The Boots

Rain slaps the top of the young woman’s hood, sliding between her back and tattered bag as she makes her way through the ruins. Thick rivulets cover the ground and she has to move slowly to keep her footing. Her left boot sinks into the stew of rot and with a squelch, pops rhythmically back against her foot with each step. She must repair them tonight and look for a new pair on her next trip topside.

“There it is.” Through the murk she spies the cavernous bus station she discovered years ago. The carcasses of old busses line the front, and every step closer to the looming shelter eases tension from her shoulders. There’s a hip height wall between her and the busses, so she heads to the crumbled section she found last winter, it’s easier to cross there. She’s been in the rain for too long already and can feel the skin on the bottom of her exposed left foot beginning to blister. Hurrying now could mean falling, there would be more to worry about than a blistered foot then. The familiar smell of decay greets her as soon as she steps under the domed roof. She heads immediately for the only spot left with two standing walls. The bricks are foul and crumbling like everything else on the surface, but shelter is shelter. She’s tired, hungry, when she steps into the half-room and freezes, standing there gawking back at her is an old man.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He says.

“I was going to stay here.” She manages to finally answer.

“Planned on doing the same,” he drops his bag, much nicer than hers, next to his boots, also much nicer than hers, “nasty weather out.”

“You’d be safer going back down.” She says, shifting awkwardly when he raises his brows at her.

“Hard telling if that was a threat or not.” He continues unpacking his bag, pulling out rations as well as a few synth-fire sticks.

“You don’t look threatened.” With a scowl she straightens to her full height.

“There’s a whole corner over there. You’re free to use it.” He ignores her posturing, and that’s the end of it. He doesn’t wait to see what she decides before cracking a stick and assembling his portable stove. He works efficiently and before long she’s trudging over to the corner. Despite the company, she attempts to settle in. She tries to ignore the smell of cooking food. Rations work hot or cold, and she’s not about to freeze this winter over luxuries. She pulls a pouch from her bag and rips the corner off with her teeth while kicking off her torn boot. She takes a couple tasteless mouthfuls before reaching back into her bag for what she needs. As she threads the needle she can’t help but scowl over at the old man who is openly staring at her.

“What,” She spits out. He just shakes his head with a wry grin.

“Your pod must be struggling, sending you out like that.” He points towards her boots and bag before leaning closer to his fire and snatching his warm meal.

“Yours must be too, sending a corpse up top.” She shoots back, even though she knows he isn’t trying to pick a fight.

“Didn’t come up here to scavenge. Came up for the heap fields, to see the sun if I can.” The man says and she notices him rubbing a small heart shaped locket in one hand. He’s none of her business, but it’s a small room and she doesn’t dislike having something to do while she works.

“You picked a bad time, old man. The dry season isn’t for months.” She says.

“Too old to count on months. Got the strength for it now, so that’s how it is.” He explains, slurping at his food. She shoots a sidelong glare his way, but chooses to ignore him taunting her with cooked food.

“Sun’s too bright to look straight at, old man. Hope it’s worth dying without an IV.” She says, reaching for her ration pouch again.

“Plenty of fire for two meals, since you’re too proud to ask.” The old man offers before she can have another bite.

“I’m not a comfort woman.” She glares directly at him, he chortles.

“I’m gay. Now give me the ration pack, and I’ll cook it for you.” He beckons for the pouch and she gives it to him without hesitation.

“Didn’t know pods keep gays now.” She mutters to herself and the old man shakes his head.

“They don’t usually. That’s what got me here in the first place.” He explains while cooking her food.

“They execute your lover, and exile you?” She asks bluntly. It’s a fair assumption. Most pods won’t spare resources on those who can’t reproduce. But the old man shakes his head again, this time with a sigh that could carry his soul.

“No, left my lover thirty years ago so no one would know.” His voice is soft, mournful. She clears her throat.

“Well, you haven’t been up here for thirty years.” She says as the old man offers her now heated ration pouch. Without asking if she’ll eat more, he pulls another two from his bag and begins warming them as well.

“No, worked as a scavenger for my fair share of years but this is my first trip topside in a long time.” He says, she picks up her forgotten boot and restarts her work.

“Won't ask why?” The old man questions her.

“I’m not the curious type.” She replies. He rotates each pouch over the fire and folds his arms across his chest.

“How long you been alone?” He asks. She pauses her work again to frown at him.

“I’m not really the talkative type either, old man.”

“Well what type are you?” He persists.

“I’ve been alone for a long time, alright? Not sure how long, but since I was a kid.”

“Why?”

“Alright, alright! Let’s hear it, what happened with your lover and what’s it have to do with you being topside?” She’s practically hissing, but he’s got a satisfied grin on his face when he hands her another cooked pouch.

“If you’re curious there’s no harm in telling you.” The old man clears his throat and digs through his bag one more time. She pushes her irritation back quickly when he pulls out a dark glass bottle.

“Wine?” She’s seen it before, as a child before leaving the pod, but it’s rare.

“Planned on drinking alone before the end, but company’s better. Feels more like home.” He explains and takes a long drink then passes it to her. She doesn’t know what home is supposed to feel like but she takes a drink anyway.

“I’m surprised they let you out with a whole bottle.” She passes it back to him and he chuckles.

“They didn’t, not the wine or any of it. Managed to head out with all of it before they stuck me in the dying ward.”

“So, you want to die under the sun?”

“No, hate it up here. Wes always wanted to see it though. He was born sick, never came topside so he had dreams about what it would be like.”

“Your lover was sick?”

“Lupus, autoimmune. Couldn’t go more than a few days without a seizure or one of his organs quitting on him. He needed the pod.” He trails off.

“Is that why you left him?” She asks, handing him the bottle.

“That’s what I told myself anyway,” He takes another long drink, “Wes wanted to leave together, told him that I didn’t want to watch him die in pain. He told me that was what would happen either way. But I didn’t hear him back then, too scared.” He trails off again, and she’s not sure he wants a response.

“You did him a favor. He wouldn’t have lasted more than a few days up here.” She says.

“I used to think so too. Spent every day since regretting things though. Now I’m up here trying to show his locket the sun and hoping it counts for something.” He replies bitterly and pulls the heart shaped locket back out of his shirt to stare at it.

“There’s nothing wrong with surviving or wanting someone else to survive.” She protests.

“No, there isn’t. Just wonder if I gave him more than that, just a few days of more than surviving, if he’d have lived a happier life.”

“A shorter life.”

“Maybe that would have been alright. Doesn’t matter now though, all I can do is try and last up here long enough to put him under the sun.” He offers her the last drink of wine, but she’s too tired to enjoy it and moves back to her own little corner. She leans against the brick wall and looks at the old man. He’s still holding the locket silently when she falls asleep.

The next morning brings more rain, and the old man has already left when she wakes. She feels heavy from the wine and decides to stay here another day to finish her boot while she waits out the weather.

By the third day the rain has stopped, but the sky is gray and full of heavy clouds. She decides not to risk another trek in the rain and continues to wait.

By the sixth night her head is splitting and she’s vomiting everything she takes in. It’s still raining but it doesn’t matter, she’ll have to go back under tomorrow if she doesn’t want to die.

She wakes late on the seventh day, sick and sluggish. The sky sparkles overhead when she breaks camp, though the sun hasn’t yet dried the ground. She heads towards an old bunker entrance that’s not far when she thinks of the old man’s boots. He’s surely dead by now, and she knows the direction he planned to go. If she hurries, she’ll have time. She looks down at her ragged boots, and turns instead towards the old heap fields.

It’s hard to move and harder to breathe, but the promise of new boots urges her forward. She keeps going even when the nosebleed starts, and by the time she finds the old man she’s lightheaded and dizzy. He died before he broke camp, she finds his body slumped next to an extinguished synth-fire in the shade of a debris heap. She tugs off his boots and slides them onto her feet. Next, she grabs his bag, it’s still full of supplies, and she manages to carry it with her old one. Before she can leave, she pauses to vomit bloody bile. As she pushes herself back to her feet, she notices the thin golden chain around the old man’s neck. Slowly, she reaches forward and pulls the locket up over his head. Inside is a lock of curly red hair. She looks back at the old man slumped over in the shade.

Without a word she cuts off a lock of his thin gray hair. Once it’s inside the locket she heads back as quickly as she can, the locket bouncing against her chest as she staggers forward. What a useless, heavy thing, she thinks as it shines beneath the sun glaring overhead.