First Writing Prize Winner –
Winter 2018 – 2019
is
FLETCHER COBB
of Bluffdale, UTAH – USA
DAILY LIFE OF A SURVIVOR
“Finn! Where were you? I was worried as a radswine!”
“I was out scavenging, Mom,” I said as I casually walked into our burrow, ducking to avoid the low ceiling “I found something interesting this time!” I had, in fact, been scavenging the wreck of White Ridge. I was in terrible condition from the apocalypse, way worse than Cornealious, the city we used to be living and searching in. We had to migrate here because there was an ever-dwindling amount of supplies to loot. White Ridge had been hit undeviatingly by the nuclear warheads, or as my mother refers to it, “The rain ended everything.”
I am Finn, what you could call a survivor. It has been fifteen years since the bombs fell and I have been around for fourteen of them. Originally my mother and father survived the blast by being fortuitously deep within the Timpanogos Cave when death came on the other side of the valley. My father lived for one year in the irradiated badlands. Soon after my mother’s impregnation, he died to a dangerously mutated reptile resembling a dragon that has later been known as the Scorch Beast. After that, my mom and I have come to scavenge around the valley living off of what measly morsels we could find, fighting mutated monsters, and living in piles of rubble.
“If you found a rock that makes you feel funny, it is dangerously radioactive, and I’m not interested. Last time I was sick for weeks,” my mother reminded. I ignored her, that was six years ago.
“I found two things, a gargantuan mutated beast that was almost five feet tall and had some cutthroat claws. Those vexatious squirrels, I had to chop off three of its six heads before it stopped yapping.” I proclaimed as I yanked the claws and meat out of my rucksack.
“Well bring it here so I can see it, Finn. We might even have some excess meat to bait some other ones.”
“You and I both know they aren’t cannibals,” I said then added, “Though, on second thought, it might draw in some radswine. The second item is much more entrancing.”
“Well, what is it? my mom asked impatiently “I hope it could bring in at least as many lids as the mutated squirrel claws.” That’s the way my mom is, always hoping to bring in some money. Now that I think about it, those claws were fine specimens maybe bringing in twelve lids if we didn’t use them as weapons first. Oh, you probably don’t know about a lid’s value. Lids are our currency, 50 lids are worth about a troy ounce of gold ($1,330), which stayed standard due to no more functional gold mines nor ways to communicate about the demand of gold. People only give it any value because it’s nostalgic. For smaller transactions, people trade anything, usually food or metals. There are some people who survived by trading gold for supplies. Then selling them when more people want them, earning thousands of lids.
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“I don’t know yet, Mother, I found a metal case that was heavy and did seem noteworthy,” I said as charismatically as I could hoping to get her interested in something besides her whittling. She was always whittled to sell at the Rice-Eccles Marketplace, a repurposed football stadium turned to major trading center that trades with canned food lids.
“Sounds interesting, pull it out.” Mother promptly commanded.
Knowing I had her hooked I pulled the dark box out of my rucksack with a flourish. It was a textured rectangular coffer with gleaming sides and a symbol etched in the back. Because I always scavenged for goodies at night I could only now see that on it was a lock. Not one those flimsy locks with a spinning wheel in the middle and clicks when you do turn right, but a solid lock with a key made from a strong metal. This will be a tough nut to crack. Or, it would be if I couldn’t pick a lock.
After seven of my best bobby pins and three hours (IT turns out it was a little harder than expected), I was able to pop the lock. In the box was a…tube. After closer examination, I found out it was a fusion pod!
I guess I should tell you about the fusion pods. America ran out of oil and other natural resources, so they tried to develop power from miniature pods that have contained nuclear fusion, or Fusion Pods. They worked so well a single pod could power a large skyscraper for a week (They were about as big as a boot). China wanted some of the energy from them, so they cashed in the USA’s debt.
It worked out well until the pods went unstable and started to blow. China thought it was a stealth attack or some sorts, so they started firing back and after about eight years it escalated into full out nuclear war.
Before those years, it was mainly lots of small battles all over the globe and it was known as World War Four (WWIV). At the time, there was soldiers and trench warfare.
“What’s that, Finn?” My mother walked in and found that I had cracked the safe. “Well, what is it?”
“It’s a fusion pod, from the box.”
“I guess we should pawn it off a the Eccles-Marketplace.”
“I don’t know, we might want to keep it if we can find something for it.”
“What would we use it for?” my mother asked.
“A super strong flashlight? I don’t know, that’ not the point.”
“We have no use for it, and we can sell it to bring in thousands of lids. We will sell it. End of discussion.”
“Okay, I guess,” I said as I put the pod in my pack. “Who should I sell it to.”
“I don’t know, how about the gal who does explosives.”
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“Ok, so I run to Rice-Eccles and sell the pod to the explosive engineer. Should I sell the claw or modify?”
“Modify it, we could use a good sturdy glove,” she said as I ducked out of the wreckage of a building, grabbing some lids from under a door in the wreckage. I ran to Rice-Eccles, on the way finding a rock that made me feel funny. I’m not picking up that stuff again, though I was tempted to make some slingshot ammo.
When I arrived, I ran in through the south entrance and went right to the modifier. I gave him the mutated beast claws and said, “Class three, thin edge blade-glove,” meaning a lightweight, sharp-tipped, knuckle glove. I tossed him some lids as a down payment and ran off to the explosive vendor.
When I got to the explosives vendor, a middle-aged woman with a head of rich mahogany hair, and told her, “I have a fusion pod, how much will you pay for it?”
After a while, she responded in a southern accent, “I have a good mind to think you’re bluffing, and I’ve been conned on time too many. Pull it out, I want to inspect it.”
“How much will you pay for it if it is a real pod?”
“It might be low on hydrogen, that would decrease the potential of a big bang.”
“Ok,” I said as I pulled it out of my bag, “but don’t get any ideas, it’s mine.” That’s how it is in the Wasteland Valley. If something’s yours, it’s yours, no matter how old or young you are. If something’s yours, it’s only yours until someone else says it’s there’s and lays a hand on it. In a place like Eccles, people usually respect that you don’t steal, unless it is a big loot like a fusion pod, then you have to remind people it’s not theirs.
After a while inspecting, she said, “That should bring in about forty-five hundred lids.”
I let out a low whistle, that could get me quite a bit of food. In fact, that could supply me and my mother for the rest of our lives, if the Scorch Beast doesn’t get us first, that is.
The explosive vendor waved her hand at someone behind me and snatched the fusion pod off the counter. I turned around and saw a thug running at me. This was obviously a con. Bait me into leaving the pods on the counter and have someone chase me. I should have known. I jumped behind the counter and yanked a rocket launcher off the wall. From the look on the thug and vendors faces, they obviously thought I knew how to use it. I didn’t. Who would teach a fourteen-year-old how to fire a rocket launcher?
Instead, I ran into the vendor and bashed her with the launcher. Running away from the tent, I ran and caught up with the pod, which was rolling away. I would have to sell it to the tinkerer.
A tinkerer is a post-apocalyptic person who tries to bring back pre-apocalyptic tech. The one a Rice-Eccles was making flashlights right now, so I guess the pod would end up making a super strong flashlight.
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I ran towards the private booth that the tinkerer, an elderly man with white hair and liver spots, is in. On the way, I passed several people haggling, bartering and threatening vendors to get goods. When I arrived, I pulled out the pod, explained hurriedly to the tinkerer, “I tried to sell this fusion pod to the explosives vendor, and she tried to scam me. Would you buy it from me?” I knew the tinkerer doesn’t approve of stealing so I intentionally used that to get him to buy it quickly and probably for a little bit more.
“Sure, if it’s full I’ll give you 5,000 lids and a flashlight,” the tinkerer said. That is a little generous, considering flashlights with battery (also make by the tinkerer) are expensive. I let him examine the pod, knowing he wouldn’t steal it like the explosives vendor.
It’s all full and the sides don’t even need pounding back into place,” he said. Most fusion pods found in the wasteland are dented and need to be hammered so they can output power properly.
“So you’ll buy it?,” I asked hopefully.
“Don’t see why not,” he responded as pulled a sack of lids from under the table and started to weigh them. “Be careful on the way home and don’t run into trouble.”
Little did he, or even me for that matter know that I would run into trouble, a lot of trouble on the way home. Firstly, I had to get that knuckle glove. I had to duck away from the explosive vendor who was trying to catch me wandering the marketplace, but other than that, I was fine in the marketplace. Once I got to the modifier, I asked if he finished the glove, and he had (which is very quick, he must have not been busy). The glove fits like a charm and filled me with confidence. There’s nothing like a sturdy knuckle glove, plus he painted it with an awesome pattern of a mutated beast. I tossed him the rest of the lids I owed him and dashed out the market.
About halfway home, where I found a rock that made me feel funny, I encountered a mutated beast. Oh yeah, you don’t know what they look like. You were probably imagining some monster with giant teeth and evil growling sounds, accompanied by some sort of mutated rhino. That’s not what they look like. The name is something of a joke. It is actually a squirrel. With six heads, massive claws, and beefy legs. Ok, it’s not really a joke, but it isn’t really what you think of because it still looks like a squirrel, just four feet tall and some extra heads.
Well, I had to fight it, where else will I get some meat (I had forgotten about the gargantuan heap of lids in my sake at the time). It was facing away so I snuck up behind it, careful not to brush up against some brush, and lunged at its back. The squirrel, of course, had no idea what was happening and was neutralized before he could think. A perfect example of post-apocalyptic hunting.
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When I got home, I told my mom everything that had happened that day. Because of that core, we lived a life of luxury from that day on. At least as close as you can get when every swimming pool is lethal, chicken breast is a fancy meal, and jewelry is worthless. I could go into more detail, but it would take a long time. Basically, we had enough food to travel out of the valley, very lethal of a trip with bandits and monsters all over. Along the way, we found a dog that we named Beast despite him being a Pomeranian.
We conquered a farm full of cockroaches (luckily they had pesticide so we didn’t discover they were flesh-eating roaches), and settled in it, growing food and drinking from a nearby freshwater spring. One day, I discovered a generator that we modified to get running on biomass and we powered the refrigerator and lights. Before the way, they would consider that as an average life, but things have changed since the bombs fell.
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