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Finally, Arthur clambered to the top of the hill and paused to catch his breath. Once his breathing had settled, he checked that his neckerchief still covered his mouth and nose. Even though he was several feet above the desert wasteland and the harmful dust, one couldn't be too careful, especially in dumping ground. Peering out from under his cap, he surveyed the areas of the rubbish tip he had not yet searched, picking out his next route.
At the moment, he was doing a job for the main science institute on the East Coast. They were extremely grateful that they didn't need to send their own people out. The military compound probably wouldn't be happy, though, as he was neglecting their job for the moment. He knew where the cowboys holed up for now but had yet to take them out. Instead, he was searching through rubbish for plant life – if there was any.
So far, two days of searching, had turned up nothing except for a handy belt and a broken Swiss Army knife. There were also some 'out of date' cans of food which he had packed away for more dire times. If his last voyage to what had been America was any indication, he'd need them mid-trip when he sailed anywhere else.
Setting off once again, Arthur carefully descended, sliding several feet at a time as he dislodged broken toys and useless clothing. At one point, he stepped on a mattress and had to keep his balance as the thing fell down the side of the hill. When he reached the bottom, he started to pick his way through the litter and wondered if he would actually find anything.
Slowly, he meandered through the piles of garbage, his footsteps crunching on the carpet of litter. He wondered who had done this so methodically – someone must have. Some piles were as high as his waist; others towered over him, making him feel a little claustrophobic. Just as he was passing a particularly large one, an old sofa holding most of it aloft, he heard a clinking from behind it. He froze, listening. When he heard it again, he grabbed his gun from his holster and cocked it, waiting to hear more. Movement from his right made him whirl around, gun raised. His aim was true – he knew this. He had practised, made sure he could hit stationary and moving targets and was ready for anything.
Except for the gas mask the man was wearing.
Memories instantly swirled in his mind. The gas mask. A leering man. His mother's scream. The blood. Darkness and a small space. The fear, the never-ending fear.
Frankly, Arthur was amazed his arms weren't shaking.
The man halted and, slowly, raised his hands in surrender. There was a silence, save for the wind whistling through the tip and the strange breathing from the mask. When neither of them moved or said anything for long enough that a cockroach passed between them, the man slowly lowered his hands.
“Hey!” Arthur snapped, glaring at the person who halted with his hands perpendicular to his body. “What do you think you're doing?!”
A distorted voice responded: “We can't stand around here all day.”
Arthur growled. “Shut up. And take that mask off!”
“What? You do know this is to help me breathe out here without getting ill, right?”
Tense and scared, Arthur gritted his teeth. “You heard me,” he hissed. “Take. It. Off.”
“Okay, okay!”
With cautious movements, the man reached up and unbuckled the straps of the mask, one by one. He lifted it over his head and Arthur twitched, half-expecting it to be him . Instead he was faced with a man around his age. His blond hair was dirty and tangled (though not as much as Arthur's mop). Blue eyes were visible even with the distance between them. The edges of his face had red lines from where the mask had dug into him; Arthur wondered if he ignored the pain of it being too tight. He wore faded and fraying jeans, a leather jacket and a variety of belts slung across his chest holding various equipment. Now that Arthur was able to see past the mask, he could easily spot the shotgun and machete strapped to his back. Despite being at gunpoint, the man's gaze was steady as he stared Arthur down.
So Arthur lowered his gun. This wasn't the man he was continuously searching for despite his fear, his rage pushing him onwards. One day, though...
“We cool?” asked the man.
Shrugging a shoulder, Arthur holstered his gun. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Goodbye.”
“Wait a minute!” the guy exclaimed. “I took off my mask – you should totally take off the cap and bandanna.”
“That's not going to happen. I'm busy.”
“So was I till ya tried to shoot me.”
“I didn't try to shoot you. I was protecting myself against possible enemies.”
“But I'm not an enemy!” The man actually pouted.
By that point, Arthur had had quite enough. He'd wasted enough time with the guy and he wanted to move on. Rolling his eyes, he turned to leave. “Whatever you say. If you'll excuse me.”
“Ah! Hey!” The man scrambled to follow after him, the gas mask still dangling from his fingers. “Wait up! Why don't I come with ya? I could help with whatever you're up to.”
“No, thank you,” Arthur replied, swiftly. He had to nip this in the bud – he was not in the mood for forming any more attachments than he already had.
Not that he had an immense amount of relationships since his parents died.
“Well, then, can ya come with me? I've got a mission and I'd totally love some company. A witness to see me being awesome. Maybe a sidekick?”
“ No, thank you ,” Arthur replied, more forcefully than before. “I work alone.”
This time, the crunching footsteps stopped. Thankful, Arthur continued on, hurrying to be as far away from him as possible. However, before he had gotten too far, there was a shout from behind him. Arthur paused and turned his head ever so slightly to indicate he was listening.
“Come find me when you wanna! My name's Alfred F. Jones! And don't worry about not telling me yours – I'll totally know you by your eyes!”