Short Scrawlings: Season 1

Episode One: A Child Called Wither

I'd been on my own for days, and currently, I was laying on my back with a bookshelf on top of me. It'd fallen in an earthquake, landing in the worst place possible: on top of me. The other side of the shelf had landed on my head, knocking me out cold. Now that I was conscious, I could see that there were several cracked shelves along one wall. A large section of the ceiling had collapsed; the room itself was filled with dust and debris. Looking around, it seemed I was alone. Then someone started poking around the rubble, and I managed to grab his leg before he stepped over me. No doubt he thought I was just another corpse. He'd sat down beside me, starting a conversation.
"What's yer name, kid?"
"Charlie," I said, looking up at him. " Can you help me out here?"
He stared down at me blankly for a moment before giving an almost amused snort. "Yeah, I got plenty of rope and everything." He held up his hand, showing off a pair of knives and a good length of rope. "I'll get the blasted thing off ya real quick."
He walked over to the shelf and reached underneath it, pulling out the heavy coil of rope. As he started walking back towards me, I caught sight of something sticking out of his back pocket. It was some kind of badge with a picture of a wolf on it.
"What's that?"
The man glanced down at the badge in his pocket, then back up at me. "Oh, this? This is just somethin' I wear to pledge allegiance."
"I thought that was for the flag," I said, looking at him funny.
"Not anymore, kid. America ain't the same."
"That's true enough," I agreed. "There's a gun down there, be careful. It's probably loaded."
The man knelt down next to the bookshelf, and he saw the gun lying on the floor between us. He grabbed it by its handle and pulled it free.
"This yours?"
"No sir." I'd never held a gun in my life, much less owned one. I wasn't near old enough to, even when laws became obsolete.
"Well, it is now." He tossed it on the ground beside me, heaving the bookshelf off of me. "Congratulations."
"Thanks." I struggled to sit up, but the pain made me fall back onto the ground again. "It hurts something awful."
He shrugged. "Sorry 'bout that. I'll tell you what...you should run with my guys. We camp up over at the Riff-Raft. You know it?"
"Can't say that I do." Of course I did, everyone this side of Atlanta did.
"Livin' in a vacuum then?"
"Sure. Why don't you tell me about it, Mr...?"
"It's Skull, kid. Skull's the name."
"Is your brother called Crossbones?" I asked, only half joking.
"Nah. My sister."
"Your sister?"
"Yep. She's a crack shot with a pistol. We should probably call her Crosshairs, but that sounds stupid."
"Right. Yeah, that'd be dumb."
They're crazy, all of them. Everyone but me.
"So what's with the nicknames anyway?" I asked, long after we'd left the house of falling bookshelves and misery.
"It allows us to start over, leave ourselves behind. Be whoever we want."
"And the badges?"
Skull grinned. "Everyone gets one. Makes it easier to spot each other in a crowd. Helps keep up morale."
"Makes sense." I nodded. "What do I have to do to join?"
"Pledge allegiance, choose a name, don't backstab anyone, and you should get along with us fine. We're still a couple days out, so get to thinkin' on a name."
"Alright."
We must have walked for miles down Spaghetti Junction, high above the world. I saw a few caravans, but not much else.
Almost everything had been wiped out. The rest was withered. Maybe I was withered too?
I was mostly silent for the rest of the walk. We didn't stop. We barely slowed. Finally, after 3 days or so-I'd lost track-we came up to the camp.
"We're here. I'll have to buzz us in."
"How do you do that?"
"Watch and learn, kid."
He knocks on a boarded-up gate and I notice the giant sign scrawled across the wood in red spray paint: The Riff-Raft Boarding Center. Someone shouts from above, and the gate is pried open by several pairs of little hands. Kids. They have kids working the gates.

"Thank you, Henry. You too, Andrew." Skull said, handing them each a packet of gum. "Found this for you...still fresh!"
One of the boys -Henry- laughed, snatching the gum and tearing it open with an expression that could only be described as unbridled euphoria. The other eyed it suspiciously, taking it a few seconds after he observed his partner's reaction to the candy. Once he seemed satisfied, he took a piece. That was the first time I noted the difference between the remaining people. Henry and Andrew were approximately the same age (as I would later learn), and similar in most ways. Andrew had a good home life, and Henry not nearly as good. That was the reason for their different reactions. Both sets of parents were dead, so Andrew became suspicious of everyone, terrified that he was next. Henry, however, saw only an opportunity to grow. He was the type of stupidly reckless that seemed to never consider the big picture, but never seemed to suffer from short sight.
"Good work, boys. Fort's still strong." He ushered me along, calling a hello to the lookout who'd signaled the boys.
"Why use kids for the gate?"
"Who's ever heard of a kiddie revolution?"
I nodded. In a bizarre sort of way, it made sense.
"Alright. Booker's gonna get you initiated. Got that name?"
"Yeah, I think so."
We turned a corner, and I gasp, nearly stopping dead.
They had a ship. We'd walked from Atlanta clear to Savannah. We were in a port.
"We don't call it the Riff-Raft for nothin'. She's a beauty, isn't she?"
"Yeah." Was all I could manage.
He laughed at my expression, clapping me on the shoulder and leading me up to the front desk.
"Hey, Booker. Got a newbie for ya."
The man behind the desk sighed in exasperation, pulling out a notebook from one of his many pockets.
"Date?"
"It's August 28th," Skull says. "Of 2043, of course."
"Date of Birth?"
"Umm...July 11th."
"Year?"
"2027."
"You're 16?"
"Yes sir."
"Hmm...you don't look like it."
"I am, honest."
"If you say so. We've got blasted 12-year-olds on the gates, so it's no difference to me."
"The boys are 13, Booker." Skull corrected him.
"Whatever. Kids all the same. Speaking of, what's your name, kid?"
"Uh..." I freeze.
"I'm gonna need a name from you. Pick one or I will, and you won't like mine."
"Wither." I decide finally. "My name is Wither."
"Well, Wither, I need a last name."
"Riggs. Wither Riggs." I say, trying to sound confident.
"Welcome to the Raft, Wither. Good to have you on board. See Needler for your initiation."
"Thanks," I said, stepping off of dry land and into the future.