Sun Bleached Winter

by D. Robert Grixti

  I carefully extract my revolver from its nest and stand up. I flick the safety off and stare down the iron sights. They haven’t seen me yet—they’re still too busy horsing around to notice me, ready to gun them down before they have a chance to react.

  Their voices grow louder as they come closer. I catch snippets of conversation.

  “Those fuckers have it coming this time, I reckon,” says the swordsman, twirling his blade absentmindedly in the air. “There’s going to be blood tonight.”

  “Assholes think they’re better than us, don’t they? Locked up so tight and safe in that shit-hole city.”

  “Yeah, we’ll make sure they let us in this time.” He cleaves a knee-height clump of snow in half with his sword. “They think we’re monsters, we’ll show them monsters.”

  I sigh inwardly. They’re marauders. They have to be marauders-there’s nothing else out here except death and violence. Civilization is long gone, and the stubborn remnants of it that refuse to die are far away from here, back in New City. The only people left wandering in the endless winter are those who are dead inside. Like me. Like the marauders.

  They’re still walking towards me. They still haven’t seen me, but they’ll see me soon. I should kill them now, before they know I’m here. It’ll be doing the world a favor.

  I train my sights on the man with the gun. If I fire now, he’ll lose his head. I begin to pull the trigger, but I stop halfway. I can’t do it. There doesn’t seem to be a point. No Claire to protect anymore.

  What are you doing, Lionel? Shoot them now. If they see you, they’ll kill you.

  What does it matter, I wonder? I’ve got nothing to live for.

  Hurry, before they see you!

  I don’t care if I live or die. It’s a frightening thought.

  “Hey, who the fuck are you?”

  They’ve seen me. We’re standing roughly three meters apart. The marauder with the handgun has his weapon trained on me. I have mine trained on them.

  “Who the fuck are you?” The gunman challenges me a second time.

  “Just some nameless wanderer,” I say, keeping my gun held aloft and taking a careful step forward. “I’m just someone who’s passing through.”

  The swordsman slashes the air in front of him and snickers. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye and start to walk forward. He thrusts the sword forward. Its tip nearly pierces my neck. I stop.

  “Put the gun down, boy, and stay the fuck still,” he growls. “You’ve made a big mistake. Nobody points a weapon at us and gets to go on their merry way.”

  I stare at him down the barrel of my gun. He glares back and his eyes narrow in anger.

  Too late to shoot them now, Lionel. You’ll be dead in a second if you try.

  Well, as if I care.

  “I’m just passing through,” I repeat. I take another step forward.

  The swordsman kicks out with his left foot. The blow connects with my stomach, stabbing into my intestines like a knife, and I gasp and sink to the ground. My gun sails through my open fingers. I grunt in pain and stretch out my arm, reaching for it, but the marauder with the nine millimeter nudges it away with the tip of his boot. My fingers collapse into the snow.

  “You sure picked the wrong night to just be passing through,” he taunts.

  The swordsman delivers another kick to my rib. I hear myself wince like a wounded animal and roll over onto my side to drown the pain in the cold.

  “Who the fuck are you? You one of those assholes from the city?”

  “Why don’t you just kill me?” I spit, tasting blood.

  He reaches down and grabs hold of a lock of my hair. He pulls sharply.

  “Get up.”

  Painfully, I pull myself to my feet, though I’m still hunched over from the blows to my midsection. The marauder stares down at me, smiling cruelly.

  “You’re from the city, aren’t you? Only people who come from that direction are city people.”

  “We’re in the mood for killing some city people,” adds the gunman, as I feel his handgun jam into the side of my neck. “Fucking bigots think they’re better than everyone else. Somebody needs to give them a damn reality check.”

  “If you want to kill me, go ahead,” I say. “I don’t care anymore. I left New City. There’s nothing for me there. There’s nothing for me anywhere.”

  “Good for you,” purrs the gunman in my ear. “I guess you and the bigots didn’t quite see eye to eye. Now, if you don’t cut the cryptic bullshit and start making some sense…” His gun digs deeper into my skin. “I’ll make it really fucking painful for you. It doesn’t have to be like that, though. Maybe if you help us out and tell us what we want to know about New City, we’ll be nice and finish you off quickly.”

  “Yeah, and what is it you want to know?” I ask through gritted teeth. My voice surprises me by wavering slightly. My ribs are still aching from being kicked.

  “Those fuckers always turn us away when we knock on the gates to trade for supplies,” hisses the swordsman, twirling his weapon slowly in the air inches from my throat. “They call us savages, monsters. Well, we’ve had enough. We’re going in tonight. We’re going to take what we want from their stores and kill any motherfucker who gets in our way. What we want from you is information. How many guards do they have posted? Where are they? How the fuck do we get inside? You’d better start talking.”

  “I can’t help you,” I hiss back, my voice contorting in a hysterical laugh. “I don’t know anything about that. I only lived there for two fucking days.”

  “Stop playing these bullshit games with us. Nobody’s lived there for only two days. Those fuckers never let outsiders in. How brainless do you think we are?”

  The swordsman steps forward and pushes the edge of his blade up against my windpipe. I feel my skin sting as it starts to cut.

  “Damn it, I told you I don’t know anything,” I snap in frustration. “I just wanted them to give me medicine for my sister. Now she’s dead. There’s nothing keeping me there now, so I left. I don’t care what happens anymore. If you want to kill me, hurry up and do it.”

  I close my eyes and wait for the killing blow. The blade edges deeper into my flesh, but still not enough to kill me. My ribs and pelvis burn as if they’ve been set alight.

  I hear the swordsman chuckle in sick amusement. This is it. The end.

  He leans in over my shoulder, and I can smell alcohol on his breath.

  “Well, good riddance. I bet she was just another tight-assed bigot like the rest of them. Bitch deserved exactly what she got, and so do you.”

  I hear the hammer on the handgun slowly pull back. There’s a soft clunk as a bullet slides into the chamber.

  “I’ve had enough of this. Finish him off,” grunts the swordsman. “He can join his precious sister. They can both rot together.”

  I brace myself for death. The photograph of Claire flashes into my mind. It expands, turning into her face. She smiles.

  I’ll see her at last.

  No, Lionel, whispers the shadow, back to watch my final moments. You don’t deserve to see her. She’s too good for you.

  She didn’t deserve to die.

  Claire didn’t deserve to die.

  Overcome with rage, I release an animal’s snarl and throw myself to the right. I feel my body collide with the marauder beside me. He swears in surprise and I grab hold of him as we both tumble to the ground. His gun fires, and the bullet sails into the night sky. I land on top of him and open my eyes. His face is red with anger.

  “Fuck off!” he grunts, jabbing his gun into my chest.

  “You bastard!” I shout, in a voice so bloodthirsty that hearing it frightens me. I roll sharply to the right, off of him, and kick his wrist with my foot. He yelps and drops his gun. I throw myself fo
rward and scramble to grab it, but he gets to it first, fumbling it and knocking it out of reach. My hand digs into the snow, empty. I feel it brush against something hard, and so I dig deeper, wrapping my fingers around a discarded metal ingot buried in the slush. With a grunt of effort, I pull it up and, struggling with both hands, raise it over my head. The marauder’s arm reaches up to stop me. I twist out of the way and bring the ingot down into his skull. Suddenly, my hands are caked with blood.

  “Don’t you fucking talk about Claire,” I hiss at the twitching corpse. “Don’t you ever mention her to me.”

  I pull myself to my feet, heaving from the physical exertion.

  I register movement in the left corner of my eye as the other marauder rushes for me. Spinning around, I see the blade coming down from over his head, dangerously close to my torso. I thrust the bloodied ingot forward, trying to deflect it. The sword clatters loudly against the ingot and rebounds backwards, causing him to stumble. Taking advantage of the opening, I pull the ingot up and ram it as hard as I can into his chest. I hear a sickening crack and he falls backwards to the ground, stunned by the blow, then I throw myself on top of him and pin him down with my body. Underneath me, he struggles in vain. I raise the ingot once again. A drop of blood oozes from its edge and lands in the corner of his eye.

  “You…you’re a fucking psycho,” spits the writhing man. A globule of saliva hits me in the face. I wipe it off with my elbow and start to bring the ingot down.

  “No wonder you’re out here instead of in there,” he hisses. “You’re a fucking psychopath.”

  It takes two blows to silence him. When I’m done, I drop the ingot on the ground and collapse, my muscles aching with fatigue.

  Suddenly, everything is quiet. Blood and brain matter everywhere.

  Bile surges up through my throat. I wretch and gulp it back down.

  Well, Lionel, that was certainly interesting, wasn’t it? coaxes the shadow, surveying the frightful scene from the air.

  I guess you decided you’d rather go on, after all. Better to kill than be killed.

  What for, I wonder?

  “You came back, did you?” I ask, dejected. “Thought I’d left you behind in New City.”

  No way, Lionel, whispers the shadow, tittering softly. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. You’re finally becoming a monster. You’re finally adapting to this wasteland.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The night is cold and silent. I walk along the train tracks beside the highway, trying to decide where I’m going and what I want to find there. Behind me, New City is just a blot on the horizon, a black smudge filled with pinpricks of flickering light, soon to be extinguished by the darkness.

  Briefly, my mind wanders and I find myself thinking of Morrow and Jessica. What are they doing now? They’re probably at dinner, winding down after what, to them, was just another busy but unexciting day. I guess they’d be talking about trivial things: Jessica about a group of marauders nearby, and whether she thinks they’ll move closer to the city in the coming days, and Morrow his usual spiel about preserving the future of mankind and rebuilding society.

  For just a moment, I wonder if they’re thinking about me. Did they care that I left? Did they perhaps worry about my safety, consider sending somebody after me to bring me back, or did they just put it behind them and close up the city gates for the night, just glad to be safe behind those thick iron walls?

  I guess I’ll probably be forgotten by morning.

  “Don’t worry about him,” Morrow would say, upon Jessica mentioning my name over her meal. “He made his choice. He didn’t want to stay. He’s gone, and not coming back.”

  He’d tell her to stop thinking about the past. To look forward to the future.

  I guess that’s what I’m doing out here. I’m looking for the future. The one that Claire and I lived for. That future was worth living for.

  Was it, though? whispers the shadow in my ear, manifesting in the darkness. When you were struggling to survive out here, you didn’t even think there was a future to look forward to. The future was the last thing on your mind when you beat those marauders to death back there.

  Its eyes glow bright red, staring at me, waiting for an answer.

  “No, that’s not true,” I say. “I kept hoping that one day Claire and I would be able to live a happy life again. Those marauders and everyone like them…They just gave us a reason to keep hoping there was something better. We kept facing this world every day because we knew there was something out there, waiting for us, and that one day we would find it.”

  No you didn’t, Lionel, mocks the shadow with a cold, shrill laugh. Look around you—it gesticulates around the empty landscape—do you see anything out here? Anything at all?

  Ahead of me, the railway is swallowed up in the darkness. Beyond it, I can see nothing but blackness and, around me, there’s nothing except for the grey snow, illuminated by the faint, blue-tinged moon in the sky above.

  Anything out there, Lionel? Looks pretty empty to me. Why do you keep fighting to stay alive? It’s not even worth it anymore.

  I pick up my speed, refusing to answer.

  Now see, you know there’s nothing out there. I distinctly recall, and you should, too: When you first heard that broadcast from New City, didn’t you tell yourself to not listen to it, deny that it existed?

  “It was because I didn’t want to give Claire false hope,” I snap, glancing into its fiery eyes in defiance. “I had no way of knowing if it was real.”

  Those don’t sound like the words of someone who was convinced he’d find salvation out here, it replies, giving me a condescending smile. Sounds like you’re contradicting yourself.

  I come to a stop beside a rusted oil drum, standing beside the track. I kick it in anger, and it tumbles over, making a heavy thump as it lands in the snow.

  “Damn it, it wasn’t just about me!” I shout at the shadow. Its eyes flicker in fright and it backs away, gliding swiftly over a patch of frost. “I couldn’t just believe what I want or go where I want without caring whether it might be for nothing. I had to look out for Claire too.”

  The shadow wavers tentatively on the edge of the track, watching me carefully. I stare at it, frustrated, silently daring it to speak again. It waits patiently, just out of my reach, dancing on the freezing wind. It smiles mischievously, but doesn’t talk.

  I spit at it. It doesn’t move.

  At last, I sigh and turn my back to it, resuming my lonely journey along the dead railway.

  “I had to live for Claire,” I say over my shoulder.

  That’s right, Lionel, comes its chilling voice from behind. I turn around. It’s right behind me, following me once more. We accidentally make eye contact. The red orbs flicker hungrily, and it smiles again.

  You were living for Claire, weren’t you? Everything you did was for her. She was the reason you kept going, not some half-baked hope that there would be light at the end of the tunnel. She’s the reason you fought to survive tonight. Her memory, and nothing more.

  “She was all I had left,” I say, sighing and sinking to my knees in front of it, suddenly fatigued from the long day.

  Yes, she was, it purrs, slowly advancing towards me. Your only connection to the old world. That’s why you kept going, wasn’t it? Because, as long as she lived, so did your memories of the old world. That’s why you left New City, Lionel, because you don’t belong there. Because, up until the very last moment, you’ve refused to believe that there’s any future for you in this world.

  It comes to a stop right in front of me. It reaches out a hand, to help me to my feet.

  There was nothing for you back there and there’s nothing for you out here. Without Claire, you don’t have a reason to go on. You’ve come out here to die. Stop fighting it.

  I look away, refusing to
give it my attention.

  “No, you’re wrong,” I stammer, trying to sound defiant. “That’s complete bullshit. I’m out here because I’m moving on. I left Claire back in New City. I’m not looking back.”

  The shadow chuckles a demonic laugh. I feel its ghostly hand clasp down on my shoulder, and I’m barraged by a gust of icy wind as it circles around me and whispers in my ear:

  How can you even be sure? That body they put in the grave, you never even saw its face. She could still be out there, you know. She could still be waiting for you to come and find her. In fact, I think you’d better hope for that, Lionel, because otherwise, as you and I both know, you’re dead. Hope is all you have.

  I pull away from it and trip over a mildewy plank of wood, landing face first in the slush. It laughs cruelly, enjoying the show. I swear at it, and straighten myself. A square of white cardboard has fallen out of my pocket. It’s the picture of Claire. I pick it up and put it back in my pocket.

  See, there she is! says the shadow in a hearty voice, pointing at it. You’ve found her!

  It laughs like a maniac. I feel myself starting to cry.

  What will I do without Claire? Why the hell am I out here? What am I doing?

  I catch a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision, somewhere ahead of me in the blackness.

  More marauders?

  I reach into my coat for my revolver and stand up to confront the disturbance.

  A lonely girl stares at me, almost nothing more than a silhouette in the pitch black night. With one hand, she beckons to me. Her shoulder length brown hair juts around her face in the wind.

  “Hurry up, Lionel!” she seems to call. “Let’s get going!”

  I’m incredulous. Can it really be Claire?

  Behind me, the shadow laughs hysterically. I blink and rub my eyes. Suddenly, she’s gone.

  Just a trick being played on me by my tired brain.