The pair of them lived, or rather they existed, in the old department store down on Catatonia Avenue, Death's Head and the Sickly Child. The glass fronts faced out onto bits and pieces and inside there was the same. The street had had another name once--a proper name. And the Sickly Child had The Virus, but Death's Head didn't mind. She'd seen The Virus plenty of times before and she knew it couldn't touch her.
Death's Head glanced across to where The Sickly Child was rooting around among the shoetrees and the mirrors, pushing aside cobwebs and dust with her pale thin hands. Her fine white hair made a cloud around her puffy milk-hued face. She hummed a tune as she moved from stack to stack, seeking something; Death's Head knew not what.
"What are you looking for?"
The Sickly Child's humming broke off. "Red shoes," she said. "I feel like some red shoes." She performed a little pirouette, her arms curved above her head. Dust motes sparkled in the shafts of liquid light as her faded floral dress billowed around her.
Death's Head pursed her lips. Her young companion would be looking for hours, and when she finally found her precious shoes, if she did, they'd occupy her for long enough. The Sickly Child was easily amused.
She turned away and left her to it. She picked her way over fallen shelves and tumbled displays toward the vast marble staircase leading to the lower floors. Small pieces of rubble crunched beneath her feet. She didn't care about the noise or who it might disturb--this was their place.
On the ground floor, the doors to the street hung open. One angled where it had been torn from its upper hinges, the thick glass long gone. Death's Head slipped between them and stood looking up and down the street. That way lay the ocean. She used to think about taking that long walk down to the seaside, and then she would just keep going. She would walk and walk, watching her life dissipate in a trail of whisper bubbles in the cool water above, waves sweeping back above her head. That had been before. Now she had The Sickly Child to look after. Now she had responsibilities.
In the other direction lay the mountains, looming large with their forbidding crags. They sat in the back of her awareness, a constant reminder of their isolation. Few had ventured that way. None had ever returned.
Some said the war had been a bad thing, but Death's Head didn't believe that. Once upon a time she'd been a nursing assistant, way back before the conflict, but now she was a doctor--a proper doctor. She gave her little black leather kit an appreciative shake. It had taken her months to build up her small supply of instruments and medications, scrounged from here and there. She fingered the small badge--her namesake--she wore to mark her position. The skull shape with its flying silver wings was pinned to her jacket, had been for years. It was hard to remember now, but she thought she'd found it in a bike shop a couple of blocks over.
The air was good this morning.
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