The Mammoth Book of Apocalyptic SF - Mike Ashley [130]
It has been weeks since I saw any new human face. Today's first face belongs to a boy. Standing in the trees between the cold water and me, he looks wild and very happy. Curious about this man and his enormous truck, he lifts his arms, yelling something important. I can't hear a word over the screaming of the engine. Rolling past him, I wave like any friendly neighbor.
He runs after me. And because he is a boy, he picks up a piece of the broken pavement, flinging it into the last trailer.
New houses mark the outskirts of Salvation. Standing back from the river, they are built from packed earth and straw bales, roughly hewn wood and salvaged sheets of random metal. Beauty and elegance don't matter. Being tight in the winter and cool in the summer is what counts. The town grows every year, and this is the look of the ... what's that word? Oh, yeah. The suburbs.
Another mile, and I'm in the original town. The houses here are taller and far prettier than the dirt mounds, and they're 5,000 years fancier. Corkscrew windmills turn on the peaked roofs while solar panels face the cold bright sun, the day's wealth turned into heat and LEDs and electricity stored in banks of refurbished batteries. I can't say what people want with so much juice. How many lamps do you need to read an old book at midnight? But power is power, prestige never changes, and if I can't remember who lives in which house, at least I can be certain that only the best citizens are living behind those insulated front doors.
Salvation has always been Salvation. But the people who built it were different from today's good citizens. Worried about their future, they purchased hundreds of acres of farmland. They created a town square and a host of little businesses and streets filled with efficient, luxurious homes. Being fonvard-looking souls, they powered their world with wind and sunlight. They devised a community and a life style that demanded little from the overpopulated, overheated world. But wealthy people are smugly confident. They will always do what looks smart, and being smart was what killed them. That's why Salvation became a ghost town. But these beautiful homes weren't empty for long, because up in heaven a benevolent God sent His chosen people to a place with that perfect name, and among the blessed were my mother and my father, and me.
In a town that often chews up its own, Butcher Jack is considered a fair trader, a gentleman unencumbered by enemies or old grudges. And he's glad to see me but only because we're friends and because we think the world of each other. After the usual greetings and handshakes, he turns quiet, throwing a sour look at the truck and trailers loaded high with sweet wild meat.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing you've done."
I can't guess what he means.
"It's the Martin brothers," he begins.
Identical twins, the Martins are a few years older than me, prone to drinking homemade whiskey and starting fights with whoever is closest. They were barely men when they were shunned, and when their behaviors didn't change the mayor took the unusual step of forcing them out of town. The brothers live on the National Guard base several days' west, sharing at least four wives and a platoon of kids who call both of them "Dad". Why that clan means anything to me is a mystery, right up until Jack admits, "They just brought in a load of cured buffalo and wild cattle."
"Since when do they share?"
"Since this winter. Too many bored kids underfoot, too much energy causing mischief. They figured it was time to put the crew to work, maybe barter for toys and the like."
"But how's their meat?"
He answers my question with a hard stare.
"Do they match my stuff?" I ask.
"No, and that's why you'll always have customers, Noah. Least as far as I'm concerned."
Why doesn't this feel like good news?
"Drunks or not, the Martins did a respectable job. Not the flavor you manage, and the meat demands chewing. But people are pretty satisfied."
"How much did they bring?"
Jack considers