The Woman in the Locket

The Man glanced down at the locket resting in the center of his palm. It was gold-colored and heart-shaped, at the end of a long chain. The face of the heart was covered in small scratches and imperfections, suggesting the owner of the locket had possessed it for quite a long time. In several places the gold paint had worn through, revealing the metal’s true brass color. Clearly the necklace held a much greater sentimental value than a monetary one in the eyes of its previous owner.

The Man clenched his fist, squeezing the locket tightly as her face flashed through his mind: Pale skin. Shoulder-length dark hair. The locket clasped around her slender neck. Eyes staring blankly into the sky. Mouth slightly agape. A pool of blood, seeping into the soil.

“Hey, you deaf? I asked what the fuck is in your hand, old man!”

The Man slowly raised his eyes to meet the voice. The source of the disturbance was a young male in his mid-twenties, and he was flanked on both sides by two other people. To his right stood another young man armed with a baseball bat and to his left stood a woman brandishing a shotgun. They appeared to form some sort of posse, as their shirts were all three adorned with identical patches crudely sewn onto the fabric.

The one who had addressed The Man appeared to be the leader of the group. He was standing in front of the other two, who kept shooting him expectant looks as though they were awaiting further instructions. The one in charge had unkempt, brown hair that was matted with dirt and clung to his forehead, partially concealing his narrowed eyes. His ill-fitting clothing fluttered in the light breeze. In his right hand he was carrying a handgun, which was pointed directly at The Man.

Military standard issue, by the looks of it, The Man thought.

When the war ended and the military pulled out, they left behind all sorts of weapons and ordinance, which were quickly snatched up by the survivors that the conflict left behind. Unfortunately, very few of the people who ended up possessing the equipment had any prior experience using it. The Man sighed to himself, wishing he had a loaf of bread for every idiot he had seen blow themself up with a hand grenade over the years.

“Well?!” The would-be highwayman raised his voice slightly, continuing to aim the pistol toward The Man.

“I heard you,” The Man replied, calmly. He squinted his eyes, focusing on the posse leader’s right hand as it gripped the firearm. The Man noticed it was trembling, ever so slightly. To most it would have likely been imperceptible, but The Man had seen it far too many times amongst his fellow servicemen: the one with the handgun had seldom fired it, if ever.

The Man cursed himself under his breath, furious that he allowed these clear amateurs to get the drop on him. He had cut through this street several times in the past. There was an abundance of places to conceal oneself amidst the rubble of the many crumbling buildings and the burned-out cars that lined the street, but The Man had never encountered anyone along this path before. Most survivors of the Wasteland tended to avoid towns and cities unless absolutely necessary. Their ruins often proved to be challenging to navigate, and they offered ample cover for anyone (or anything) with malicious intent.

This was not true of The Man, however. As a result of extensive experience with urban combat, both overseas and at home, he felt perfectly at ease in such an environment. It was second nature for him. His eyes would dart from window to window, scanning for the glint of light that would reveal a rifle scope. His line of sight would sweep over the sea of melted car frames, searching for the slightest movement that could expose the individual hiding behind it. He knew which elevated positions would provide the best view of a given area, and he knew exactly where he would place himself if he were the one setting a trap.

But today was different. Today, he failed to notice the trio of bandits as they cowered behind a pile of rubble. Today, he did not hear as one of them accidentally crushed a shard of glass beneath their boot, or the click of a magazine sliding back into a pistol as the leader checked his ammo. Today, he could not keep his mind from drifting back to the woman with the locket. He kept seeing her. He saw her in her last seconds as she lay in the dirt, bleeding out before him. He saw the moment her last breath exited her lungs. He saw himself unfastening the piece of jewelry from her lifeless body and opening it up to reveal the photograph encased inside: a photograph of two people, one of whom was the woman who had been wearing the locket. Most importantly, however, he saw the face of the other person in the photo. It was the face of a young girl, no older than eight or nine years of age. The Man recalled being taken aback by her appearance. She looked nearly identical to another young girl he had known, so much so that for the briefest of moments he had thought it was her. Then he had reminded himself that it was impossible, as she had been dead for a very long time.

So, today may not have been the first day The Man had traveled this route, but it was certainly the first day he had done so this preoccupied. As a result, when the three marauders emerged from their hiding place a dozen yards away, The Man was uncharacteristically caught off guard. Held at gunpoint, in the middle of the road, he had to determine what his best course of action would be. His thoughts wandered to the revolver in his possession, secured to his hip by a holster.

Too risky, he thought. Amateurs or not, good chance one of them clips me before I can drop all three of them.

The leader, meanwhile, was growing visibly impatient. “Well, if you heard me, then why aren’t you doin’ nothin’?” he growled. “I wanna know what that is you’re holding.”

The Man slowly extended the hand that was clutching the locket. “You’re welcome to take it,” he replied, staring the head of the group directly in the eyes.

Clearly unprepared for that response, and slightly unnerved by The Man’s eye contact, the bandit leader was momentarily stunned. He then steeled himself and slowly began to approach, careful to keep his weapon trained on The Man.

His two followers remained behind. They appeared somewhat confused by the events that were transpiring. “What the hell are you doing?” the woman carrying the shotgun hissed.

Their leader ignored her and continued to close the distance between himself and The Man. Once he had reached him, he quickly snatched the locket away from The Man with his free hand. He then took a step back and began to examine it.

“…not even real gold,” he could be heard muttering to himself, rolling the pendant around in his palm. He pushed the button on top of the locket to open it up. He gazed at the photo for a moment then looked back up at The Man. “Well, it’s not a picture of you. So, who are they?”

“Mother and daughter. Don’t know their names.”

The leader cocked his head to the side. “How the fuck do you know they’re mother and daughter, then?”

“Eye color, cheekbones, same noses. Even a similar smile.” The Man gestured toward the photograph, as though to suggest all of the evidence was clearly there before him. It was a recent photo, too, he thought. She looked to be exactly the same age in the picture as she had been while dying at his feet.

The bandit shrugged. “Could be a sister. Or any other relative.”

“Age difference indicates they aren’t sisters. Don’t know many people who would keep a photo of their niece or cousin around their neck, either.” The Man’s eyes slowly wandered toward the handgun that the posse leader was armed with. It was no longer pointed directly at The Man. It had drifted down to the leader’s side as he had become increasingly relaxed. As The Man’s eyes fixed upon it, the two of them were now standing close enough to each other that he could clearly see every detail of the weapon. But it was one in particular that caught his attention.

Suddenly, The Man took a step toward the bandit.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The leader of the bandits instantly raised the pistol back up. “Take another step and I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out!” he warned.

The Man disregarded him and took another step.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” The bandit shouted, incredulously.

Without uttering a word, The Man leaned forward and placed his forehead against the barrel of the firearm.

All three of the marauders stared in disbelief. They had no idea what to make of the situation that lay before them. They had entered into the scenario fully prepared to kill him but had clearly not expected The Man to offer himself up so willingly.

It was the leader of the trio that first recovered from his stupor. “Got a death wish? ‘Cause I’d be happy to oblige you,” He grinned confidently as his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

CLICK.

Nothing happened. The bandit looked down at the handgun, visibly confused. He pulled the trigger again.

CLICK. Still nothing.

The puzzled leader opened his mouth to say something, but before words could escape his lips, The Man sprang into action. Without giving the bandit even a second to react, The Man ripped the gun out of his hand. In one fluid motion, he spun the pistol around until it was facing the correct way, and, with his other hand, he grabbed the top of the weapon and pulled the slide back. There was an audible sound as a bullet was loaded into the chamber.

The bandit stood frozen before The Man, mouth agape. Try as he might, he was unable to grasp the reality of what had just occurred. The Man merely smiled, aiming the pistol at the leader’s face. He then pointed to a tab of metal sticking out of the firearm that he now possessed. “Loaded chamber indicator. I noticed yours was down. If you’re gonna point a gun at someone, you better be damn sure you know how to use it.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the woman with the shotgun start to raise it. The Man spun and trained his gun on her.

* * *

In the end, a total of seven shots rang out. Once the woman with the shotgun had been killed, The Man remained the only one holding a firearm. The other two were easily disposed of.

As the dust settled and The Man confirmed he was the last one standing, he walked over to the leader’s bloody corpse. He bent over and pried the locket out of his dead fingers. Relieved to once again be holding it in his grasp, The Man tightly squeezed the piece of jewelry. He silently vowed to himself he would never give it up again.

No longer feeling as though his life was in danger, The Man’s adrenaline slowly began to subside. As his mind returned to a more even state, the woman in the locket returned to his mind. Once again, he found himself recalling her final moments. He recalled the thud of her body as it hit the ground. He recalled the metallic scent of her blood. And he recalled the revolver in his hand as he fired the shot that killed her.