Wasteland Blues

17

The pavement is slick with rain as Sasha drags his tired self uphill to the museum’s main entrance on Cromwell Road. He’d had combat classes last, and he is still reeling from being at the receiving end of god only knows how many piledrivers. He can already see Mayhew there waiting for him, a large slender grey and black shape with that easily distinguishable pole.

“Y’ have a good first day?” she asks, then laughs at herself. “I sound like yer mum.”

Sasha shrugs. “It was okay. I’m really sore, though – I got beaten all over the room in combat class.”

Mayhew nods. “Y’ think y’ had it bad. Yer not th’ one with three gigantic gashes in yer side n’ a twisted ankle. I ‘ad combat first thing in th’ mornin’, luckily I’m good at actually dodgin’ hits. If not I’d be nothin’ but a pulp at yer feet right now.”

“It’s because you’ve got that pole of yours. You can just hit people with it, and you’d still be out of reach.”

“Our combat classes are just like yours, boyo. No weapons. Y’ don’t see any of th’ kids with knives actually usin’ ‘em, do ya?”

“I’d probably be dead if they did.”

“Exactly. Same with the pole. It’s got both heavy ends n’ sharp spikes that could actually kill someone. The monitor bots’ll be swarmin’ me if I even take a step into th’ room with that thing. I just leave it outside – s’ too bulky fer someone t’ steal without me seein’ ‘em with it.”

Sasha looks at her – it is hard for him to remember that she actually has grave injuries when she’s acting like her usual self. “Are you in any pain?” he asks suddenly.

“S’ a dull throb. I’ve put up with worse; I’ll be fine. You, on the other ‘and, are not used t’ takin’ hits. Y’ okay fer a little Monday stroll, or do ya wanna head back n’ crash?”

“Okay, come on, I’m not that weak. I’m up for walking.” When he’d been at school before the epidemic, he’d returned home as soon as possible to shower so that he wasn’t as grubby from school when he next went out again. But things have changed now, and despite his inner neat freak yelling at him to cease and desist, he is up for doing something different and ten times more exciting at that.

“Good. I hope yer not th’ type who prefers watchin’ TV over bein’ outside, though, or else this trip’ll be a waste.”

Sasha follows her up Exhibition Road, watching as various students pass them by, laughing and chatting like teenagers are bound to. Once again, he is struck by how normal everything is. Under different circumstances, this might be a date. Wait, what?

They keep walking straight up, and soon the vast green expanse of Hyde Park is visible in front of them, broken only by the fat blue line of the Serpentine. “Am I to assume this is what you normally do after school?” he asks. “Go to parks?”

“Go to Hyde Park. There’s this entertainment group called th’ Soap Box Society, higher-ups approved. They’ve got all sortsa things goin’ on there after school hours, whether it’s theorist preachings or a carnival. They ‘ad a giant gatherin’ ‘ere last week; y’ bring yer own box n’ join ‘ands with someone n’ see how many people it takes t’ ring the Serpentine. Didn’t ‘ave bare enough t’ get round ‘alf of it, I tell ya. All this stuff is done atop cardboard boxes, o’ course, just like them old tossers used t’ do ‘ere back in th’ day.”

“So industries aren’t the only things being revived, huh?”

“Half of us woulda killed ourselves by now if we were stuck in our ‘omes with no TV, no Internet and nothin’ t’ do on th’ outside neither. Someone ‘ad t’ bring it back eventually. Too bad we’re missin’ proper power sources, though, otherwise I’d love t’ see some bands play live shows again. Oh, look over there, what’s goin’ on?”