Sun Bleached Winter

by D. Robert Grixti

  I let go and slink down the wall into a sitting position. Silently, we watch the gunman and his nephew disappear over the horizon. When they’re gone, I bury my head in my hands.

  “Damn it,” I mutter under my breath. “Damn it to hell.”

  You’re going to starve to death, Lionel.

  “Well, what the fuck do we do now?”

  Chapter Six

  A few hours later now. As the late afternoon sun (or what accounts for a sun these days) begins to lower in the sky, I see something rising on the horizon that awakens the faintest hope that we just may be fine after all.

  “Claire, look at that,” I say, holding out my left arm to stop her. She raises her hand to her face and holds it above her eyes as she squints at the thin black pillar in the distance that snakes out from a snowy thicket and billows into the greyness above.

  “It’s smoke! Do you think it’s a campsite?”

  “That’s exactly what I think it is. Whoever’s there will have supplies with them.”

  Claire sighs and shakes her head.

  “But they could be dangerous. What if it’s those men from before? What if whoever’s at the campsite is hostile?”

  I wrap my fingers around the handle of my gun and hoist it out of its makeshift holster. I make sure the safety is turned off and then hold it in front of my face, leering down the barrel into the dull sun.

  “There won’t be a problem. They’ll just hand over some of their supplies and then we’ll move on. Same as those guys at the truck.”

  Claire stares at me, watching me examining the weapon, and she frowns.

  “Wait, Lionel. You don’t mean—”

  “I’m sick of running scared at every sign of danger. Anyone else would kill us just as quick as they’d look at us. We’re desperate. We need to do what we need to do.”

  “But you can’t just kill someone because they have something you don’t! That’s wrong, Lionel. They’re just trying to survive, like you and me!”

  “Not all of them,” I remind her. “Some of those bastards out here deserve to die. Have you forgotten what happened yesterday? Those marauders would sooner kill us than look at us. We have to start learning to take what we want by force. That’s how you stay alive out here. Anyway, I don’t intend to kill anyone…so long as they shut up and give us what we need.”

  “I don’t know,” she says, gritting her teeth. “I don’t feel right about this. What if they start a fight? How can you be sure we’ll—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell her, placing my index finger on the trigger. “I’ll make sure they do as I tell them to.”

  * * * *

  It’s dusk by the time we reach the campsite. Everything’s soaked in shadow, and the only thing I can make out is the flickering orange flame of the campfire. I can’t see anyone in the immediate area, but outside of the ring of light from the fire, I can discern vague shapes, although none look human. I turn to Claire and motion for her to wait while I secure the area, then I raise my gun to my eye and run out into the clearing.

  “Don’t move or I’ll blow you away!” I shout as I emerge into the light of the fire, my finger tight on the trigger. I’m expecting to be greeted with a scream, a scared cry of “Don’t hurt me!” or perhaps a stern challenge. At worst, I brace myself for a gunshot and I tense my knees to throw myself to the ground at the first sign of trouble. In response to my barked command, I hear only silence, save for the soft crackling of the campfire. The campsite is empty.

  I turn back to the scrub where Claire awaits in the shadows and nods, taking my finger off the trigger and lowering the gun to my side. She hobbles out of the withered trees and joins me by my side. She quickly looks around the camp, taking everything in. The campfire burns brightly in the center of the clearing, casting light over the rest of the camp. Beside the fire, laid out along the ground, is a purple sleeping bag and at its head, there is a small khaki sports bag. The bag is unzipped, and from the dim light of the fire, I can see what look like a series of cans and bottles piled inside; it’s enough supplies to last for weeks.

  “Do you think they were killed?” Claire whispers, referring to the nonexistent occupants. “What if someone got here before we did?”

  “I don’t think so,” I tell her, pointing at the neatly arranged sleeping bag. “There’s no sign of a struggle. They must have left on their own for some reason.”

  “Then that means they’ll be coming back.”

  “That doesn’t matter,” I say, kneeling over the sports bag and beginning to rifle through it. “By the time they’re back, we’ll have taken what we need and moved on. Bring your backpack over here. I’ll fill it up with—”

  “Get the fuck away from my stuff and drop your gun on the floor,” growls a stern female voice in my ear.

  I hear the click of a rifle being cocked and I look up to see the barrel of a machine gun bearing down on me. It’s held in the hands of a slender, but fit-looking young woman in black jeans and a faded orange, body-hugging T-shirt. She looks down at me with deep brown eyes flanked with short reddish hair and her otherwise plain face is dotted with freckles. Despite the murderous expression she wears, leering down at me, her face is somehow kind, and gives off an impression of friendliness. However, the first thing I notice about her, and the strangest thing of all, is that she is clean. She’s not covered in grime and blood like everyone else I’ve seen in the wasteland.

  “I said get away and throw your gun on the ground!” she barks at me, nudging my forehead with the barrel of her gun. “Do it now!”

  “Don’t shoot!” I hear Claire scream from behind me. “Don’t hurt him!”

  “Shut up!” the woman yells at her. I see her finger tighten around the trigger. She nudges me with the rifle again. “Fucking do it before I take your head off!”

  I hesitate for a second, staring back at her. I’m still holding my gun in my right hand. Her brow crumples in concentration as she sees me eyeing her, and I notice that her rifle shakes slightly in her hands. Would she fire if I made a move? For a split second, I consider hurling myself on her to pin her to the ground to hold her at gunpoint myself, but then I notice her finger begin to depress on the trigger and…

  “Lionel, do what she says!” Claire begs.

  “Okay, okay, don’t shoot me!” I quickly yell, tossing my gun to the side and slowly moving back from the bag.

  “Who are you and what were you doing with my things?” the woman spits, still keeping her rifle trained on my abdomen.

  “Who are you?” I spit back at her. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “Shut up, you idiot!” she screams, taking a step closer and holding her gun to my neck. “I’m asking the questions. What are you doing here? Are you one of the cannibals?”

  I’m silent, trying to think what I should say next. She’s dangerous. I have to choose my words carefully.

  “Talk! Or maybe I should just shoot you dead right now!”

  She rams her gun into my throat, making me gag and knocking me backwards. I press my arm into the ground to stop myself falling over, in case such a sudden move should provoke her. I look up at her. Her face is filled with barbarous rage. A single bead of sweat slowly rolls down her forehead. She glares at me for just a single moment, then frowns and begins to pull the trigger again. I close my eyes, waiting for the bullet that will end me.

  “Wait!” Claire shrieks, running forward, her voice piercing the air like a banshee. “We’re just travelers, just trying to survive! We’ve run out of supplies…”

  I open my eyes and Claire’s beside me, silently pleading with a distraught face.

  The woman sighs loudly. Her finger loosens on the trigger, but the cold metal of the gun barrel still rubs against my neck. Her eyes dart to the side, quickly looking Claire up and down. Her frown narrows, and
I see one of her teeth biting down on the lower lip. She nods and turns her attention back to me.

  “What happened to the girl’s forehead?”

  “She cut it on a rock while we were running from some gunmen who were trying to kill us,” I say with gritted teeth.

  The woman shakes her head slowly and then, to my relief, lowers her rifle. She tells me to stay where I am and then briskly walks to Claire. She reaches out her hand to touch Claire’s face, but Claire backs away.

  “It’s okay,” the woman says, her threatening air from before suddenly replaced with one of concern. “I just want to take a look at the cut.”

  She holds out her hand again, and this time Claire relents. The girl gently rubs her hand along the clumsy bandaging, then lifts up the edge of the gauze to peer at the wound underneath. I hear her sigh and then she lowers her hand, turning back to me. There’s a grim expression on her face.

  “It looks infected. How long after the wound was sustained did you apply the dressing?”

  “About an hour and a half,” I say guiltily. “I couldn’t do anything until we got away from the attackers.”

  “The cut’s been exposed to the open for too long,” the woman replies slowly. “She’s starting to get a fever. You should be giving her water to help her recover. Without regular fluids, it’s going to get worse. She might need antibiotics by now.”

  I’m silent. I open up my backpack, retrieve the empty water bottle, and hold it out in my hand to show her. She stares at it for a moment, seemingly unsure of what to say. Without warning, I’m struck with a surge of guilt and anger. I swear loudly, raise my arm, and toss the bottle as far as I can. It sails uselessly into the trees.

  “We don’t have anything left,” Claire intones, “and the only medicines we have with us are field dressings.”

  The woman ponders in silence for a while, slowly turning her gaze from me to Claire, and then back to me. She looks me up and down, and then her eyes rest on the almost empty backpack at my feet. She seems to be considering something. I see what looks like sadness register on her face for the smallest sliver of a second, before her expression reverts back to a stony indifference. She opens her mouth to say something, but then quickly closes it. She takes a deep breath, and shakes her head, seeming to rethink her words, then begins to talk.

  “Look, I don’t take kindly to anyone just wandering into my camp and thinking they can fuck off with my supplies. Even so, I think, under the circumstances, I can let it slide this time.”

  She kneels down and begins shifting through her bag, trying to find something. “I don’t have any real medicine on me,” she mutters as she noisily rifles through the cans, boxes, and bottles. “Though these should help for now,” she finishes, shoving a clear bottle filled with water and a box of cold and flu tablets into my hand. “For the pain, at least, and if you develop a fever...”

  I open my mouth to thank her, but she raises her hand and stops me.

  “Don’t thank me yet. I don’t give away precious supplies without expecting something in return. There’s something I’ll need your help with in the morning. For now though, get some sleep, and don’t think of running off because I will find you.”

  She rummages through the bag for a little longer, then she produces a shapeless bundle from it, which she lays out in front of me: two sleeping bags.

  “Be ready to start travelling at first light. Oh, and by the way, my name’s Jessica. Jessica Riley.”

  Chapter Seven

  I wake up to find my face moist and my skin as cold as death. Snowflakes drift through the morning air, dancing on the chilling wind. A thin blanket of pure white has settled on the campsite in the early hours of the morning and for once in a long, long time, I can’t see any grey. It’s a bitter morning, threatening us with frostbite and hypothermia unless we wrap our clothes around ourselves as tightly as we can. Yet I can’t help noticing how the dregs of snow raining down on us from above resemble tiny white blossoms, and there’s a bizarre tranquility to the proceedings.

  The first thing I do is check on Claire. She waves me off, insisting she’s fine, but I’m still not completely satisfied that she’s okay. Her temperature has gone and after drinking the entire bottle of water last night (leaving only a mouthful for me) she’s no longer dehydrated, but her skin is still pale and her breathing is rattling and congested. The cold tablets seem to have helped a little, but not much. I’m starting to wonder whether she will need something heavier, after all. I try to force another cold pill on her, but she pushes the box away and frowns at me.

  “I’ve already taken one, and besides, the only thing wrong with me is this headache.”

  Jessica liberates a plastic container from her bag and opens it, dividing the contents among the three of us. I almost gasp in shock when I notice what she’s dropping onto my lap: chunks of bread, and without the tiniest smudge of mold on them.

  “Where did you get this from?” I spit out, cautiously eyeing the offering. Beside me, Claire nods and contributes an agreeing “hmm.” Jessica shoots me the faintest hint of a smile, and shrugs.

  “Got plenty more of it back at home. Eat up.”

  “At home?” I ask, confused. “What do you mean?”

  She responds by reaching into the container and dropping another handful of bread into my lap.

  “If you do well today, you may just find out. Eat up and get ready. We’ve got quite the walk ahead of us.”

  * * * *

  It’s late afternoon. Despite the landscape being blanketed in snow, it’s unusually warm for a change. There’s no wind, but the air is thick with a strange, stifling tension. The three of us are crouched behind the husk of an old car, surveying a half-collapsed homestead in the middle of a vast field, only tens of meters ahead of us.

  We’re hiding on the edge of what used to be a farm of some kind. Just in front of the car sheltering us, there’s a rusty metal gate, left ajar, flanked by coiling wire fences. In the distance, beside the house, there’s a series of structures made of corrugated iron. The front wall of the closest one has since corroded and fallen off, and I can make out something that I assume is an old pigsty inside.

  “They’ve got a guard posted,” Jessica whispers beside me, pointing at the veranda that runs along the front of the farmhouse. I shuffle forward and lean over the hood of the car to get a better view of the house, and then I slowly let my eyes drift to where she is pointing. There’s a lone man seated on a chair just outside the house, watching the horizon. A rifle is held in his left hand. Jessica hands me a pair of binoculars and I take them to get a closer look at the sentry. A shiver of horror runs through me as I see his face. He’s one of the men who ambushed Claire and me two days ago.

  “I know that man,” I whisper excitedly. “He and three others attacked us two days ago. We only just managed to get away. I think I killed one of them as we were escaping, but… What are we doing here?”

  “They’re monsters. They need to be brought to justice,” she says simply, reaching for the gun slung across her shoulder.

  “We came here to kill them?”

  Jessica ignores me. She’s examining her gun, fiddling with catches along the barrel and checking to make sure it’s loaded.

  “A friend of mine went missing in this area,” she mutters, removing the clip from her gun and peering inside. “He was investigating reports of a group of cannibal gunmen. I’ve been sent out here to find out what happened to him. I was planning to just sneak into the farmhouse somehow and see if they have him held inside, but then you turned up, and seeing as how you know your way around a gun, I figured I’d just get you to help me take the bastards out.”

  “You’ve been sent here? By who? Where are you from?” I ask, confused.

  “You’re from one of the cities, aren’t you?” Claire wonders, crouched at my right. “You work f
or what’s left of the authorities.”

  “Not now,” Jessica says, shaking her head and starting to climb to her feet. “I don’t have time to explain it now. We have to take the farmhouse now, while we’ve got the element of surprise.”

  “If you want us to put ourselves in danger for you, you’d better tell us what we want to know,” I press, grabbing her arm to stop her.

  “Look, we’ve got more important things to worry about at the moment,” she replies, through gritted teeth. “All you need to do right now is follow my lead. If you get through this alive, well, then I’ll tell you whatever you feel you need to know.”

  She wrenches free of my grip, then thrusts a snap-lock bag filled with ammunition into my still-clenched hand.

  “You’ll need this,” she says, smiling wryly. “Now, keep your head down and follow me. We’ll stick to the trees until we’re out of that guard’s sight, and we’ll storm in through the back. Don’t do anything I don’t tell you to do, or I’ll shoot you myself.”

  Staying low, she makes her way into a thicket of withered branches. I turn to Claire and tell her to wait for us behind the car, then feed some bullets to the barrel of my revolver and follow.

  * * * *

  “There’s the back door. Do you see it?”

  Jessica and I are lying prone behind a fallen drum just outside one of the corrugated iron barns. Less than ten meters away is the farm house, and clearly visible is the open frame of the back door, a gaping hole in the wall, the door long since rotted into disrepair, removed and leaning discarded against the wall beside the entrance.

  “I see it,” I say, leaning forward and peering over the drum to snatch a better look. “You want to just rush in through there? It’s wide open; they’ll have at least one guard posted on the other side if they know what they’re doing.”

  “It’s a safer entrance than the front,” she replies, shrugging her shoulders. “The front overlooks a hill. With that sentry on the front verandah, we’d never have gotten far. This is the best way to get in.”