They finally arrived at a long line of men and some women, each person holding onto some box or stack of components. This line passed in front of a low building with an overhang where one guard stood alongside an intricate contraption which looked something like a power generator and asked for a name and an explanation of what sort of treasure the prisoner brought with them.

“Treasure” was a funny word. Most of what the prisoners seemed to carry was old junk, occasionally useful for research or for some rich collector to preen over. The word “treasure” conjured up ideas of pirates and secrets, but treasure hunting meant little more than digging through the trash of people long dead.

When Carrick’s turn in line came, the attendant guard looked him over with an unchanging expression. He was a sour-faced man with a yellow tinge to his face. He looked at the number on Carrick’s jumpsuit, then asked for his name. Carrick gave it, and the man marked off the combination on his datapad. That this seemed to be the only method of roll call puzzled Carrick. He knew that in more typical prisons, roll call was often performed three times a day, and much more strictly, with each prisoner standing in a line to ensure no one was missing.

In fact, the amount of freedom the prisoners received in the Wasteland staggered Carrick. Not only did security at the barracks seem to be free, but the prisoners had access to heavy vehicles and to power equipment which could easily tunnel outward or cut through the fence.

Though many guards occupied the camp, what exactly stopped prisoners from using the tools which they were given for scavenging to instead escape from their prison? It wasn't even as though any of the prisoners wore some kind of suicide collar which could kill them if they went missing.

The guard snapped his fingers directly in front of Carrick’s face. “Your cargo,” he snarled. “What do you have, prisoner?”

Apple dipped his head around Carrick’s shoulder to address the guard. “Good evening, Mr. Jones! I'm showing the new prisoner around. He worked with me today. We found some hard drives and some of these here laser crystals. Not sure what grade they are, but look pretty valuable to me!”

The guard gestured for Carrick to set his load on the bed of the machine beside him. Now that he was closer, the machine appeared to Carrick like a scale and a set of measuring tools. The guard pulled a monitor arm toward himself, examining something closely, and then gave a brief nod. “High chance of filling your quota from this,” he said. “But we won't know till we do analysis.” Despite his gruffness, the words seem to be for Carrick’s benefit, a way of explaining the ordinary process.

Apple grab Carrick shoulder. “You’ve got to ask for a receipt if they don't give you an answer right away,” he whispered. “If this stuff is worth more than our quota and we're not here to witness it, HQ will just take whatever extra it's worth and we’ll never see a penny of it.”

Carrick cleared his throat. “May I have a receipt so I can check on the analysis later?” He kept his voice as respectful as possible.

The guard grunted and ripped a cellophane ticket from the machine. He shoved it into the collar of Carrick's jumpsuit. Carrick began to move forward, but another guard who stood nearby raised a snub-nosed rifle and pointed at Carrick’s chest. “Stand still, prisoner!”

Apple stepped away from Carrick. “They've got to make sure you're not hiding anything,” he mumbled. “Just put your arms to the sides for a second.”

Carrick did as Apple said, even as the armed guard shouted the same instructions.

The first the guard who had taken the treasures approached with a wand which he swiped up and down Carrick’s left and right sides. “Clean,” he said. “No contraband, no radiation.”

The armed guard lowered his weapon and pointed away with his chin. “Move on,” he said.

Carrick obeyed. Apple stopped for just a moment, raised his arms, and submitted to a scan before following Carrick. “Not a bad job,” he said. “You're lucky you didn't get someone with a mean temper. Some people on their first day get a bad guard or they're just belligerent and won't listen. They get kicked down and beaten a bit before being sent back to the barracks with their whole quote confiscated and nullified. Not a great way to start your sentence.”

Carrick retrieved and examined the cellophane ticked he’d been given. It had a dot matrix code upon it and nothing else. “Will I just show this again to them tomorrow night?”

“You got it,” said Apple. “Be careful with stuff like this. You have to kind of get a scale in your head of how much things are worth. You're allowed to ask for a re-scan if you think it's evaluated too low, but they also have a right to knock your teeth out if you don’t show respect.”

As they approached the Green group barracks, Carrick saw men sitting around fires again. He recognized both Teeth and Old Oak, but didn’t catch either man’s attention. “So when do I get the right to sit around fires outside?” he asked.

Apple looked at the men and then turned back to Carrick. “I don't know why you'd want to,” he said. “They make it out to be some kind of privilege because it's just about the only freedom they have. Fire doesn't keep you that warm, not with all this wind around. I prefer to be inside, myself. But… When you find some treasure that's more than your quote is worth, and it's something you can divide up, then you'll leave it in a tunnel I'll show you. Then you come back and tell Mr. Oak. He'll organize who takes it back for surplus and arrange for extra supplies for the whole group. Keeps some kind of a reckoning in his head. When he decides that you’ve pulled your weight enough, he graduate you to brother of the Green group, and you're then allowed to sit outside and freeze your ass off.”

Apple smiled. “I wouldn’t bother if I was you. Play along, help, and don't pretend that sitting on a barrel outside means you're worth anything special.”

They approached the Green barracks at a jog. Standing still in line had rendered Carrick almost completely numb. The guards had worn thick gloves and face coverings, a privilege not afforded to any of the prisoners. Carrick thought about that as he looked at the trash fires and the shivering shoulders and backs of men trying to pretend they were the elite of a group of convicts.

***

The next day, Carrick stayed awake for the whole drive to the tunnel. At a certain point the main tunnel split into several branches, and Apple took the third one. The slope dropped significantly as they traveled, and eventually the path opened into what seemed like a subway tunnel.

Ancient, unlit light fixtures hung from the sides of the tunnel, and maintenance tunnels with their hatches cut away appeared in the truck’s lights from time to time. “This was all here before we came,” said Apple. “Used to be some kind of underground transportation system that took people from one part of the facility to the other. Now we use it. There are ghost stories about still hearing trains or voices down here, but I've never heard them myself. At least, nothing that can’t be chalked up to echoes of other people passing by. We've dug out a lot of those maintenance tunnels and connected the parts to each other so we can get around better.”

Apple pointed to one of the cut-away tunnels which, to Carrick, seemed little different to any of the others. “That's our closest warehouse.”

“How on Dirt do you remember where all these things are?” Asked Carrick. Everything was so featureless. It wasn't like navigating through even the most winding slums of his home town, where land markers stood out every few yards and a person even had street signs to help navigate. It was almost as though the prisoners had developed some kind of animalistic navigation system, like moles or worms.

Apple tapped the dashboard of the truck. “Eventually just got a feel of how long it took to get from one point to another,” he said. “But we also have a waypoint system built into this thing.” He pulled out what had looked like a cup holder to Carrick, revealing a very simple LCD display. Upon that display was a simple 3D representation of what had to be the tunnel systems. A moving green dot marked what Carrick assumed was their position, and scattered around were orange dots which stayed in place. “Those are our warehouses,” said Apple. “Green group owns this whole section of the facility. And you see that one yellow dot there?”

Carrick had to squint to discern the difference, but he did eventually see it was a shade lighter. “That's the site that you're working on?” he asked.

Apple nodded. “Yep. Work sites don’t show up on the scanner by default, because you'd never be able to see anything else if that was the case. If you press this little button here, it’ll pulse out a wave and show you locations that haven't already been marked yet. That's really the only way to find a fresh place to dig. It's, uh, good manners not to intrude on someone else's site. Even as much as it's every man for himself among the other groups, to intrude on someone else's worksite is an invitation to get murdered.”

Apple wasn't smiling. He turned back to the truck's viewport. “And no one will turn you in for it, either. I'm warning you, Carrick, whatever you think about getting on top and being some kind of boss down here, you do not touch other people's things.”

Carrick had no intention to. He got it. Turf was sacred. “Well,” he said, “thanks for sharing yours with me.”

Apple shrugged. “It’ll be useful to have help. I like going out alone, but someone had to help you, and it'll be nice to take a nap on the way back. Don't think you're getting out of driving this time.”

“So long as you don't mind getting lost forever,” said Carrick.

Apple laughed.

***

The next week passed in a blur. Carrick had to rely completely on the trucks wayfinder, though at least he found it fairly intuitive to use. His days were filled with the same food, the same rigid schedule, with chambers which looked nearly identical to each other and filled with the same old technology and components. Carrot had a tough time keeping track of which day was which, and when the day which Apple said was Sunday finally came, it was a bit of a shock.

On that day, all the prisoners lined up before their barracks in a more formal roll call than the daily one. Guards drove a dump truck from one end of the barracks to the other, and each prisoner deposited their bedding and all the clothes except for the set which they currently wore into the back. A few hours later, new sets of bedding and jumpsuits were deposited on a wooden pallet before each of the barracks. Apple said the old clothing and bedding was recycled or burned, something about residual radiation.

It turned out Sunday was also the one day of the week the prisoners were not scheduled to work. It was the day Old Oak assembled and updated what passed for their finances. The rest of men loafed around inside and out of the barrack, drank tea, played games with crude dice and other gaming objects, or simply slept.

On his second Sunday, Carrick, Apple, and two other men from the barrack whom Carrick had made friends with sat around their barracks table. They played a game more or less like dominoes, using pieces made from similarly shaped rocks. Apple was talking about how one of the other men, named Bigfoot, need to cover a day of cooking in payback for when Apple head covered for him on some previous day.

Bigfoot was trying to say he didn't owe Apple anything, that Apple had just been returning a favor he owed Bigfoot in the first place.

Bored with the argument, Carrick rose and moved away to refill his mug with hot water when he heard a gurgle and then yelling from behind him.

He spun, spattering himself with boiling water that he hardly felt as he saw Apple had fallen across the table and was convulsing, holding his throat.

Carrick rushed over. Bigfoot was already shoving his fingers it down Apple's throat, clearly trying to induce vomiting. “Get a guard!” Bigfoot shouted. He turned and looked directly at Carrick. “Go on, jackass! Stop standing there!”

The last prisoner in the room was drawing cold water from the tap, and he rushed over to Apple as Carrick burst out the door. He wasn’t wearing his shoes, but didn’t feel the cold as he sprinted for the nearest guard building. He reached it and pounded on the door, shouting that they needed a doctor.

His attitude was so loud and aggressive that it came as no surprise when, as the door opened, the guard who appeared kicked Carrick to the ground and pointed a gun at him while shouting at him to stay down.

Carrick put his hands behind his head and forced his voice as level as he could. “Apple, sir, he's having a seizure or something. We need a medic in Green group.”

The guard stared at Carrick for a moment. It only then occurred to Carrick that this had probably been used as a ploy to get careless guards to rush into an ambush in the past, so he wasn't surprised when the guard disappeared for a few moments and then reappeared holding a larger gun. “Stand up,” he ordered. “Hands behind your head. Turn your back to me.”

Carrick stood and, frustrated, obeyed. “He's going to die!” he shouted. That earned him a kick in the small of his back, which threw Carrick back down to the ground. Though he tried to throw his hands out to break his fall, he still got a gash across his cheek.

“Shut up. Get back up. As you were before.”

So Carrick stood, shuffling from one foot to the other as the frozen ground burned his bare skin.

It wasn’t until a minute later that a speeder approached with two armed guards and one unarmed man with a medic’s vest thrown over his uniform. “Go on,” said the first guard.

Carrick knew he couldn't run without earning a bullet in the back. Instead, he walked as quickly as he could, cursing the guards for their slowness.

They finally reached the barracks of the Green group. The door hung open, and a prisoner who stood by the door put his hands up as the convoy approach. “Doctor’s here,” he said it out loud, slow, clear voice. “Bring him out.”

It was clear the prisoners were also doing what they could to keep this from appearing at all like an ambush or uprising. They had already dragged a table from another barrack, and now two of the largest prisoners carried the unmoving form of Apple between them out the door of the building before laying him on the table.

Old Oak followed these men, his face gray and grave.

The armed guards walked directly behind the medic, scanning the area all around them. The medic approached the form of Apple on the table. The prisoner’s eyes wide open and orange foam stained his mouth and the front of his yellow jumpsuit.

The medic pulled two hand-held tools from a pouch at his waist. He inserted the tip of one of these into Apple’s ear and swiped the other along his body from head to toe.

“The nervous system is inhibited,” he said. “Heart rate is weak. Brain activity is low. Breaths are shallow. Approaching hypothermia.” He turned to Old Oak. “What do you know?” He asked.

Old Oak granted. “He made a tea with ghostblade roots.”

A look of anger and disgust crossed the medic’s face. “Junkie,” he muttered.

Carrick looked between the medic and Old Oak. Ghostblade was the name of the weed which they brewed into tea. But they all drank it. No one else had ever had this reaction to it. It seemed that it was some kind of contraband, though one which guards had never searched the barracks for. They performed contraband searches every few days, but had never taken the supply of tea.

Unless the root was a different part of the plant than was otherwise made into tea, and this had been what Apple consumed. Carrick remembered when they’d first met. Apple had told Carrick that he was in the Wasteland because he’d smuggled narcotics. Carrick's heart sank.

The medic pulled a hypodermic from his bag, attached a vial to it, and jabbed it directly into Apple's heart.

The roundish man convulsed again, and Carrick shouted, though a nearby prisoner held him back and muttered at him to not be an idiot.

Apple coughed up more orange foam and then was still again.

The medic pulled a patch from his bag, ripped off the back, and slapped it onto the side of Apple’s neck. He nodded to the guards, who roughly took Apple up and deposited him into the back of the speeder before throwing a couple heavy blankets over him.

They took Apple away, and that was the last Carrick ever saw of him.