Post-Apocalyptic (Scene 1)

Requested by lunargeography: Post-apocalyptic world, with brutal feudal feuding between gangs among the crumbling, mostly-empty cities. Watanuki sees and talks to ghosts -- which enables him to find all sorts of neat caches of food and guns and tech toys, and also sometimes to get instructions for how to use the tech toys -- but most spirits aren't happy and they exact a high price from him for thier information. This makes Watanuki a prize to be fought over by gang leaders. Either Doumeki as a gang leader, or possibly as someone trying to overthrow the system. Or maybe a prisoner Watanuki frees?

A little secret – I didn't expect I'd get to this one. It was one of the later requests to be posted and by the time I saw it I'd already picked seven ideas, and that sounded like more than enough. Then late one night this one snuck up and leapt on me. And it hasn't really let go since.

"Well what were you expecting?" said the boy.

"Dunno," said Doumeki, slinging his gun over his shoulder. "Just…" Not you. He would have been an odd enough sight even without his surroundings and the poor lighting to go with them. Glasses in any sort of intact state were rare enough – worth a fortune to the right people. He was scrawny too – but so was everyone these days. "But it is you, right? You're the one they call the April Fool?"

The boy made a choking noise. "It's not any of them, if that's what you mean," he said, indicating the rest of the room with a shuddering movement of his shoulders. "That's what you're doing here, isn't it?"

"Followed the gunfire," said Doumeki. That and the screaming. Mostly the screaming, really.

"You'll be the first one in two years who hasn't had to steal me from another gang then," said the boy, though Doumeki couldn't tell quite how he felt about this. Behind the lenses, his eyes were strange and unfocused. Look into his eyes long enough and you could almost believe he really could see things no-one else could. He didn't look like he'd been crying, though he did give the impression it might have been a relief to him if he could have been.

Doumeki could only make out a little of what was left in the shadows around the rest of the room, and while not generally squeamish he was glad for it. Even in the poor light the smell was starting to get to him. "Let's go outside."

The boy nodded without really looking at him. He was well enough to stand, though he was shaking badly – but when Doumeki stepped forward to offer his support the boy only glared at him until he stepped back again.

Outside, the air was fresher, early morning light not yet bright enough for the true desolation of the landscape to be evident, but if anything the boy only seemed to hunch further in on himself. "Well?" he said after a bit, probably more because he was sick of being stared at than because he really wanted to talk. "What do you want to know?"

"The stories," said Doumeki, "are they true?"

"Which ones?" said the boy irritably. "The ones where I'm a human food finding radar? The ones where I can lead people to supply caches only dead men should know about?" He made the choking sound again, closer to a laugh this time. "Most of them." His eyes flickered Doumeki's way suspiciously. "Aren't you going to ask me how I do it?"

"How do you do it?" said Doumeki obediently.

"The ghosts tell me where they are," said the boy, voice taking on a shrill quality. "They're everywhere! Thick as flies in some places. Sometimes I can't even hear anything else for them all talking at once." He stopped and gave Doumeki another look – trying to gauge whether it had been decided he was crazy yet. Doumeki kept his expression carefully neutral.

"Sometimes they want to help. That's when they lead me places. Tell me where stuff is," the boy went on, his voice getting faster the longer he spoke. "But not always. And I know this part isn't in any of the stories you've heard, but it really matters that you understand it, because that last lot never did – and look where they wound up! – sometimes the ghosts don't help. Even dead people make mistakes. They remember wrong, or they lead me somewhere where there used to be food but it's all gone rotten or been taken already. And sometimes – sometimes they even do it on purpose." On the last word his voice dropped to a hiss. "Some of them think it's funny. They lead me for days on end through the worst country to get to places where they know there's nothing to find at all! That's how it is, and I swear to any god anyone still believes in I can't ever tell which one it's going to be."

"People get angry at you for that," Doumeki guessed. The boy let out a weak laugh.

"If I'm lucky they only get angry at me. But the ghosts… the strongest ones – sometimes they can even move things. You understand what I'm saying, right? Enough to attack someone! And sometimes, they get really, really protective of me.

"I don't mind being hit," said the April Fool, the hysterical note in his voice getting much stronger. "I mean, I don't like it, I'm not that crazy yet, but I can deal with it. It's hardly any worse than what everyone else goes through around here. But, so help me," he pointed an arm back into the building without looking around, "I do not want to have to see anything like that ever again!."

Doumeki hadn't believed for a moment when he'd arrived on the scene of all the screaming and gunfire that this boy could have been the one who killed everyone else in that room. The fact that disbelief showed so clearly on his face may have been a big part of the reason the boy was no more panicky than he was. But any reasonable person could have told you he sounded crazy – maybe crazy enough to have turned a few lucky finds of badly-needed supplies into a miracle in the eyes of his handlers – and Doumeki knew far too well that crazy people could pull off crazy and terrible things when pushed. Even slightly-built boys like this one.

But then… in a world populated by a few surviving gangs of angry, desperate humans, and six billion angry, desperate ghosts, who was he to say what was crazy, what was a hope they couldn't afford to waste?

"Come on," he told the boy. "If we get going now, we can make it back to the camp before it gets very light."

The boy followed him without complaint.