Solace & Taproots

1.3 - Revised

Most of the settlement's vital areas were tucked into the small cluster of buildings around the underpass, or underground in the utility tunnels and nearby basements. There was even a dark corner behind ample yellow "Police Line DO NOT CROSS" tape. Not even the de-retired cop who played tour guide earlier in the day was going to enforce it. But, they needed something to warn the unknowing or reckless away from the chained and heavily, explosively, trapped hatch leading to the subway line below. Nobody knew who or what was down there these days, and some smartass had scratched "Drums, drums in the deep..." into the nearby wall, but most knew it was one of their last ditch bug-out routes. The caution tape was anachronistic, but it served to warn wanderers there were better places to seek a little privacy in the urban cave system.

Bex only spent a few moments down below, dropping her gear at the armory or her bunk as appropriate. She soon made her way topside, her radio handset and pistol still wedged into the pockets of her scavenged military cargo pants. There were a few familiar faces amongst the garden beds and solar panels nestled into the sunken expressway, most of which resulted a weary smile or polite nod.

The National Guard kid... Patrick? Kevin? Something wholesome and vanilla like that. Either way, he fell in beside her for several yards. All she could remember later was a tale from the afternoon's new arrivals about an influx of gang and militia activity in the neighborhood they left, and hoping PatKevin didn't have a crush on her or something. She was too dirty and tired and distracted as things were. He should find himself some nice urban farmgirl in distress to have babies with. Or maybe the redhead electrician girl. Sam.

That name at least she could remember through the fugue, after a stern lecture on how to NOT blow up the propane bombs hidden in the car wrecks on the northern and southern approaches unless she really, really wanted to. It was just that one time, and the recent group of incoming couch potatoes became much more enthusiastic about their general labor responsibilities "while other people just sat around with guns."

She reached her destination of the shade of the bridge otherwise unbothered by social interaction. Who knew what deities there were looking down, but she wished their benedictions upon whoever had designed the community showers. With the bean and cucumber entwined privacy trellises, six individual stalls with two sets of scavenged shower curtains apiece, and their minty "all natural, all organic, homemade soap and shampoo products", she could almost trick herself into imagining it was a pre-apocalyptic spa.

Toss in the black drums up on the overpass that usually brought the water up to a civilized temperature, and it was a little pocket of bliss in the otherwise truly fucked-up world. The stalls all had independent hoses snaking down from the drums, but Bex was convinced that the stall with the improvised perforated orange plastic bucket out-performed the scavenged "real" showerheads, given the mediocre water pressure. That meant choosing the stall with a dinosaurs n' rocket ship shower curtain for the changing nook, and grandmotherly paisely-and-floral print between the small bench and the shower proper.

Bex made sure that the volume on her radio was up, and left it, her pistol, and her bundle of clean(er) clothes on the bench. Boots went underneath, and socks tucked into them for later scrubbing... the amount of walking everyone did these days, you didn't half-ass on your footwear. The fatigues would last at least another couple of days if she didn't tromp through any muck, so those went on a handy hook. (And, by hook, she meant a protruding nail just high enough that most people probably — probably! — wouldn't accidentally get tetanus from it.)

Everything else — t-shirt and underwear — stayed on for now, because by combining the water allocations between bathing and laundry, she could twist the mechanical timer sitting on the wall to a positively luxurious ten minutes... but she was too bone dead tired to hold up soggy fabric freehand. She lathered up her hair and let the suds run down. After her clothes were soaked and soapy, she peeled them off with a groan, rinsed them, and slapped them wetly over the PVC pipe someone had added to the wall as a handrail.