There hasn’t been another concentrated incident in the last three months. One or two lone bandit types, but nothing serious. At least, nothing serious on the roads. From listening to the traders talk, inside the enclaves have become a different matter altogether. While that isn’t really my purview, I need to check out the rumors. Figure out how true they are. How problematic fixing the problem will be. Hopefully it is just an exaggeration. Old traveling merchants have been known to stretch the truth to make a better story, especially when deep in their cups. Duffel bag over one shoulder, I walk towards the gates of an enclave, one of the three I’ve heard mentioned as less than ideal. No visible weapons, not out at least. Weapons would change patterns, and I’m here to watch for patterns. No, I’m here to be a wandering scav. If they ask, I heard about some new find down in the water. They’d buy it, there’s always stuff underwater around here, and depending on how far they think I’ve traveled in from, a new find could be months old.
There are a pair of people in old police uniforms, modified with some ceramic or metal plating, it’s hard to tell. Ready for a fight. Concerning, given the lack of problems I’ve noticed on the roads these last months. But I can give them the benefit of the doubt, these might be old uniforms, designed and made in the days before my patrols were as successful as they’ve become. I should give them that benefit. People deserve a chance to be proven good, before they are assumed to be a problem. I approach one of them, making my footfalls as impactful as I could without seeming suspect. I want them to think of me as heavy footed, not as trying to be loud. The one on my left holds up a hand. “What brings you here to our humble home? What’s in the bag?”
Scavs, in general, are stereotyped as mistrustful, foulmouthed, and irritable. It’s always good to lean gently upon stereotypes to see how people react. “I just want to sleep in a fucking bed. Beyond that, ain’t really your concern, is it?” I say.
“It actually is,” the second officer-guard says, stepping forwards. “Now what’s in the bag?”
I roll my eyes. “My kit. Us people didn’t exactly evolve to breathe water, you know?” I say. It should tell them what they want to know. I’m here to dive, which means I’m a scav. I have enough to think I can barter a bed at some kind of inn or travelers’ house, but not enough to satisfy my desires, so I’m going underwater.
“Any weapons?” the one on my right asks. Concerning, but not overly so.
I smile. More like a grin. “Anyone actually answer that question?” I reply indignantly.
The first guard chuckles. “Some. Can I take that as a yes?”
“You can take it however you like. But I’d personally look at me and say more likely than not,” I joke right back.
The guard on my left looks me up and down, lingering on my duffel, on my calves, and on my hips. “I could see that,” they say, then with a smirk, they add, “Not the first thought that comes to mind, but one of the first ten or so.”
I lean in and, in a loud faux-whisper, ask, “What’s the first?”
They chuckle once more and seem to breathe in to reply, but before they can respond, the guard on my right jerks their thumb behind them. “Keep an eye out, and if you’re planning on selling anything you scav here, you’ll need to get a license.” The large gate doors begin to open slightly, a wide enough opening for a person to walk through. It has to open wide enough for carts to pass through sometimes. So neither of this pair is the one in charge, there’s someone operating the gate. They’re likely the highest ranking of the three. I file that away, just in case.
“Until next time,” I say to the pair with a smile before walking through the doors. I don’t wait for a response. As I walk, I glance around at the gate, keeping my head facing forwards. I can’t quite see where it is opened from. Not yet. I stop myself. I shouldn’t think like this. I’m falling into old habits, treating this place like a target instead of an enclave. I walk through the gates and into a mostly empty street. Concerning. But again, not overly so. The minor concerns are starting to add up, though. My eyes dart around, taking in the enclave. It’s supposedly one of the larger ones in the region, and yet everything about what I’m seeing screams abandonment. Stores that no longer have signs, empty houses, people looking at the newcomer. Unsettling. Something likely happened recently. I head to the building labeled inn. It would have food and bed, the two things I had told the gate guards I was seeking. Best keep up the appearances for a bit longer. See if I can figure out why things seem so off.
The inside of the inn, at the very least, seems slightly more lively than the street. That’s not saying much, though. There are a couple people in conversation at a booth against one wall, and a small group of men in the same modified officer’s uniform as the gate guards at a table near the center of the room. I head over to the counter. The proprietor smiles at my approach, the smile of someone who worked in hospitality before the big ‘A’ Apocalypse happened. Back during the times of the little ‘a’ apocalypse. There are fancier, more technical terms that someone who cares about seeming more in-the-know than everyone else might use, but that makes it more confusing rather than less so. Therefore I tend to stick to big ‘A’ and little ‘a’. “How can I help you?” she asks.
“Bed and some food would be nice,” I say.
“Batteries, food, water, or bullets?” she asks.
I look around suspiciously and whisper, “I got a fully charged car battery, for a month or two long stay in a room?”
“Fully charged?” she asks, and thinks a moment. “That’ll give you 20 days.”
“Really?” I say, raising an eyebrow.
She nods. “Really. But board is included, two meals a day.”
I pause, eyes darting to look like I’m doing some kind of complicated math in my head. I don’t want anyone to think I’m not staying a while, or that I’m not concerned about costs. Then, with a sigh, I reply, “Only if at least two drinks are included with each meal.” I hold out my hand.
She smirks. “Deal, two free drinks per meal,” she says. It is a bit less than market value of the battery would get, but not that much less. It might even be a good deal, considering it is untaxed, except for the little fact that I probably will only be using one drink a day maybe. But a scav would demand free drinks, and the people at the tables were paying attention to me. More than they should. Concerning.
Carefully, I spin my duffle around so the zipper is facing forwards. I unzip the top of it, just far enough down to fit my hand in. From the top, I pull out the car battery and place it on the counter. “Go ahead and check charge,” I say as I zip the duffle back up.
“I will, but even uncharged it’d be worth the meal and the night,” she replies, knowing the value of something that can even hold as much charge as the car battery. “Name?”
“My friends call me Stanton,” I say with a smile.
She chuckles, more genuinely than her smile has been. “That what you want me to put down as your name, or did you just feel like telling me a fun fact about yourself?” she asks.
“Can I say both? Cause I feel like both.”
She nods as she writes down the name and moves the battery under the counter. “So, are you planning on taking that meal down here, or do you want Fred to deliver it to your room?” she asks.
“Where’s the room?” I reply, a question that should say the answer all by itself.
“Up the stairs, third door on your left,” she says.
I smile. “In that case, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it,” she replies with her false smile once more returning to her face.
I turn around and head up the stairs. Four doors on each side and a door at the end of the hall. End of the hall probably leads to a hostel-style common room for people who don’t want to pay for privacy. Meaning there’s probably two, four, or five other rooms occupied currently. The pair downstairs at the booth has at least one of them. I head inside the third door on the left. It was a sparse room. A bed, a dresser, a desk, a door to its restroom. Laying the duffel on the bed, I pull out from it my rifle’s scope. Sitting on the bed, I look out through the window at this enclave. At first, I don’t see any signs of banditry. There’s a knock on the door. Putting the scope down on the bed, I open the door.
A young man, not old enough to remember the apocalypse well if at all, stands there with a tray. “Um, you asked for food delivered,” he says, nervously. Concerning.
“Thanks, Fred,” I reply, taking the tray, “Have a nice evening.” The young man scurries away quickly and I close the door. I return to the bed and, eating the soup, I go back to looking out. Most of the people wandering about are in those uniforms. I would think it is some kind of old school police state, but there’s something else about it. Crap, I realize as I watch them talking to the apparent owner of some kind of meat stand. The owner, clearly scared, hands them a bag of something and they head off. They’re the thieves that the traders were talking about. I notice a traveling merchant looking rough as they close up their stand and start moving towards the inn. They get intercepted by someone from that table downstairs, coming out specifically to stop them. I can’t quite hear them from up here, but whatever gets said leads the uniformed one to start beating on the trader. I sigh and turn the scope up towards the sky. An example must be set. Need to find a good vantage point. I notice one, the ruins of an old telephone or power tower, just outside the enclave. Should be hard to track down, easy to set up in. A good nest for what needs to be done.
Placing the scope down, I pull out my rifle. In all my numerous travels during and after the apocalypses, I’ve found most people tend to make the same mistake. A lack of care. For their world, for their neighbors, for their soul, and of course, for their weapons. I take care not to make that mistake. Slowly, patiently, I take apart my rifle. Each and every part must be cleaned. Not to make it look nice, though that certainly is a positive side effect of my carefulness, but because any corrosion or rust on any mechanism can cause delays, jams, or even misfires. The more, the worse the risk. That’s why, nowadays, most of the time you don’t need to be afraid of some guy with a gun. A decade with all the nonsense going on, frequent use, little to no consistent storage options, and a general lack of cleaning, many guns are crapshoots at best. Taking out my oils and solvents, I get to work. Tomorrow, I have work to do. That means tonight, each and every one of my weapons gets readied, just in case. I make sure that my guns are cleaned, my knives and blades sharpened, my bow waxed and oiled, my arrows checked. Finally, only after all that is done, I pick up my box. I take a moment longer than I probably should looking at it, then place it back in the bag. I shouldn’t need that, hopefully. With a sigh, I zip shut and lock my duffel, then lie down to go to sleep.
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