Sun Bleached Winter
By
D. Robert Grixti
Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998
www.damnationbooks.com
Sun Bleached Winter
by D. Robert Grixti
Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-814-5
Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-815-2
Cover art by: Dawné Dominique
Edited by: Carolyn Crow
Copyright 2012 D. Robert Grixti
Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
This book is dedicated to those who know the real Lionel Morton. Without their comments, feedback and support, this story would never have been put to paper.
Prologue
If they see me, I’m dead. What meager possessions I have left will be taken, and I’ll be discarded on the side of the path, shot like an animal. That much is certain.
I’m lying prone in the shadow of a fallen log, hoping that the armed men in the clearing ahead don’t see me. As they come closer, I catch snatches of their conversation. They argue over the bag of supplies their leader carries in his left hand. Then they laugh when their conversation turns to the person they took it from, reminiscing about murdering a man as if it were just day-to-day business.
I watch them come closer, wondering if any of them will spot the small lump by the log in the shadowy twilight and have the initiative to investigate. All three of them are armed with rifles that hang casually over their shoulders. If they saw me, it would only take them seconds to raise their weapons and fire. I have no doubt that they are experienced hunters. If their bullet doesn’t kill me, I’ll be left, paralyzed and bleeding, in the snow to die. My hand slowly moves to my belt and I grasp the hilt of the survival knife tucked into it, but I know it won’t be enough to save me.
I can only hope that the coming darkness is enough to hide me. It’s easy to stay out of sight at this time of the day-the blackening sky above blankets the entire world in shadow and this, combined with the endless expanse of ashy snow and dead trees around me seems to reduce everything to abstract shapes and unknowns. As long as I don’t move, I should be safe. If the men stay away, if nobody comes close enough to make me out, I should be just another random piece of debris on the side of the road.
They’re getting closer now, only meters away. I can just discern their faces—savage and bestial—on the very edge of my vision. Their skin pales with sickness and their eyes are bloodshot with fatigue. They’re desperate, broken men. They’re fighting to stay alive, and I know from experience that they’ll think nothing of killing me just to stave off their own inevitable deaths a while longer.
Their voices break the silence of the falling night like a death knell.
“What a waste. How are we meant to last the week on half a can of soup? And everything in that first aid kit’s expired.”
“Don’t worry, stop screwing around and keep your eyes open. We’ll find someone soon. We always do. Just make sure you aim properly this time and we’ll be just fine.”
I have to stop myself shaking from the cold, and maybe from fear as well. This isn’t the first time I’ve come close to death in the months past, but it’s an experience that you never really grow accustomed to.
The men are passing me now, their heavy footfalls making crunching noises on the snow. Any second now, they’ll find me and then it’s all over. The leader’s gaze begins to linger on the edges of the road. He’s checking for anyone like me who’s stupid enough to think the darkness alone is enough to conceal him. Somehow, I’m certain he’ll find me. All it will take is a shiver of fear, an involuntary spasm for him to glimpse or a single, drawn-out breath, lingering on the air, for him to hear. My heart is beating loudly in my ears. I’m going to slip up. I’m deathly still, but it’s cold and I can’t stay still for much longer. I’m about to die.
The gunman’s boot presses into the snow, inches away from my nose. It stops for a second. I hear its owner take a deep, sighing breath and stop to stretch. I hear him yawn and then I listen to his deep breathing as he scans the trail one last time for anyone hidden. He coughs, and in spite of myself, I flinch from the sound. The boot swivels on the spot to face me, as if somehow it’s witnessed my tiny movement, and there it lingers, staring at me, daring me to move again. I curse myself silently. Don’t see me! Please don’t see me!
“Screw it, nobody’s here,” his gruff voice says bitterly. “We’d better find some place to camp for the night before we freeze to death out here. Nobody’s stupid enough to be out in this cold, and if they are, they’re just as hungry as we are.”
The footfalls recede into the distance, and relief surges through me as I watch the men slowly become silhouettes, then disappear into the darkness. I’m still alive. For now.
I wait until the only thing I can hear is the wind, to be sure I’m alone once again. Still not quite sure that a bullet won’t fly out from the shroud and splatter my brain matter all over the ground the moment I move, I stand up. I take a second to make sure I still have what I came out here for, what I risked my life to retrieve. I swing my backpack around to my chest and tear it open, fishing out what’s inside: a blank, leather-bound book, a journal of some kind, just waiting to be written in, and a black fountain pen. I went through a lot to get them, but it’s worth it.
I’ll start writing tonight. As soon as I get back to shelter.
I carefully zip up the backpack and return it to its place on my shoulder. I shudder from the cold. It’s freezing. I shouldn’t be out during the night, not if I want to stay alive. I take a moment to orient myself and determine which way leads back to the safe house I’ve decided to hole up in for tonight. It’s only forty minutes away. If I’m lucky, I can make it back in time. I grab the edges of my coat, pull it tighter around myself to block out the cold, and set off at a run into the blackness.
Chapter One
This is how the world ended. I was writing then, much as I am now, but the tone of my work was much happier, the characters and stories brought to life by my words so full of both vigor and hope-how fanciful that sounds now. It was meaningless work, sitting there at my computer in my cramped study typing word after word, deleting the same sentence and rewriting it over and over, trying to render it in a way that read eloquently enough to seem just right. I never could find the right words to use, then or now. How exactly do you describe something you don’t understand?
First, there was the light. The Rapture. I saw bright red, even with my eyes tightly closed. Then, right after it came the cacophony. It was something I’d never heard before, the sound of the earth itself being rent in two. Next there was a wave of terrible heat, like hellfire escaping from a wound in the Earth. Flames licked at my skin and my eyelids began to fuse shut and my face seemed to decompose into burning ash. It was over before three seconds had passed, but normality was never to return—thousands of years of evolution, reversed in a single instant.
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I still don’t know for sure what happened, and I seem to be the only one who cares to try and find out in a world focused on simply surviving. It probably doesn’t matter anyway. Just know that one moment the world was there, and the next it wasn’t. Time stopped and a cloud of dust settled in the sky, obscuring the sun and drowning all below in shadow. Everything turned grey. Now, there’s nothing but grey. That’s the best way to put it into writing, not with a word but with a shade, because the world we live in now is only a shade of that which existed before. From the grey tundra that’s laid out in every direction around me to the gaunt, snow-covered buildings in the distance, the last lonely remnants of civilization, I can see only grey.
If you’re going to read my story, I suppose I should tell you my name: Lionel Morton. If age means anything to you, if it’s any measure of wisdom, I’m pretty sure I’m twenty-seven years old—or maybe even twenty-eight—if one can be sure of anything when time itself is meaningless. In the end it doesn’t matter, but as a writer I know it’s easier to identify with someone who you know. Also, if you really want to read on, I should warn you that this isn’t a normal story, which begins, plays out, and ends with everything happily resolved. There’s no obvious meaning in this and no definite ending, because that’s what existence means in this new world. It’s nothing, but it’s everything, and it just goes on, and on. It doesn’t lend well to stories.
There’s another you should know about too: my sister, Claire. This is as much her story as it is mine. She always loved stories, though they were never quite as bleak as this one. She’s my younger sister, but in the midst of all that’s happened, it might be more apt to say she’s become something similar to a child. I keep her safe and she keeps me sane. She’s eighteen years old (I think), almost nine years my junior, though people used to say that if we were closer in age we’d look like twins. That was a long time ago though, before we lost everything. For too long now, all we’ve had is each other. She’s the last thing left in this world I want to hold onto.
As I said before, we look so alike we could be Irish twins. Claire’s got short, shoulder-length hair, the same shade of light brown as my own. We both have blue eyes, but hers are more vibrant than mine, set in a shade of deep aqua. We even have the same facial features—both of us have our mother’s skinny, slightly upturned nose and our father’s pointed chin. We both used to have freckles, though my face looks different than it was when I was her age, and my freckles faded long ago. Unlike mine, Claire’s face has never really changed. Her skin is still the same pale ivory that it always has been, and she’s still covered with freckles, though as I watch her sleep beside me, I realize that these are hidden by a thick layer of dust, sweat, and grime. If she has changed at all, it’s because of the treacherous life we’re leading, and nothing much else.
We’ve spent the last twenty-eight months or so wandering aimlessly through this wasteland. Life’s become a daily struggle, and it’s become normal to travel miles in search of the tiniest morsel of food. Staying in the same place for too long can be fatal—what little resources that remain are worth killing for in this hellish place. When there’s not enough to go around, people get violent. So, I eke out my existence living each day as it comes, scavenging anything I can find by light, and finding someplace out of the way to hide when night falls. It’s a harsh world out here. I’ve heard whispers that it’s better in the cities, where food is still (relatively) plentiful and what’s left of the authorities maintain order, but I know they’re just whispers and nothing more. What cities? The cities don’t exist anymore.
Right now, it’s night, and I’m about to go to sleep. So far, we’ve been lucky. Tonight, we’re enjoying relative luxury, sheltering in the bedroom of a burnt-out but otherwise intact homestead, tucked away off the beaten track in a forest of dead trees and concealed in the shadow of a massive hill that looms overhead. We found two unopened cans of Spam in a cellar, and a threadbare blanket to sleep on. A set of candles were stored in a cupboard just opposite the room we’ve taken refuge in, though it’s too dangerous to light them.
The room is still, quiet. To my right is a large bay window, a portal to the impenetrable blackness outside. The glass has long since shattered, but there’s no wind anymore to shut out. On the other side of the room is a wooden cabinet, its interior ransacked long ago, still adorned with faded photographs of the family who once lived here. My gaze lingers on the pictures as I think about what to write next, contemplating the smiling faces captured within. The only noise I can hear is Claire’s slow, steady breathing, fast asleep on the bed beside me.
My writing is disturbed by stabbing pains of hunger. I fleetingly contemplate the cans of Spam in the bag beside me, the only substantial food we have. I move to open one, but then I stop and shake my head in defiance. I can wait. I can subsist on one meal a day.
Trying not to think about it, I lean back, close my eyes, and try to sleep.
* * * *
It’s morning. Fragments of sunlight filter in through the broken window, but they are dim and conceal just as much as they illuminate. Outside, there’s no sign of movement and it’s as silent as it was in the dead of night. No birds sing to welcome the sunrise, and the trees no longer have leaves for a morning breeze to whistle through. Despite this, the sun is still a welcome sight. A hopeful sight.
I open a can of Spam and divide half of it between the two of us. I make the most of my share, but immediately after I finish eating it I find myself wishing I had more. Claire devours hers within seconds, then sadly sighs and stares at the empty spot where it had been.
I reach for the opened can to scoop out the other half, but she shakes her head and lightly touches my hand.
“Are you sure?” I ask, as I return the can to my bag.
She nods. “I’m sure. Save it for later.”
We decide to take one last look through the house before we leave, for any supplies we might have missed in the darkness. Neither of us expects to find anything and, sure enough, our search yields nothing. Someone has already been before us and taken anything that would be of any use. The rooms hold only useless debris and bits of rubbish paper the floors. We find two corpses stowed away in a corner in the master bedroom at the back of the house, and I search the pockets of their clothing. As my hands fumble around, I can’t help staring into their faces, at this point degenerated to skulls wrapped in a pallid, leathery skin. Deep slashes run across their necks, sawed open with a knife. On them, I find nothing useful, and we leave the room, shutting the door on our way out and sealing the specters in their tomb.
“What happened to them?” Claire whispers to me as we make our way back through the house.
“What do you think? Same thing that happens to everyone else who stays in the same place.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how it is,” I say, and walk ahead.
* * * *
There are monsters lurking out there in the endless tundra. Crazed revenants of humanity, driven by a desperate need to survive. I call them “marauders.” They don’t deserve to be called human beings. I’m certain of that.
It was only a month after the end when we first encountered them. I’ll never forget.
Listen:
A woman screamed, terrified, as the attackers swore and shouted at her to get on her knees. Claire and I halted where we were, and watched as they fired into her children, drowning out her desperate pleas in a hammering of gunfire, before calmly jamming their rifles against the back of her head. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t see what happened next, but all I could hear in the darkness was her sobbing, and then I found it impossible not to look. I remember wanting to help, to run into the line of fire and shout at the monsters to leave her alone and move on, but instead I stayed where I was, motionless, holding Claire’s hand to try and soften what we were seeing. There was nothing that could be done to stop
it.
We waited until the last of the shots had been fired, and the attackers had moved on. Already knowing that we were too late, we ran out into the clearing just in case there was anyone left for us to help. The ground was decorated with ribbons of blood. The woman and her three children had been tossed aside in a pile and lit on fire. Thick smoke filled our lungs and the stench of overcooked meat came with it, making me wretch violently. The bodies had all been stripped naked.
I felt sick because I’d never seen anything so nightmarish, but also because I’d stood by and watched it happen. Could I have helped them? I’ll never know. What bothered me at the time is that I didn’t even try.
It doesn’t bother me now though, not anymore. I’ve seen much, much worse since then.
Humanity is dead.
Chapter Two
For the sake of applying a time frame to these writings, I’m going to say that today is the twenty-third of March, in the year 2022. There’s no way to know for sure what the current date is, but from my rough count of how long it’s been since all this started, I can safely say it’s not too far off that. When it comes down to the bottom line, I guess it doesn’t really matter anyway.
Dates are used to organize and measure the passage of time, tools essential to the running of an efficient civilization. Writers use dates to add a sense of chronology to their stories, but this is simply an act of convenience, to provide a context in which the story is meant to be understood. Stories are an important part of civilization—they define the roles the people are expected to play, they explain the ways of the world, and they preserve the lessons of the past. Now, all that is meaningless. There’s no need for stories in this world, so, forget the date. Just know this: Each day passes one at a time. Each one may be the last.
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