The Wanderer, Part Two

The town was dismal at best, but active. The Wanderer flipped up her hood as she approached . There was no reason to draw attention to herself. She glided silently down a dusty Main Street. Those around her pretended not to notice her. Strangers were few and far between, but that didn’t mean that they were welcome here.

The Wanderer sensed the unease of those around her. She cautiously entered a small door and ducked into a shoddy-looking saloon. As she strode to the counter, the tension of the town drew together like a bow on taunt violin strings. The man behind the counter was large and burly. He glanced briefly at the Wanderer, then returned to his work, attending dust-coated patrons and serving cheap beer brewed in the back room. The Wanderer slipped off her gloves, beating the dust off the leather relics on her leg. Striding to the beaten wooden counter, she addressed the barrel of a man standing behind it, who was seemingly consumed with wiping a glass with a dirty rag. Ignoring the snide remarks of the men around her she greeted the bartender. “Hello,” she announced. Her voice was sweet and articulate, masking the nervousness that rocked her stomach. The bartender grunted a reply, drying a glass with a grimy rag. “Um,” she said, licking her chapped lips. The bartender turned to her now, slamming his open palms on the counter. “What?” he demanded. A few faces turned in their direction. “A vodka, bourbon, an a rum.” “Got the coin?” “Yep” The Wanderer slipped off her pack and took out the gas mask she had worn through the mountains. It was military grade, but the filters were saturated in radiation and she had no replacements or iodine to scrub them of the toxic substance. She handed the mask to the bartender, who took it in his meaty hands, examining it with suspicious eyes. He grunted again in satisfaction, then put the mask under the counter, a content look upon his face. While he poured the drinks, the Wanderer kicked off her worn sneakers, taking a pair of sleek black combat boots. They were made of soft leather, a homage to a world twelve years lost.

Before the day Zero Hour became a reality, a report had been issued that stated, in current conditions, it would take at least 24,000 years, if the weapons were Plutonium, for the earth’s radiation levels to return to normal. If Uranium 233 was used it would be 158,000 years. The years skyrocketed from there. The world was in ruin not a month after the report. The survivors of the world’s second holocaust had nothing now, no hope of salvation from the omnipresent radiation.

The Wanderer downed the drinks one after another, not a bit phased by the strength of the alcohol. She slammed the last shot glass down with a depressed sigh. She ordered another round, beginning to reminisce. Willingly, she slipped deep into the sanctuary of thought and memory.

The fields had once grown corn and beans and a plethora of other foods people had once took for granted, but now they presented a stark desert, houses and other structures on the horizon like ghost ships on a dusty sea of heat. They trekked in the late twilight, the evening chill turning into a deep cold as night plummeted upon the earth. They decided to stay in an abandoned farmhouse for the night. While he was checking the lower level, she went and cleared the top floor. That’s when she found it. Sitting on the bathroom counter, in all of it’s glory, was a sealed bottle of shampoo. She squealed with delight and ran to the bottle, caressing it as if was the Ark of the Covenant. He dashed up the stairs , pistol drawn and knife at the ready. “What is it, Erin?!” He exclaimed, worry filling his voice. “Shampoo!” she giggled.

The bartender shook her awake. Apparently the alcohol was stronger than she had thought. “Got a room?” the bartender inquired. The Wanderer shook her head drowsily. “Got a trade? There’s an inn upstairs.” The Wanderer yawned and opened her pack. She withdrew a Pikachu t-shirt and a striped hoodie, offering them to the bartender. He glanced at them, took them, then said, “Up the stairs, second door on the right.” The Wanderer shambled up to her room, locked the door, and put her pack on a chair in the corner. She inspected the room. It was a decent size, with a good bed an d a window overlooking the dusty main street. She stripped, then flopped onto the bed, sinking into the soft mattress and the best sleep she could remember.