Milo glares at me, hands on his hips, and taps his foot on the ground. A moment later he sighs.
“I suppose we owe you more than enough favors,” he finally says, “but I’ll not have dinner ruined. Jon, I’ll bring dinner here, and we can share it with Ava.”
“That would be perfect,” I say. “I’m sure she’d enjoy some friendly faces. Thank you.”
“We’ll be the talk of the town,” Jonny says as he elbows Milo in the shoulder. “People will think we switched sides!”
“Ought to create quite the scandal,” Milo says with a laugh. “Threesome with the gay guys. The news will make it across the river!”
“You tempted?” Jonny raises an eyebrow.
“Not in the slightest,” Milo says. “She doesn’t have the right equipment, and you’re more than enough for me to handle.”
They kiss briefly before Milo heads back to retrieve dinner.
“Thanks, Jonny.” I reach out to take his hand. “I appreciate it.”
With a nod, I head away from the tent area and make my way to the other side of Platterston.
The west and east sides of the valley are separated by a shallow, snaking river. It flows sluggishly along, the greyish, ashy water slipping around the river rocks and slapping against the scrubby brush along the banks.
The two local bridges—aptly named Northbridge and Southbridge—are little more than piles of rocks stacked high enough for people to avoid getting wet, along with a rope strung across the water for travelers to hold onto as they cross. Partway across are two posts pounded into the river bottom to attach the ropes and give a little more stability. Once there was a third post, but it was washed away during a spring rain. The two river crossings allow the people of Plastictown to move from one side of the valley to the other for trade and work.
I sit beside the riverbank, concealed by a group of ash-covered rocks, and wait for the evening foot traffic to die down. The number of people crossing the river dwindles as the hour grows late, but I don’t want to risk being seen. My face is too well known on the west side, and I don’t want anyone to see me cross to the east. Once the bridge is empty, I quickly and carefully traverse the rocky path of Northbridge and hide myself for a few minutes between piles of discarded plastic on the east side of the riverbank. I doubt I need the added touch of security, but the sky is still light enough to be seen, and I don’t take chances.
The smell of burned plastic is nearly overwhelming this close to the factory, and I adjust my scarf in hope of blocking out the odor. It doesn’t work. I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment as the fumes sting them. I clear my throat, open my eyes, and move closer.
I lean against the plastic pile and take out each of my daggers, carefully sharpening them both while I wait for nightfall in the shadow of a large warehouse, constructed of both plastic and concrete made from volcanic ash.
My body is tense. Every muscle is tight. I know the calm will come—it always does—but for now, all I can do is run the whetstone over my blades and imagine what they will do when they penetrate flesh. Images of warm, red liquid fill my mind.
I blink a few times and then stare up at the warehouse. It’s the home of Modern Plasticworks, which is the only local business where someone can earn real wages for very difficult, tedious work. Harley Junes is the owner, and the Junes family is the closest thing Plastictown has to wealth. Harley’s brother Greyson is Ava’s landlord.
As the only industrial workplace in the area, the locals refer to Modern Plasticworks as “The Plant.” They spend long days working in the heat and humidity as they first crush plastic into bales and then heat the bales until they melt together and solidify. Those who work there for a long time develop a deep and distinctive cough from inhaling the fumes all day, and they know they run the risk of accidental death from falling bales of plastic refuse. Still, the jobs there are highly coveted. As soon as an opening on the thirty-person crew is disclosed, people begin to line up at the door, begging for employment.
Little do they know that by tomorrow, the crew will be down to twenty-nine, and I wonder how long it will be before people realize a job is available. Does Harley Junes hire a replacement as soon as a worker is late to work? I wouldn’t be surprised if he did. In my experience, people don’t tend to make money by being understanding.
I have more experience regarding that topic than I care to admit.
The sun begins to set, and the usual blue-grey light of day fades to the grey-black of night. Once it’s dark enough, I slip my knives into their sheaths, pick up my pack, and follow the main road past the warehouse to the town square. During the day, this area would be filled with merchants and their carts, but it is empty and quiet now. The only noise comes from a short building made of plastic bales on the far side of the square. A half-rotten piece of wood paneling sits to one side of the opening, though it’s clear it can be used as a door. In the middle of the paneling is a painted cup, signifying the building as a tavern. Over the cup in white, scrawled letters is the name “Alexander’s,” though very few in this area would be able to read it.
Literacy in a Naught community isn’t completely unheard of but still quite rare. When people have to spend all their time just providing for their own basic needs, reading and writing simply aren’t a priority. As a generation passed, literacy diminished. Teachers became nonexistent, and reading became an extravagance. Thaves can read and pride themselves on it. They have the luxuries of time and resources.
I head to the door and peer through.
Inside the tavern, the bulk of the plastic workers spend their weekly wages on wine made from dandelions and h
oneysuckle. A grim faced, dark-skinned man behind the bar eyes me. I don’t frequent this side of the river, so my face isn’t known around here, and everyone is wary of strangers. He watches me as I walk up to the bar to order.
“Which do you prefer?” I point to the two casks of wine behind the bartender.
“I don’t give a shit,” he replies as he glares at me.
“All right, then.” I nod to the cask on the left. “I guess I’ll try that one.”
“Money only,” he says. “I don’t need any fucking services as barter.”
I slide a coin across the table, and he eyes it before pouring the wine into a clay mug and shoving it across the bar.