The problem with fucking in a post apocalyptic wasteland

Getting the ride is not easy in a post apocalyptic wasteland. To be honest, any kind of relationship is pretty much impossible. If you meet another human; kill them -and take their stuff.

Or they kill you.

Everyone still living knows them’s the rules.

With one exception. Fucking. And only in very rare circumstances.

It was spring. I think. I was walking the dusty tar of the Carraroe roundabout. Heading North.

A small pack of feral dogs were noisily stalking me. This was a good sign on three counts:

  1. The alien death ray hadn’t killed them, so the signal must be dodgy round here.
  2. There is food about for the dogs to have survived this long.
  3. It gave me creatures to talk at, and pretend I wasn’t lonely.

I had just begun telling the pack (three spaniels and a jack russell terrier) all about the sardine sandwich I had recently when I heard a voice:

‘Like talking to dogs, do ya?’

The woman who the voice belonged to was just out of range of my weapons, and I hers.

It was a very rare circumstance.

I was walking along the safest place to be. The central crash barrier. It was out of range of a quick ambush from either side, and gave a clear view of the embankments. 

The woman had appeared from the Ballydogan feed on ramp. She was wearing her crossbow in a holster and her hair in plaits. One of her hands looked to be prosthetic, in that there was a serrated curved blade where fingers and a thumb can usually be found.

There was something else unusual about the woman though. She wasn’t wearing a helmet. And anyone who has survived the death ray knows you insulate your head with a helmet.

I pointed to my motorbike helmet, then at her. She just gave me the middle finger (well, it was more of a savage blade, but I got the message). So I shrugged, and slowly placed my plasma rifle on the ground.

She nodded, unholstered her crossbow, and laid it on the ground next to her.

That was the signal. Two humans, if only for a short while, had trusted each other. It was a very rare circumstance.

I unbuckled the motorbike helmet. I took it off slowly and placed it on the ground next to the rifle. There are not many places you can breathe freely, and the N271 Ballydoogan feed on lane was marked into my mental map of the new world.

I pointed to her blade for a hand. It was the last remaining obstacle to our human contact. She nodded, unhooked it, and placed it next to her crossbow.

Then she reached behind her neck and seemed to release something. Whatever it was, it had been holding her head in place. Her one good hand reached for the top of her head and began unscrewing.

After about three rotations her head came clean off and she knelt down and placed it next to the crossbow and her serrated weapon for a hand.

I was about to move closer when she gently turned her head on its ear and pulled out a glass jar containing her brain.

‘Clever girl, uranium glass!’, I muttered. So that was why she didn’t need a helmet.

She then very carefully slid her brain from the jar and laid it out next to the crossbow, the serrated weapon for a hand, her head, and the uranium glass jar.

It was a trusting, if unnecessary move.

It was also an unfortunate move.

At that exact moment the jack russell terrier, who had been carefully watching from outside kicking distance, jumped in and grabbed her brain. She instantly grabbed the crossbow with her one good hand and released an arrow. It thudded harmlessly into the left bank of the northbound N271 Ballydoogan feed on ramp.

I gathered my things and continued heading North. You see, that’s the thing about post-apocalyptic wastelands. You only get the ride in very rare circumstances.