Adventures In A Wasteland

Chapter 1

~LOLA'S POV~

Reg and I are essentially platonic soulmates. Of course, that didn't change when Skito "arrived", if you will. Our dynamic altered over time, as all things do, but I don't regret what we did. I can remember it clearly, still.
The sun is blistering overhead, and we've just walked past what remained of a large supermarket. The bike stands are broken and end in jagged metal teeth. The sun is a tangerine and the fine sand dunes look like cinnamon between our weatherworn boots. Reg strides beside me. He is tall, and strong, and handsome, I must admit. He is like a boulder, and isn't the kind of boy people usually swoon over. His eyes are covered by a pair of goggles and his mouth and nose with a ginger coloured bandana, like mine. He is carrying my bag so that I can navigate us around the barren plains of what used to be someplace in Australia, though we're not sure where, as all of the records were destroyed after the meteor that killed everyone off. At least that's the rumour that the people favoured.
We were offered no explanation as to why we live in this cycle, this limbo while those before us lived in Utopia. I still don't understand how there are so little of us left. We were prepared enough to dig out a bunker underground. Why wasn't anyone else?
We were as hopelessly lost as anyone could be in a desert, thanks to my frankly awful navigation skills. Reg pulled down his mask to glare at me sceptically. "Nice job, sunshine." He said sarcastically, though it wasn't derogatory. He calls me sunshine as a term of affection.
And that's when we saw him, lying on his front. Ribs showing, scarred back, blonde hair dry and brittle. He was covered in greying rags of clothing. His upper body rose and fell, with occasional pauses. His eyes were closed but he looked like his subconscious was knocking on deaths door.
Reg and I exchanged a glance before rushing over to childishly examine his body. Without words, Reg hauled him over his shoulder and handed me my bag. I struggled to keep up with him even with another human, albeit a very skinny one, slung across him.
We reached the camp fatigued and wary. We lay the boy on my bed and saw pricks of blood across his body, prying off mosquitos from his sticklike frame. He was named that day, and after we nursed him to health we told the leaders of camp who, after days of pleading and several heated debates, allowed him to stay.
Skip a few months and he is fully recovered. His side swept bleach blonde hair waves about his head and he is lean and slender with piercing green eyes. His smirk is as much of his daily getup as his hiking trousers, thick leather boots and stolen trench coat. He was the kind of guy that was swooned over, and although he has a typically arrogant and detached demeanour, he has never strayed from Reg and I. More than once he has nearly connected his foot with faces because of what people call us. Outcasts, if you will. I call us survivors.
"Morning, Skito" I chirp, the only name he will respond to.
"Hullo, MoSko" Reg laughed, playfully nudging him.
"Shut it," replied Skito, though he smirked fondly, if that was possible.
I quickly linked arms with Skito to avoid further argument, grasping at his elbow with both hands. Although he groaned, irritated, he didn't move his arm.
The leaders served us what could, in some people's eyes, be seen as breakfast, though I just saw it as an indistinguishable rice-like pile on a grey plastic tray with the edge broken off. And so the cycle repeats again.
This mind numbing life that I was born into, that could only vaguely be described as living. And if it weren't for Reg and Skito, there wouldn't be much of a point of living anyway.