Primal Gambit

Chapter 16: Visiting Uncle

Nearly three miles southeast of the metropolis was an area where The Yard staved off a bit. Panther Hollow. An unspoken but malicious aura about the body of water urged most wasters to ditch their wares in other areas. The devolution in the environment caused the water to become a murky black liquid, thick with sewage and pollutants. The one building still intact was the bait shop, which had since been reformed into a single man's dwelling. It hugged the fringes of the lake, but suffered from claustrophobia with the rapid inclusion of squatters – each populating the swampland with soggy cardboard homes. They all had the idea to fish the vacant waters to feed themselves, but the radiation in each catch resulted in cancerous growth and an inhospitable existence that they deemed necessary to eke out regardless.

Doerrman and Valerie traversed the docks, past the countless makeshift domiciles and toward the old bait and tackle. Lanterns dangled on posts, thwarting the infestation of cardboard from encroaching onto the docks. Peering past the orange lights, Valerie could see the sunken eyes of entire families residing underneath the drooping flaps of light brown packaging material – their faces telling her tales of resentment and sorrow. Fishing rods immersed into the mud cast lines into the foggy water, dotting the adjacent side of the splintered wood. Gnats and no-see'ems, buzzards and mosquitoes all plagued and bothered the two as they continued further. The girl could not wait until they were inside; hoping the abode owned by Doerrman's acquaintance had clean enough air so she could rid her face of the gasmask.

"Uncle!" Doerrman roared as he opened the creaking wooden door. The glass window was cracked and foggy, condensation from the thick morning dew shrouding the inside. Valerie closed the door behind her, wiping her mask one last time.

"Ridley, ye' almost gave me a heart attack!" The older man slumped back down in the seat, lifting his hand off the shooter that rested on the table.

"Thought ye' were a squatter, damn near blasted you." He took a long drag of the cigarette and placed it back in the ashtray. He lifted himself up and opened his arms as Doerrman approached him. When they hugged, it was akin to two bears fighting over salmon. Valerie looked at the uncle, a man wearing a faded plaid cabbie hat and fishing waders. His arms were hairier than the top of his head and his nose was two sizes too big. A full gray beard masked his chin and the puffiness in his cheeks. His sausage-link fingers grasped Doerrman just behind the ear, and Valerie noticed his ring finger appeared swollen from the tightness of an old golden wedding band.

"Glad to see yer' still in one piece, boy!" The mixture of laughter and grunting emitting from his body sounded like he was about to choke on his words. Doerrman joined in, looking to the floor as he chuckled – trying not to dwell on the true meaning to be in "one piece" and more on the brevity of the question itself. Physically the young warrior was all there, but underneath he was in pieces.

"Now get this thing off yer' mug." He abrasively yanked at the gasmask before Doerrman pushed him away jokingly and removed it himself.

"You remember Val?" The younger man moved to the side as his uncle already started his assault.

"Course I remember 'er!" He pulled her in for a hug, swallowing her in his arms and squeezing with so much love her spine nearly cracked in two.

"How've ye' been, darling?" The man smiled, his yellow teeth adding years to his appearance. She coughed as she answered:

"You know, just trying to make the best of things really." She paused to remove her gasmask. When it sagged in hand by her side, she decided not to say any more. When the uncle realized it was his turn to speak, he piped up:

"Oh yes, I know full well what it means to make the best of things. Take the families outside for instance." He motioned a hand up and away before sitting back down at the table and returning to his cigarette.