I run to a clearing, away from the larger trees, and drop quickly to my knees. I place my palms on the earth to brace myself as the ground shakes. Ash, dirt, and few rocks roll down the hill, but nothing substantial hits me as I wait out the quake.
A tree limb falls a few feet away from me, toppling end over end before coming to a stop, and the ground stops shaking. I stay where I am for a few minutes, waiting to see if another shockwave will come through the area, but the land is silent. I stand, brush myself off, and continue my trek toward town.
The last earthquake was just two days ago though no more violent than this one. Before that, the quakes were coming more than a week apart. Those who like to speculate say that the worst of it is finally coming to an end, but I bet they keep quiet about it for a while now.
The remainder of my journey is long but uneventful. Whatever other thieves are out and about tonight, they don’t appear to be in my territory. Maybe they have learned their lesson, maybe not. I don’t care as long as they stay out of my way.
The trail widens and becomes steeper when I approach the edge of the tree line. As I emerge from the dark forest, the ground flattens out, and the temperature drops slightly. I shiver as I grasp the edges
of my coat and pull it tighter around me. Hundreds of tree stumps cover the area between the forest and the road, a testament to the need for fuel. To the north, a winding river trickles by, the water gurgling over the rocks. In the distance, over the second mountain range, a dim circle on the horizon attempts to break through the thick, ashy clouds but offers only meager, blue-grey light. The obscured orb marks the morning, though its warmth makes little difference, and its light is barely enough to navigate by.
Along the edge of the main street, large bales of discarded plastic are stacked in lopsided, ash-covered pyramids. Rectangular openings surrounded by smashed, green soda bottles and milk jugs, covered with sheets of plastic grocery sacks form the front doors of each abode, giving meaning to the area’s nickname—Plastictown. Residents stumble out of their makeshift plastic homes, rubbing their eyes and coughing as the breeze tosses ash into the air around them. I walk between the rows of homes and through the debris-covered streets of Plastictown to the marketplace on the edge of the settlement, keeping an eye on the skyline of rubble on the other side of the river.
Decades ago, these were the warehouses, office buildings, and homes of a good-sized city. After the Great Eruption, everything west of the mountains was completely razed and covered in ash. Very few people survived, I’m told. In the valley, the buildings fell as the ground shook, but more people made it out alive. Now, destroyed bricks and steel girders lie in huge, unstable piles. People used to try to make shelter in them, but everyone who did ended up crushed the next time an earthquake hit. These days, everyone sticks to plastic homes in the open areas on the edge of town where they are less likely to be smashed when a shockwave charges through the area.
Overhead, clouds of ash cover the sky, blocking the sun and making food scarce. No apple trees bear fruit here, and the few crops that survive the cool summers produce minimal food. Though minimal is still better than nothing, the land around the line of small towns running through the north-south valley barely produces enough to provide for the meager population.
I pause as I reach the edge of the market, brush powder from my clothes, and adjust my pack. People mill about, dressed in drab, grey or brown clothing, and most have their mouths and noses covered with a scarf or bandana to keep the volcanic ash from their lungs. Their clothes match the color of the sky and the dim light that shines from above. The thick ash clouds mask most colors from their brighter hues.
I’m tired and cold but in good spirits as I go around the corner. I’m hit with a strong fishy odor as I make my first stop of the day—Milinder’s fish cart.
Milinder kneels on the ground as she stocks her cart with her early morning catch. Her long, grey ponytail hangs most of the way down her back, and her wrinkled face further creases with a frown as she stares at the fish.
“Good morning, madam!” I say, bowing slightly. I reach my hand into my bag and produce one of the bottles I obtained from the kitchen cabinet. “Does this belong to you?”
She beams up at me, shaking her head slowly as I hold out the bottle of vinegar. She pushes herself up from the ground, knees creaking, and dusts off her threadbare dress. She reaches for the bottle, examining it closely.
“This is good stuff,” Milinder says. “Expensive, I think.”
“Wouldn’t know, madam.” I bow again. “I just try to return things that I find to their proper owners.”
“Proper owners,” she mutters under her breath. “Sit down for breakfast, at least. You deserve something for your efforts.”
“Can’t stay,” I tell her. “I have a few other items from lost and found to deliver.”
I wink, and she chuckles softly.
“Take this with you, then.”
She hands me a piece of sweetbread wrapped in a cloth. I unwrap it and hand the cloth back to her before departing.
I continue down the brick roadway lined with carts and booths, devouring the sweetbread as I go. It’s dry but tasty, and I welcome the nourishment it provides. To my left and right, haggard merchants display meager wares on chipped wooden tables, inside dirty baskets, and on top of stained quilts. Beggars lean against each other for warmth, holding out cups as I walk by, but I have no coins from today’s hunt.
Many people stare at me as I go by. I tell myself they do that because they know who I am, not because I look stronger and healthier than the average Naught. Some of them watch me with wide eyes full of reverence and some with fear. A few of them smile and wave at me. I return the gesture as I go by.
Samuel, the glass and pottery merchant, is my next stop. I offer him the bottle of glue from my pack, and he rewards me with two small, glass bottles he’s equipped with hooks so they fit on my belt.
“These are perfect,” I tell him as I attach them to my belt. “They’ll hold liquids, right?”
“Perfect for scotch, if you ever find any.” He laughs loudly, his whole body shaking as he holds his belly.
“Hell yeah!” I grin. “You need anything else?”
“Not at the moment,” Samuel says, “but you might want to ask Elihu. He said something about needing a new tool for his leather making.”
“I’ll check with him.” I shake Samuel’s hand before continuing down the bricks.
More people are beginning to gather as the morning progresses, hurrying along to keep warm as they get their tasks done. Merchants finish setting up their tables and begin to call out to the forming crowd, letting everyone know what they have to offer.