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Nick and Sole sat together on a log by the bonfire. The residents of the small settlement passed around beers and skewers of toasted radstag. In the distance, on the crest of the nearby rocky hill, a second fire blazed, devouring the corpses of the supermutants who had attacked that afternoon.
Sole listened to the murmur of the settlers’ voices. Earlier, they had been worried; now, they were jovial. Not a single one of them had fallen in the battle. It was a job well done.
Three children dashed by in a game of tag. The smallest boy slipped on some ice and cried out; immediately, all the closest adults were at his side, helping him to his feet, dusting him off, and giving him encouragement.
As she watched the scene unfold, one of the settlers asked her if she had gotten enough to eat. Sole thanked him and returned her attention to the fire.
She still wasn’t used to it.
Being shot at was one thing; she had always expected the worst of people, even before the bombs. But seeing a group of strangers take such interest in making her comfortable, in looking after one another—it was strange. Her own neighbors two hundred years ago never so much as stopped by to say hello. Which suited Sole at the time; being in groups used to make her uncomfortable. Now she felt uncomfortable when she was alone.
Yet in spite of everything that made the situation odd, the settlers seemed happy. Not that they seemed happier than folks in the old days—but they did seem happier than they had any good reason to be in the Wasteland. She couldn’t wrap her head around it.
She leaned on Nick’s shoulder. He pulled her close.
“Is the wind getting to you?” He said.
“No, I’m just thinking too much.”
“Hmm,” he took a drag of his cigarette. “What about?”
“Do you ever think this is how people were supposed to be?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean like this. Living in a small community, gathering around a fire at night, taking care of each other and dying young. Maybe we were never meant to build big cities and such. To ‘be fruitful and multiply’ to the point that there’s just too damn many of us.”
“So something in the vein of primitivism.”
“Sort of. I don’t know. Maybe my brain is still scrambling to craft a meaning out of a world that makes no sense.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s idealistic.”
“Good. Be idealistic.”
“Come on, Nick, don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not. If you make something meaningful, it's not like the world is inherently meaningless and you’re choosing to ignore it. You made it mean something. And the way I see it, that’s it. That’s just it. It has meaning if we say it does.”
“Say ‘meaning’ a few more times.”
“Joke all you want, but I’m still right.”
“Yeah,” she stole the cigarette from his lips, “I suppose you are.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I might be. Eventually.”
He kissed her cheek.
“Fine by me,” he said.
On the other side of the bonfire, some of the settlers struck up a song. It was one that Sole hadn’t heard before; she wondered if it was a rare relic, or something new. Either way, she could not deny that the singers sounded happy, almost carefree, ignorant of the fact that they had no right to be.
Maybe she didn’t have any right to be happy, either. Yet this place, with its food and warmth and all these people who had her back—with Nick, most of all—it was hard to be anything else.