was filthy in here, with lots of
rubble, rubbish, and animal leavings and
remains. “This is like that scene where
Luke and Leia and Han Solo are trapped
in the trash compactor,” she muttered.
Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she
wanted to start digging through the mess,
and in the semidarkness. Who knew
what she might put her hand into . . . or
what might grab back at her, or slither
out . . .
“Here.” Wyatt slapped something
floppy at her. “Rubber gloves. Found
’em in the first aid kit.”
Remy pulled them on, stretching her
fingers inside the elastic gloves. Huh. So
this is what they felt like. She’d seen
people
wearing
them
in
DVDs,
especially shows with doctors or
detectives, but never in real life. And
she’d definitely never worn them. They
felt odd. Hot and tight, and a little sticky.
But she loved the idea of protecting
herself this way. How handy.
“They’ll tear easily, so watch for
sharp edges,” Wyatt warned, already
digging through some of the rubble. “But
they’ll keep you clean if you’re careful.”
“You have any light?” she asked,
feeling a lot more confident.
“You
have
any
patience,
sweetheart?” he said, and suddenly a
match flared. He lit two candles and
wedged them into some metal ribbing
along the inside of the trailer. Now a
soft glow illuminated the space, and
Remy could see all sorts of lumps buried
under moss, rotting debris, and even a
pile of white bones in the corner. She
didn’t mind the bones. It was rotting
flesh and animal dung she’d prefer to
avoid.
“The shipping boxes will have long
rotted away,” Wyatt was saying, digging
through some of the mess. “But anything
wrapped in plastic that’s still intact will
be salvageable. From what I can tell,
this truck was probably taking a load of
orders from a warehouse or courier to
the shipping company. So there could be
some good stuff here.”
How did he know all this? Remy
shrugged and began to sift through the
debris, happy to have her hands
protected and hopeful that she might find
some real treasures.
Wyatt was right. There were a lot of
items here. Many of the plastic bags had
been slit open by animal teeth or claws,
so the contents were destroyed, rotted
away or mildewed. But she found
several that weren’t, and by the
candlelight, used a pair of scissors from
Wyatt’s pack to cut open any airtight
plastic. She was particularly interested
in soft bags that could contain clothing.
“We won’t be able to take everything
back, but we can make a few trips and
store the good things in the truck,” Wyatt
said, rummaging deep in the bowels of
the trailer. “Once I get you to Envy, I’ll
come back with Quent and Zoë. Oh, hot
damn!”
He must have found something
worthwhile. Filled with hope and
delight, Remy slit open a flat plastic bag.
Inside were articles of clothing wrapped
in clear plastic, as pristine as the day
they were packed up, fifty-some years
ago.
As she carefully pulled out the
contents, Remy wondered what it would
have been like back then: to have
clothing,
whatever
you
wanted,
delivered to your house. She couldn’t
imagine not to have to go to a seamstress
and be fitted for something to wear—or
to sew something herself. Sometimes the
clothing she wore was made new, but
other times it was made from scraps or
refitted
from
original
pieces.
Occasionally, a peddler or salvager
would come through a settlement with a
cart of discovered, traded, or retailored
items. About ten years ago she’d
traveled with one such peddler for a few
months. Everyone would rummage
through the peddler’s wares, looking for
something that had been repaired or was
otherwise usable.
She wasn’t surprised that this
particular treasure trove had remained
unnoticed for half a century. There were
stories about people finding such caches,
so she knew they existed—just like the
buried treasures of old. One of
rubble, rubbish, and animal leavings and
remains. “This is like that scene where
Luke and Leia and Han Solo are trapped
in the trash compactor,” she muttered.
Suddenly, she wasn’t sure she
wanted to start digging through the mess,
and in the semidarkness. Who knew
what she might put her hand into . . . or
what might grab back at her, or slither
out . . .
“Here.” Wyatt slapped something
floppy at her. “Rubber gloves. Found
’em in the first aid kit.”
Remy pulled them on, stretching her
fingers inside the elastic gloves. Huh. So
this is what they felt like. She’d seen
people
wearing
them
in
DVDs,
especially shows with doctors or
detectives, but never in real life. And
she’d definitely never worn them. They
felt odd. Hot and tight, and a little sticky.
But she loved the idea of protecting
herself this way. How handy.
“They’ll tear easily, so watch for
sharp edges,” Wyatt warned, already
digging through some of the rubble. “But
they’ll keep you clean if you’re careful.”
“You have any light?” she asked,
feeling a lot more confident.
“You
have
any
patience,
sweetheart?” he said, and suddenly a
match flared. He lit two candles and
wedged them into some metal ribbing
along the inside of the trailer. Now a
soft glow illuminated the space, and
Remy could see all sorts of lumps buried
under moss, rotting debris, and even a
pile of white bones in the corner. She
didn’t mind the bones. It was rotting
flesh and animal dung she’d prefer to
avoid.
“The shipping boxes will have long
rotted away,” Wyatt was saying, digging
through some of the mess. “But anything
wrapped in plastic that’s still intact will
be salvageable. From what I can tell,
this truck was probably taking a load of
orders from a warehouse or courier to
the shipping company. So there could be
some good stuff here.”
How did he know all this? Remy
shrugged and began to sift through the
debris, happy to have her hands
protected and hopeful that she might find
some real treasures.
Wyatt was right. There were a lot of
items here. Many of the plastic bags had
been slit open by animal teeth or claws,
so the contents were destroyed, rotted
away or mildewed. But she found
several that weren’t, and by the
candlelight, used a pair of scissors from
Wyatt’s pack to cut open any airtight
plastic. She was particularly interested
in soft bags that could contain clothing.
“We won’t be able to take everything
back, but we can make a few trips and
store the good things in the truck,” Wyatt
said, rummaging deep in the bowels of
the trailer. “Once I get you to Envy, I’ll
come back with Quent and Zoë. Oh, hot
damn!”
He must have found something
worthwhile. Filled with hope and
delight, Remy slit open a flat plastic bag.
Inside were articles of clothing wrapped
in clear plastic, as pristine as the day
they were packed up, fifty-some years
ago.
As she carefully pulled out the
contents, Remy wondered what it would
have been like back then: to have
clothing,
whatever
you
wanted,
delivered to your house. She couldn’t
imagine not to have to go to a seamstress
and be fitted for something to wear—or
to sew something herself. Sometimes the
clothing she wore was made new, but
other times it was made from scraps or
refitted
from
original
pieces.
Occasionally, a peddler or salvager
would come through a settlement with a
cart of discovered, traded, or retailored
items. About ten years ago she’d
traveled with one such peddler for a few
months. Everyone would rummage
through the peddler’s wares, looking for
something that had been repaired or was
otherwise usable.
She wasn’t surprised that this
particular treasure trove had remained
unnoticed for half a century. There were
stories about people finding such caches,
so she knew they existed—just like the
buried treasures of old. One of
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