Wendy

After a few more days, we're both irritable. It's a blessing when we stumble across a small settlement – named Seneca, whatever that means – and a miracle when we find out it has a bar. I need a fuckin' drink, and I know he does, too.

The bar is down inside a metro station, which I initially refuse to enter. "Do you want a fuckin' beer or not?" he asks. We've been sniping at each other ever since we woke up. It's only a matter of time before one of us loses our temper and says something that we'd regret later. "Look, it's not even fuckin' dark down there." He's right. There's nothing scary about it, really.

"This used to be empty before. That sucker must be making his Ultra Jet somewhere else. Or he's fuckin' dead," Charon says. I roll my eyes and shake my head. He's prone to making comments about how much things have changed since the last time he's been out here. Since I can't relate, I just shut the fuck up and let him bitch.

It's a pretty sizable place – there's about a dozen people milling around inside, and I head to the bar and hop up on a stool. "A beer, please," I request when the bartender asks what I want. "And one for my friend here, too." The bartender glances at me, looks up at him, and slides both beers across the counter.

"Ten caps."

"Whoa, that's kinda pricey."

"Well, I gotta make up for people like you scarin' away all my customers."

"People like - ?" I ask, confused.

Charon groans, pinches his forehead. "Just give him the money, we'll drink 'em, and leave."

"No, I wanna know what he means."

"I'll explain it to you later."

"No, you'll sit there, and he'll explain it." Charon goes rigid and falls silent, staring straight in front of him. I smile broadly. "Now," I ask, in my sweetest country girl voice, "what did you mean when you said 'people like us'?"

Pointing directly at me, he says, "No, people like YOU," then he points at Charon, "screwin' things like that." My eyes widen and my mouth flies open in shock. "Once you're done, get lost. I'm losin' money." He stalks off, and starts to rearrange bottles at the other end of the bar. Charon is still staring straight in front of him, unmoving.

"I tried to warn you," he says, and takes a sip of his beer.

I say nothing. I gulp my beer down as fast as I can, and urge him to do the same. "Let's go." I throw the caps on the bar, and make a beeline towards the door. As we leave, I hear mutterings, whispers. I've never been called ugly names before, and tears spring to my eyes. We leave quickly, headed north into the wasteland.

Charon

I try to make her listen. It isn't nearly as tolerant out here as it is out west. The culture shock must be, well, shocking. I knew it was coming. I braced for it. Even after forty-five years, it stings something awful. So many things have changed. Just…not this.

They call her names. 'Whore.' 'Trash.' Of course, the ever-present 'corpse fucker.' Wendy's not as strong as Mallie – she's not used to being called names. By the time we're out, she's almost running, tears streaming down her cheeks. I find myself thinking of what Mallie would have done in that situation. She probably would have broken the bottle over the bar and had a fine time rearranging the bartender's face. God, I miss her.

That night we find a small shack, long abandoned. I hold her as she cries herself to sleep.

Four Years Ago

Charon

"Charon, we need to tell him about the contract."

She's standing naked at the window, staring into the blackness of a warm summer night. I'm sitting on the bed, smoking. "Mallie, he's only fifteen. He's not gonna understand."

"Charon, I don't have too many years left," She says, her silhouette touching a pane, as if she could draw life from the distant stars.

"Stop talking like that."

"It's true. People don't last long out here, hon. I'm already livin' on borrowed time." Her voice is thick, as if she's trying to hold back tears. "I…I just don't want to leave you without knowing that you'll be okay."

I don't like talking about this. Over the years, I've watched the wrinkles deepen on her face, and her hair turn gray. When we gave up guarding caravans, she put on some weight, got rounder, softer. She's still beautiful, but she doesn't see it. She won't listen to me. My girl is stubborn.

She sounds lost; scared.

"I feel so small when I look up at the sky." She murmurs. She's taken to rumination lately – she was always pretty active, distracted from these concerns. It pains me to see her struggling, plagued with doubts, regrets, the looming reality of her own mortality. "Come back to bed," I say, with outstretched arms. She climbs into them and onto my lap without protest, resting her head against my chest. I run my fingers through her hair.

I think only of her and the contract she holds. It may have faded into the background, but it's always there; omnipresent. I may be a slave to that piece of paper, but I'm free of concerns about my own death. It means nothing to me, my death – the only possibility that makes me anxious is that I will leave her behind to suffer in grief.

We are safe here, but I still carry my shotgun out of habit and clean it regularly. It's obvious to us both that she'll go first. I squeeze her tight and kiss the crown of her head as she sobs quietly into my chest.

There are some things that love cannot overcome.