Priceless

I can feel the sweat dripping down my nose. I try to stretch my shoulder to wipe it off, but the weight of the crate in my arms left little slack for such luxuries. In all honesty, even I was surprised at how much I had lugged in from The Wilds. I'm starting to regret trading my shopping cart for a portable stove. Who wants a hot meal in the middle of the damn desert? That's what I get for being cocky, I guess. A few good sales go to my head and I get swindled by The Mad Max equivalent of a used car salesman.

I really should spend more time learning to hunt. The Trappers are the ones really making it out here, while the Pickers' loot gets smaller by the  day. Roswell ran dry years ago, and Dexter has been gleaned clean like a femur in the sand. I'm convinced that the only reason I've been so lucky is because I'm willing to take the five extra days to trek it to Artesia. That, and people forget it exists. Imagine my surprise when I found a half-filled drug store with all the fixin's: peroxide and gauze pads, half-rusted stewed tomatoes, and even some dusty tins of spam. They expired a few years ago, but the processed stuff is still usually edible...enough. Anything to feel like a human again.

I almost walked right past the place at first. The glass was busted out and a fire brought down the left side of the ceiling. The black char that scorched the dilapidated support beams smelled of acrid smoke and rotten lumber.

But a good picker never passes, I say.

As I was kneeling beneath the "front counter"- the knees of my blue jeans protecting me from the crunch of glass on the floor and my bandana keeping the floating dust cloud out of my lungs- I pulled out the Holy Grail: a sealed bottle of bourbon that had rolled underneath, unnoticed.

It is currently safely tucked away at the bottom of the crate, nestled in the gauze and covered by some inconspicuous bars of soap and assorted cans. Thinking about all I could get for it makes the tension in my back and the sweat stinging my eyes absolutely worth it.

Judging by how long I have been following the Pecos River, I'd say I'm about half a day from reaching the Bitter Lakes Refuge. I remember how clever I thought it was when I first arrived three years ago and saw that that someone had crossed out the "Wildlife" part of the sign. Back then it was just a handful of crude campsites, but as the world continued to fall apart, most passer through's  realized that it probably wasn't getting much better than this. Now it is a survivalist's Paradise with a population rivaling Old Roswell's. That's what we say, anyway. We lost track a while ago.

The rush of the river convinces me to take a break, as I place my crate down with a thud. My throat scratches like sandpaper even after I pour my last remaining drops of water into it and I take this opportunity to fill my bottle and my belly. But as I revel in the relief of cool liquid, something catches my eye and makes my heart jump. Across the bank, a curve of white porcelain Juts out of the mud.

Of course I've seen dead bodies before. When the outbreak first started, people were dropping like flies. In fact, that's the main reason survivors don't take the main roads anymore. They will tell you it is the heat, but if you've seen it you know the real reason. Some say it was a rapid onset dementia. Others called it a human distemper. It didn't really matter what we called it though, as half the population choked out their last breath within the first week, with another 1/3 of that following suit not long after. At that point there was no point left in counting.

But I'm a Picker. I've seen enough highways and towns to know that sometimes, the bodies have the best loot. I'm not proud of it. But the fact is: I'm alive. And they are not. So I wipe my hands on my jeans and wade over to the figure in the mud. Not much left than a skeleton now. A ragged pack sits next to them that I make quick work of. But it seems they died of exposure and starvation; There was nothing but a dirty blanket and the smell of rotten fruit in there. I start going through their pockets, my eyes avoiding where theirs once were, when I see what looks like metal glinting out from under them.

I pause. Jewelry is an interesting thing in this time. People are oddly willing to trade for it, despite it having no real value.

I reach for the chain still clasped around their neck and to give it a tug, the pendant making a wet sucking sound as it is pulled from the mud. I'm about to yank the whole thing clean off when I stop again. The pendant is in the shape of a heart. Not a pendant, in fact, but a locket. My curiosity gets the best of me and I fight with the clasp to see  what's inside. Even I can tell it was a cheap necklace in the before times. I'm wondering what I can get for it when it pops open. At one point, it held two tiny pictures. The one on the right is completely faded and marred with muk. But the left side is in surprising shape. Staring back at me is a little baby boy. He looks like he could have come right out of a Gerber commercial.

I felt my eyes begin to sting and wonder if I got sweat in them again.

I snap the locket shut and stuff it back under the figures head. I probably wouldn't get much for it anyway, I told myself. I make my way back to gather my stuff- It was time to move along. I didn't look back until I rounded a bend in the river. But as I shot one last glance at the body on the bank, I thought about that bleached white jaw belonging to a smile that no longer exists. I scoffed. What good is a locket gonna do them now?

Indeed, there is no place for such things in this world anymore.