Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Gravedigger and the Boot

True Gallows dug graves. It was their way of paying respect to the dead bodies they robbed, and it helped to relieve the overall rotting-ness of the ruined prairie cities they scavenged in. They enjoyed the labour, as much as anyone could enjoy that kind of labour. Robbing bodies, digging graves. It was honest work. Sort of. Kept them fit, kept them fed. They had gotten good at it. Efficient.

Plus, whenever a warm body slinked up to them in the waning hours of the After Market, they made sure to pull down their tattered blue bandana and let everyone get a good eyeful of the canyon splitting their face from tooth to eye. That shut down all but the most determined slinkers, and True wasted no time telling those ones that held on to fuck off. They preferred to be left alone. It was dangerous living in the post-apocalyptic world. Not a single person out there wouldn't backstab or throat-slit for a chance at a half-decent meal, including True Gallows.

They patted the final clods of dirt onto a mound. Second of the day. Straightening, they stretched sore muscles, and squinted at the deep evening sky. They'd had a late start. One more grave would push them into dark hours, and they didn't like travelling when the cold moon hid their enemies from them. On the other hand, the first two corpses hadn't yielded a satisfactory harvest. They clipped their shovel to their pack. They knew better than to check their harvest out in the open, where greed might embolden some lurker to make a grab for it. It was no matter, though, they could picture every bit of loot nestled deep in their pack: A handful of cheap costume jewelry, sure to turn some travelling performer's neck green; surprisingly unrotted teeth pulled from the slack jaw of a blue corpse; and even dentures from the decrepit old lady they'd just buried. The dentures were a real prize. Almost enough to make up for how terrible the rest of the scavenge had gone.

They sniffled, and a foul expression crumpled their face. It was bad enough they had a crater for a nose, it had to be leaky too. Fucking allergies.

They turned their back on the graves and stomped away towards the street. Best not risk losing daylight to a third grave or drawing the crazies out with a pyre this late. They could stand a couple lean nights. It was nothing new.

The shadows were already growing long, the dark's occupants slinking out of hidey holes with milky eyes and mildewed skin. When the sun set, the cities became hunting grounds for the night creatures, and only the incredibly stupid set foot on the crumbled asphalt with them. Nothing made True's skin crawl quite like those creepy crawly denizens of the dark. Sure, they stole from dead people, but they never ate anyone.

They clomped down the road obnoxiously loud. Couldn't sneak half as well as the Shadow Dwellers, puffing up all loud and scary was the next best option. They considered pulling down their bandana, but the Shadow Dwellers were all so ugly on their own they'd probably mistake True for one of them.

The sky deepened from rust orange to bruise purple. Stars began to twinkle warnings above the decomposing city. True vaguely remembered a time when streetlights blotted out the stars. A lifetime ago, before all the people erecting and operating and paying for the lights died or went nuts.

"You're out late."

Speaking of nuts.

"You're out early," True said back, watching the Shadow Dweller out of the corner of their eye. They swept the surrounding debris, keyed up and ready to bolt at the first sign of motion. A single dweller wasn't unmanageable, but dwellers tended to travel in packs.

Nothing yet. Back to the shadow dweller trailing after them. Pale, wiry, small. Eyes gleaming with malice and hunger. It wasn't dressed that different from True; an oversized coat with more pocket than empty space, long pants, heavy boots. True wore a dark blue wool sash cinched around their waist, and the bandana over their face, of course, but they thought the bigger difference was the way the Dweller held itself. Hunched over, so its knobby spine poked up beneath its coat.

They wondered if it was doing that on purpose, or if its body was halfway through a slow and morbid death. A bug curling up on itself. Harrowing sorts of diseases thrived in the shadow communities. Brutal things that ate its victims away from the inside, scraping at their brains the way they scraped at the brains of the people they cannibalized. Some called it retribution. True called it creepy. And dangerous, the sick ones were a hell of a lot wilder.

More hints at sickness clung to the Dweller. It was a deep-cave-creature shade of pale compared to True's sun-cooked brown. Its hair was tangled with the rot that stuck to the bottom of ditches and True's, while slick with grease, was at least brushed and sort of cut. As much cut as a rusty pair of garden shears could get it. They'd given their ears a wide berth, wary of the clumsy heavy blades, but they'd been determined to do it. Shorter hair was easier to deal with. Harder to grab fistfuls of, didn't flop in the way as much. Clearer something the bug-shadow dweller loping along after them hadn't figured out.

"Dangerous, wandering all alone at night," the Dweller harried. It had to leap every few steps to keep up with True's quick gait. Snot trickled down the dweller's chin. True had heard tales of one sickness dissolving the brain until it sloughed out the nose, but they found a more accurate tell was the way the Dweller's eyes juddered, dizzying and uncontrollable.

"Dangerous," True repeated, their lisp clinging to the end of the word. The Shadow Dweller snickered.

"Can't even talk proper."

The carabiner clicked as True unclipped the shovel from their pack. Step—pivot—crunch. They swung the shovel straight into the Dweller's face. It crumpled like a marionette with snipped strings and True turned back to the road. Didn't stop to check whether it was dead. If it was, boohoo. If it wasn't, then joyous day: True hadn't taken any further strides into serial killer territory. That was enough of that.

Flp. They froze, midstep. Murderous annoyance darkened their face. They took another testy step.

Sk-flp. Something slapped the bottom of their foot. Glaring down at the offending boot, they lifted it. The sole flopped down towards the dirt, that pivot had been the last straw for the twine they'd tied their boot together with. Now the sad rubber sole clung on by a heel. Scrunching up their face, they flipped their useless boot the bird.

As the moon climbed higher in the evening sky, they set off again, sk-flping down the highway.