Upsetting.

The doctor left me alone to “get over” my radiation sickness and broken arm. Without tags, I was out of luck. My contaminated water had been confiscated by the soldiers. I had nothing. No one would want to trade with me. All that time spent out in the desert was for nothing.  All that hardship and dehydration was worthless.

I now sat alone in a corridor-like room of the fortress hospital. The walls were lined with beds, mostly unoccupied. At prices like these, I can see why. I wish the doctor had given me a blanket or something. It was downright chilly in this place. A cloud of frozen white air bellowed from vents on each side of the hall.

A raspy voice caught my attention. “That you kid?”

I looked over at the next bed to see an older guy with horrifically burnt skin. His face was discolored and covered in scabs. I almost didn’t recognize him until I saw the faded anvil tattoo on his forehead.

“Saul?”

The other patient smiled at me. “What are you doing in here?”

“Radiation sickness.” I replied, raising my puke bucket.

Saul chuckled softly “Went off into the rad-lands, didcha?

I nodded and explained that I had been captured, robbed, and captured again and that all I had to show for it was a few gallons of irradiated water. Saul suggested that really write a “wasteland survival guide” to help people like me. If anyone was going to do that, it would have to be James Gray. He seems to be the only one who knows what he’s doing out here.

I rolled my eyes. I then told Saul that I couldn’t afford the anti-radiation medicine or surgery on my arm. The old man lifted an eyebrow; or he would have if it hadn’t been burned off. With an elderly groan, he reached down onto the floor, picked up a small felt pouch, and threw it at me. The thing was heavy and jingled with every movement.

“Take whatcha need.” he said, giving me a toothy smile. “It’s the least I can do.”

Good things come to those who suffer!

-Joe Junkman