Sophie Littlefield - Aftertime

Faye snorted. “That’s nothing. They give that shit away for free, for the big spenders. The pill poppers, meth junkies-guarantee they’re lined up back behind Rockets right now, trading their last can of SpaghettiOs for 20mg of Ritalin or a couple of rocks.”

Oh.

Ohhh. Idiot, Cass chastised herself. Earlier the thought had danced through her mind, quickly enough that she hadn’t bothered to examine it carefully, namely that the Box didn’t make much sense. A few months into Aftertime, it was true that all the easy stuff was taken; grocery stores and hardware stores and sporting good stores had long ago been looted of all the valuable items, homes had been broken into and all the weapons and canned goods and medicine cleaned out. But for the brave-and at this point, almost every citizen who had managed to stay alive this long fell backward into that category to some extent-there was still more than enough to be found.

So it stood to reason that the Box’s allure would be something even more special.

As the Siege followed its tortuous path, each day bringing some new abomination, some crippling terror, alcohol and drugs were at an astonishing premium. More than a few people locked themselves in their houses and proceeded to get as drunk or stoned as they possibly could. Sometimes they were in search of the courage to shoot or hang themselves. Sometimes they were trying to drink themselves to death or overdose. Some were trying to tap into fantasies they’d held secret for a long time, from a time when society had a tighter grip on the psyche. Before long there was nothing left to get numb with.

Except clearly, the people running the Box had a hell of a stash.

Cass gripped the cheap metal frame of her chair, the plastic web cutting into her shoulder blades, overwhelmed by the thought of all these people who had survived so much, only to try to drown their pain with a temporary high. She hadn’t been around active users in a long time; the thought was a little overwhelming.

“You’re an addict,” Faye added, offhandedly.

Cass felt her face flush, but she forced herself to keep her expression neutral. “Was,” she corrected Faye. “ Was .”

“Was, like, for how long?”

“Long enough.”

“Yeah,” Faye said, clearly skeptical. “So it’s some kind of accident you showed up here? There’s nowhere else in the central valley to score, and yet here you are-”

“Because I have to get in the Convent. I have to get in there. I have to find…someone.”

Faye’s expression didn’t change. “You want to find someone in there .”

“Yes.”

“Sister? Mother? Spinster aunt maybe? Your people Jesus folks?”

“Why, is that what the Convent is? Like, fundamenta lists?”

“I don’t know the details. I guess you can ask Gloria. She’s happy to talk, talks everyone’s fuckin’ ears off, when she’s not wasted. But, no, it’s not just a Jesus thing. It’s like, they worship the disease or something.”

“What?”

“Or like, it’s the antichrist and they vanquish it through prayer, something fucked up like that. I don’t know.” Faye shrugged. “For all I know they’re in there dancing naked under the moon.”

How could the woman not be more curious? The Convent was the closest thing to a real community that Cass had seen since the Siege. Other than the little groups in libraries and schools, no one had been able to band together in sufficient numbers to move beyond the demands of subsistence living.

“You two look cozy.” Smoke’s deep voice rumbled behind Cass. She twisted in her chair to see him holding a plastic bucket in one hand, white towels in the other.

“Okay, I think that’s my cue to shove off,” Faye said. “I’m sure I’ll see you around. Nice meeting you.”

Smoke waited until Faye disappeared down the main path through the tents, then offered Cass a hand. “How does a shower sound?”

“Like heaven.”

She let Smoke pull her out of her chair, and peeked into the bucket. There were washcloths along with the rest of the toiletries. “What did that cost?”

Smoke gave her a sly grin. “They’ve got a thriving skin trade going here,” he said, pointing to the end of the Box farthest from the stadium. It was lit only by a sparkling string of Christmas lights that wound from tent to tent. “In case you haven’t figured it out, that’s what the blue tents are for. I just, you know, stopped by and gave the ladies a taste of what they wanted, and they showered me with earthly goods.”

“Ha. Ha.” Cass smiled at his joke, despite herself. “God, I’m stupid. I thought those were first aid tents.”

“Not stupid, only naive. Or maybe it’s wishful thinking, that you can start a civilization on free trade and have it grow toward an ideal, only I doubt that ever works. I mean, look at the history of any major civilization…”

“I don’t think I’m up for a history lesson right now,” Cass said softly, though it occurred to her that history was bound to be lost in a generation or two, with no one to preserve and teach it. If any humans even survived that long. “Besides, it’s not just the, you know, blue tent thing. I didn’t get that the whole currency here is based on drugs. I just feel like an idiot.”

“Well, not the entire trade, maybe. I got this stuff, and a couple decent single-malts and a bowl of pretzels that weren’t completely stale.”

Cass whistled. “Not to nag, but how are we affording this? You didn’t trade away our blades, did you?”

“Nah. I, uh, put the bike up to secure a loan.”

“The bike? ”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s not like we could make much use of it without fuel. Besides, I can get it back. They’ve got every angle covered. It’s like a pawn shop-they just charge you a holding fee.”

Cass shook her head. It wasn’t for her to say, really. She knew that the bike, the supplies, the gun-these had all been given to Smoke because of his record with the Rebuilders. She had no claim on them.

“You coming?” he said softly. “I paid for two. Can’t really use the second one myself.”

Cass slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and they walked down a path lit by yellow light from a dozen Coleman lanterns hung on poles. They passed people talking softly in the entrances of tents, or bent over bongs and pipes and bottles.

A man lurched into the path from between two tents with a cut-off grunt. He had almost recovered his footing when a second man tackled him and took him down, yelling. The smell of alcohol and sweat came off the pair as they tumbled and rolled. One was trying to stab the other with a butter knife, but he was too drunk to do any real damage and the knife fell to the ground.

Cass was about to grab it to prevent further trouble when a third man shoved her out of the way. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and cargo shorts and a small receiver on his belt broadcast static and voices. His belt also held a sap, a gun and handcuffs, but he ended the scuffle instantly without using any of them by pulling the closer man off the other, yanking his arms behind his back and up, then pinning him to the ground with a knee. The other man whimpered and curled up into a ball, but another guard arrived and dragged him roughly to his feet. The would-be fighters were hustled off, the guards mumbling apologies to Cass and Smoke, and the incident was over moments after it started.

“Wow,” Cass said. “That’s…impressive.”

“Protecting their investment, more like,” Smoke said. “Part of what people pay for here is a sense of security. They’ve got a drunk tank, over at the back corner. Just a big locked pen with a few guys passed out in it.”