Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The Home of the Enemy

On an island, was the answer to that question, apparently. The Valdivia's led them down a coastal road to a broken-down pier shelter. Patchy slate clouds and dark, choppy waters spanned the distance between where they crouched and the fist-sized island teeming with activity. Rusted metal and greying wood made up the fishery, bay doors hung open like a hungry mouth to take in its victims. Gravel and foot traffic kept most of the island foliage at bay, and if True craned a little they could make out the corner of a storage shed hidden on the other side of the island.

Sheets of pressboard and old tarps had been fastened over the places in the fishery wall where the elements had eaten away the exterior or windows had been smashed out. Someone had spray-painted a fire-red medic symbol over one of the boards and it cast an angry gaze over the only way onto the island; a slipshod construction of recycled wood plastered around the remnants of a concrete bridge that had been washed away.

Who else was watching? There were two patrols circling the island and one stationed on the fishery side of the bridge, but True couldn't tell if there were any more spying out of the upper levels of the fishery itself.

"Used to be a fishing factory," Big Valdivia whispered, "the Reds moved in last summer... come to think of it, we lost a lot of the caravan around that time, too."

"Lost?" True whispered.

Big Valdivia shrugged. "There hasn't been an After Market in this area since those guys arrived. We've been forced to go farther for new supplies, and we knew some people left to join the Faction but the rest? We figured they found greener pastures."

Grim silence settled over the group. True tracked a factioneer's walk across the bridge. They couldn't help but notice how high out of the water the be-barnacled, rotting pillars lofted the main platform. It made their stomach clench. But they'd have to get over it, at least for the minute it would take to get over the bridge. Running a finger over their stitches, they turned away from the shelter.

"Where are you going?" Big Valdivia hissed.

"Across that bridge?" they tried. They hadn't planned farther ahead than that.

"And?"

They threw up their hands, winced at the pull to their stitches. And? It was a stupid idea. And? They weren't thinking clearly. They weren't anything clearly, the world was being filtered to them through bubble wrap and gauze. And? They hadn't come this far to do nothing.

"How are you getting across?" Big Valdivia trailed after them with her hands on her hips, and Radio had abandoned the unspoken shovel's length rule to creep along inside their personal bubble. They nudged it back a couple steps. Personal space was personal space, and they could walk fine on their own now.

"Walking," they said, picking up their boots extra high for emphasis, and also because they were a child, apparently.

"What will you do if you make it to the island?"

Sighing, True stopped and turned to face her. They aimed an imaginary gun at her head.

"Suggestions, from the woman holding all my tools hostage."

"Come to the caravan for the night. We can make a real plan, rest, eat."

"We," they repeated, rocking back on their heels, they narrowed their eyes at her. Great, good, exactly what they wanted, to be around dozens more people. "Last time I tried to warn people it didn't go well."

"This time you have me," Valdivia countered, "the caravan knows me, and they know something fishy is going on around here, they'll listen."

True wanted to argue that Jonesy had known them, too, but the truth was anybody would hear out a civilian or scavenger. True made people uncomfortable, Valdivia didn't.