The Locket

The locket is the only thing my father gave me.

And he gave it to me the day that humanity’s world ended.

We didn’t end with a bang – no aliens came falling from the sky, no volcanoes started blowing up beneath our feet, venting their molten fury to scorch us into heated nothing. No mad scientist rose with his insane inventions, only for it to blow up in his face. Nothing like the old movies and their paranoia. It just… fell apart.

Everything just stopped.

First, the Internet failed. Oh the horror, the horror! The lights failed, next – and a third of the population died from that alone. We were still too reliant on old bones fuel, even then with the climate clangers gaining ground, winning minds, changing laws. Too little, too late. Four billion people died choking for air, for their lives, on the blood in their lungs. The doctors and nurses died too, torn apart by the grieving families, and their own guilt.

And then society ripped at the seams, flailing like a little child, screaming with blood, and terror, and another third of humanity blown away. I was born into this time, the blood and the screams and the death.

I survived – my mother did not.

She was one of the lucky ones – a quick death, but still bloody, still screaming her last gasp of life for me to bawl my first breath. But I shredded her insides, tearing myself out, in time to see the world collapse in on itself. In dreams, I still remember the burning stench of her blood, the shudder in the nurses’ touch as they clean me, wrap me, and almost drop me into a box.

I don’t know what happened to my father. In the chaos that followed the Burning, I was just handed off from one person to a group, a sickening game of pass-the-parcel, feed it, change it. All I’m ever told is that he left on a mission. He stayed just long enough to see me squeezed out into hell, hold me, and leave me with something to remember him by.

Only it’s not his – the locket never was. It’s my mother’s keepsake and doesn’t even have anything in it. Whatever was in it is long gone, by now – ripped apart by a million, million panicking feet, consumed in the trash of the Dead World.

I’m alone, now – a Roamer, never staying in one place more than two or three days. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a cave, somewhere with something vaguely resembling a roof. If not, then what’s better than the open sky?

Just kidding – any Roamer worth a damn knows how to build something like a shelter. Any Roamer worth a damn knows to keep some waterproof cloth in their pack to use in a shelter.

Any Roamer with a damn bit of luck has a tent in their pack. I’m not that lucky. But I get by. Today, I’m lucky – I find a shallow cave, with enough curves in the walls to hide a fire. There’s a draft coming through – I’ll need to make sure the fire is smokeless, clean.

You never know who else is close by. Smugglers, Traffickers, Clan Watchers. Any of them could be dangerous, and they’re just the human ones.

There’s a man in the cave already, slouched on his side against the wall, a few feet in. I can barely tell he’s breathing; the guy’s half-way dead, and no wonder – the lake of blood beneath his ribs is too big to bounce back from.

I flinch, bringing my bow and an arrow into my hands when he jerks almost upright, coughing a garbled cry of pain. Even now, I don’t trust him.

Who says this couldn’t be an ambush, a trap?

“You here… to finish the job?” he asks, wheezily.

“Nothing to finish – just looking for shelter for the night,” I shrug, never moving the arrow point away from his face.

“You a Clan Scout?”

“nah.”

“Trafficker?”

“Piss off.”

“Ah… you’re Clanless,” he realizes, his hand tracing over a chain of red stone beads pinned to the sleeve of his jacket, “A Roamer, right?”

“Not your problem,” I hiss. But it could be – the blood is less than I’d thought. And he’s not so old that he couldn’t come back from this on his own.

“Very true – I’ve got my own backside to save,” he agrees, finally sitting up properly with a groan, “that’s the problem with hunting down your own meat. Sometimes… ah, sometimes, they fight back.”

“What got you?” I demand, finally – damn my endless curiosity.

“Boar – little pissant damn near opened my ribs.”

“You good to eyeball my stuff?” I ask, standing my bow and arrow against the opposite wall.

It’s tough, fixing up this guy’s ribs. The boar nearly ripped them out the side of his chest.

But it’s nothing a fire, a hot knife, and some fish-gut sutures can’t fix.

“You’re good at this.”

“Stop talking.”

“Take a compliment, would you – jeez!”

“Do what you’re told, stop talking.”

“You’re not very good with people, are you?”

“What do you care?”

“I care when somebody’s poking around my bloody ribs!”

“I could just let you bleed out,” I threaten, bluntly, “Not like I care – you’re nobody to me!”

I finish fixing his mangled ribs in silence – from both him and from me.

“There’s willow bark, for the pain. I’ve put an aloe vera and elm bark poultice mix on the wound; sit up for me,” I instruct, shortly. As he does what he’s told – about damn time – I start wrapping a bandage around his chest.

“What’s your name?” he asks, quietly.

“What’s a name?”

“Oh, very philosophical.”

“What’s philosophical?”

“It’s… not important. What’s your name?”

“What’s a name?” I repeat again. I don’t get what he’s asking me – and I don’t like the look on his face, either.

“No name… who doesn’t have a name, even today?”

“OI – what’s a name?”

“It’s – it’s a name, like saying a tree is a tree, or something,” he explains, cryptically, “it’s the – sound you make… when you want to get someone’s attention.”

“OK,” I snipe, sarcastically, “so what sound do I make for you?”

“Jett – I’m Jett.”

“Get some sleep, Jett,” I grumble, pushing to my feet.

“What about you, Kid?”

“I’ll be the Eyeball, while you’re out for the count. Not like you’re any good, with that mangled chest.”

“Aw, shucks, you’ll make me blush,” he quips, with equal sass, “But even Roamers need their sleep.”

He wakes early the next morning – earlier than I expected, to be honest. But we’re already in trouble.

“Sit down, shut up,” I hiss, the moment he starts grunting his pain.

“What’s happening?”

“We got Clan Roamers outside,” I whisper, as we crouch either side of the cave’s gaping mouth, “I can’t see their Badges.”

Jett risks a quick glance outside, and then grins.

“You know them,” I guess, suddenly, “you’re an arsehole!”

“Aw, don’t be like that – it’s fun, riling you up,” Jett teases, before stepping out into full view of them and shouting out, “GREY!”

“JETT – we thought for sure you’d gone,” shouted a girl with flaming hair, grinning with equal fire.

“Naw, Echo – like I’d break your heart like that. I just missed my luck, hunting down boar.”

“Looks like you patched yourself up pretty well, though,” noted the pitch-haired man, shrewdly. Damn him for looking back at the cave. Now I’ve got no choice, so I step out.

“He was useless,” I own, shortly, “I used fire on him. Gave him willow bark, some aloe and elm bark on the fucked up ribs.”

The reach for my bow is instinct – having other people so close is too dangerous, as Pitch Hair takes a step at me.

“Gage – no, she’s fine,” Jett calms, “You did good for me, Kid. Can’t we do something for you?”

“Yeah – leave me alone.”

“It’s not good for a girl your age to be a Roamer,” Grey complains, “You could come with us – spend a few days with our Clan?”

“No – thanks,” I refuse, bluntly, “Clans and I don’t mix.”

“Oh, come on,” Grey insists, “You could rest, and stock up on supplies. I know we’ve got some old clothes that you could make use of.”

“Kid, you better just say yes,” Jett encourages, with amused resignation, “she’s not taking no for an answer.”

“Before you come with us, tell us,” Gage demands, warily, “what’s your name?”

This time, I actually think about it. Without thinking, my hand goes to it, in the chest pocket of my jacket.

“Locket – I call myself Locket.”