Prisoner 3128, James Malik, alias Apple, was unable to be saved by the medics of the Wasteland. Almost three times the lethal dose of a certain neurotoxin was found in his body, a substance which occurred alongside a mild opioid which was likewise found in the root of the plant called ghostblade which grew upon the plains of the Wasteland and was made into a tea by desperate prisoners.
No one volunteered this news to the prisoners. Old Oak was required to ask one of the highest-ranking guards directly. He was the only prisoner who had enough standing to demand such a thing.
Carrick didn’t know if that was the first time Apple had ever drunk such a tea, or whether the poison had built up in his body over time, or whether he might have even intended to overdose on the opioid itself and simply hadn't realized the presence of the neurotoxin. It wasn't as though they had a chemical lab situated somewhere in the Green group’s barracks.
Old Oak himself gave Carrick some words of sympathy. They held a small funeral for Apple outside on Monday night, after all had come back from their work.
Carrick had gone off on his own that morning in the truck which he had shared with Apple. He’d gone to their work site and angrily ripped apart every box and housing in sight, gathering up countless components whose value he had little way of knowing without Apple’s guidance.
The guard on duty to receive scavenge had been furious at Carrick for wasting his time with so much junk. He’d struck Carrick across the face, throwing him to the ground, and then kicked him several times in the ribs. Though Carrick had provided some objects of value, the guard had considered it all a loss because of the annoyance of disposing of the worthless items, and had told Carrick he would need to make up the quota on the next day.
Old Oak told Carrick the Green group’s stash would cover him. “You owe nothing except loyalty,” he said. “Just cover someone else when you can. As Apple did for you. He was a good man. Always cheerful, never complaining. A hard worker.”
Old Oak shrugged his bony shoulders. Carrick wondered, not for the first time, how much work the old man could even perform every day. Old Oak went out the same as everyone else, but he never seemed to be sweaty or weary when he returned with his partner, a selection which rotated out every day.
Carrick at this point assumed working with Old Oak was a great honor, though one which probably resulted in the partner doing all the work while Old Oak Sat by the wayside. He wondered what the old man had done, once upon a time, to earn such a place of respect and command among the prisoners. He did not ask, of course. “Thank you,” he said instead. “You know, Apple never mentioned to me that he was taking the root. I never saw him do it. I can't believe I missed it happening.”
“I imagine he mostly chewed it in his bunk,” said Old Oak. “Though he certainly made a tea of it the night he died. I understand steeping it takes away much of the bitterness. But he likely didn't want to risk anyone seeing it any other time. He's not the first person to die of it, though that usually happens deep underground. We usually see a pattern of behavior beforehand where they do no work for two or three days before they die.
“That the root exists in such a terrible capacity is something we keep hidden for obvious reasons. When a man discovers it, he thinks he's the first person to do so, and even in Green group does not share this discovery with others. The root provides a lovely sensation, boy, one that makes you feel like you're floating and like your hands and feet are warm even on the coldest nights. But, as you've seen, the death is not pleasant. I don't think the pleasure makes up for the end.”
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Old Oak was standing close to Carrick and speaking to him in a quiet voice. Other men sat around a nearby fire which was much bigger than any of the smaller fires had been. They seem to have used about three times as much fuel as they had for the smaller fires. The men passed back and forth a flask of brandy which Old Oak had produced from somewhere, the first alcohol which Carrick had seen in the Wasteland.
Old Oak was speaking, that is, so low that only Carrick could hear.
“I'm surprised,” said Carrick, “that someone like Apple who used to smuggle the stuff didn't have a way of removing the poison.”
“He likely knew nothing of it,” said Old Oak, and sighed. “I've thought many times about warning people about it. It's always seemed to me a thing I should never mention, so that the men don’t hear my warning and think to try it anyway. Even among those prisoners who know its true nature, which is fewer than half, due to the frequency with which our poor brothers die and are replaced, I have commanded no one speak of it.
“A little booze now and then is one thing, but it does no man any good to dull his whole body with morphine when he needs to work hard to provide for his brothers.” The old man shook his head. “Stay away from it, boy. If I discover you’ve found some way of isolating the drug and giving it to others, I will kill you with my bare hands. I know where you come from. I know what your Family does on the outside. This life is a new life, and I do not judge you for what you've done before it, but you will do it no longer here.”
Indignation flared in Carrick’s chest for a moment, but then he nodded. “I know the Family’s reputation,” he said. “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I find all those things as vile as you do. You'll not have any of that trouble with me.”
Old Oak did not look as though he believed Carrick. “See that it doesn't,” he said, and returned to the edge of the fire to drink the last of the brandy.
Carrick left the ring of men on boxes and buckets. He was overcome by the sensation that he was an outsider, a sensation he had begun to shake in his friendship with Apple and Bigfoot and the other men of his barrack, but which he could not escape in this moment.
He left the warmth of the fire where he was only barely welcome and walked out to the edge of the Wasteland. He walked through the asphalt lot of the crawlers, past the truck which Apple would never sit in again, past the great ramp which led into the labyrinthine intestines of the facility below, the graveyard of thousands of scientists and engineers who had died trying to help humanity escape Dirt.
There were no guards here. Nothing stopped Carrick from stepping onto the snow of the Wasteland proper, the frost crunching under his increasingly worn loafers. As he walked, Carrick realized that what he had previously mistaken for the sheen of moonlight upon the wasteland’s ground was indeed a glowing spread of grass-like leaves.
He walked until the shimmering blades surrounded him. Each was shaped like a sword, and only a few inches tall. He squatted down and with the numb fingers pulled up a clump of ghostblade. The leaves snapped off from roots frozen into the ground, and Carrick saw in the dim light of the sky and the ground that a dark, blood-colored sap welled up from the root despite the frozen temperatures.
The blades retained their glow for a few moments as Carrick held them, though that light quickly faded.
Carrick chewed one blade, the bitter and astringent taste he recognized from the tea mitigated by a new and lemony freshness.
He remained there and simply stared at the glowing blades around him.
They begin to pulse, as though speaking to Carrick directly. He could not understand them. He was overcome with the alien sensation that despite this, they could see exactly into the center of his being, that they laughed at him, for they belonged here, and he did not.