“Ugh, right. There’s no privacy down there.” 

“I’m glad to be sleeping without some schmuck snoring the next tent over.” 

“That’s ‘cause you usually aren’t outside the orphanage. I’m lucky if I only get snoring.” 

An old pickup truck drives away from W.A.R.T.S’s main area down a well-traveled road a kilometer outside of the base. Tires kick up dust from the arid, cracked ground as they turn off the main road to circle a shallow pit. The pit was dug in the shadows of a large rock formation that appears to be in the shape of a giant tooth. With three, enormous, spiraling roots shooting out from the center, the molar shaped formation sat in the middle of the mostly flat desert plain.  

It’s the only bit left of a unit of formations that were scattered along the province, a clear marker of the defeat New Cinalia suffered from the many blows dealt by Underling. Their boss calls it “el diente rocoso” [the rocky tooth], but the rest of his men call it Crap Mouth Rock, since it sits right beside two pits, one for their trash and one for their shits. 

Southeast of their position sits a river that pushes contaminated water right by their location to flow north toward the mountain ranges in the distance. Back in their direction, beside the pit of crap, communal toilets are settled above a large pit full of critters waiting for fresh dung to feast upon.  

The rusty blue pickup truck parks and the two subordinates leisurely round the truck as they continue their conversation. 

“I saw Nicky and Cohen at it again the night before…or I don’t know.” The young man slams his door and taps his leather gloved hand on the roof of the truck while he thinks. “Telling time down there is hard…maybe two nights ago actually. I don’t think they know their angry whispering isn’t…what’s the word?” 

“Subtle?” The other young man, who is wearing a brown cap, stands at the back of the truck with his hands resting on the warm metal. Fingers absentmindedly picking at the peeling paint. 

“Yeah, that.” Gloves slaps a hand down on the latch to open the cargo area then hops inside to get to the tarp lying in the corner of the dirty truck bed. After he gets a good grip on it, he lifts the wide end of the tarp onto his thighs and looks down at his buddy. “You got it?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” The tarp is pushed out of the truck into the waiting arms of his comrade. He shuffles backward until Gloves can hop out. “You know what can solve all that?” 

“What?” Gloves’s gaze is fixed on the bill of his friend’s brown cap, envious of the shade hiding him from the sun’s harsh rays, rays that are beating down into his eyes and on the back of his neck. 

“A night away from everyone would do them good. Cohen’s been stuck working with all those kids, she needs a good—” The heavy bundle is carried between their bodies as they slowly approach the shallow pit. 

“Ugh.” Gloves shifts the bundle a bit higher and sidesteps a rock. “Dude, don’t start with that again.” 

“What?” Brown Cap has a lewd smile spread across his face. 

“Man, people’ve got real problems…sex isn’t the solution for everything.” 

“Hey, did I say that? All I mean is—” He adjusts his grip on the tarp and peers over his shoulder at the large cat-sized maggots squirming in the sandy pit. “Show me a couple and I’ll tell you who in’t getting any. And that’s where that animosity is coming from. People need a little something to tide them over, but to get some of that you need privacy.” He grunts and adjusts his grip. “But down there? You fart and people hear it  three floors below you. Nicky ain’t into that.” 

“You know what else Nicky ain’t into?” 

They pause as they get to the edge of the trash pit and lower the bundle to the ground. The young man with the brown cap pulls it off to fan himself but spares a glance at his friend to raise an eyebrow.  

“You.” His close-mouthed smile can’t hold back the laugh that shakes his frame. “You real invested in his sex life.” 

“Ha ha.” Brown Cap rolls his eyes at the corny joke. “I ain’t into him or anything, but Nicky ain’t half bad. Plus, you could learn a thing or two from him.” 

“Like what? How to get pussy whipped in an apocalypse? That guy could have any pick of the girls and he went for Cohen?” Gloves shakes his head at the foolish choice. 

Brown Cap wiggles his eyebrows and crouches down to untie the strings securing the tarp around the lengthy body. “He ain’t want a girl. He wanted a woman.” With the ties undone, him and the other errand boy back up and turn the bundle parallel with the edge. “Cohen can handle herself in the worse of situations, that’s why Dennis stuck her with those orphans. Fred alone would get done in by a plastic bag. I’m surprised he’s made it this long.” 

“Fuckin’ Fred. Did I tell you what he—” 

The truck radio goes off and both men pause to look at the vehicle. “Charlie, Ed? Charlie, Ed? You still out there…at the Mouth? OVER.” Brown Cap jogs over to the passenger side and leans into the truck to reply back. 

“Roger, roger.” 

“Toilet kids sighted some critters down by the river, can’t fill the pails. Stop down there and give them a hand then hustle back. OVER.” 

“Okay. Roger that.” He sets down the radio microphone and slides out of the truck. 

“Damn…Let’s hurry this up. Toilet kids need a save again.” Brown Cap bends over to shove at the bundle wrapped in the tarp while Gloves keeps the tarp within his hands. 

Gloves scoffs. “I ain’t getting stuck in a two-hour line cause those twits can’t stand to kill a few bugs.” 

“Okay, let’s toss this sad sap and kill some goons.” 

The corpse tumbles out of the tarp with a few shoves and careens down into the maggot infested pit below. The errand boys wrinkle their nose at the sight, roll up the tarp, and turn to head back to their vehicle. As the truck drives away, southeast down toward the brown muddy water, the body continues to roll toward the center of the pit.