A short figure cloaked in rags, animal skin, and leather mounted the craggy hill made of concrete and rebar. The skies overhead were barely lit, indicating it was daytime (or at least, the equivalent to that). It had only been three years since Her arrival, the ash and dust from Her rampage still blanketed the atmosphere, so this was all the natural light anyone on Earth would get. Nowhere near enough sunlight for most plants, and the surface of the planet was frozen solid. It remained a frigid -5C in July in the remnants of the city once called Phoenix. The figure could remember before She came when the city would routinely exceed 40C to no fanfare. Now, the last of humanity resided underground, in precariously maintained shelters and natural caverns. This is needed not just for warmth, but for protection from the toxic ash, as its sulfuric contents will burn out even the sturdiest lungs after a while. The figure on top of the rubble got around this by wearing a gas mask, though this too was risky. Gas masks are rather rare, and having a functioning one indicates you are a person of means. This makes one a target of the many humans without means.
It was humans that the masked figure was watching for. They had been scavenging all day for some very specific supplies. While not valuable to most others, their community needed what they had found. Bandits, cultists, rival shelters, and cannibals all roamed out here, looking for easy prey. No matter what they were carrying, others will attack them if they have the opportunity. Armed with a long rifle, the figure gingerly placed their bag over the concrete and scanned the horizon. The entrance to their shelter, an unassuming manhole cover, was only 1000 feet from them. Once they climb in, it’s 4500 more feet through a booby-trapped sewer to safety. But just as the figure began to move out, they saw a brown smudge dart in and out of their peripheral. Presenting their rifle, they disengaged the safety and scanned closer. A whooshing sound forced them to slam to the ground out of training instincts. They looked behind them to see a javelin embed itself in a piece of rotting wood. The figure listened, counting at least 8 sets of footsteps, all shouting, apparently giving up their stealthy approach. Guessing that they couldn’t run away, the figure sighed, thought of the people back home, and mounted the rifle on top of the concrete barrier in front of them.
Pop. Pop. Pop. Pop. Instantly, four humans, all clad in tattered rags and rotten cloth and armed with clubs and shanks, fell to the figure’s gunshots. Some writhed on the ground for a while, some died instantly. The figure took no time to feel guilty, and focused on another group to their left, three more running in zig-zags toward their position. Pop. Pop-pop. Pop. The second group fell in succession, spending their last moments gazing up at the ashen sky. The figure did not relax, still scanning for stragglers, when they felt a strong arm push them over to their back. A man, scrawny and haggard, holding a spade towered above them. He held the spade up above his head, aiming for the figure’s chest. The figure tensed, ready to feel the release of death, when they suddenly heard a whizzing, and saw the man’s head burst like a grape. Blood gushed from his neck, painting the figure’s gas mask red, as a bullet from far away ended his meager existence. The scavenger stayed still, hearing a new set of footsteps, unsure whether it belonged to friend or foe. Soon, they heard a knocking: three raps on the concrete where the rifle was, then two hits on rebar, then two hits on concrete. The masked figure shot up, recognizing the “I’m friendly” signal from their tribe. They reciprocated, seeing another figure cloaked in leather and wearing a gas mask, holding a sniper rifle. The other eyed the bag of supplies, gazed at the scavenger, then silently motioned for them to follow. The scavenger sped away, more confident now that they had an escort. They approached the manhole and entered, crawling through rickety tunnels and concrete pipes to the massive bunker that the two called home.
Once the two were a few thousand feet in, the escort stopped. They took their gas mask off, ready to converse with the scavenger. The escort, a male with buzzed black hair and a scar under his chin, spoke to the shorter figure, "You are, beyond any doubt, the luckiest scavenger alive, Bridget.”
The scavenger took off their gas mask, the woman underneath wearing a scowl, “Unluckiest. Those fuckers tracked me four miles. Thought I shook them, but I guess they’re getting smarter. I swear, one of these days they’re gonna find the bunker.”
The man nodded, solemnly agreeing with her prediction, “We need to be ready. But maybe people will be friendlier when they see what happened down here?”
“I wish I shared your optimism,” Bridget said bluntly. The two continued the trek home, arriving at a set of massive steel doors, a man in a military uniform standing next to a control panel. “Bridget, you find it?” the guard asked. “Come on in, show Theresa!” He spoke a codeword on the panel’s intercom. The doors slowly swung open, making a screeching sound as they did, and the scavengers walked into their home.
The bunker was as spartan as one would expect. Concrete covered every wall and floor. Metal reinforcements kept the structure from failing when the giant woman crushed the metropolis above. Meant as a shelter for government officials to survive nuclear war, it was just about the best option for living in the new world. Most everyone here had some connection to the federal government before said entity was dust under Her feet: Aaron, the man in front of Bridget, was a sergeant in the Army, for instance. And Theresa, the elected leader of the bunker, was Deputy Secretary of Energy in President Farris’s administration. Wonder if the president lived, Bridget thought. Wouldn’t mind if she didn’t, honestly. That woman had such a hard on against social welfare. For herself, Bridget got in through her connections with the VLA, and from describing what it was like being the first person to see the woman who ended everything. She was put to work like everyone else, but her story garnered her some extra respect among the survivors. Her survival skills and crack-shot accuracy didn’t hurt her reputation, either.
That respect is why she was selected for this scavenging mission, and why she will be the one to present the contents of her heavy bag to the elder stateswoman. Theresa was tall and thin, with a shrewd gaze that seemed to cut through a person’s defenses. Bridget always had to prepare herself before interacting with her, as her hazel eyes stun the scavenger whenever she looks at her. The leader was standing by the medical bay, exactly where she was three days ago when Bridget left on her quest. “Bridget, we’re glad you’re safe.” Her delivery was muted, as it often was, but there was genuine relief in there, too. Bridget nodded once, “Me too. Better thank Aaron for that, ma’am. Without him I’d’ve been killed by outsiders just a mile from home.”
Theresa’s eyes glanced towards the floor, “Those crazies are getting more and more bold every day. Cultists? Or cannibals?”
“Cannibals, most likely, ma’am. No one shouting about sacrificing me to the Great Goddess, or anything.”
“Alright,” Theresa sighed. “Given the choice, I’ll take the cannibals. At least they’re the kind of crazy that makes them stupid and disorganized. We’ll keep a closer eye out there. On to other news, did you find it?”
Bridget gave another curt nod, “Yeah. Intel was right, the backup power was still keeping the fridges running. Found a few boxes full of it, all unopened and unexpired. Should be about three year’s worth in the bag. Some of the data servers there were intact. Got a recipe, but don’t know if we can make it. I’m not a biologist.”
Theresa smiled, “Good enough. We’ve got three years to sort production out. You’re a goddamn hero, Bridget. You deserve to be the one to tell her.”
Bridget was startled, “M-me? Ma’am are you sure you shouldn’t? Or maybe Dr. Nguyen? Someone more eloquent?”
“No. I don’t want some speech. In fact, don’t even try, just give the stuff to her. Her reaction is all anyone will need. We may all feel real hope, for once.”
Bridget paused, taking in the responsibility. She grabbed the bag, and slowly entered the medical ward. The place was crowded, not with patients, but with spectators. All centered around one woman, clad in a dark green gown, holding a little baby in her arms, the infant quiet and emaciated. The mother looked up at Bridget, her eyes betraying a vulnerable mixture of worry, fear, and unshakable love for her newborn daughter. Bridget opened the bag and took out a vial of insulin. The mother, and all the spectators, laughed and cried at the sight of it. This baby was a miracle: no one could carry a child to term before her. Her birth was cause for celebration a month ago, but Dr. Nguyen had little insulin stocked, and the girl would die without it. Now, real, genuine joy emanated from the cluster of survivors. Aaron came up next to Bridget, tears streaming down his face as he lost himself in the hopefulness. The former physicist patted him on the back, finding herself moved in a way she thought she’d never experience again after that fateful night in New Mexico.
And for the first time in three years, Bridget smiled.