West Water: A Narrative Fiction

It takes a lot longer than a few hours to fix the generator. Flich ended up finding three more spots where the rats had had a party. Even had to scoop up little rat babies at one time. I just handed them over to the group of Reds, saying to get rid of them. We had someone bring us lunch and dinner, but by the time we were done, the generator worked without a single flicker.
My exhausted, slime-covered body stumbles back into the living quarters, wanting to stand out in the rain I can hear pouring down. That storm would definitely wash away this muck, so I can actually sleep. I rip off my first jacket and scrub my hair on the cleanish side of it before tossing it into the pile of disgusting clothes.
Can I just dunk my head into a bucket of

“Do you see any other women in this building?”
“No.”
“The few of them here, live in a different building near the west well. It’s for their protection, though I doubt most of them need it. If they find out you’re a woman, you wouldn’t go there. You’re a mechanic, you’ll stay here and there are plenty of men who would take advantage of that.”
“Near the West Water Well? That’s where they’re at?”
The old man’s wrinkles frown in suspicion. “That’s all you heard?”
I shrug, fiddling with the ends of the towel. “Just wondering. It’s what powers the generator, right? It’s important to know where the water comes from.”
He doesn’t believe me. “If you’re going to lie, at least put some effort into it.”
I frown as the door opens and a cloud of steam smokes up the room. Flich stumbles out, ruffling a towel through his hair and sporting a pair of pants that are actually clean. “Who’s next?” he asks.
“Me.” I walk into the bathroom, locking it before anyone can object. The steam warms the room to a cozy temperature and I lean into the shower, inspecting it. The tile seems ready to slice up feet, the knobs are rusted and a frightful spider panics in the corner, trying to fix it’s destroyed home.
I’ve defiantly seen