Some Folks

I held her heart in my hand, its gilded surface had tarnished in the time it had spent away from her. I looked up to see that my gas tank was full, and I gave the gauge a few heavy taps to ensure it hadn’t become stuck. My mirrors had collected a heavy film of dust from the past few weeks of travel, I used a rag from my glove compartment to wipe it clean. In the new reflection was a ten-foot-tall patchwork of sheet metal and other scraps. Almost every piece had collected several deep cavities of heavy rust. I put judgement out of my mind and tried to be grateful.

Some folks didn’t have walls.

An hour into my drive I met the end of Springfield, marked by signs that both welcomed and warned. I passed the final invisible border which I knew was patrolled every fifteen minutes, after which I was welcomed by fields of overgrown grasses nearly as tall as myself. The next landmark I passed was our garbage dump, few things were wasted these days, but the smell was just as strong. After that was a graveyard perforated with splintered wooden stakes and each crossed with another plank. Many were adorned with objects that meant something to the person underneath or to the person who had left them. Some were necklaces, a few held rings, one had a scarf still flying in the breeze. As I drove closer, I realized it was a baby’s blanket. I pushed any dark thoughts from my mind and tried to be grateful.

Some folks were never found.

I drove in silence and avoided further contemplation. Beyond the city scattered settlements was the most you'd find, maybe a farmhouse, or a trailer park, or a town square for the ambitious. Springfield traded with the settlements regularly and much of the population had immigrated in recent years. Mostly younger folk looking for a steadier supply of food and water, they didn’t have the same fear of strangers that their parents did. They knew survival could only be achieved together, and it was no place for children. The counter on my dash began to click at a slow but steady rate, I let off the gas and kept one hand firmly on the wheel. With the other I retrieved two small capsules from the cup holder. I swirled my tongue around until I had a large enough pool of saliva and swallowed the pills as fast as possible. God it was awful, the taste of Iodine would stick against my tongue for hours. I pushed discomfort from my mind and tried to be grateful.

Some folks lived here.

The counter provided a steady beat which lulled me into a trance and the rest of the journey passed in moments. Near the end, I was stopped where a vehicle had been parked across the road. I slowed to a stop and surveyed the scenario, three people stood calmly. Two armed with shotguns, one of which was a woman who appeared to be in charge. Another man stood behind the car with his rifle atop the hood. One of the three approached my window and tapped on the glass while keeping a shotgun flush with my door. I decided to roll down the window, ramming through would be futile.

“It seems like you might have gotten stuck, need any help?” I asked sarcastically without hope of success.

“Sure, we could use some help,” he laughed darkly. These interactions were stressful but after years they had become routine in the new world. “Maybe you would be willing to make a donation to our group.”

I remained silent for a moment and after a slow exhale I opened my door, I was lucky he wasn’t jumpy. My shoes clapped loudly as I dropped off the side of the truck and approached the roadblock.

“I’m from Springfield.” The group remained silent, but the woman adjusted her stance as she processed the situation. The man with the hunting rifle shifted then tightened his grip. “I’m on a delivery run, I would be grateful if you could let me through”, those honeyed words were thick with prejudice in my mouth.

“Times have been tough; exceptions need to be made.” She said nodding towards the man with the shotgun who had remained next to the truck. “And people delivering usually have things worth delivering.” He followed the silent order and began to ransack the truck throwing my belongings onto the dirt.

“They do,” I answered without invitation. “Just not to you.” The woman didn’t bother responding and simply waited for her man to bring what he had found. He waltzed back from the truck nose deep in the canvas bag.

“It’s not a lot but it’s jewelry, gold and silver.” He reported.

“We’ll take half and be on our way, we appreciate you not making too much trouble.” The woman spoke in an honestly but with delusion. She rifled through the bag and pulled out one item with a letter attached. She read it quickly and rolled her eyes in annoyance before giving a long sigh. She dropped the item back into the bag and tossed it toward me.

“What are you crazy?” Asked the man who had just searched the truck.

“It ain’t worth the trouble if we take that,” the woman said with authority. The man opened his mouth to argue but received only daggers from her eyes. He backed down clearly knowing whose word would be the last.

“Thank you,” I said with relief disguised as politeness and returned to my truck along with my cargo. The group moved their sedan off the road clearing my way and I quickly left towards the town. Once the tension had released, I burned with fury at their insolence. I put anger out of my mind and tried to be grateful.

Some folks would have lost everything.

I parked the truck outside a makeshift barrier that was simply a tree trunk with its branches sharpened to a point. A lone guard patrolled it and looked quite nervous at a stranger showing up. When I approached the barricade, he spoke up.

“What’s your business?”

“Deliveries,” I answered producing the bag.

“What kind?” He pointed with end of his rifle.

“Respects,” I answered again.

“Oh,” he exclaimed quietly before lifting the lever blocking the path. I walked through and headed towards the town square.

“Wait up,” he called. I stopped and looked back toward him. “Can I take a look,” he asked. I nodded and let him browse its contents, after a moment he produced a watch with a small letter attached. He held the letter tightly in one hand and thanked me. I returned to my route and spent half an hour walking the square. There weren’t many houses so finding the right ones was easy enough. I finished the bulk of the deliveries until I had almost thought I was done but remembered my promise to him. I looked down the east road and saw the farmhouse he had described.

I peered across the plains and saw the crops reaching maturity. A lot of food was grown in these parts, too much for this town alone. Most of it would probably be traded to Springfield and to other neighbouring settlements. The reality of today would sink in come harvest, they would likely have to hire help from the city to reap what would have easily been gathered last year. I approached a porch occupied by a woman and a teenage boy. She was teaching him how to patch his shirt, it was a good skill to have these days.

“Abigail Miller?” I asked softly and she greeted me. “I have,” I cleared my throat, “I have a delivery from Springfield.” Abigail’s face hardened and I retrieved the gilded locket from my jacket. She held a cupped hand out and I released the locket from my grip. She traced its heart shape for several moments before speaking, “You knew him?”

“Yes,” I answered solemnly, “he said it was yours, that you gave it to him.”

“Yes,” she said in a slightly higher pitch. “I did and now it’s come back to me.” I regretted my next question before the words even came out.

“Do you want to know how-” She cut me off without hesitation.

“No.” She held my question back with an outstretched arm and looked to her son. “This is enough,” and she restored the locket to its home around her neck. With my duty done I backed off the porch and retreated down the driveway.

As I strolled back through town enough time had passed for people to leave their houses and find what I had left at their doorsteps. The first person I saw was a man who sat quietly on his front step cradling an item I couldn’t see in his hands, but I could remember everything I delivered. The next woman was reading the letter while clutching a diary in her other hand. She had leaned against her house to compensate for her failing balance. I tried to keep my head down after that, I didn’t need to see anymore. But as I approached the barricade the air itself became thick with the wailing and sobbing of an older woman; I already knew where it was coming from. I made three deliveries to that doorstep alone, the brothers had kept matching coins.

I pushed forward and got back into my truck; my teeth clenched when I realized the bag remained more than half full. I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles then shook back and forth. I would have ripped it from the dash had I the strength. But when I was finally out of breath, I had to let it go. I could taste salt when I started the engine. As I turned the truck around, I put grief from my mind and tried to be grateful.

Some folks don’t get to grieve anymore.

The End