Roland wanted to get out. Not just from the small and stinky butchery, but out of the Stronghold as a whole. He was ready — enough time had passed after his thirteenth birthday, and his training results spoke for themselves. He swung the cleaver for the hundredth time in five minutes, wondering, dreaming. Who was he, really? Where was he going? Would he ever be a great hero like his father? Around a year ago, Roland realized that he wanted to be a Scavenger and explore the world, to live up to the stories of his father hunting down dragons and monsters that threatened the survivors.
The questions made him pause, the cleaver halfway inside the ribs on the butcher block. He did look like his father. He kept his black hair long like his father, had the same dark eyes and pale skin, even similar face structures. Yet something was missing. A deeper element. Aura? Soul? He wasn't sure, but there was a hole inside of him that desperately begged to contain whatever magic his father employed. He finished with the set of ribs, wishing the cleaver were a sword and the ribs a monster. He could prove himself that way. But the only thing standing in his way was another batch of ribs waiting to be chopped.
A headache slashed his mind. Roland grunted, letting the cleaver clatter on the table. He slammed his back against the wall as the pain rose in a terrible crescendo, a tsunami flooding his every nerve. His vision blurred, turning the gray walls into searing golden light. And then as sudden as the pain started, it vanished, leaving a fading throbbing in his left eye and what sounded like a voice whispering in his ear. Calling to him.
Clings and clangs filtered from the kitchen to the butchery, along with shouts and smoke and heat. Roland panted, one hand on the table. Not the first time sudden headaches struck him in the last year. Stress, he guessed. He picked up the cleaver and returned to work.
Soon he'd be outside the Stronghold, exploring the wild ruins of the world. Soon. If he worked hard, his father said. Just needed to pass the final test. Roland wiped his forehead, pushing his sticking hair back. He swung the cleaver at the next batch, moving away from the messy hit. Today he felt like the butchered pig, lifeless and stored in a metal box, bleeding away.
As he continued chopping, his mind drifted to the years before the end of the world, years he had never lived, carried over only by nostalgic stories. Cars, airplanes, and ships — machines capable of transporting people at unthinkable speeds, just a short twenty years ago. Roland chopped again, sighing. Riding a motorcycle must have been amazing. Roaring through a highway, the wind and the moon unhindered on his face. Free.
"Where are the ribs? I swear, that boy is always up in the clouds. One day he's going to get a rude awakening," a man said from the kitchen. "Should've asked Tod or anyone else." Roland snapped and shook his head, bringing the tray out of the butchery.
Cooks waved plates and cutlery as they moved in and out of the kitchen. Smoke and oil hissed from mismatched and rusty stoves and barbeques. The melody of smells overwhelmed him, from roasted meat and fried vegetables to overpowering fish, oils, and spices. Roland placed the plate over the wooden counter and caught a heated conversation happening at the edge of the kitchen.
"Stupid idiot," a broad man said, his white, wild hair trembling as he shook his head quickly.
"I'm sorry, sir," a teen said, hunching and fidgeting with his apron. The broad man grunted and smacked him with a wooden spoon. "Ow, what was that for?"
"What was that for? You ruined my pudding! A whole cursed pound of sugar is gone to waste! Have you forgotten how hard it is to get even an ounce of sugar? If he weren't a preacher, I would say Richard ought to put you down for that!" The man smacked him again. "I've been waiting an entire year to make this blasted pudding! And you just gone and dropped it. Should've made the priest's kid take care of this. I thought he was dumb, but man, you are dumber than a brick. My dog can do better!"
"Then have your dog do it," the kid said, earning himself another smack of the spoon.
Roland made his way out of the kitchen, head low in case someone needed another favor.
Just as he stepped out, a plank swung toward him. Roland ducked and hissed, the dark wood coming inches from his face as a man crossed the hallway, planks over his shoulder and tools clanging on his hip.
"Sorry, my bad, coming through," the man said and zigzagged between the crowd.
The crowd. Roland grimaced at the number of people piled up in the hallway, all carrying bags and boxes. Men and women and children all chatted and clattered this way and that way: knocking doors, pushing each other, trading smiles. Roland hugged the wall as he made his way to the next door, marked with "Bathroom" in wide, wooden letters above. It was locked, and when Roland knocked, he could hear humming inside.
A redheaded teen sauntered out of the bathroom after a moment, slim and long limbed, almost a caricature of a fox. Tod stopped and glared at Roland.
"Oh shit, the madman finally snapped and killed someone," Tod said. "Who was it, weirdo? Whose blood is on your hands?"
Roland looked at his hands; they were stained with pig blood. "It's pig blood, so maybe it was your cousin," Roland said and pushed Tod out. He slammed the door, resisting the desire to curse that idiot. He took a deep breath as he watched the reddening water swirl over a white porcelain sink, spiraling away. Roland tossed his hair back and looked at the mirror — which was gone. A silhouette of dust and mold marked the gray wall where the mirror should've been, probably taken to be polished for the feast. "Looking good, Roland," he said to the mold.
Tod was still there when he stepped out of the bathroom, and so was Diana. Her red hair cascaded over her shoulders, strangely shiny. She'd slathered it for the occasion. Her round face contrasted her brother's features to the point Roland wondered how they came out of the same factory.
"Oh, shutup, dumbass." Diana kicked Tod's left shin. "Stop it with the stupid names, jerk, or I'll tell Mom what you were doing yesterday."
Tod straightened and squinted; his fox features heightened. "You didn't see anything, you're just bluffing," he accused.
"No, I didn't. We did." She pointed at Roland with her thumb. "I have a witness."
"Oh, so you're gonna tell our mommy and his daddy I did a meanie? Pah, whatever. I don't have time for babies. Got important things to do." Tod stormed away and mingled with the crowd.
"What is it we saw him do? I don't remember," Roland said and crossed his arms, frowning. Keeping up with Tod's misadventures proved impossible. Last thing he remembered, Tod had taken Roland's sword and buried it in the gardens, claiming he buried Roland's dreams there as he stomped over the grave. It was possible he did witness the dude commit an atrocity and just forgot about it. You do not remember how many times you took a breath in a day.
"That was a bluff to mess with him. Still. He would've laughed if he were innocent, but he was afraid of something. Interesting." Diana rubbed her lips in thought, then shrugged. "Probably a problem for mom. Anyway, on to the good stuff. Let's get out of here."
"Out? Don't you have stuff to do?"
"Eh." Diana shrugged. "Mom wants me to clean up my room again, but I don't care, honestly. I need some fresh air. Let's go borrow the keys."
Roland followed Diana across the hallway, stepping aside so two men in battered clothes could squeeze themselves out of the crowd. Two women followed the men with boxes of colored yarn and silks while three kids laughed and ran around the adults. The cacophony of voices echoed over the steel walls.
"Excuse me, excuse me," a man carrying a stack of short planks said as he weaved between the crowd. He bumped a lady, and she cursed him, waving her fan at him in a circular pattern that made her tall hair bob up and down.
"What do you think they're doing with those?" Diana asked. "It's the third batch I've seen today."
Roland shook his head. "Dad hasn't said anything, but I'd guess a stage."
"Oh, I hope it is. I want to dance onstage."
"That would make a nice painting," Roland said. "But don't wear your green dress, I ran out of green and yellow."
"Bah. I want to wear my green dress. Can't you mix some green?"
"Need yellow, like I said. I can't mix miracles."
Two men and a woman dragged sacks down the hallway. People parted to let them pass. Mud stuck to their boots, and the woman had blood smeared on her jacket, half-hidden by her cloak. All of them wore the same green cloak. Scavengers returning from their jobs. Smiles covered their faces, and there was a spring to their steps only those who got to wander the world possessed. They saw something good, and they couldn't wait to bomb the first fool to ask how their trip went. One day, that'll be me. One day. The thought sent chills across his body. Before the Scavengers vanished into the crowd, Roland sneaked one last glance at the swords on their hips and heavy packs on their backs.
Diana pulled him away from staring at the Scavengers, and out of his daydreams. After scurrying among planks and boxes and chickens hanging on sticks, they arrived. The door to Richard's room was the only door made from a single type of wood in the Stronghold. It boasted a cross with a sun in its center, spreading four rays of light that extended perpendicular to the cross. It used to be a symbol for Roland's grandfather's church, and people began to use it in the Stronghold. Under it, a brass plaque that read "Mayor" was nailed. Why mayor? There's never been any mayor but Dad since the world ended, Roland thought. Might as well crown him king. Roland knocked twice, then waited a couple seconds to knock twice again.
"Come in," Richard called.
Black and silver motorcycle pieces rested near and under the glass center table. His father's latest project. A mess of tools accompanied them, hand in hand in a mechanical disarray. Roland looked around the room, scanning the pieces, his eyes trailing to the broken television sitting in a corner and the decayed posters behind it. He made out the vague shape of a giant robot, white and blue. Mismatched shelves sheltered familiar books of all kinds, from fiction to biology to swordplay.
One thing stood out from the rest: the golden sword in a white scabbard that hung over the bed. Pristine, perfect. Solid gold vanished into the scabbard, with hints of curves in its handle. The cross-guard was a bar of golden steel with stylish curves that ended in arched shapes. The round pommel merged into the hilt, covered with black and white ribbons interlaced. The sword of the hero-priest.
"Oh, back at the bike?" Roland wondered.
"Hello, Richard," Diana said at the same time.
Richard sat on his sofa with a set of cogs in his hands, turning them around. His hair was long and black, like Roland's, only set apart by a hint of salt and a strand that covered part of the eyepatch on his left eye. He wore a black tank top that revealed experience-toned muscles.
Richard dropped the cogs at the center table and stretched his arms. "I was just classifying the parts, can't seem to make progress today. What are you up to?"
"We were wondering if we could go outside the walls for a bit," Roland said.
Richard grunted and crossed his arms. "You know the answer is no, right? You're not ready. I've told you a hundred times already."
"But Dad, I practiced and studied extra hard last week," Roland protested. He sighed, hands in pockets. "It's not fair. I need outside experience for the test."
"Life isn't fair. You're not ready, and that's final. There are things out there that could cut you in half with a swipe of their paws. Your durandite control is insufficient, your swordsmanship is lacking, and you scored a seventy-seven on the last test." Richard turned to Diana. "And you, Diana, did even worse on the test. Not to mention your mother would finally kill me if I let you out."
"I could borrow your sword. I'd be fine with it."
Richard laughed. "No, Roland. You can go to the outer gardens, but not one foot out of the Stronghold. Be patient."
Four knocks on the door, a pause, then three more knocks. Scavenger code. Roland perked up and moved away from the center table, watching the door.
"You may enter," Richard said. He straightened his back and tilted his head, and Roland felt his body mimic his father's.
The headache returned. Roland flinched, but his father was thankfully watching the door, and Diana was lost in the motorcycle pieces to notice. He swallowed and let the pain pass, the whispering words singing in his ear. Calling once more.
Two women walked into the room, wearing the typical attire of Scavengers — leather jackets, tall boots, and cloaks of their color of choice. The women chose dark green for both their jackets and cloaks, while their boots and pants were all black. Their faces were heavy, eyes tired. The faint odor of wet clothes and sweat reminded Roland of his dreams of adventure. A sharp reek of fermented meat mixed with trash followed them, dampening the smell of adventure as it smacked Roland. The tallest of the two, Rita, looked at Roland and Diana, smiled faintly, then looked at Richard. Her face became severe. Wild, blonde hair framed her rough face, scars standing out from her tanned skin.
"Sir, on our last expedition to the Highway Marsh, we found something a bit disturbing. Well, honest, a lot disturbing. I really don't think the kids should see this. Sorry," Rita said.
The shorter woman placed the brown bag on the table. Her dark bun bobbed as she did, and a strand of hair pulled free. Blood seeped out of the bag and tainted the glass. She wiped her hands on her cloak and wrinkled her nose. The full blast of the stench hit like a hammer to Roland's nose. He tried his best not to gag, biting his cheeks and swallowing hard. Sickly sweet, like that one skinned pig a couple tried to hide under their bed for a week some months ago. Diana was pale, and she looked at Roland with wide eyes. The stench of death.
"Judging from your faces and the smell, that's a human head," Richard said. He scratched behind his ear and grimaced when Rita nodded. "Dear God." He crossed himself, an involuntary motion Roland knew well. It made him smile despite the awful situation. A fleeting smile. "Kids, you better move along now. You can go to the outer gardens, but not a foot outside, remember."
"Ew, whatever that is stinks. Let's go," Diana said.
"Okay," Roland said. Despite the stench, he was curious about the head and hesitated. "Let's go get my practice sword."