survived long enough to become a rotten carcass.

He fumbled with his pack; the dust settled after being stirred up by his thick rubber boots. Supposedly this town was a waste of time. The other scavengers warned him. But he knew better. Knew how the treasure was where no one bothered to look. And he had never bothered to look in the church. He doubted the raiders had. They didn’t find treasure; they took it.

Slow, steady steps echoed in the silence.

With tired hands, he removed the heavy leather gas mask. The air would be clean enough inside for a brief rest. The sour, acidic scent lingered in the musty space, but he didn’t mind. It was like gasoline. A few hours never killed anyone.

He unwrapped the last bits of his rations and took a small bite. It was dry, and his jaw worked to disintegrate it into something swallowable. He pretended it was a burger or perhaps a steak; food his mind could sink teeth into. But now, everything was dry. A desert of death. He decided several years ago wasteland was an unfitting title. Poorly named. Graveyard was more fitting—a hollow graveyard of society.

His tongue pried at the ration now bolted behind his left molar, the remainder of his food. He didn’t worry about it being his last. He wasn’t that far from the city—a day’s trip, nothing more.

Daylight came in through the ceiling’s worn and broken boards, shining rays through missing shingles. The sand and sunlight created a hazy yellow husk. He let the wrapper fall to the ground as he continued walking, lifting dust with each step.

The rotten floorboards should not have been trusted. His heavy boot caught a plank, and it snapped. The world spun, and the ground ripped out beneath him. He fell. Hard. His back screamed with agony as it smashed against an old folding table that had no resistance to the sudden impact.

Damn! He cursed several times, down like a dropped statue.

Stillness washed over with each steady deep breath, waiting for his lungs to recuperate. He coughed, coming out of the sudden, maddening daze. A sharp pain stabbed his side. He swore beneath his breath several more times. He’d grown careless, and that was no good. With careful motion, he sat up, blinking. A crack ran through the front of the mask’s glass, where his hip landed on it. He tapped the front. A new one would cost a fortune.

Still, he’d watch far less cause far more damage, and he rose from the table. Streams of daylight broke through the darkness. He fumbled in his pack to pull out a flashlight, turning the crank; it came to life, a flickering beam. He was in the basement, immediately noticing the stairs to the sanctuary.

It was mostly empty aside from the stack of metal chairs lined up and tables. People gathered here once to celebrate life events and hold funerals. Once. Years ago.

When he saw it, he hadn’t quite realized what his eyes laid upon. It took a moment, like the way the dust took a moment to settle once more. He bent down and examined the worn body. The man was about his age, had silver in his hair and thin lines over his face. He must have died several days ago, considering the body’s condition. Deterioration worked fast. Skin became like dust, especially in dry times like these. He didn’t look too closely. He’d seen enough death.

His eyes flickered down to a silver locke t, crafted into the shape of a heart. He pulled it off, taking a moment to open the damn thing, but it was locked. There was likely a key, somwhere, but that would take time and energy. The metal was worth more anyway on its own once melted down. He slid the chain around his neck. What memories did a dead man need to keep safe anyway...

He sighed. Most likely, the body was once a man who was traveling the wastelands in search of hope. A nasty group of raiders might have drove him down into hiding. Perhaps he’d face some of the dreadful dust storms and waves of fierce heat to reach this point, only to fall ill. The flu, most likely. No one survived the flu anymore. It was a death sentence.

The locket twisted as it dangled; Quickly, he tucked it beneath his shirt.

Beneath a thick tarp, he saw the glisten in the dusky light caused by his disruptive motion and the silent vibration of his steps. It took on the form of the yellow daylight over it.

Bottles of water. Freshwater. Sealed and untouched. A heavy layer of dirt and dust laid over it, but it was clearly drinkable, untarnished by the heat and the drylands. His heart flipped, and he blinked several times, suddenly afraid he’d hit his head too hard. Well, shit. It was easily twenty grand worth of water. Folks in the city would pay an arm and a leg for it. It was piled into a rusty wagon, patiently waiting for someone to take it. Waiting for him.

This was better than winning the lottery. He popped open one and sucked down the contents. The fresh, pure taste was jarring. He couldn’t remember the last morsel of purified water he had—real water like this. Liquid gold, he repeated, holding the empty bottle up to the pale amber rays. The murky light caught, dancing as it shook in his hand.

His hand reached through the handle, and he pulled. The rusted wheels squealed as they turned to roll forward. He’d have to head straight back before night. Before the raiders found him and took his treasure.

He paid no more attention to the corpse, aside from the quick glance and thanks. Nothing mattered now because everything the scavenger knew was about to change. He’d make it back, sell this shit. He knew the right guy, and then he’d finally get his home with the rich men and women. Twenty thousand was enough for a start. He had savings. No more scavenging, digging through people’s shit.

He wasn’t going to end up like the dried body in the wasteland. Dead because the flu killed him.

The wagon rolled forward. The wheels needed a bit of encouragement to remember how to turn. The stairs were challenging, mainly because of the back pain. But the adrenaline coursed through his veins and gave him strength. Before he walked out the doors of the church, he tugged his mask back over his head, ignoring the jarring crack.

He whistled as the sun crept through the sky. It was almost the holiday. He might buy himself a new coat along with a new mask. One made from porcelin and not straw. Usually, he’d plan his route then, pay attention to the sun and the wind’s movement. But not today. His mind was on a pint of pale ale and painting pictures of fantasy. He presented himself with one generous idea after the other as the wagon behind him dragged along like the corpse.

The corpse that he hardly remembered. The one whom he knew endured far more of the wasteland to die of the flu. That one should have taken better care. The little black book swayed in the pocket with each step as the water rocked back and forth in the bottles. The yellow-stained air truly made them look like liquid gold. Liquid gold found among dried bones.

A hard blast of wind tore down the broken, desolate road. He’d been on the road for several hours; he estimated based on the orange tint of the sun, and even though his throat screamed for another sip of that cool water, he would not dare take a drink.

He wasn’t foolish.

He pulled his coat around himself tighter. A new coat made out of tough leather, he repeated. Boots, too, because his feet were beginning to ache along with the burn in his back. The weight of the water slowed the return trip home, but this was now his final trip. Rich men didn’t scavenge to eat.

He only stopped when he saw the reflection of a raider caravan spewing up dirt hundreds of yards away, but like before, they paid the scavenger no mind. Luck was on his side.

Another rip of scorching hot wind lifted loose dirt, spewing it around. Miniscule bullets of sand beat against his mask. He pressed his hand to hold it down. It entered through the crack and stung the skin of his nose. He closed his eyes tightly.

A sand storm approached from the west; the worst ones came from the place where the sun disappears. He frowned, tightening his grip around the wagon’s handle. Waves of blowing earth shifted over the broken road. But he knew the way.

Even when the wind kicked up a wall of sand and masked the outline of the city, he was certain he was going west. Luck wouldn’t see him some dead man in a church. Not today.

He grimaced as the wind became volatile, taking on a life of its own, twisting around him in a maddening fury and refusing to let on. He gritted his teeth together. Annoyed. Sand collected in the axels, locking the wheels. He yanked the wagon free, huffing with the effort required.

Three hours left on the journey. He was confident even if the road was no longer visible. A dry, desolate place the world was now. He held up his free hand, fighting the dust that continued to pummel. The pain in his back screamed violently.

The sunlight faded, but that was the wall of the dust blocking away the sun. A sea of dirt in the air, cascading and crashing like waves, rising and falling.

He’d wait until it passed, leaning against the heavy wagon to anchor himself and ignoring the antagonizing thirst in his throat.

Time crawled as it passed. It was impossible to know how many minutes or hours with no sun. Darkness swallowed everything as if the wasteland opened its mouth and gulped him in one breath. He sank lower, leaning his head against the wagon, resting it there. He wondered if another were to come find him, if they'd see the heart shape locket and wonder if it was a gift from a beloved.

Those thoughts were buried in his mind.

He would wait no matter how long it took, a rich man now with promises of a new future—refusing to become a pile of bones guarding this liquid gold.