Page 43 of Retrograde

“Once again, I’ve been doing this for years,” I snap impatiently.

“Doesn’t it bother you now?”

So that’s what this is about. I seem too at ease, and he doesn’t like that. Well fuck him.

“Not at all,” I assure him and return to my task.

What I don’t say is that the camera has always been like a shield to me. Looking through the viewfinder, I don’t see horrors. I see angles, frames and composition. It’s the only way I can do what I do.

I’m expecting him to keep bugging me. But he just chuckles, and soon I hear his heavy footsteps walking away from me. When I glance at him a bit later, I find him sitting on the ground with his back against the ruin’s wall, reading a paperback. He detects my gaze, and our eyes meet. I whip back around so quickly that something gets pinched at the side of my neck.

For some time after, I finally manage to focus on nothing but the tableau and the camera in my hands, lost in my craft until the shadows grow long and an unfamiliar female voice pulls me out of my trance.

I secure the camera in the sling bag and head towards Aron and the woman who’s joined him and is currently squeezing him like she never wants to let go.

She’s taller than me and dressed all in black. Her long honey-coloured hair laced with silver is up in a messy ponytail. She steps away from Aron, but he holds her by the elbows, and he looks her over with a frown.

“Wipe that concern off your face before I do it for you!” She pats his cheek, and I burst out laughing, realising that I don’t remember the last time I laughed.

She turns to me, and I nearly gasp. Her face is lined and haggard, speaking to fatigue that goes way beyond sleep deprivation. But underneath all that, she’s possibly one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She could have easily been a model in the world before.

It’s hard to place her age. Something about her tells me she looks older than she really is.

“Call me Lena.” She shakes my hand. “You’re Riley, the photographer, right? Tamara Volkova? Fancy seeing you here ...”

Blood rushes into my face, and I mumble something reluctant, more embarrassed by my name and what it stands for than I have ever been. You can only be called a traitorous bitch so many times before it rubs off on you.

“Did you scrub?” Aron asks Lena, inadvertently saving me from having to come up with an actual reply.

“Would I come near you otherwise?” She raises her eyebrows at him.

“What, you’re a scavenger?” Half a foot shorter than she is, I have to look up at her to see her nod.

Scavengers are Rifters who breach the exclusion zone to retrieve any remaining resources. Though technically not resistance members, they’re invaluable to the cause, collecting weapons, ammunition, building materials, and vehicle parts from the outer edges of the Rift. It’s not a calling to be taken lightly. After only five years, the levels of radiation and poison in the area are high enough to as good as guarantee severe health issues down the line. The inner part of the Rift remains rapidly lethal to this day.

Whoever this beautiful woman is, whatever her reasons, she’s chosen a gruesome path. Regret runs through me like a tremor.

“Are you staying here with us, Lena?” Aron breaks the silence, and when she agrees, he suggests, “Let’s get a fire going then. We’ve got plenty of food if you’re running short.”

“And I’ve got something to wash it down with.” Lena pats his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Sometime later, we’re sitting around the fire, sated if not satisfied with the canned vegetable stew. The night has fallen, and when I set my empty bowl aside, I tilt my head up to look at the stars. For months after the bombs fell, they were hardly visible at all, even in regions much further away from the Rift. But five years on, they seem brighter than ever, especially here. No industrial glow to interfere here in the Rifterland.

I dreamt of photographing the stars when I was younger, eagerly waiting for them to reappear in all their glory. Too bad I won’t get the chance.

“Would you like some more, honey?” Lena leans closer to me, offering me her flask of sharp-smelling, home-brewed alcohol.

“No thanks,” I refuse, but not without a smile. “I already had way too much.”

“Have some more anyway. You look like you need it.”

“Why are you nice to me?” I slur after three more eye-watering swigs from the flask, grimacing as the alcohol burns its way down my throat.

“That’s quite enough for you, I think.” Aron reaches over and snatches the flask away.

“Hey!” I protest, leaning closer to him until I lose my balance and land on my elbow on the ground. “You’re so mean to me all the time. Don’t you ever feel bad?” I ask him without attempting to sit back up.

“No.” He drinks deeply, his neck bobbing as he swallows.