Scrap

The sun was low and red in the hazy sky by the time he crawled back out of the hole. His breath was hot, thick, each one a struggle in the respirator that concealed his face. He’d been all day in the hole, fumbling around in the Waste, the shadow of an ancient time.

A better time, he thought, getting to his feet with a groan. Better than this one anyway.

Slung over his shoulder, the frayed, faded satchel where he stored his plunder. It was mostly scrap. It usually was, there being little left of value in the Waste. Everything good was seized, sorted, sold long ago by the dregs.

Degenerates. A wry smile stretched his face. Like me.

Still, it was all usable. Steel, tin, iron, plastic. Stuff that could be melted down, remade. Specks would give him a fair price for what was in the satchel, a handful of protein blocks at least, maybe even a jar or two of his homemade, aptly named rotgut. Not really enough to get by.

Enough to get me to tomorrow. Just enough.

He’d learned that just enough was as much as anyone could hope for.

Usually, what was in the satchel was all there was. Today was different though. For the first time in a long time, he’d found something special.

From a shirt pocket, he pulled out a burlap pouch. Inside, his only treasures in the world. A glass marble he’d stolen off a childhood friend, his late mother’s pocketknife. From amidst the priceless keepsakes, he withdrew his great discovery of the day.

A golden, heart-shaped locket. It was only the size of a peach pit but as it caught the light of the bloody sun, he almost believed it was alive, beating in his hand. It was in pristine condition, not a scratch on it. He wondered how much Specks would give him for it. Probably it was worth a whole month’s worth of protein blocks. Not having to worry about food for a month, he’d finally have time to get his life together.

He’d leave the Bunkers, head for the Interior, where they’d managed to make the air breathable again. He wouldn’t have to root around like a scavenger anymore. He’d get an actual job, making respirators or something. Just the thought of getting paid in real imitation beef and vegetables instead of tasteless protein blocks was enough to put a bounce in his step as he walked back to the Bunkers.

* * *

She watched from her bedroom window on the second floor of the mansion as her father’s limousine pulled into the driveway. Arms folded over her chest, she chewed her lower lip, a habit her late mother despised. The driver got out, went around the car to open the door for her father who immediately spilled out onto the gravel, limbs flopping like one of the girl’s dolls.

Not again. Why daddy?

The driver hurried to help her father to his feet but in his current state, it was like watching someone trying to dance with a chimpanzee.

Drunk. Again.

Ever since he’d taken that new job, he’d been able to afford nice things, the sort of things her mother would’ve loved. They’d moved out of their old house, in the neighborhood that was close to the girl’s old school, where all of her old friends were, and into this new one.

Big. Drafty.

A ghost’s house.

Her father told her this would be good for them. Things were finally going their way. It didn’t feel that way though.

He never used to come home like this.

She watched until the driver got her father safely inside. Then she sat on her bed and waited. After a while, the knock came. Just as she knew it would.

“Go away!”

“C’mon sweetheart. Don’t be like that.”

“I hate when you’re like this, daddy! You stink!”

“Just lemme in for a minute. I gotchu a present.”

“I don’t want anymore presents! Go away!”

She heard muffled sobs coming from behind the door. “Please?”

The only thing worse than the drinking was the crying. Sighing, she got up, slamming each foot on the floor as she crossed the room to open the door. Bloodshot eyes greeted her.

“There’s my girl.” He belched, swayed. “My little…angel.”

“Don’t call me that. That’s what you called mommy. That’s her word.”

“But…now I need…another angel.”

From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a golden, heart-shaped locket. Seeing it dangling on its chain from her father’s unsteady hand, tears filled her own eyes.

“That’s mommy’s.”

“Yours now.”

He tried to put it around her neck. She slapped his hand. He dropped it, tried to pick it up, fell on his face.

“Daddy!”

He was too heavy for her to help up. She sat down beside him breathing hard. Face down in the doorway, he started to cry.

“They made me do it!” He looked at her. “I swear!” His eyes were black holes, sucking her into his despair.

“Daddy, you’re scaring me!”

“The locket! Get the locket!”

She scrambled, looking for where it fell. The moment her fingers clasped around it her father screamed, “Put it on!”

Only when he saw it on her neck did he relax. He sat up, offered a bleak smile.

“There. Now you really are…my angel.”

He picked himself up and wobbled down the hall, toward his study. The girl remained where she was, blood roiling inside her.

“Sweetheart?”

She turned. Her father glared at her over his shoulder.

“Y-yes, daddy?”

“Never take it off.”

In the study, he fixed another drink. She heard the ice cubes clinking in one of his crystal glasses. Later, lying in bed, she thought of her mother and what she would have done if her father ever came home to her like that. She ripped the locket from her neck, threw it across the room, cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Scrolling through her news feed, the girl saw the same ridiculous headlines endlessly repeating: NEGOTIATIONS FAILED, WAR IMMINENT, EXPERT PREDICTS, ‘BEDLAM WORLDWIDE.

Lying outside the mansion beside the pool, late afternoon sun warm on her golden-brown skin, news like this shouldn’t be able to reach her. It was too nice a day for impending doom. She turned her phone off, refusing to accept what she’d read.

Not like I can do anything about it anyway.

At seventeen, her influence over the world was limited to her followers on social media, and most of those were only interested in selfies of pretty, rich girls.

Shattering the serenity of the afternoon came the roar of a powerful engine tearing up the driveway. She didn’t know what annoyed her more, the disturbance or that her father was home from work early. These days, she avoided him as much as possible, leaving for school before he came down for breakfast and locking herself in her room before he came home from work.

“Sweetheart?” Her father called from inside. “Where are you? Sweetheart!”

“I’m out here daddy!”

He came rushing out seconds later.

“Sweetheart! Thank God! Get inside! C’mon! Right now!”

“Jesus, calm down!” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll come when I feel like it. Go fix yourself a drink or something.”

“I don’t have time for your crap! Inside! This! Instant!”

In she went.

She followed her frantic father upstairs, to his study. Once there, he dashed behind his desk, threw open his laptop, started punching keys.

“There’s still time,” he muttered. Words and numbers flashed across the screen. “Tell me there’s still time.” Finally, he let out a long sigh. “Thank Christ. Program goes live in less than five minutes. Sweetheart,” he looked at her, eyes sunken but bright. “I need your locket.”

“W-Why? What’s wrong?”

“My job. I was developing environmental weapons. If an enemy force invaded, we could poison the air, water. Go underground. We built bunkers, thousands of them, all over the country. Effects would only be temporary. By the time the enemy were dead, it’d be safe to return.

“They told me it was only for national defense. But…then they started asking me these questions. Could I increase the area of effect, hack into defense systems, establish chain reactions? I knew what they were doing. Knew I had to stop it. But I couldn’t let them find out. I’m monitored. My phone, computer, this whole house is bugged.”

“Then…can’t they hear us now?”

“Doesn’t matter anymore. They think it’s too late for anyone to stop them. But they don’t know about the failsafe! Took a while, but I developed a counteragent that will render the weapons inert. It’s triggered by a code, a code I had inscribed inside your mother’s locket. I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before, but it would’ve ruined everything. You understand now, right? You’re my angel! Everyone’s angel. So,” he scanned her neckline. “Where’s the locket?”

“I…don’t have it.”

“…What?”

“I sold it. I was s-so angry with you! You were d-drunk all the time and…I sold it at a pawn shop. I don’t even remember where. I’m…sorry, daddy.”

“No…”

“What do we do? The bunkers! Can we –”

“No time! The program goes live in,” he checked the laptop screen. “Thirty seconds. Oh…God...”

“Daddy, please!” she hugged him like she was a little girl again. “I’m scared!”

“…It’s ok, sweetheart. Let’s…go outside…such a lovely day.”

They held hands, walked downstairs, out the front door. Gazing up at the blue sky, tears streaming down the girl’s face. A dark cloud was forming in the distance, spreading, inching toward them.

“It’s not your fault, you know,” he smiled. “It’s not even mine. This would’ve happened, one way or another.”

“Not like…we can do anything about it anyway.”

“That’s right, sweetheart. That’s right.”

* * *

The air in the cluttered shop was all sweat and grease, but it was clean. No need for respirators in the Bunkers. He picked his way carefully over heaps of scrap and rusted relics until he reached the counter. Behind it, Specks sat examining a burned-out light through the oversized glasses that earned him his moniker.

“Specks.”

“Piss off.”

“Got something you’re gonna wanna see.”

Specks turned his magnified eyes on him looking like a big hungry bug.

“On the counter then.”

He removed the locket from his burlap pouch and laid it gingerly on the counter. Specks picked it up with his thumb and forefinger, held it before his specks.

“Gold. Twenty-four carat. Excellent work. Well preserved.”

“Damn straight. How much?”

Specks shrugged. “Ten.”

“Ten? That ain’t even enough to get me through the week!”

“Take it somewhere else, I don’t give one shit. It’s useless. Sure, I could melt it down. But see how small it is? Won’t yield much. No good for crafting. Now, this is a fine piece, which is why I’m glad to take it off your hands. For ten. Won’t get a better offer.”

“Goddamn it, Specks!” He slammed his fist down on the counter so hard, the locket jumped an inch into the air. “I’m trying to get out of here!”

“Preaching to the choir. That’s all you’re doing. Now what’ll it be?”

In the end, after he’d emptied his satchel onto the counter, his plunder earned him fourteen protein blocks and five jars of rotgut.

“Just enough,” he muttered, reloading his satchel. “Shouldn’t’ve hoped for more.”

“Hey,” Specks said. “Lookie here.”

His earlier outburst caused the locket to unclasp. Inscribed within was a series of numbers.

“What do you reckon it means?”

“The number of protein blocks it’s worth?”

“Heh. No.”

“Then what the hell’s it matter?”

He left the shop, making his way through the Bunkers to his putrid little cot. Half a jar of rotgut later, he’d forgotten all about the locket, was already thinking about tomorrow, the Waste, where to look for more scrap.