Authors: Megan Dinsdale
Sometimes I think about how I used to be—happy-go-lucky and fun-loving. There was never a dull moment with me and I always seemed to be the life of the party. I sometimes remember that little girl and her Christmas surprise, and I grow sad, realizing that would never be me again. That happiness evaporated along with every bit of moisture on this planet. I became infinitely numb and dry of joy—it was the only way to survive. If you felt, then you were weak, and weakness would only lead to demise.
I stood up and examined the food shelves. The supplies were dwindling. In a few weeks, I’d be without food. I’d be without water sooner than that. My father never took in to account that when the end came there would be no rain water to filter and no animals to hunt. Obviously, there was no reason to keep the water filter; I had abandoned it long ago. With my parents dead, I had their portions to keep me alive, but not for much longer.
My breakfast today would be my last can of pears. I twisted the lid off and stuck my fork
into the glass jar. They tasted old and I was sick of them. I was tired of all the bland, dehydrated food. I used to welcome the smell, the taste of vinegar from the food my mom had canned, but now it frightened me. It was a constant reminder that it was one less meal and one step closer to my imminent death.
Today was the day of my bi-monthly wash. I could only afford to clean myself twice a month now. The water was reserved for more important things. I soaked a washcloth in the liquid gold from that five gallon jug, being as careful as possible not to spill any of the precious liquid, and then rubbed the soap bar against the cloth. I cleaned my entire body, face to feet, leaving my hair untouched. I only washed that once a month. It was oily, matted, and encrusted with dirt. I wouldn’t dare look at myself. The only mirror I possessed was underneath my cot, broken in pieces, hidden from my prying eyes. It was a victim of my anger. I hadn’t gazed at my reflection in over two years. I wondered briefly what I looked like now. Would I find someone twenty years older than I actually was staring back at me? That’s at least how I felt. To be honest, there really was no reason to go on, but I did; if for nothing else, I did it to honor my parents’ memory. It’s what they would have wanted: their sweet little Elle to soldier on, to do all she could to survive this wasteland that had once been a flourishing planet.
I took in my surroundings: the small underground bunker had two beds, but only one was ever slept in. The other hadn’t been touched in almost five years; it just sat there, collecting dust. All four walls were made of metal. They were aluminum-colored and metallic smelling. Their texture reminded me of those potato chips with ridges. I lived in two shipping containers that had been combined and dropped into the ground. Other than the one small ladder that led to the surface, the walls were lined with shelves and cabinets. I couldn’t stand to look at the shelves and how bare they had become, to see the single five gallon container of water that sat alone on the bottom shelf. The sight made me realize that today was probably the last time I would ever be able to clean my body.
The generator sat in the corner, unused, coated with a thick layer of dust and dead skin. I checked the battery drawer. There were only a few usable ones left. I knew how many were there before I looked; I didn’t know why I felt the need to check. Isn’t that the definition of insanity? Doing the same thing over and over again yet expecting a different result? I looked again anyway, just in case. Still only three left and they rolled from side to side as I closed the drawer. I was also on my last candle. I knew soon I’d be living in darkness both indoors and out.
I moved towards the activity cabinet. I let my fingers play absent-mindedly against the brass knob before opening the cabinet door. My eyes scanned across the board games I’d played with myself a thousand times before. I had beaten myself in
Sorry
over a hundred times. I won against myself while playing
Monopoly
even more than that. Opening the box, I felt the paper bills. Money seemed so funny now. If the world had known that everything would end, would everyone have continued to fight over money and other trivial things? Of course they would have. How silly of me to think otherwise. Humanity had been greedy since the very beginning; after all, wasn't it Eve who selfishly desired God’s knowledge. I found the playing cards sitting between
Candyland
and
Pictionary;
I grabbed them and closed the cabinet quickly. The gingerbread house printed on the
Candyland
box was taunting my empty stomach.
“Solitaire it is,” I muttered to myself. It felt weird to hear my voice since I hadn’t spoken in weeks. It was quiet and gravely. I cleared my throat.
I sat on my bed, bundling my dirty, pink comforter behind me so that I could comfortably lean against the wall. It was always too warm to ever use it properly. I shuffled the cards, noticing how used they looked: bent, folded, and creased. I shrugged and put the cards in their correct fashion. I finished in under a minute. Playing this game so much, I wondered in silence if I could be considered a record holder for fastest game ever won. It was stupid to think such thoughts, so I lay out the cards for a second game. I took it slower this time, trying my best to enjoy it. It found it hard to take pleasure in anything anymore, especially something like this, something that I had done over and over again.
I let out a deep, restless breath, put the cards back into their tattered box, and pushed the box aside. As I played with a piece of string that had come loose from my bed sheet, my cuticles caught my eye. They were thick and jagged, so I started to pick and bite at them until I started to bleed. It was a dull sting. I watched blood well up into a bead just before it spilled over and lined the bottom of my nail. I picked at my thumb’s cuticle and the same thing happened. Thinking that I’d probably have to stop the bleeding, I found my first aid kit and brought it back to the bed. It was unusually exciting to have something new to do with my time. It had been almost a year since I'd needed any first aid treatment. I took an alcohol wipe, wiped the blood from both fingers, and stuck a small bandage over the offending cuticles.
I realized that I needed to get out before I started doing crazy things, like purposely making myself bleed just to have something different to do. I remembered the gas station/convenience store that was only a few miles back and vaguely remembered seeing a Texaco sign standing tall above the building. I wondered if it was still there or if it had been completely demolished by the asteroids that had rained down without mercy years ago. At least that was what I assumed when I had come out of hiding to see all the plant life turned to ash and hundreds of craters scarring the now deadened earth. I was sure that if there were any snacks left over that they’d all be expired. But don’t
Twinkies
last forever? Maybe there would be some there. I would have settled for some stale barbecue chips. With my luck, some survivors had come through this area and completely cleaned it out. But as I glanced at the bare shelves, I reminded myself that I didn't have anything else to do or much of a choice either.
I had been too frightened to ever attempt it before, but I had never been quite this desperate.
“Might as well,” I breathed.
It had been night for nearly two hours, so the time was probably around midnight, meaning I only had about four or five hours of darkness left. I’d have plenty of time to make it there and back before the threat of frying would rear its ugly head. The impending promise of starvation had finally pushed me to this point.
I grabbed my bag. It was empty; I'd never had much use for it. I wondered if it was lonely like I was only to decide that I had never had such an odd thought. Along with the rest of the batteries, I filled two water bottles up and stuck them in my bag. I needed room for any loot that I would hopefully come upon. I stuck my Bowie knife into the sheath connected to my belt. It lay flat against my right hip; the flashlight was attached to my left.
I tightened the laces on my knee-high leather boots, pulled my socks up to my thighs, and slid on my white tank top that fell just above my belt and corduroy shorts. Tightening the straps of my backpack, I realized I had lost a lot of weight since I'd last used it. Ignoring this fact, I made my way up the ladder and opened the circular hatch, all the while wishing I felt a breeze, but I only felt a rush of dry heat that enveloped me in its deadly embrace.
[ Elle
]
I closed the hatch and locked it. A large pumice stone was attached to the hatch and it played its part perfectly, camouflaging the entrance. Someone could pass right by the bunker and never even know it was there.
Everything was still. I remembered coming to this place before it all went down. It had been windy then. At night I could hear the coyotes yelping and the brush rustle as the breeze danced around it. Now it was deader than a ghost town and hotter than hell itself. The moon was bright in the sky and dampened every star light. A big, glowing moon used to symbolize beauty and wonder; now it only reminded me of what it was reflecting and what the sky would bring in the morning. It really was a pity. I used to lay on the roof of my former home in the evening with friends and stargaze until we lost all track of time.
The desert was flat for miles and completely desolate. The plant life had long burned away, taking the wildlife with it. Sand and rocks seemed to stretch on forever, until it all just disappeared into the darkness. I silently prayed for a breeze that would never come.
Within seconds, I could feel myself beginning to sweat—the beads already forming on my forehead and the back of my neck. The blonde strands that escaped my braid stuck to my naked skin. I felt parched as I breathed in the dead air and immediately ignored it, pushing it to the deep recesses of my mind. No matter what, I had to conserve the water. It was my one and only mantra.
To reach my destination, all I had to do was head to the main road and follow it until it exited towards the gas station. It wouldn’t take long, but I knew I had to take my time; I would dehydrate quickly if I used excessive energy. The road was to the right of the bunker, so I headed in that direction, the light emanating from the flashlight leading the way. Within minutes, I was slick with sweat. My top was stuck to my body like glue and I had to constantly keep the sweat from dripping into my eyes. Like an idiot, I had forgotten my bandana.
When I reached the main road, I looked both ways. It was a good habit to have, though an old habit, but now it was just redundant; I laughed at myself. The sound was almost hysterical, like I was tiptoeing on the edge of sanity. I was beginning to scare myself.
I stopped in the center of the road. The asphalt felt soft beneath my feet as if it had just been laid down and hadn’t solidified yet. The smell was heady and it declared war on my
nostrils. My nose wrinkled in response. I turned left and walked down the middle of the road. It felt strange, kind of like I was breaking the law. Wandering down the middle of a main highway was not the definition of intelligence or safety, but it no longer mattered. I almost felt like a rebel doing it. It felt exhilarating, or maybe I was just getting high off of asphalt fumes.
Time seemed to drag on and paranoia began to set in. I felt it develop in the pit of my barren stomach. I had no idea how much time had gone by since I had left. What if it had been a couple hours? Would I make it back in time? My mind filled with worries. There would be absolutely nowhere to hide from the sun once it arrived. The only place for miles upon miles was the bunker. My current depression melted into fear. I had been so bent on the idea of finally meeting my end and not having to fight for survival, but now with the threat of my imminent frying, it didn’t sound so desirable anymore. In fact, it was downright petrifying. I picked up my pace. All of my senses seemed heightened. I couldn’t see the exit yet, and even though I knew I was getting closer, I still felt as if it was getting away from me—like the road was stretching on for thousands of miles and no matter how far I walked, I would never reach it.
Crack!
I whipped around at the noise. The damp hairs on the back of my neck stood on end. Someone or something was following me; I knew it. I turned back around and continued on my way. My hand hovered above the handle of my knife. I would play coy. My enemy would never suspect it. I shrugged, like I had imagined the whole thing, playing my part perfectly. My façade would be foolproof; it would be perfect.
A soft breeze hit the back of my neck, and it felt so foreign. I could hear heavy breathing, almost panting. My enemy was behind me. Quickly, I grabbed my knife, swung around, and jabbed at…the air. No one was there. I was alone—completely and utterly alone. I half expected a tumbleweed to blow across the road in a comical fashion.
That’s when I realized I was hallucinating. I tore the backpack from my shoulders and pulled out a water bottle and downed half of it.
“Shit,” I hissed. I needed to pay more attention, not to mention I was quickly losing grip of my sanity. I reminded myself that I was the only one here. Maybe I was the only one left in the entirety of California. It wouldn’t have surprised me in the least.
By the time I reached the exit, I was down to one water bottle and I felt as if it was already in the form of sweat on my skin. I could vaguely see the outline of the gas station under the moonlight. For the most part, it seemed to be still upright.
I was tempted to open my other water bottle, but I stopped myself and repeated the mantra in my head over and over again. I quickly forgot about my thirst as I reached the gas station. Thankfully, it was indeed still standing, but it looked ancient, like it had been abandoned for a hundred years. The earthquakes, from what I could tell, must not have completely affected it. The wood looked sun-bleached and the huge Texaco sign was lopsided above the entrance. The colors were faded and the whole building looked like it would fall to ground if the earth even jolted a little.