"Look, I'm no more a threat to you than you are to me," he says, weariness apparent in his voice.
"I'm just tired, all right? Can I join you, just for a little while?" he says, taking a seat by the fuel cell, extending his empty hands to warm himself, never waiting for my answer.
"Okay, but I warn you..." I say, making sure he gets a good look at my gun. He nods. Now that I get a better look at him, I guess he's about fifty. Hard to tell people's ages these days though. Most look older than they are. He's got military boots that look two sizes too large, and a pack that he keeps close to his side.
"Name's Derek," he says quietly. I nod back at him. I don't want to introduce myself. Not yet anyhow.
"So, Derek, where do you come from?" I ask. His response surprises me. He laughs. At least that's what it sounds like, although there's no smile.
"Been walking from Arizona. But I was in Colorado when it fell," he replies. I wait for him to continue.
"I was in a camp, you see," he says, before he shakes his head slightly.
"Of course, you've probably never heard of the camps..." He's right. I haven't.
"One day, the guards just left. We figured it had to be because of the impact. Guess they wanted to go home, too, be with their loved ones, if they had any. A lot of people died back there. In the camp," he says, with a distant look in his eyes. I'm about to ask why he was in the camp, when he continues.
"So me and two others left, headed north. One died. Earthquake killed her." I find myself intrigued by his story as he continues telling how they finally reached the hometown of his companion, only to find his home burned down, and the town abandoned. They continued north for a while, following rumors and tales picked up along the way. They never found his companion's family though, and when they reached the outskirts of a big city, they split up.
"John wanted to enter the ruins. It was all fires and smoke, and I tried to talk him out of it. He was determined though. Dead sure they must have passed through, or died trying. I figured I'd followed him far enough. I wanted to see if there was anything left of my world. So we shook hands and split up. Took me a while to get this far, but I've got a while to go yet." He chuckles to himself. I want to ask where he's going, but then I decide not to. What's the use? He's got his path, and I've got mine. I ask if he's got any food, and he reaches into his pack. I watch him as he pulls out a can of pears. My mouth starts watering. I haven't had anything sweet for a while. He opens it and hands me a dripping pear. I savor it, tasting the juices as my stomach growls, begging for more.
"So, I guess you're looking for the refuge, eh?" he says, while sucking on his own pear. I look at him quizzically.
"There’s nothing else to be found out here, from what I gather," he continues. I haven't heard anything about a refuge, and I urge him to go on. He finishes his pear before saying anything though, and I start to think of the man and woman with the horse. Just doing our job, the man had said. For whom?
"Just bits and pieces, rumors really. Some might say it's just wishful thinking, I don't know. The only one I'd wager on was a dying man I found back in… Well, I’m not sure. Seems he'd run into a bunch of bikers who wanted his supplies. He told me he'd fought back. Stupid, but who am I to judge? Anyway, I don't think he was lying when he told me he was on a scouting mission," he says. I look longingly at the can again. There are two more pieces left, and we've both finished our first. He looks at me, and smiles as he hand me one, taking the last for himself.
"From what I gather, some senator decided to head out here, and it seems he's gathered quite a crowd. I don't know, that's probably the best way to prepare for such a thing," he says, gesturing at nothing in particular. Of course, a senator would have the means and the contacts to prepare. To feed a large enough group of people, to protect them from what comes after. Perhaps even to think long term. It hits me, suddenly. I should be there. Such a community could afford to have someone like me around, to prepare for the future, even though at the moment, I'm just another mouth to feed, a liability really.
"So, do you think we should try to find it?" I say, but Derek only shakes his head.
"No, not me. In the camp, I didn't think much about my own family. I'm divorced, and my wife left years ago," he says. I grin wryly. So we've got one thing in common after all.
"Now though... I'm headed northwest. Got family in Spokane, Washington. If any of them survived, I might find them there. Well, it's my best bet anyway..." he trails off. I nod, knowing the chances of finding anyone alive are slim, at best. If he makes it that far. I suddenly remember I haven't introduced myself yet. I feel like I owe him that much, and extend my hand.
"Edward Walker. Everybody calls me Ed." He shakes my hand, smiling.
"Hewitt. Everybody calls me Derek though," he says. We continue chatting for a while, and he tells me more of what he's seen along the way. He was part of a program, he says, a selection of sorts. People were being selected to be sent off to another planet, before impact. Seems those cut from the program were put in camps to keep everything secret. It's an amazing tale, but to be frank, none of it matters any more. We're in the same boat here, left behind to die. I say so, and he nods.
"But wouldn't it be nice to know someone made it?" he says. I cannot answer that one. Of course, I'd be happy for them, but there's an element of jealousy there. And anger for not even being considered. Guess I wasn't as important as I thought. Neither of us says much after that. I still feel tired, and after staring at the glowing fuel cell for a while, I dose off.
When I wake, he's already gone. I look around, thinking he might have taken something from me. When I see the can of pears he has left behind, sitting by the fuel cell, I feel guilty for thinking that way. I guess that's what we're turning into, lone wolves suspecting each other. Every man for himself. Except Derek. I quietly wish him all the best, as I put the can into my backpack.
4.
I think about going northwest, after Derek, but decide against it. He wants to find his family, while I increasingly want to find this refuge he told me about. I suspected there was some kind of community after meeting the couple with the horse, and what Derek told me confirmed my suspicions. And the fact that they must have been prepared makes me want to find them even more. It's my only hope, to be a part of something rather than being alone, living from hand to mouth, scavenging from ever-shrinking resources left behind by the dead and missing. So I keep going west, since that’s where I figure the chances of finding the refuge are highest. Three days of uneventful walking gives me time to think, and the more I see, the more convinced I get that this is a dying world. Only communities like the one Derek told me about will stand a chance. The rest of the world faces slow death.
On the third day, I reach a large patch of newly tilled dirt, mixed with the ever-present slush. I look around, but see no one. I approach slowly, and something suddenly catches my attention. Something sticking up from the dirt. A hand. I walk closer, and see there is more. A little to the right, a finger. My mouth goes dry and my stomach turns into a knot. I've seen this before. Against my better judgment, I keep looking around. A few more steps. Hair. The back of a head. Hair mixed with dirt, wet, lying flat against the skull. And there's a hole, a round hole. Someone shot this person in the back of the head. I bend down, then decide against it. I don't want to see the face, or what's left of it. This is not just a mass grave. It's an execution ground. A massacre took place here, and from the look of the place, it must have happened not long ago. The hairs on my neck rise and my mouth suddenly feels parched. I need to get away from here. Right now.
So I run, as quickly as I can, back the way I came. I just want to get away. When I can't run anymore, I walk for a while. Then I run again. Whoever killed all those people would easily kill me as well. Not that I have much to make it worthwhile to anyone, but likely those poor souls didn't have much either. I keep running. Keep walking. The exhaustion brings forth a metallic taste in my mouth, like that of blood, my legs shaking
as I take short breaks, muscles screaming for respite. But I keep moving east, ever east, away from the nightmare. When night falls I keep going, stumbling along in the darkness, occasionally falling into the cold slush. Only when the first light of day arrives do I give up. I can't take another step. I'm soaked, and breathing is hard. Fear gnaws at me, and I quickly decide against firing up my fuel cell. Cold and miserable, I decide to open the can of pears Derek left me. I need to think of something else now. I need something to remind me there is still some good left in this world.
I reach my old campsite where I met Derek five days ago, and every trace of it has already vanished. The slush washes everything away, it seems, leaving the world a bleak and gray place. This place could just as well have been untouched by humans for a decade. I think about what he told me, about going northwest to search for his family. I would prefer to go looking for the senator's refuge, but I realize it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. And who knows if they'll even let me in, should I happen to find it? So I decide to go north instead, to see if I can catch up with Derek. At least that would give me some sense of purpose. Or perhaps I just need some company while I watch the world go to hell.
Two days later, I'm stumbling along on a treacherous path on the northern slopes of the valley. The valley itself was uneventful, but the constant drizzle, the unchanging colors, or rather the lack of colors, and depression are taking their toll. I'm hungry, and since leaving the valley floor, I haven't seen a single source of clean water. There should be streams, but all I find are stale pools of foul-smelling slush, soggy moss, and wet dirt. I almost fall down a steep hill, and if it hadn't been for a rotten twig that miraculously holds my weight, I'd have fallen. I drag myself up again, and sit down to catch my breath. It has gotten to the point that I don't care about being wet, or being cold. I don't really know what I care about anymore. What is left anyhow? Most people are dead, and those not already dead are dying. Like me.
Somehow, I find the willpower to get up and keep moving.. My backpack starts getting real heavy, and my feet hurt. Everything hurts. Then, while searching for a place to put up my tarp for the night, I see the body. It's less than fifty meters away, and I walk over. As I approach it, I start recognizing the oversized shoes. The lean body. The faded red jacket. The thin hair.
"Oh no," I whisper. Derek. What has happened. Although I'm dead tired, I manage to run over to him, and I touch him carefully. There's no reaction. I turn him over, slowly, and I see his eyes have closed one last time. His beard is covered in slush, and he's got vomit on his chest and face. He's been sick. I sit back and watch his dead features, too stunned to think. Too apathetic to cry. It's all coming apart. Derek, who had walked from the camp all the way down in Arizona. Who shared his food with me. I sit there for God knows how long before I notice the dried blood on his pants, just below the knee. Then I see the bone sticking out through the ripped fabric, and avert my eyes. My mind starts working again. He must have fallen, I figure. Broken his leg and dragged his way here. I can't imagine the pain. And then, helplessness. With no way to move around, he must have emptied his meager supplies, if he had any. Probably not. It's just a week since I saw him. But here, with the lack of clean water, things must have gone pretty quickly. I look at his face again. Not quickly enough.
I realize I'm thirsty, but I'm out of water. The slush stinks, and I've got a bad feeling about using it for drinking water, but what choice do I have? My fuel cell is almost out of power, and I figure I need to save what's left of it for an emergency. I'm approaching high ground, and I've noticed it's gotten colder. I might need the fuel cell for a cold night later.
I postpone it for as long as I dare, but I cannot risk dehydration, so I scoop up a handful of slush from the cleanest patch I can find, and start slurping. It smells awful, but except for the salt and the grainy feel on the tongue, it's actually not as bad as I thought. Of course, when I quench my immediate thirst, it gets worse. But I ignore it as best I can. I'm not going to die, not now.
Afterward, I sit by Derek's dead body for a long time. I try not to look at him, but now and then I glance over and try to imagine those last few days, hours maybe. Must have been pretty bad. I can't say for sure what killed him, but I'm pretty sure it can't be just the lack of food and water. He would have lost a lot of blood, and combined with little or no supplies, the cold might have gotten to him. In the end though, he would probably have lost consciousness, pain numbed from the combination of blood loss and cold. I hope he died peacefully. I hope.
I doze off at some point, and the stomach cramps wake me in the middle of the night. It's like having a knife stabbed into my belly, and then twisted around inside to make it worse. It's like nothing I've ever experienced before. It goes on and on for I don't know how long, but with the first light of day, I get a small respite. Must have been the slush, I think to myself. Hopefully the worst is over now. I sit up, and another stab of pain hits me. Then it subsides again. I wait. I watch my surroundings gradually come into view as the sun rises behind thick clouds, forcing its way through, but never quite penetrating the constant gloom. I try to get up once more, and the pain knocks me down. This is bad. I can't sit here forever. I glance over at Derek, knowing that if I don't move I'll join him soon enough.
It's aImost noon before I force myself to stand, hunched over, fighting the pain. I almost black out every time I move. Somehow I manage to get the backpack in place though, and take a few tentative steps. The pain is excruciating, pulsing through my body. I manage to walk, but ever so slowly. An hour. Another. The cramps get worse throughout the day, and suddenly I feel like I'm going to burst open. I need to take a crap. Right now. I grit my teeth and ignore the pain as I manage to wriggle my pants down. I sit next to a tree, hanging on to the dead trunk as if my life depended on it, as I empty myself. Oh shit, I think. If the situation had been different, and my life hadn't been in peril, it might have been funny. But it's not.
The diarrhea gets worse, and I have to stop every five minutes. The cramps come and go though, and every now and then, I start believing the worst is over. Then the pain hits me again, and I hunch over, vision fading and legs shaking. Finally I fall over, and this time I'm unable to get up again.
I shit myself. I vomit. I cry. I know this is the end, but I'm unable to accept it. I just lay there in a pool of feces, reeking, bile on my face and hands, shivering. So this is how it is, I think. There's nothing peaceful about it, nothing like fading slowly into the eternal night, or some poetic crap like that. Nothing but a degrading, painful nightmare that never stops, until I lose awareness of everything but the pain. Then another sharp stab of pain hits me. I lose the ability to cry out, and everything goes black.
5.
I wake up. As I slowly regain consciousness, I'm expecting the cramps to knock me out again any second. But the cramps are gone. A distant voice says something I can't make out, but I recognize it's a woman's voice before I fade out again. The next time I wake, I notice the smell. A clean smell of soap and wood smoke. And a hint of something sweet. I open my eyes and find myself in a room with wooden walls, a lamp hanging on the wall over by the door. I'm in a bed. The mattress feels soft and cushy, and the blankets keep me warm even though the room itself is cool. The window is letting the light in. There's no one else in the room. I lay my head back on the soft pillow and let myself doze off again.
The third time I wake up to the smiling face of a woman, thin, gray hair and a twinkle in her hazel eyes.
"Welcome," she says. I open my mouth, to say thank you, but no sound escapes my lips. She notices, and scurries across the room.
"Oh my, you must be parched. Here, have some of this." She holds a cup of water up to my lips, and I spill at least as much as I swallow. It's so good, I forget myself, and arch my neck for more when it's empty. She laughs softly.
"I'll get some more in a minute," she says. She looks at me, and again I open my mouth.
"Th...thank you," I say, voice hoarse and
throat sore. She smiles again.
"I'm Glenda Reyes. You've been out for a few days. Didn't think you'd make it," she says.
"Edward Walker," I say, lifting my hand to shake hers. Every physical movement feels heavy, but I'm not too weak to be polite. Now that I get a closer look at her, I guess Glenda must be almost seventy. From the way she moves though, she looks fit enough to take care of herself. And me as well, it seems.
Over the next couple of days, I slowly recover, and I get to know Glenda a little better. She tells me this was her parents' place once, and that she used to come out here often on retreats, back when she was a child. After they died though, she inherited it, even though she had no interest in it anymore. She worked as a sales woman for a pharmaceutical company back east, and had done quite well for herself, even though she never had time to find the man of her dreams. She never had time for this old run down place either. Still, she never sold it, and once she learned what was to come, she quit her job, spent her savings putting the cabin back into shape, and stocked it for the long haul. I look around, and nod my approval. Here is a woman who prepared, and made sure that if she survived impact day, she would survive the days to come. Of course, no one knows how long winter will last, but my somewhat educated guess is upwards of ten years. If she stays put, rations carefully, and no one raids her, she might live to see the sun again. Her age might be a problem, even though she's well prepared and fitter than I am. But between the two of us, I'd probably put my money on her, regardless of age.
Glenda tells me she's a hunter. Ever since before impact, she's kept going out now and then, rifle in hand, on the small chance there might be game to be had. For the last month or so, she's come back empty handed every time though. That's how she found me, she says, half covered in slush, lying in my own feces. She tells me she considered walking right by, it was almost too much, and she didn't think I'd stand a chance anyhow. But she couldn't make herself do it, and dragged me along instead, all the way back to the cabin. It must have been quite an ordeal, even for someone as strong as she is. She amazes me every day. Glenda Reyes, the most extraordinary woman I've ever met, and more likely to remain standing once most humans are forever gone.
Alive Page 2