AP American Peter Straubinger

Reconstruction Period 5

Two figures were silhouetted against the orange horizon, alone under the midday

harshness of the sun. One of the figures was obviously a man. Though the barren

landscape provided no basis for comparison, he appeared tall and lithe, with a weathered

akubra shadowing the top half of his face. Beside him was a dark smudge which

gradually resolved itself into a large dog, panting and trotting at the man’s heels. The pair

appeared, in a word, frayed. Dust seemed just as much a part of the man’s attire as his

faded, brown overcoat. Beside ragged boots, the dog paused to occasionally snuffle the

ground, glance ahead, and continue to pad ahead. It looked equally tired as its

companion, the chipped scars on its pointed ears serving token to a hundred close calls.

The pair walked on, through the wasteland.

A hundred yards ahead, a shattered building raised its twisted steel girders in a

quiet show of defiance to the sky. From a single raised corner, the building seemed to

flow downwards into a bombed-out second floor. Semi-functional stairs descended to an

ersatz floor of concrete, dirt, wood, and rock, surrounded by the low, brick remnants of

the ground wall. This lonely building had been the pair’s destination for miles; it carried

the promise of shelter, and the temptation of food.

Approaching the structure, the man began to grow more cautious. His posture

dipped low, and he unshouldered the ancient-looking rifle on his back. The dog followed

suit, soundlessly slinking beside him. One by one, the man checked what remained of the

building’s windows. First the rifle’s barrel would enter the frame, followed by a roving

eye and then the rest of the head. With no inhabitants in sight, the man circled back to the
door. It was obviously of a later construction than the rest of the building, a jury-rigged

sheet of scrap metal riveted into panels. It was also entirely nonfunctional; a shoulder

thrust against it yielded nothing but a dull thud. Unfazed, the man stepped over to the

nearest window, and began to climb in.

The building’s interior was a familiar sight. An unadorned mattress was shored up

against a corner, under the pool of shade that the fragmented ceiling provided. Similar

amenities decorated the rest of the room. At the foot of the mattress was a battered

refrigerator that had obviously not had power in the man’s lifetime. Along the walls stood

bookshelves, empty save for the occasional charred volume. Boxes of all sorts littered the

entire area in piles, some spilling out the junk, scrap metal, or tools that lay inside. The

stairs upwards lay behind a concrete partition, up to the ruined floor above.

The man began to stalk towards the refrigerator, rifle in hand. He appeared more

relaxed, however, now that he was within the walls of the building. The dog walked over

to a row of shelves in the corner, sniffing at everything in its path. The man spoke in a

low voice, jointly addressing himself and his furred companion.

“C’mon, let’s have something goooood…food? Hey, food’d be nice, or water,

yeah…” He continued in this fashion, obviously seeking to introduce some sound to the

stale atmosphere. He reached the refrigerator, and in the absence of a handle began to tug

at the door.

“Come – on – you – damned – thing – and – give – me – what – ngh!”

Punctuating each tug at the door with a growled epithet, the man’s efforts paid off

unexpectedly, and he fell backwards holding the entire door.

“Goddamn stupid bleeding…oh. Oh. Oh my.”

 He stared fixated on the bounty that lay in front of him, his mouth widening into a

rare grin. Row upon row of cans lined the refrigerator’s interior, each one promising a

unique ambrosia. As a whole, it was likely a month’s generous supply of food, with the

fact that it was within a very adequate shelter serving only to sweeten the deal.

“Garraty! Hey, Garraty! C’mere and look what I found!” The dog’s ears perked

up, and it approached the man. Upon reaching him, it dropped one of the ruined tomes

that lined the edge of the building, and nudged it towards the man with his snout.

“Garraty, willya look at alla this…guh? Whassat you got there? Oh, jeez,

Garraty!”

The man lifted himself from the floor, grabbed the book, and began to walk to one

of the shelves, grumbling all the way.

“God, y’shouldn’t be puttin’ your mouth over all this junk. Who the hell knows

where this thing’s been? I mean, jeez, anyone coulda been slobberin’ all over it before we

came along. Hell, it’s probably irradiated. I mean, more irradiated than every other damn

thing in this-”

“Freeze it, brownjob.”

The voice was not, in and of itself, particularly threatening. However, the fact that

it was accompanied by the quiet, unmistakable click of a revolver being readied served to

imbue it with more authority than any man could muster. The man on the ground froze.

His rifle lay ten feet away, next to the refrigerator door.

“Turn around, hey? And slow-like. Try anything, I put two in yer gut and leave

you ta think about it. And the dog too. He so much as coughs and I do the bothaya.” The

man complied with the book still in his hand, whispering to the dog beside him.
 “Alright, shh, Garraty, just shuttup a minute, okay? Take it easy. Don’t do nothin’.

Take it easy.”

“What the hell’d you think you were doin’?” The man continued to berate them in

a lazy, almost tired, voice. “The nerve of you wastelanders, to enter a man’s domicile…”

The man continued to mock the pair. There was no point in listening; the outcome

was singular and obvious. The man on the ground now noticed the piles of clothes in the

corners of the room. They were all different sizes, and all stained dark. They were simply

being toyed with, like mice. It was lonely out in the wastes, and people dealt with it

differently.

As his captor droned on, the man glanced down at the book he was still holding.

Though the cover was badly charred, some of it was still legible. The cover appeared to

read “HIS AMERICA ON”. The phrase seemed funny, for some reason. The

man started to chuckle.

“I’m guessin’ it’s likely ‘cause we haven’t got – what? What’s so damn funny?”

“This (ha ha) This America On.” The man was now shaking with mirth.

“This America On?”

“This America On.”

“Well, what the hellzat mean? Ya wanna talk about America? Ya think “America”

is gonna come save you? God, you’re dumber than I thought. This place ain’t been

America since the bombs dropped. Ground your standing on ain’t no more America than

the moon. That’s how it’s been for the last hunnerd years. That’s how it’s gonna be for the

next hunnerd. Ain’t nothin’ gonna-”

“Boy, you sure love to flap your gums.”

 “Wha? What – I’ve got the gun here! You watch what you say, or I won’t leave

you to die in the shade!”

“And it was a hundred and fifty years ago. That’s when the war happened.” The

man shifted his grip on the book. It was quite heavy. “And they weren’t bombs, really.

Warheads. From missiles.”

“Well, ain’t you a smartass. Well, you’re gonna die a smartass, smartass,” the man

sneered, as he raised his weapon.

“Talk about a lack of education…I guess I have no choice but to

throwthebookatyou!”

The book made a satisfying clonk as it connected with the armed man’s face. In a

flash, the man on the ground made a dive for his rifle. He grabbed it and, gripping the

refrigerator with his other hand, heaved it over. He scampered behind the impromptu

cover, and his dog scampered along with him.

“Goddamnit! You filthy scumsucking sunuvabitch, I’ll kill ya! I’ll kill ya right

now, and leave the meat for the goddamn ants!” Their adversary appeared over the

stairwell, and bullets began to dent and ricochet off of the refrigerator’s thick metal.

“Ah, shuttit! You’re an oaf! A big, damned oaf, and you finally bit off more than

you can chew! I know you don’t know nothin’ about our nation, and I’m about to show

you that you damn well don’t know nothin’ about how to handle a firefight!” Keeping his

head below cover, the man thrust up his rifle and began to fire towards the sound of his

attacker’s gunshots. Suddenly, the firing from the stairwell stopped.

“Don’t know nothin’? You just say I don’t know nothin’?”

“Not a thing! Nothing from Revolution, to Reaganomics, to Revere’s Ride, to Red

Scare, to Reconstruction!”

“Reconstruction? Now listen here, you skinny little bastard, you can spout a few

facts. I’ll give you that. But the next time you utter the name of that blight next to the rest

of those noble achievements, I’ll walk right over there and tear you limb from limb.”

“Oh, so it turns out you do know something after all! Obviously not much,

though. Reconstruction a blight? Reconstruction was the only thing that gave the ex-

slaves a fighting chance! For as long as it lasted, at least. You call helping the free blacks

a blight?”

“I call free blacks a blight, period! And that ain’t even the start of it. Sure, the

namby-pamby Northerners may have hidden behind their cow-crap “civil rights” song

and dance, but you know what? It was nothin’ but a plot from the very start to keep the

South lickin’ at their heels!”

“Oh, yeah! Boy, you’re right. I mean, look at the Proclamation of Amnesty!

Lincoln’s Ten Percent Plan! 1863, Mister Lincoln drafts up a plan where only ten percent

of those reb scum gotta pledge allegiance, and they’re all back in! Scot free!”

“Now, lemme tell you two things. First of all, that ain’t even Reconstruction yet.

Lee ain’t surrenderin’ for another two years, huh? And second, sure, it was fair, I’ll give

ya that. But it was meant to lull the South into a false sense of security! Get ‘em off their

guard!”

“Fine. You wanna talk Reconstruction? Let’s talk Reconstruction. Let’s start with

good old AJ, who comes into office after Lincoln gets pegged and – hey ho! – lets the reb

bastards off even easier. Take a closer look at the Amnesty Proclamation. Johnson issues

that the same year poor old Lincoln gets it, and it stomps all over everything that great
man stood for. White supremacist? You’re back in power! Led an army to kill Union

troops? Full pardon! Oh ho ho, but if you’re black? Well, don’t even bother hoping for

legislation in your favor, ‘cause good ol’ AJ has that one covered.”

“Hey, now, son. I ain’t likin’ yer tone, and I ain’t likin’ you badmouthin’ a

President of the Yoo-nited States. Now, Mister Johnson had a tough time in office,

y’hear? Why, he faced opposition all over-”

“He faced opposition ‘cause he was a goddamn crazy! A racist wacko! A totally

unlikeable creep! Thank God that Congress had the presence of mind to push him to the

side and finally get some damned reform going. I mean, it sure was overdue. Civil Rights

Act of 1866! First time the ex-slaves are even citizens, for Chrissake. They needed that

act to guard their civil liberties, ‘cause the South damn sure ain’t gonna do it.”

“Once a slave, always a slave, I say! That’s just the North rubbin’ their victory in

our faces! They ain’t givin’ to the blacks, they’re just takin’ from the whites! Why, look at

the 14th goddamn Amendment! Blacks voting! And it ain’t ‘cause of no “civil liberties”

bullshit, it’s cause you sneaky Union cowards knew that they’d vote however you wanted

‘em to if you kept throwing ‘em tidbits. Not only were they voting, but if a state stood up

for its rights and tried to put an end to it, you damn well near cut off their congressional

representation! And that’s right in the goddamned Constitution! Boy, we sure are getting’

of easy, right.”

“We needed that Amendment because anything weaker is something for you

snakes to tear apart! That was the only way to be sure it would stick! And how about the

Freedmen’s Bureau, huh? Johnson stopped that at every turn! Just a charitable goddamn

organization, and it can’t get past that big oaf! Thank God that the Freedmen’s Bureau
Bill snuck by in 1866, or there woulda been nothin’!”

“Hah! And you see what that bill did? Not only did it help your precious blacks,

but whites too! Just handing out goodies to the whites at the bottom of the ladder!”

“And what in the holy hell could be wrong with that?”

“It’s – it’s goddamn propaganda!” Even from his sheltered position, the man on

the ground could hear his adversary sputtering. “It’s tryna’ split whites apart! Divide and

conquer! Worked for the Romans, so why not try it on the white man!”

“Goddamnit, not every gain for a black man is a loss for a white one!”

“Well then who’s it a loss from?”

“How about this for a loss? Radical Reconstruction! The country finally gets its

head together and kicks Johnson’s kooky butt straight out of the whole process! It finally

gets the strong, dynamic, Republican congress it needs to-”

“Hah! Hah! Republican! I heard that! See? It’s all just a political agenda! All of

it!”

“My God in heaven, be quiet for a moment, you damn insufferable screechy

bastard! I’ll blow my own head off if you keep this up!

“Well, maybe that’ll give Reconstruction one accomplishment under its belt…”

“I heard that, you slimy turd. Anyway, with Johnson out of the way, it paved the

way for the biggest news of 1867; I’m talking about the Reconstruction Acts. A

foundation, a plan, on which the entire Reconstruction effort can rely!”

“Yeah, a foundation of martial law. Hey, too bad the Union couldn’t see about

seventy-five years ahead, I know a guy they could’ve gotten some tips from!”

“Don’t even start that. A military presence was the only thing that would stop the
Southerners from behaving like animals long enough to damn well listen and get some

work done, and you know it.”

“You’re callin’ us lazy? You just freed all of our workers, now I wouldn’t say that

we’re the lazy ones. You’re looking for Remus Freed-man, scourge of the Southern way

of life.

“And it’s that kinda thing that the Acts would stop. With a Union general in

control of each military district, it was time for you Southerners to start acting like decent

human beings, whether you want to or not.”

“Decent humans? At least we don’t rub salt in the wound, like with your goddamn

fi-”

“The Fifteenth Amendment! Hah! Exactly where I was going! Right in the

Constitution, a testament to the fact that you can’t trust Johnny Reb to do nothin’ that he

don’t want to unless you force his hand. The fourteenth wasn’t clear enough for you

yokels, so this straightened things up!”

“Yeah? And if it was so important, why’d y’all let it wait till 1869? Take you that

long to stop thinkin’ with your pocketbooks? Actually, don’t answer that – you guys

weren’t thinkin’ at all. That little stunt in 1868? Ring any bells?

“Little stunt? I-”

“Lemme go right along and jog yer mem’ry. 1867, the Tenure of Office Act. A

nice little number, whipped up to take even more control from the president.”

“Oh, so you couldn’t just damn well whisk away a cabinet member without the

senate’s say on it. Well, cry me a river. It’s called democracy, friend.”

“Hey! I ain’t finished yet, you mouthy little flyshit. Now, the Tenure of Office Act
is only mildly unpleasant on its own, but, ladies and gennelmen, I give to you…the

impeachment of Andrew Johnson, 1968! Step right on up, and see the most radical of

raving rabid radical Republicans try to impeach our president! Lookin’ to do away with

the feller on a pretense like that! And just to show how morally rotten the Republican

government was, it nearly passed! Ol’ AJ got through by the skin o’ his damn teeth!”

“A “pretense”? You’re a kook. A complete and utter nut. It’s the goddamn law, not

a goddamn pretense. Jesus, that’s what impeachment’s for, for Godsakes.”

“Oh, get off your high screamin’ horse, you two-faced weasel. It was as close to a

setup as you can get. I mean, it ain’t like he had some woman givin’ him-”

“Okay, you know what? That ain’t even necessary, you know? Alright. Now

where were we? Oh. Hoo boy. Turn of the decade, eh? Boy, things took a turn for the

worse.”

“The worse? Hah! I woulda thought you’da been happy! I mean, yer

opportunistic, meddling carpetbaggin’ buddies are still streaming down into the South,

happy as clams!”

“Opportunistic? Yeah, you know, I guess they were opportunistic. They sure took

a lot of opportunities. Like the opportunity to put some education in the mental cesspool

the rebs called home. And the opportunity to damn well modernize you. Opportunism?

It’s the 19th century! Wake up and smell the smog! It was the factory that was gonna carry

the country. It was modern technology. So what if they made a little cash while doing it?”

“More like “so what if they bled the land and the people dry, like a goddamn

vampire…””

“Oh yeah? And what about the southerners who were tryin’ to do the same.
Goddamn. Thing. Huh? You don’t seem to harsh on them. What was it you rebs called

‘em? Scalawags, that was it! Boy, what an endearing name. Scalawags, born and bred

right in the deep South.”

“Hey, now. At least they were Southern. At least they weren’t try’na change the

way we work, an’ the way we damn well live!”

“That’s funny, I’da thought you’d say the same thing about the first soap salesman

to cross Virginia.”

“Oh, why, you little punk. I’ll getcha for that one. Oh, boy, will I ever. I’d say I’d

shoot you in the heart, but then again, you obviously ain’t got one ta speak of. Just like a

Yankee vampire to joke while half a country is turned on its head.”

“Oh, well, don’t you fret for long. Y’know, I guess I should be careful about

calling Southerners dull. Hell, it seems like every time somethin’ good comes along, you

guys find the most ingenious way to blast it to hell! No more plantations? Fine! Then

why not just sharecrop! Put the blacks back on the farm where they belong! Oh, but don’t

make it to easy. You gotta buy your tools first, buy your seed, purchase your plot (and

watch the interest rate on all that!), and then give a chunk of what you make to the rich,

white planta-er, landowner. And this is all on top of the fact that after the end of the war,

which was if I must remind you a Union goddamn victory, black codes still pop up all

over the South! It’s like goddamn Attack of the Shameless Monsters! Will you people

stop at nothing to continue this petty, racist vendetta?”

“Well, ex-cuse me! I didn’t realize that when you freed the darkies, you damn

well entitled ‘em to leech off the system too! Y’all listen here, ain’t nobody gonna get

handed out nothin’ down South that ain’t deserve it. You work for what you need, and
you work for what you want. Oh, what’s that? It’s harder than slavery ever was? Please

take us’ns back, kind massah, we only wants ta be feeded and sheltered again! We gla’ly

pick all yo’ cotton, sho’nuff! But the only thing that the poor landowner can tell them is

‘If only! If only the North had not torn you from the niche for which you were made! If

only!’ All that th’ black codes’re tryin’ ta do is make things like they useta be. Stable.

Solid. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with that.”

“And I suppose that the fact that black sharecroppers across the South were

systematically run into debt was simply a byproduct of the Northern Devil’s

Reconstruction and Evil Act? It was impossible to, say, pay fair wages or charge fair

prices?”

“Fair’s a tricky thing. What’s fair for one man, well, ‘taint fair fer another.”

“Ah! Racism! Glad you brought that up, because that brings me to the next lurid

chapter in this darkening tale; enter the Ku Klux Klan! Of course, they – oh, for the love

of God. Stop clapping.”

“Men don’t get the recognition they deserve! They were community workers!”

“Oh, they sure worked in the community, alright. Work like carpentry, acting,

pyrotechnics, ballistics study, impromptu surgery…you’re a real bastard. You know that,

friend? A real, true blue bastard.”

“They were freedom fighters. No other red-blooded man would do differently

when his way of life was threatened.”

“Way of life. Way of life. Not life. So why’d they find it necessary to fuckin’ lynch

people, huh? To burn down houses, and run people out of their homes? ‘Cause that

sounds like a goddamn bit more than a threat to a way of life. Sounds like goddamn
terror. Sounds like a goddamn insurrection, is what it sounds like.”

“Well, I guess the North had the same reactionary, heavy-handed mindset that you

do, ‘cause in 1871, they went n’ banned gatherings across the bar. Family picnic? No

sirree, or Mister Union Soldier over there’ll shoot you, and then he’ll give all’a’yer dough

to the firs’ black man he meets on tha street! How’s that fair?”

“It ain’t fair cause it ain’t true. The KKK Act of 1871 prohibited gatherings

designed to intimidate or commit violent acts. So, unless you’re havin’ a lynching picnic,

you’re dead wrong. I swear, sometimes I can’t tell if you’re a liar, or if your brain just

caught a few two many rads out in the wastes. I really cannot tell.”

“Now, son, let’s not throw stones. Yer in a tough position, I can tell. But I respect

ya fer puttin’ up a fight even when you know yer in the wrong. Kinda like that old feller

Grant! Boy, if only the Republicans coulda’ seen the writin’ on th’ wall. But I guess they

just can’t leggo of that dream, eh? Lookit that! 1968, and 1972! Elected and reelected! An

administration that carried scandal like a pig carried stink, but it holds up the

Reconstruction flag, and you Yankees just jump!”

“Just because thing’s ain’t as good as they used to be don’t mean you just let

everything go to hell. Look around yourself right now, friend. Looks like you could do

with learning that.”

“I don’t need no touchy-feely bullshit from you, son. I still got bullets left, an’ I

hope to hell tha’ you do too, ‘cause I really want this one t’be good. Fer you ta go down

quick an’ easy…why, that’d be mighty depressin’ that would.”

“Ugh. Don’t get me started on depression. Boy, we really burst the bubble in

1873. Bad loans, speculators going nuts over anything with rivets in it, economy just
couldn’t take th – alright, why are you laughing now? What, ‘ha ha, Union workers

unemployed, starving to death, ha ha’? South weren’t doing a whole lot better.”

“Heh hah hah! I’m just laughin’ at you! Yer a reg’lar Yankee Doodle!

Pocketbooks take a hit, an’ you’re near to bawling! Hah!”

“Millions lost their jobs! They suffered! My God, the Depression of 1873 crippled

the country so damned bad it derailed the entire Reconstruction movement and…ah. I can

see why you’re laughing now.”

“Damn right you can! Ha! Boy, them Radical Republicans, all fulla whirlwind,

heat, and flash – can’t even set things right when tha whole country starts ta leak money!

No wonder the Congressional ‘lections of 1874 spelled the end for ‘em. ‘f I was there, I

woudn’ta voted for ‘em.”

“Well, hey, they still had a little fight left in them…”

“Oh, you can’t mean that scrawny li’l thing, the…hell, I can’ even recall tha

name!”

“Civil Rights Act. It was the Civil Rights Act of 1875. Asshole.”

“Why, o’course! The Civil Rights Act o’ 1875, and I’m sure I didn’t damn well

hear nothin’ after it. Boy, it sure promised a whole lot, dinnit? Blacks an’ whites legal

equals, no dee-scrimination in public, an’ the blacks can even sue! An’ in a federal court,

no less! Whoo-ee! Too bad them Radical Republicans’d kinda run outa muscle by that

point.

“Yeah. A last-ditch effort at civil rights. One last, mad grab for equality, but of

course the South won’t take it. The North just couldn’t waste resources on your pit for

any longer, and you jumped at the chance to just unmake everything that’d been done.
‘Course any governing body that didn’t have its guns pointed atcher thick goddamn

skulls wouldn’t get one goddamn ounce of goddamn cooperation.”

“Not when cooperation’s tha same as rollin’ over. We had our way, and it was just

the North tryin’ ev’ry damn step o’ tha way to make it into theirs. Well, won’ work.

Y’can’t force half a nation to kowtow when it don’ wanna. An’ lookit that! Yankee army

leaves, an’ lo and behold, things git stable again! A new South, a Solid South, rises up

from the ashes. The Redeemers? Well, they had the brains and the power and they damn

well had the gumption t’fix things right. Fix th’ economy right, an’ fix society right.”

“Yeah, with the blacks at the bottom. How predictable.”

“Some things, some things ‘s just meant ta be.”

“Ugh. And the perfect way to cap off this giant disappointment. The Election of

1876. What a debacle. Three states can’t swallow their goddamn petty quarrels and let

blacks vote, and the entire election get shot right off the tracks. And 1876 turns into 1877,

and there still ain’t no solution. Hell, even after the Compromise, I still say there ain’t no

solution, but I guess I gotta just take what there is.”

“Hah! Now yer learnin’, son. Sometimes, things jus’ gotta happen, an’ there ain’t

no way but one for ‘em to do so.”

“Still hard to believe what the Republicans did, though. Electoral Count Act of

1877…God, that was bad news. There was no way to make it impartial, no matter what

they said. And the end result is that the Republicans get Hayes in office, but by trading

the fate of every black in the goddamn South for it. Hayes pulls the army, and things take

the only course they can. Jim Crow’s the name of the game, and ain’t a man on earth who

could even start to count the number of goddamn bullshit cons they pulled to keep blacks
from casting a vote. Grandfather clause? Please. The Compromise of 1877 should’ve

been called the Pissant Selfish Soul-Selling Underhanded Screwfest of 1877.”

“You seem ta have a whole lotta bitterness, son. ‘Specially for somethin’ that’s,

oh, ‘bout 320 years past.

“Yeah, well…ah, hell with it. Ain’t important.”

“Suitchyerself, boy. Just wondrin’ what makes ya tick the way ya do.”

“Well…look. You know how some people, they couldn’t get to shelter when the

bombs hit? I don’t mean the people who were totally vaporized, but…the ones who just

caught a full on blast of heat and radiation. Turned ‘em into walking corpses. Brains still

worked fine, most of ‘em could even talk, but they looked like ground goddamn

hamburger. Live longer’n us, too. Whole lot longer.”

“Ya mean…Ghouls? Ugh! What about ‘em? Creepy sunsabitches aughta just keep

outta sight of th’ real people. No bis’ness walkin’ around like they’re human. They ain’t.

“Yeah. Well. My parents worked on a caravan. Both’ve ‘em would travel on the

things, along with nearly the entire village. ‘Course, when I was born, they carried me

right with ‘em. Well, I must’ve been somewhere around two years, when we went on a

run to Scraptown. You know Scraptown?”

“’ve been there. Left quick. Ain’t a city kinda guy, m’self. Noticed it was

cleaner’n most, though. Hardly any puke on th’ walls.”

“Yeah. We were bound there for what must’ve been a big-haul trading run. We’d

never go to Scraptown with a small load, ‘cause you gotta cross some pretty nasty turf to

get there. Nasty enough that we didn’t make it through. I guess it was a forward party for

a band of slavers. Nothin’ to do, really. Can’t bribe slavers, that’s just saving them the
trouble of liftin’ the loot from your corpse. So we had to fight. I mean, we had weapons,

of course. But nothin’ that could hold out for long against slavers. Obviously, this is just

what I’ve pieced together over time. Ain’t got no memory of what happened. Everyone I

knew died, that’s for sure. I was left in the middle of the wreckage and corpses. I had

apparently had a loaded gun; some slaver probably gave it to me before ‘e left. Y’know,

as a joke.

“So…y’hate slavery ‘cause of them slavers? Thass…thass a helluva tale, son. I

tell ya, I never heard nothin’ like it ‘n my life.”

“No.”

“…Eh? No what?”

“I don’t hate slavery because of those slavers.”

“Yeah, but, er, I jus’ thought that with yer story, an’ all…”

“I wasn’t finished. Anyways, I was left alone, a dirty, crying, maybe-two-year-old

surrounded by the blood of everyone that I knew. It wouldn’t’ve even been a matter of

hours before the wasteland swallowed me up.

“But, well, yer still here, so, ah…”

“Yeah, I am. I got found. The slavers had ambushed us in front of a ruined

subway station. Once they were gone, the subway’s inhabitants came up to look around.

See if there was anything useful, y’know. Standard wasteland practice. I’m not sure that I

really qualified of useful, but at any rate, a couple of Ghouls took me. And those were my

parents.”

“Gyuh – wha? Ghouls? Yer parents? My God, didja – did they make ya,

y’know…eat people?”
 “What? No! Jesus, no. Look. Ghouls are ugly as sin. This is the truth. What’s also

true is besides that, they’re pretty much normal. Can be saints or assholes. I imagine just

as many Ghouls practice cannibalism as humans. I was raised in the subway, in their

colony. They tend to stay out of the light, mainly ‘cause people tend to have your kind of

reaction. And they tend to express it with guns. They always told me, growing up, that

distrust was just as much a survival mechanism to them as walking. I suppose that ain’t

too different from anywhere else in the wastes, but for Ghouls it was the law. I learned

why when I was 15.

A Paramilitary force had moved in and decided to establish their headquarters

within the ruined apartments that surrounded the subway entrance. These weren’t even

proper soldiers. I mean, technically no one is, except for maybe the Brotherhood, but

these guys were just glorified raiders with delusions of grandeur. But there were a lot of

them, and they had guns, which is all a successful venture requires these days. At any

rate, after they secured, fortified, staked out, entrenched, and done everything short of

pissing on the hydrants aboveground, they moved into the tunnel. Whether it was for

space, or foraging, I dunno.

I guess we never had a chance, in the end. There were a few dozen of us, and a

couple hundred of them. We put up a good enough fight; the entire subway complex was

boobytrapped. Mines were just the start; we had tripwires, pressure pads, deadfalls,

lasers, gas…I mean, we sure as hell ruined a whole bunch of people’s days. But in the

end, there were just too many. One guy gets hit in the neck with a dart coated in

radscorpion venom, the guys behind him ain’t gonna be charging in quite so fast.

There was more fighting when they entered the enclosure which held our colony.
It was pretty brutal. Very close up. My parents had told me to hide somewhere secure;

they said that after the fighting was over, I could claim that I was their captive. I’m not

sure if even they expected me to listen. My armament consisted of two kitchen knives,

and a gun that I was not at all sure had any sort of non-paperweight function.

It did not. So, I was in the middle of it. A scared 15-year-old kid with two kitchen

knives and a broken gun. I mean, I wasn’t totally pathetic. I had nailed a few guys pretty

good. I doubt I killed ‘em, but they didn’t seem inclined to do much besides roll around

when I left. Only reason I wasn’t gunned down in half a second was ‘cause all the tight

networks of debris piles and shanty alleyways let me play hide-and-go-seek for my life.

One of these excursions led me to a vantage point, from which I could see a trio

of raiders. They seemed to know what they were doing, or at least have a better idea than

their comrades. For one, I know I had seen these same guys dragging off raiders who had

better weapons than them in the confusion of the mélee, and returning with those same

weapons. Pretty typical raider behavior, I suppose, but it stuck with me at the time. So, at

any rate, I arrived in time to see them kill my parents. My father had a baseball bat. My

mother had a snub-nose revolver. It unfolded pretty quick. I remember thinking at the

time how the whole scene looked almost as if it was choreographed. Mother fires, first

raider falls, Father swings, catches second raider, third raider fires, second raider falls,

Father falls, Mother fires, third raider thrusts with bayonet, mother rises, mother falls. It’s

probably some kind of defense mechanism. Who knows.

I stayed there until the raiders had left. I wasn’t really angry, or anything. I mean,

I knew at the time that rushing out in a heroic rage would do little more than rob the

raiders of 4 bullets. I buried the dead as best I could, scrounged up the supplies I needed,
and left. I ran into Garraty here a few years down-” The dog barked appreciatively “-and

that’s it. That’s me.”

There was silence, for a while. The man peeked over the edge of the refrigerator.

He could see that the other man was sitting, with his legs splayed out. His gun was still in

his hand, but held loosely. He finally spoke.

“I…yeesh. I mean, yer…wow. Boy. And ya just, y’know, wandered in here,

lookin’ for food? Or, somewhere ta sleep, or wha?”

“All of the above, really. At this point in time, we’re nomads.”

“At this point in time?”

“Mmhmm. We’re nomads, headed for Silicon. When we get there, we’ll stop

being nomads, and start being who in the hell knows what else.”

“Silicon! That’s miles from ‘ere! I mean, like, miles! And miles!”

“There are stops along the way.”

“Yeah, filled with…well, y’know…”

“People like you?”

“Well, fine, yeah.”

“I think we’ll be okay. We’ve handled such situations before.”

The man on the stairs was not stupid, despite any appearance. This last statement

caused him a significant amount of thought. There was another stretch of silence.

“’s a lotta food, I got in there.”

“Yeah, we saw. Boy, is that a lot.” Garraty whimpered in agreement, staring at the

refrigerator.

“Don’ eat a whole lotta it, jus’ sittin’ around here each day…”
 “No, I imagine not.”

More silence.

“P’raps ‘s ‘bout time I left this place. Y’know, change of scenery.”

“This scenery is pretty nice.”

“Yeah, but, y’know, see th’ world.”

“The world is a shithole.”

“Well, yeah, okay, but I’d still like to see it.”

Silence, but more thoughtful this time.

“You said y’were headin’ to Silicon? Big town, right? Lotta egghead kinda types?

Robots? Computers?”

“Sounds like Silicon, from what I’ve heard.”

“Welp!” The man on the stairwell sprung to his feet, still holding his gun. The

man on the ground started and gripped his rifle. “I s’pose we best be a-readyin’!” The

man swaggered straight by his fridgebound housemate, plucked an ancient carrying pack

from a rubbish pile, and began shoveling cans inside.

“W-huh? We? Wha, we what?”

“Well, lookit Mister Smartass plum run outta words! Lemme give it to ya real

clear: I’m goin’ with you folk. Ta…Silicon.”

“Guh?” The man’s face could not decide between a look of relief, disgust,

surprise, or suspicion, so it chose a mixture of the four. He looked as if he had eaten

something foul. “Why? And…you were going to kill me! And rob me! And kill me!”

“Oh, puh-lease. It’s the wasteland. Aintcha never killed nobody? Besides, I don’

wanna kill ya any more! Thass called improving yer station. An’ what I said was true.
Wanna get out, see the world. Shithole ‘r not.”

“Well…maybe I don’t want to travel with you. Maybe I don’t want you to come.”

The stranger stopped gathering cans.

“Well, alright.” He opened his revolver and checked the chamber. “We c’n still

have tha gunfight, I s’pose. I get t’shoot first.” He snapped the revolver together and

aimed it at the man, who had already leveled his rifle. They stood like this for a few

moments.

“Okay. Fine. Let’s go together. Perfect.”

“Well, alright! I knew thatcha’d see th’ logical side of things. Just head on outside,

I gotta grab some things.”

The man looked over from where he leaned towards the building’s doorway. It

swung outward easily. His ex-adversary stepped out, wearing a black leather jacket and a

straw boating hat.

“Yeah, yeah, shuddup. It was all tha’ was in the piles what fit me. Shuddup.”

He shifted the pack on his back with a rattle. The man carried a similar pack, each

one stuffed full of the canned food. In addition to his pistol, the stranger had a long,

double-barreled shotgun slung across his back. They began to walk.

“Y’know, we never did meet, really. M’names Burton. Not Burt, ‘cause Burt

sounds like a fag’s name. Just Burton.”

“Hello, Burton.” The man took the stranger’s hand and shook it. They walked on.

“Um…er, and what ‘bout you?”

“Hmm? What?”
 “Name. Yer name.”

“Oh…I guess I don’t really know it. I mean, I’m sure my parents named me

something, but I don’t remember. And my Mother and Father just called me child.”

The pair continued to walk. There was a signpost, far off in the distance.

“I suppose…there was a time in Rivetway, when a woman called me a name.”

“Oh? Heh ha! Well, wha’ was it, loverboy?”

“Foe.”

“Foe?”

“Foe.”

“That ain’ no real name. Foe. Means enemy. Ain’ no name.”

“Well, I had been hired to blow up their water supply plant. And she knew.”

“Ah.”

“But I didn’t.”

“Ah.”

“I killed the man who hired me. I think he deserved it. He was a real ass. Liked to

shoot kids.”

“Oh, chrisalmighty, kids?!”

“Well, like, baby goats.”

“Ah.”

“But it’s still pretty bad, y’know.”

“Oh, yeah.”

The signpost began to grow larger. The trio walked on.

“Ya can’t be called Foe.”

 “Hey, why the hell not? It’s just as good as any other damn name.”

“Nah, I mean, y’just gotta change it. Y’know, like, fancy it up. Like…Faux.”

“Faux?”

“Yeah. Or, y’know, something thass like it. I dunno, just not Foe.”

“Hmm. Faux.”

“Faux.”

“I think it could work. I’ll work at it, I mean. I am tentatively Faux.”

“Hah! Well, Tentatively Faux, I hope you know where we’re going. ‘cause there’s

a signpost up ahead and I ain’t got the damnedest clue.”

The trio walked on, into the wasteland.