Vera

The Collector peels open her lids as the beginnings of the morning light creep through the window slats. She drags a dirty hand down her face, stretching her legs and climbing out of her cot. Sand batters the sides of the railcar that she calls home, casting a smoky shade over the rising sun. She pulls on her worn leathers and too small boots, throwing a rifle over her shoulder before stepping out into the wastes.

Despite the sand-covered landscape, the morning air is chilly. A side effect of the bombs that ravaged the countryside so many decades ago. But the Collector doesn’t know about the bombs. She doesn’t know about the cities that they laid waste to, or the Great War that tore down the once great government. No--all she knows is the wasteland.

Born into a subterranean settlement and forced out by raiders, the Collector is alone. So she hunts. Yesterday, she traveled so far north she began to see the tips of grey mountains along the horizon before the sun dipped too low and she turned back home. Today, she walks east.

A few short hours pass with little to note. The sand whips against her sun-bronzed cheeks, the skin too tough to register the sting anymore. She glances up at the hazy sun, sighing deeply. So long. It had been so long since she had discovered something new in the waste besides sand and hungry beasts. Her hand tightens on the rifle’s strap in response to the thought. Many things prowled the sands in search of something--anything out of the ordinary. And it is this drive that draws the Collector out of her railcar each morning, roving the wasteland for treasures.

A dark shape pokes over the next dune. Her dark eyes snap to the shift in color, the small change dragging her legs faster. She crests the hill and stares at the object. Long rusted metal juts out of the ground, giant wings extending from a half-buried cabin. Broken windows dot the sides of the giant steel tube. She marvels at the vehicle’s size.

No wheels? Her imagination runs wild, feverish with the memories this object once had.

How did it move? What did it carry? Who owned such a thing?

She jogs up to her discovery, climbing atop a wing. The Collector tugs on the door that lays flush on the side of the object. Rust flecks down to the sand as she heaves at the entry until it finally gives with a deafening shriek. She dusts off her palms and steps inside, a shiver wracking her thin body.

Seats line a long walkway, covered with decaying fabric and springs that jut out of the cushions.

People. This carried people!

A grin climbs its way up her cheeks as she slips down the aisle, the metal groaning beneath her.

The transport holds many things. She stuffs her bag with tins of coffee and cocoa, eyeglasses missing a lens and a tattered scarf. Her chest is light with the discoveries. She grows eager to return home and add the newfound objects to her trove, but not before she scours the rest of the behemoth vehicle. She digs another jewel from the sand and debris--a brassy watch whose hands have long since stopped turning. The sight drags her back in time.

She was still a child when she left the settlement. The memory causes her head to throb. Whether it be the lingering pain of the attack or the pain of the loss, she can’t tell. She fingers the scar at the base of her skull in remembrance. Certain things bring back the past. Maybe it’s why she collects. A can of food here that reminds her of a long ago eaten meal--a scorched book there that she swears she can recall a voice reciting to her. When you fail to remember anything that occurred before some traumatic event, one tends to cling to any reminder of a happier time. And so she searches, day after day. Maybe one day she’ll remember her birthday, or the name people used to call her.

My name--My name is--

She groans, stuffing the watch into her pack before turning toward the door. It's growing cold again, which means it's time to go back. One foot hovers out the door when she turns toward the aisle one last time and pauses as if to capture the image to hide away in her mind. Something glints in the setting sun.

The Collector rushes toward the last row of seats, reaching up to snag the golden chain from the hook of the armrest, and sinks to the ground, her eyes transfixed to the object. She turns the necklace over in her palms, the gleaming pendant stark against her filthy hands. She shoves it in her pocket and jogs home through the wind, heart thumping excitedly even as the glowing rain begins to fall in sheets.

She stumbles through the door into the railcar, kicking off her boots and tossing the rifle into the corner. Reaching up to the shelf that hangs above her bed, she drags the wooden crate to the ground, being extra careful to set it down gently. The Collector empties the contents of her rucksack onto the small carpet in the center of the car, and drops to the floor, tucking her legs beneath her. She fingers the silky fabric of the burgundy scarf and ties it around her tangled hair. She cautiously rifles through the few magazines she found, the colors still preserved upon the pages. Ruby Rouge Lipstick, for a smile that wins hearts…

She sets them in the crate alongside the rest of her treasures. Only as she lays back on the threadbare quilts and sips cocoa out of a chipped mug does she reach into her pocket and retrieve the necklace. Rain patters against the railcar windows as she holds the chain up to the dull lantern fastened to the wall.

She rubs a calloused finger over the soft etching on the pendant, the precise lines that decorate the heart shape. She begins to flip it over when the pendant opens, the gold separating with a soft click. Fearful that she’s broken it, her stomach plummets, until she notices the image nestled within. A locket! She draws her tired eyes over the photograph. A woman smiles back at her--dark hair like her own smoothed over elegant shoulders--and her eyes! They glitter with joy so potent that it warms the Collector’s chest.

Beneath the photo lies a single word written in looping script.

“Vera.”

She says the word aloud, relishing in the sound, and she closes her eyes, whispering it again, and again, until the sounds fall off into soft, restful breathing.

The name is a treasure more valuable than anything that sits in her small crate.

Vera sleeps, and she dreams of a different world.