A Locket of Time

I stop to rest in the shadow of a few charred beams, what probably used to be a small family home, but is now little more than a pile of rubble. Sitting down on a larger piece of broken concrete, I take a gulp of the rancid water; the only thing there is to stifle this relentless thirst. Looking down at the filthy plastic bottle in my hand, I smirk at the thought that this battered vessel with the faded letters, C-a -ola, will long outlive me. But that’s nothing unique, everywhere there are mountains upon mountains of deathless plastic, half buried in the soil, waste from peoples who were alive long before The Event finished the work that they started. I pull back the hood that protects my face from the incessant radiation, and wipe the torrent of sweat off my brow. Why does it have to get so hot here? Even in the dead of winter, the relentless heat singes my feet through the half melted soles of my boots.

After a few minutes rest, our chieftain, Jared, signals that it’s time for us to get back on our way. A chorus of groans and complaints fill the air as the other nine members of our tribe lumber to their feet. Today’s rests have been 7 minutes, half as long as a normal day’s; we need to keep moving in order to avoid ‘the stalkers', those accidents created to fight in the last great war, only to escape when all of the scientists that monitored the containment facility succumbed to the rot cough.

As I get on my feet, something sparkling in the finely-ground-plastic-dust catches my eye. Stooping down to pick it up, I see that it’s a small, heart-shaped locket made from more of that ubiquitous cheap plastic. It’s the kind of trinket that one would give a small child (such as from a quarter dispenser) more to keep them entertained for a while than out of any real affection. Turning it over in my hand brings back a distant memory of my mother showing me a locket just like the one in my hand, except her locket was formed from pure gold with a bright, rose-pink sapphire as the focal point.

Mother told me that this locket symbolized our family’s resolve, that we could find a solution to every problem. She was going to wear it to a party that evening, one that she told me would make the world better. That was the day before The Event. Mother was always naively optimistic. Even when the wailing of the sirens signaled that the world we lived in was not going to get better, she told me that no matter what happened, by enduring together we would make it through. Weeks later, she told me the same thing; it was the last thing she said before the rot cough killed her.

These memories flood my mind as I look down at the cheap, heart-shaped locket in my hand. Blinking away my tears, I shoulder my pack, slip the locket into my pocket, and follow the others to the edge of the shattered city. A little smile creeps onto my face as I think about how mother was right, again. Enduring together is what has kept my little tribe alive for all these years. It’s the reason for our migration. Other tribes have already passed through here, each one leaving a handprint, a token to show the way on their journey towards the gathering. This time the party that we are headed to will indeed make the world better. I’m sure of it.