Summer’s fingers would have to serve as a brush, trying to control the frizz of her shoulder-length hair. Always jet black. Always out of control. She knew it was a fruitless endeavor to fight the flurries whipping about her face, but she tried anyway.
It didn’t matter how many layers of clothes she wore, either. A shiver always seemed to be lurking just below the surface. And it wasn’t only when she was outside amidst Mother Nature’s fury. The cold was everywhere, even deep inside the silo with its eight-foot-thick walls of reinforced concrete.
Cold is cold, more so with the sun struggling to restore its dominance over the planet. She’d tried everything, but there was little a skinny girl could do to stay warm. She didn’t know what was worse—running around hungry all the time or being cold every minute of every day.
Before she could decide, her mind slipped into memory mode, dreaming of a hot soak in a tub. All she needed was a quiet moment to rid herself of the endless chill. A single hour. That’s all.
Was that too much to ask?
Then she’d be good—for the rest of her life. She’d never want for anything again, other than perhaps a bottle of anti-depressants.
It had been at least ten years, maybe longer, since her last real bath. She’d lost count of the days—heck, even the years. So had most of her cohorts, she figured, everyone’s stench mounting between the weekly one-minute shower rotations.
Let’s face it, it’s tough to clean all your parts when the line behind you is long and time is short. But you had to make do. For everyone’s sake, not just yours.
Collective stink just adds to the misery of it all. More so in a hardened military bunker where the air is circulated from one floor to the next. It’s funny what you learn when you live underground. Like the fact that BO doesn’t vanish on its own, growing like a plague inside your nostrils.
Summer planted a gentle kiss on her stainless-steel necklace, her lips landing in the center of the number-eight-like symbol that had been soldered horizontally to the end of it. “Keep me safe, June. From here to infinity and beyond,” she whispered before tucking it under her shirt.
Right then, her eyes caught a glimpse of someone standing atop a broken-down structure—one that used to house an old Chevron gas station, its blue trim and company sign faded, but still visible.
The man wore an ankle-length leather coat. It was open down the middle, with what could only be described as military-style body armor underneath. Or maybe it was some old hockey pads, like what her dead brother Blaze used to wear in his pick-up games. Either way, she figured the shielding was to help stop the teeth of a hunger gang.
His deep-set hoodie looked like it was from medieval times, masking his head in a blanket of secrecy. It reminded her of something she’d seen in one of her books—an eighteenth-century monk’s cloak, except it was all black, not the typical one-piece outfit of all red. The two swords in his hands finished his ensemble, hanging from his hands in a sweeping curve of each blade.
“The Nomad,” she mumbled, recognizing his wide, two-legged stance, reminiscent of a warrior from centuries past.
She couldn’t see his face, mostly because it was covered in a shadow from the hoodie. However, she knew the legend well, knowing there was a mask covering it. One designed to conceal every inch of his skin.
Summer had seen him twice before. Each time he’d been standing a distance away, observing something she’d been involved in. For some reason, she got the sense that he was always around, hiding in the shadows to watch her from a distance. Even so, he never came across as a threat. More of an observer, gathering intel or something along those lines.
Nobody knew his real name, but he had gotten involved in a couple of altercations, assuming she chose to believe the lore that had swept through the silo over the years.
One of the skirmishes took place at the Trading Post, during a heated barter exchange. It had something to do with rescuing a group of wanderers who’d been surrounded by a gang of thieves.
Everyone had their theories as to his identity, but Summer chose to ignore them. She didn’t care who he was, as long as he stayed in the shadows. The man could observe all he wanted, as long as he never came any closer.
Summer watched him turn and disappear beyond the edge of the building’s roof, vanishing in a blur of leather.
She swung the knapsack from her back, plopped it on the ground, and opened the zipper.
Inside was a folded piece of paper. It was buried under two sticks of marker chalk, a rubberized caster wheel, extra scarves, a stick of beef jerky, a water bottle, a church key can opener, 100-feet of paracord, a well-used fork, four strike-anywhere waterproof matches, a six-inch candle wrapped in a sheet of bubble wrap, a metal container the size of a cigar box with three dozen crayons in it, a small roll of cotton twine, and two cans of tuna. She was almost done for the day but needed to score one more item.
Summer snatched the map, then turned her body at an angle to block the next blast of wind. The skin on her fingers opened the fold, protruding through the tattered wool holding the gloves together.
“Gotta be quick,” she told herself, scanning the highlighted areas of her duty map. The blue outlines told her where she’d been assigned, while the red X’s told her the grids she’d already cleared. So far, twelve successful recovery missions this hunting season. At least in this section of town.
Like the days since her last bath, she’d lost track of the number of areas she’d cleared over the years as Edison’s “Worst Seeker”—the unofficial title given to her by the gruff, pain in the ass Security Chief, Krista.
Krista was an almost forty-year-old woman who wanted to be a man, Summer guessed, based on her endless sense of duty to all things rough and tumble. Even Krista’s ultra-short crewcut factored into that assessment, as did the girl’s daily regimen of pushups and other strength-building activities.
Not that any of that mattered; Summer had her own agenda and that alone drove her actions. She really didn’t care what the others thought of her, certainly not Krista.
They couldn’t kick her out of Nirvana nor raise a finger in anger. She was untouchable—a benefit of being one of the charter members of Edison’s compound and what she assumed was Edison’s favorite.
This Seeker assignment was the closest she’d been to this area of town in weeks—a sector controlled by Edison’s rival, Frost. A real peach of a man.
Simon Frost fit the mold of a zealous mutant exactly. His long blonde hair was trimmed back, fading into an out of control mullet. His six-foot-five frame demanded attention. So did his abundance of facial hair—seemingly unkempt since the dawn of man.
Yet none of that compared to his hulking at the seams. He had the kind of physique that pushed the limits of human muscle and bone, all of it meant to intimidate.
She’d only seen him a couple of times from a distance, but his abundance of scars and tattoos was more than memorable. She figured he was in love with his bulging arms since he, like his men, never wore sleeves, even when the cold reigned supreme across the land.
Granted, from what she’d seen, the muscles were impressive but that was the end of his redeeming features. Someone had smacked the dude in the face too many times with the ugly stick.
Summer took in a deep breath and let the air drift across her lips, her exhale billowing out in a cloud of white vapor. Time was short and she was already running late. “Just stay low and move fast. You got this, girl.”
After a quick scan of the area, she folded the map, stuffed it back into the pack, yanked the zipper closed, and then slung the bag over her shoulder.