Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The False Market

Okay, what else?

Not dead, check.

In a strange place, check.

They sat up—ow.

Sore everywhere, check. A ragged line on their stomach glowed an angry pink. A phantom shifted in their empty eye socket, scratching the inside of the lid. They picked at a strand of hair that had gotten coiled inside and popped a wad out. Pleasant, they grimaced, holding up the slimy ball. Eight tiny eyes glittered back at them. With a curse, they flung the spider away. It hit the wall with a thok and skittered into the shadows. Shuddering, they scrubbed their empty socket with their sleeve.

"I can't believe you let a spider live in my eye," they grumbled. The gargoyle unfolded its legs. "A spider. Alive. Living in my eye."

The gargoyle threw its arms around them, pressed its face into the crook of their neck. Their pulse thrummed on its cheek. It was a lot of touching for that soon after waking up.

They folded it into themself.

"Okay, alright, I'm not dead, big deal." They gave Radio one last squeeze before pulling away.

A spot of wavering light backlit the water-stained sheet hung over the entryway. It grew, leaking over the debris-littered floor until Big Valdivia ducked into the room. The stubby tallow candle cast her face in soft relief, shadows dancing over the planes of her face and flame glimmering in her red-rimmed eyes. She stalled in the doorway when she saw them, rocking back on her heels with a sharp breath.

Hm, well, look at that. Hate felt cold when it burned that bright.

Hand curling tighter on the sheet, Big Valdivia landed on flat feet and walked in. The candle flame wobbled hard as she set it on a warped table that had been shoved into the corner, next to an empty prescription bottle.

"I was beginning to worry that we'd have to lock both you two in a saferoom, you've been out for a week and it won't get more than ten feet from you."

A week? They pressed the back of their hand to their lips, against the knot twisting into their stomach. It was too early to be retching, and it was way too early for an anxiety attack. They had never lost time like that, not even in the before world. Anything could have happened.

Testing their legs, they pried themself off the disintegrating spring mattress. A rush of static blotted out their vision and threatened to wash their limbs down the drain. Radio pressed a supportive hand to their back. They waved it off. They could walk, they just needed a moment. With a slow exhale out the nose, the light-headedness passed.

They were mostly intact. Horrifically sore, like they'd been hit by a train once or twice, but considering reality they couldn't be surprised. They hobbled to the table. Standing up, walking, moving in general, pulled at the tender patch in their side and sent their brain into a dizzy spiral. But they could do it. They rested their weight on the table, glancing over its contents.

A dozen terrible bundles of plastic and metal laid in four neat groups along the back of the table. Scraps and rusted tools and little makeshift dishes holding the remnants of stuff True couldn't even begin to guess at were scattered along the edges. The mess had been pushed to the sides to make room for hand-sketched maps of a building, graphite traced over fragile ancient paper, pages of bullet-listed instructions on the backs of browning receipts. They recognized the handwriting. Picking up a scrap, they held it closer to the light.

Flammable materials said Radio from the crumbling paper.

"We're burning them," they approved.