The Decision

“All right, so it’s a fair trade then? We do treasure for treasure.” McNeil sat with his hands crossed on the worn wooden table between them, his tattered vest stained with what Jemison guessed was this morning’s breakfast. Looked something like ketchup splattered across the collar of the vest in the shape of a fuzzy square.

Jemison’s mind wandered away from the topic of conversation to the ketchup stain. Who’d he trade for that, she thought. Since the sun burned off most of the planet five years ago, things like ketchup, ice cream, and barbecue sauce were hard to come by. In her pantry, she was lucky if she even had pepper. Probably wouldn’t even get to restock until trade day, or when the town officials came to ration out supplies.

Jemison sighed and leaned back further in her chair. The heat from above ground couldn’t find her down below in the bunker they sat in, but she still felt warm. Maybe it was McNeil’s dark eyes examining her as if he was cutting open her brain for traces of thoughts.

Perhaps it was the way his teeth had yellowed and cracked, or the aggressive way he chewed and swallowed the canned peaches he had helped himself to from Jemison’s pantry.

Then she realized he had been expecting a response from her.

“A treasure for treasure? Over some broken garden gnome?”

“That your damn dog broke, let’s specify that, Jem.” Spittle shot from his mouth as he swallowed another spoonful of peaches. “And I told you that dog ain’t got no business out there running from bunker to bunker unsupervised. Now that was my grandmomma’s gnome she passed down, your fat old dog ran over it, done broke the hat off a family hairloom”

“Heirloom.”

“You get my meaning. That was a irreplaceable treasure passed down. That’s the only thing worth sentimentalites I got from the Old World that I carried into the New. So yeah, fair trade is treasure for treasure.”

“And what exactly do you want to trade me for?”

The white overhead light above them flickered. Josie changed sleeping positions underneath the table, resting his head atop his thick paws.

McNeil laughed. “You should already know what I’m tradin’ you for Jem. That locket you got ‘round your wrist.”

Jemison instinctively moved her hands off the table and onto her lap. “That’s hardly the same value as that gnome you had, McNeil. Try again.”

“The locket. That’s the only thing worth somethin’ you got in this crap hole anyway. Besides Josie,” he added, “but I don’t want no pet that’ll ruin what’s left of what I got at home.” He pushed the can peaches aside.

Jemison sat forward in her chair. Sweat began to pool at the base of her spine. McNeil was sweating too, at the top of his brow and around his nose. Something was making him nervous too. Perhaps he was scared she’d put up a fight.

“And what if I don’t want to give you the locket?”

“I report you to the trading committee. Rule 504-45: if a valuable is damaged by a fellow resident, the offended has the right to trade for something of equal value. Hairlooms run high on the list of valuables.”

Jemison knew he was right but stayed steady. Instead, she held his gaze, watched his smile broaden as he watched her sit in silence.

The heart shaped locket she wore around her right wrist wasn’t a family heirloom per se, but the only item left she could recover from the most important person in her life who hadn’t survived the ravaging of the Old World.

“McNeil, let me ask you,” she said finally. “What do you want with a locket containing a picture of me and my daughter?”

He laughed. “You keep the picture, I take the locket. Wanna replace it with one of me and my gran.”

“That makes this trade off worse. It’s not the picture itself that’s valuable, but the locket.”

“Precisely my point.”

Jemison exhaled. “So what do we do? Because you want something I’m not giving to you and I take it you’re not leaving until you get exactly what you came for.”

“Sounds about right.”

“So I offer you another trade. I’ve got a record player that —”

“See, that won’t work,” McNeil interrupted. “I liked my gnome same as you like this locket that belonged to your kid. But Jem, you and I both know that Old World stuff ain’t got no price. It’s irreplaceable. Survival, however, is different. Everyone’s got a price for that. I notice coming into your bunk you’ve only got half of your water jug left. We all know rationing day’s behind lately, sometimes coming a week, three weeks off schedule. That half a jug gonna last you till the end of tomorrow. But you give me that locket, I can pull some strings. Get you three five-gallon jugs that should hold you off longer.”

It was Jemison’s turn to laugh. “So you want me to give you my locket on the promise that you’ll pull some strings? What, so I hold off dying from thirst for a couple more weeks? That’s what you’re telling me?”

McNeil placed his hands flat on the table. “You and I both know that people ‘round here aren’t too keen on sharing what keeps them alive. The Betty's got two kids that need all they can get, Vessel never comes out of her bunker if she can help it, I’d be surprised if she even knew what day it was. The next group is more than ten miles out. Be smart about this, Jem. I’m the only other real neighbor you got.”

There was another silence filling up the space between them. Jemison looked down at the locket, then back to McNeil.

The empty water jug seemed to look at her looking at McNeil from across the room. If that jug had eyes, of course.

Jemison became more aware of the dryness of her mouth as she touched her wrist. She opened the locket and stared at the picture of her and Rachel at the beach, they’re brown skin tanning in the sun.

“Your decision?” McNeil prodded.

Jemison brought her eyes to meet McNeil’s, refusing to give away any trace of conviction. Then, once the silence became a heavy weight on both their shoulders, she spoke.