DUMB LUCK

THE TWO STROLLED along the street, Deacon with his two rifles and Silas with the duffel bag. The sun had climbed up to its peak, beating down on the hot asphalt.

Drops of sweat trickled from Deacon’s face. He wiped his forehead and turned to Silas. “So, where do you usually find oil? Where do we start?”

“There are a few places we can look.” He pointed to the abandoned cars scattered throughout the road. “Some of these vehicles may have oil. Most are probably dry, but occasionally you get lucky.”

Deacon stared at Silas, waiting for him to continue. “Okay, so what’s the better way? I don’t want to be out here all day.”

“Unfortunately, if we want oil, we may have to spend an entire day looking. It’s become a rare commodity.”

Another chime sounded off.

“And you’ve had to listen to that goddamn thing the whole time?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Jeez. I don’t know how you put up with it. I’ve only been with you for a few hours and the sound’s already driving me nuts. Any longer and I may have to blow my brains out. After that, you’re on your own.”

Silas ignored what he could only assume to be a joke. “Our other option is to search these stores. Most of them are empty, but we could get—”

“Lucky,” Deacon said, finishing Silas’s thought. “So, we’re just going to stumble around and wait for dumb luck. That’s the plan.”

“There’s not much else we can do,” Silas said. He pointed to the store on the right. “We can start there and work our way down the block.”

“This is stupid,” Deacon said, following him into the store. “There has to be a better way.”

They rummaged through, finding nothing but useless toys. The place was filled with dolls, action figures, and other things that served no purpose in a post-war life. A miniature train track ran along the perimeter of the room, ramping up and over the entrance and continuing along a shelf. The caboose of a plastic train now dangled from a ledge after crashing into a dollhouse that had been placed in its way.

Deacon grabbed a green plastic army man and held it up with a wide smile. “Man, I loved these things when I was a kid.” He reached for another one and moved them in a playful manner. “Reporting for duty,” he said, moving one of the figures to the rhythm of his voice. “What are my orders?” He responded to himself with the other figure in a slightly lower voice. “I want you to go out there and rip them apart, soldier. Show them that green plastic is the best plastic. We must defend green at all costs. No matter what the consequences. Those reds and blues don’t stand a chance.” He slammed both figures down in unison. “Yes, sir!”

Silas stared, saying nothing.

“What?” Deacon said, looking back. “You’ve never seen a grown man play with toys before?”

Silas shook his head.

“Well, get used to it. I may look old, but I’m still a big baby at heart.” He put down the two army men and moved his attention to a toy car, rolling its wheels along the flat surface and making car noises with his mouth.

Silas picked up a toy version of a simmi. It was packaged in a cardboard box with a thin plastic display film. The figure resembled a military model. It was tall and bulky with a blue stripe across its chest. The back of the box had a stylized cartoon of the blue-striped simmi. In one hand the simmi held an oversized gun. With the other, he pointed out toward the customer. A white dialogue bubble floated over its head. We protect you. The Limbys logo sat in the bottom corner.

He placed the box down and grabbed a smaller one next to it. This one held the figure of a household model and had a shocking resemblance to Silas. Sleek and friendly. On the back was another cartoon. This one showed the household simmi kneeling beside a golden retriever. The simmi used one hand to pet the dog and the other to give a thumbs-up to the customer. There was another dialogue bubble. We serve you.

Another chime.

Deacon put down the toy car and looked over at Silas. “Why does that thing beep for oil, but not for your battery?”

Silas placed the toy back down and continued to walk down the aisle. “There used to be a sound for my battery. It just stopped working.”

“Probably a blessing in disguise. Dare I say, dumb luck.”

Gunfire echoed in short bursts outside. They both turned, ready and alert. Silas followed Deacon to the window and peered into the street. At first, he saw nothing. Just the same ghost town as before. Another burst of fire revealed a bright muzzle flash reflecting off a cracked windshield.

“Over there,” Silas whispered, pointing in the direction of the flash.

Deacon squinted. “I can barely see from here. Let’s get closer.” He hopped through the door and spun his back against a car.

“Wait!” Silas said. “It’s dangerous.”

“I’ll be fine. I just want to get a better look. I don’t have brand-new clunker eyes like you.” He turned the corner, out of Silas’s view.

There were a few more bursts, and then the gunfire stopped. Silas continued to watch from the window, waiting for the threat to go away. Waiting for Deacon to return. Waiting for the problem to solve itself. But would it solve itself? Probably not. If anything, his new bodyguard would get himself killed.

He was considering stepping out to help when Deacon returned, trotting back to the store.

“Guess what,” he said, rubbing his palms together. “Today’s your lucky day, buddy. There’s a group of clunkers, and they’ve got a whole stockpile of oil. It’s a fortress of greasy goodness.”

Silas did not share the same enthusiasm. “If the oil is guarded, how do we get it?”

“Guarded? Weren’t you listening? They’re clunkers. Just go up and ask for some.”

“It doesn’t work like that. I can’t just ask for oil.”

“Sure you can. You just have to be confident.”

“It won’t work,” Silas repeated. “You’re supposed to protect me, not send me into danger.”

“It’s dangerous for me, but not for you.” He grabbed Silas’s arm and led him out of the store. “Just go on and get your oil. We’ve already wasted plenty of time. You do want to get to New Valley, right?”

Silas stumbled into the street and caught sight of the squad of simmies. It was the same group from earlier. Red Stripe, Dented Chest, Dirt Smudge, and a whole bunch of others. Red Stripe was in a fit of laughter.

“See?” Deacon said. “That one’s in a good mood. Just go up and join them.”

Silas found himself fighting instinct, walking toward the group of simmies despite his body urging him not to. It was as if Deacon’s words had burrowed into his mind, driving him toward a clear and present danger.

As he walked forward, he could see why Red Stripe was laughing. There were four bodies at his feet, two men and two women, and fresh spurts of blood in the dirt.

He stopped in his tracks as fear took over. In one swift motion, he spun around and walked away. Deacon, who was watching from the store, shook his head and mouthed something with his lips. Silas couldn’t make out the words, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing Deacon could say to convince him to turn back. He would return to safety, and they would continue searching the stores.

His oil gauge chimed. He froze.

The blaring sound prompted Deacon to duck behind a car. Silas prayed that the others hadn’t heard the obvious noise. He began to tiptoe forward but was stopped by the familiar grating voice.

“Hey, you!” Red Stripe yelled. “Stop right there.”

Silas obeyed but did not turn around.

“Are you spying on us?”

His mind was too jumbled to form words. What had he gotten himself into? Why had he listened to someone he just met?

“Hey!” Red Stripe hollered. “I’m talking to you.”

Silas was still too frightened to speak.

“Turn around!”

With his hands raised, Silas slowly turned his body to face the simmies.

“Come over here,” Red Stripe commanded.

Dirt Smudge pointed at Silas’s chest. “The pink heart. It’s the runt from last night.”

After a long look at the painted heart, Red Stripe locked eyes with Silas. “I thought I told you not to follow us, runt.”

“I…uh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to follow you. I just happened to cross your path.”

Red Stripe stepped back and bellowed with laughter. “Look at how scared he is. I sure made an impression on this little guy last night, huh, boys?”

The rest joined in, pointing at the defeated simmi and imitating his frail posture.

Silas lowered his head. “I really am sorry,” he said, backing away. “It won’t happen again.”

Red Stripe grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back. “Now hold on there, runt. There must be a good reason you decided to approach us again. Is there something you want?”

Silas eyed the stack of oil.

“Oil,” Red Stripe said, following Silas’s gaze. “You want oil. But I already told you. That oil’s not for you.”

“I just need one jug,” Silas said in the most confident voice he could fake.

He made eye contact, holding his gaze for as long as he could. Unfazed, Red Stripe leaned forward to match his stare. Silas turned away and stumbled back, but Red Stripe pulled him in closer, snickering in his face. “Did you just try to stare me down?” He turned to the others. “Can you believe that, boys? The runt tried to stare me down.” They hollered with uncontrollable laughter. “You know, I’m starting to like you. I’ll tell you what.” He walked to the stack of oil and grabbed a jug from the top. “I can’t give you an entire jug, but I’ll give you a taste. Fair enough?”

Silas was flustered by the sudden generosity. Was Deacon right? Was a little bit of confidence all he needed to get what he wanted?

“I’ll take your silence as a thank you,” Red Stripe said, twisting off the nozzle. “Now, where should I pour it?”

Silas pointed to his shoulder, where the cap for his oil tank was, but Red Stripe ignored him and instead raised the jug over Silas’s head. He flipped the jug over and poured a steady stream of slick fluid onto Silas’s face. The oil coated his entire body, dripping down to the soles of his feet. When the jug was empty, Red Stripe tossed it aside. The plastic bounced off the hood of a car and onto the ground.

“Oops,” he said, chuckling to himself. “I guess that was more than a taste, huh?”

Again, the others busted out laughing. They hooted and hollered and cooed and cackled.

Humiliated, it was now clear that Silas would not get oil. To stay any longer would be pointless. He took a step back, praying that they were all too distracted to notice. He took another. And then another. And then…

“Hey!” Dirt Smudge yelled. “That little fleshball is taking our oil!”

Silas turned to see Deacon crouched behind the cart holding two jugs, one in each hand.

“Run!” he yelled to Silas, sprinting away.

As the simmies raised their guns, Silas spun around to follow Deacon. He kept his eyes on the bright red jugs as he bobbed and weaved through rows of cars. Gunfire rattled from behind. Shards of smashed windshields flew into the air. A bullet nicked Silas’s shoulder. Another grazed his thigh. He ignored both and kept running.

“Hold your fire!” Red Stripe yelled. The gunfire ceased immediately. “They’re not worth our time. We’re late enough as it is.”

There were no more bullets, but Silas still found himself ducking his head as he ran. A few blocks down, Deacon had stopped in front of a burger joint, resting on their outdoor patio. He sat at an old wooden table with long benches on either side and a torn umbrella poking up from the middle. The umbrella had an image of an astronaut holding a burger on his open palm. Underneath was the name of the joint, Space Taste. The two jugs that Deacon had stolen were sitting on the table.

“How’s that for dumb luck?” Deacon said, handing one of the jugs to Silas.

“It certainly could have gone better.”

“Hey, we’re both alive and we got what we came for. If that’s not a success, then I don’t know what is.”

“I told you asking wouldn’t work.”

“And I told you that you need to be more confident. What happened back there was a joke, and a pretty hilarious one at that.”

“A joke?”

“Yeah. Watching you try to assert yourself. I can tell it doesn’t come easy for you. That much is crystal clear.”

“I didn’t think it was very funny,” Silas said, placing the jugs on the ground. “It was humiliating.”

Deacon waved his hand. “Ah, quit being a baby. The world’s died ten times over. No one cares if you embarrass yourself a little.”

The familiar chime rang out.

Deacon pointed to the jug on the ground. “What are you waiting for? I didn’t just steal that as a souvenir.”

Silas picked it up and unscrewed the top. “I fill up and then we go to New Valley. You’re still coming, right?”

“Of course I’m still coming. Nothing’s changed. A clunker like you doesn’t stand a chance on your own.”

“Could you please stop saying clunker?” Silas said, pouring a steady flow of oil into his tank. “That term is a bit derogatory.”

“What do you prefer?”

“Simulated intelligence is better. Simmi is fine as well.”

Deacon tilted his head. “Really? You prefer simulated intelligence? To me, that’s much worse than clunker. It means your intelligence isn’t real. Isn’t that the reason the war started in the first place? You know, equal rights and everything? I’ve come across a lot of clunkers, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that they’re intelligent. Hell, I’d go as far as to say that clunkers are smarter than eighty percent of the human population. That is, back when there was a human population. Now it’s probably around sixty. All the dummies died out.”

Silas lowered the half-emptied jug and secured the cap. “I respect the name they gave us.”

Deacon shrugged. “I guess I just don’t understand.” He smirked. “What about robot?”

Silas flinched at the term. “That’s just as bad as clunker.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m just joking around.”

“It’s not something to joke about. Robots are what you find in factories. On assembly lines doing programmed work. They can’t think for themselves. Calling a simmi a robot is like calling a human a garden gnome.”

“Yeah, I’m just messing with you,” Deacon said, glancing at the red jug in Silas’s hand. “Are you all set with the oil? Ready to go?”

“Yes,” Silas answered, reaching for the other jug. “But we should take a different route. Those simmies said they’re also going to New Valley. We should stay out of their way.”

Deacon chuckled. “You really are terrified of them, aren’t you? Fine by me.” He pointed down the intersecting road. “We’ll take this street and head for the woods. Get away from town. That’ll keep us safe from the clunkers.”

“Simmi,” Silas insisted.

“I’ll call you simmi, but I ain’t got an inch of respect for those other hunks of metal. I’m calling them clunkers.”