Left Alive 1

by Jeremy Laszlo

  Most of the ground is as hard as a rock. I walk across it as if it were a great slab of concrete that is burning my skin into a crispy, charred exterior. I barely make progress without taking sips out of what’s left of my dwindling supply of water. I gather what I can from those few places I find that have water, but they truly are few and far between. Cesspools of tainted water linger on the surface but the putrid smell is enough to make me stand strong. One drink from the runoff water is enough to kill me. The toxins from the miracle fertilizer are potent and what’s left of me will dwindle if they get inside of me. I remember seeing pictures of what the fertilizer did to cattle and chicken who ate feed from the miracle plants. I don’t need my insides liquefied.

  My eyes burn from the sun and walking days without having a good rest. Sometimes I drop to my knees and pass out with my head pounding from dehydration. I barely keep moving except that I know that if I remain where I am, I will most certainly die. I have to keep moving. Moving gets me one step closer to the girls and the prospect of water. I take another step, traveling in the cool of the night, thankful for the cold.

  I stick close to the freeway, but it’s given me little benefits. I’m surrounded by farm country that is dotted with small houses that have now been targets to migrant scavengers who make a habit of taking what they want before incinerating everything they don’t need. Every time I see a house or a barn, I’m quickly reminded that there are others, smarter than I, who have ransacked the place and driven off on their merry way. I envy those people. I continue to curse myself for having lost the Jeep. My life hangs by a thread because I had failed to observe the road.

  I walked through the ruins of a town called Gert. Given the circumstances and the current status of everything around me, I wasn’t too surprised to see that the whole town had burned away to nothing but rattling, blackened bones of the buildings that had once clustered together amidst the sea of farms and pastures. I only know that it was named Gert by a blackened, metal sign that remained vigilant along the side of the interstate. I looked at the sign with apathetic disinterest before moving through the remnants of the town. I pass through blackened, sunburned cars that mock me from beyond the grave. After leaving the town, I walk through the night. There is nothing but walking. Walking and more walking. But my legs grow weary and they tremble from time to time.

  I continue until the sun peeks over the bland, flat horizon, its light is at once unwelcoming. I see nothing but the vast expanse of hostile, cruel land. It is my thirst that compels me to divert my course and head east. It is in the east that I see three buildings clustered on the horizon, far away, but worth the walk. The fact that they may be looted and abandoned does not bother me. I’m desperate now. I need to find something. If anything, I need the shade. If there is no water or food in those buildings, then I will wait there, in the shade until I wither into nothing and die. I realize now that I truly may not make it to Florida. I hate myself for letting the thought slither into my mind, but it’s here now and it has taken root.

  It took hours to reach the buildings. They’re not nearly as close as I had originally thought they were from my vantage point on the horizon. I walk my dusty path, taking each step desperately and eagerly. My breathing is now ragged, worn, and tired. I sound like cracked and dried bellows as I walk, sucking in breath and continuing onward. As I step into the shade of the first structure, I feel my heart sink at the sight of the burned ruins that were once a house. I feel broken and desperate as I watch the wind blow dust between me and the house that has been half burned. I can see light bursting through the windows from the inside, thanks to a roof that has collapsed upon ruined supports.

  “No,” I utter, stepping toward the house. I try the front door, stumbling up the porch and walking past the smashed remnants of a rocking chair and table. I grip the handle and slam my weight against the door, praying for it to break, but there is nothing. The door is locked. I pass the shattered windows of the front of the house and make my way all the way to the back door which is also unsurprisingly locked. I begin to feel pressure in my eyes and realize that I’m crying. I didn’t even think it was possible to cry any longer.

  Daring to risk it, I climb through one of the broken windows, trying desperately to avoid the jagged shards of glass that are ready to tear at my flesh. I know that with one cut, I will get an infection, and I will die. There are no more pharmacies, no more water sources, there is nothing for me to help myself with. I will be left stranded out here with a swollen gash and turn septic before dying. Thankfully, I make it into the house without much trouble.

  The second story has collapsed in on the living room. The ceiling has pools of blackened circles that contain the footprints of the fire that had immolated the upstairs. I try making my way upstairs to survey the extent of the damage, but part of the wall has buckled inward on the second story and has filled the stairs with debris. I figure it’s for the best. Getting up there and trying to walk around was an undeniable death trap. I look at the empty, tossed house and wonder if there’s anything of value here. I use my knife to dig through much of the stuff I see. Pots, pans, junk. There’s nothing here that gives me much hope. I tear open the linen closet and see a bunch of musty, moth-eaten sheets and blankets from back when people had more than they could ever dream of needing. At the bottom, I find a thick, old wool blanket. It smells terrible, like stale cigarettes and musty basements all rolled into one.

  I find a dead dog in the dining room where it must have been abandoned and starved before dying next to its food bowl. I hope that it suffocated in the smoke of the fire, rather than starved to death. If its owners picked up and fled the house without it, maybe asphyxiation is more merciful a death than starvation. I know I would have taken it. I’m too afraid to open the refrigerator. The last one I opened poured out a sea of molten rot the color of gray that no person ever wants to see. I dry heaved for an hour after that little incident. I decide to leave it be.

  The cupboards are all open and empty. Someone had ransacked the place not long ago. There’s a bag of sugar spilled across the floor. It’s melted into a glassy pool that reflects the sunlight into my eyes. I pull open the utensil drawer and find a bottle opener that also has a can opener on the other side. It’s the kind of old metal opener that you find in thrift stores. People tossed these out ages ago in favor of electric can openers. I smile at the sight of it and hold onto it just in case. It was even better than the one I had in the Jeep. I pocket it and walk through the rest of the house.

  Someone has pissed on the rug in the den and then taken a knife to the furniture, ripping out all the stuffing, as if they had been hiding their precious treasure in their cushions. The whole place stinks of urine and shit, so I abandon it as quickly as I discovered it. I poke around the house until I find the cupboard in their foyer where they kept their tools. Someone smart looted most of it. The only thing I find are a few feet of chain and then a reasonable bundle of rope. It’s cheap stuff, which is probably why they hid it away here. I sling it across my chest and decide that I’ve haunted this old crypt long enough and head for the back door. Unlocking the deadbolt, I open the door and step back out into the unwelcoming sunlight that’s waiting for me.

  I make my way toward the second house not far away, maybe a quarter of a mile. Immediately, I know that I will find no better luck there. I notice the stickers on the windows. They are—or were—brand new. The exterior isn’t painted and like the other house, it’s missing most of its roof. It has collapsed inward and as I look up at the shingle-less roof, I notice that it looks as if rain damage caused this roof’s collapse. When I try the door it opens for me immediately, and I step over the threshold and smell the stale, familiar scent of a remodel. There’s drywall exposed, and even insulation in some parts. The uncarpeted floor has great discolored and wavy pools where water has collected since the Panic. I find the one complete room in the house, the dining room, and look at the stacks of furniture that had been crammed into the room, wait
ing for the long departed owners to decorate their new home. I look with sadness at the dusty sheets that have been stained by dripping water and dust. I remember when Tiffany and I moved into our first home. Memories surge over me and I break down to cry again, dropping under the pressure of it all and letting my knees hit the floor.

  No, I have to keep it together. I wipe the tears from my eyes, refusing to go down that path. Picking myself up, I use the back of my hand to exorcise the demons from my mind and look at a small, faded doll sitting on one of the exposed, rotting dining room chairs. It’s been so long since I saw Detroit. I can’t remember how many days I’ve watched come and go with my nocturnal habits. Where are the girls now? Are they still in Florida? God, I wish I had my radio still. There is nothing left to keep me attached to the outside world, if there is one to even be attached to anymore. I am drifting. I feel as though the whole world has become a great, silent ocean and only a few islands remain. But I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing. Those islands are dangerous, hostile places, and I wonder what I’m going to do when I find the girls.

  I don’t even bother climbing the stairs. I know I’ll find a collapsed roof and a bunch of nothing. This house has to be bitter and angry, a place of bad energy. It feels like a half aborted dream, left in the limbo of hell. Someone had desperately wanted this house, wanted to start a life here, and then the end came. The book wrapped up and the cover was closed. I step out the back door onto the half-finished porch. There’s nothing but bare beams that have warped in the open weather. I carefully navigate them until I move down the steps and stare with strange fascination at something I have not seen in a very long time.

  Even when the world was still a sane, ‘civilized’ place, I hadn’t seen one of these. I approach it with a healthy amount of skepticism as my thumping head reminds me how desperate I am to see what lingers before me. I walk in a shuffle, my eyes squint against the glaring light of day. With each step, I think about when I saw this last. It was ages ago, when I would stay the night at my grandparents’ house as a child. I remember playing with my brother Jack outside, shooting bad guys with imaginary guns, laughing as their dogs would chase us, looking at us eagerly, hoping for some attention. I remember when we wore ourselves out, but didn’t want to go inside, we used to come to this relic of a bygone era. Now, as I look at it, I wonder if I’m hallucinating, or if it’s real.

  My eyes dart to the third place to the east, maybe half a mile away, nothing more than a dot of color and a few dead trees to make it stand out. Am I wasting time? Should I continue onto the house? Questions swirl in my mind, plaguing me with doubt, until my fingers touch the rusty old pump’s handle. I hear myself gasp, truly not suspecting it to really be here. I don’t even hesitate. I grab the pump and my childhood memories take over. I pull up the slow, lethargic lever and push down, listening to the pump, hearing it slowly gurgle and begin to suck. I do it again, pulling up and pushing down. There’s a drip from the faucet and I smile through cracked lips. It’s working. I grab the lever and pull up one more time, my hand shaking with excitement. As I push down, the pump shoots a jet of white, unblemished water from the faucet and it splatters against the parched earth. At the end of it, I realize that the water isn’t brownish yellow. It’s not contaminated. My smile broadens as I drop to my knees and stick my head under the faucet. Pushing up with my right arm, I pull down once more.

  It’s so cold that I instantly feel as if someone has thrown me into an arctic lake. I feel my body shaking and realize that it’s because I’m laughing hysterically. I can’t stop as I pull back and run my hands through my greasy, forgotten hair. I laugh and laugh and laugh as I bend over again and pull the lever up and down, dumping what feels like buckets of water on my face. I drink as much as I can stand, knowing that drinking so much is probably the dumbest thing I could do right now, but I don’t care. I’m saved for a little while longer. It’s moments like these that tease me, that make me want to thank God, even if the world has fallen to shit.

  I take another drink before feeling my wound. I had abandoned my bandage long ago and as I probe it, I discover that it’s actually doing very well. It’s completely scabbed over and doesn’t hurt at all. I smile and pull the crank one more time. Yanking off my shirt, I rinse my arms and chest and even my back as best as I am able. Still smiling, I ring out my shirt and whip it in the air a few times before putting it on and wondering if there’s anything I can store water in nearby. I remember seeing a bunch of pots and pans in the first house, but I need bottles. I look toward the east where the third house is, and decide that it’s worth going and looking for something there.

  But before I take a step toward the third house, I stop in realization. The water is clear coming out of the pump. I think back to when my grandmother finally died and I stopped out at the old house and walked around for nostalgia’s sake. I remember going to her old pump that I hadn’t touched in years. Jack and I played with the pump while we talked about how much we missed that old place. It had taken forever for water to finally come out of the faucet and when it did, it had been brown and rusty, almost putrid. I look back to the faucet where it is still dripping clear droplets into the mud slick I’ve made. There is a cold reality to that clear, crystalline water.

  Someone has used that pump, and recently.

  Chapter Ten

  I keep my eyes darting back and forth to the two houses as I keep moving, glancing every few seconds. I make sure that I haven’t missed anything, that there isn’t someone coming for me. I look then to the north and south, watching for any trails of dust. My time is limited if someone else spots these structures. I’m far enough from the 75 that I don’t think anyone will spot them on the horizon. They might have a visual range of over a mile, but I think I’m at least two miles away from the interstate. I don’t know. It’s still a risk. I’m not running, though. I need to save my energy for if someone spots me. The water was refreshing, but now I’m beginning to feel sick. I drank too much. My body is a torn mix of emotions as I close in on the third farm house. I was wrong. It’s more like a mile away.

  I need a plan, a better plan. I’m walking blindly across the heart of America without a map and only a road to keep in sight. If I travel west, I know I’ll hit the interstate, but that’s dangerous. A road is an artery for those who are better supplied, better fed, and better armed than me. If I get tangled up with them, then I will end up the loser. No, I need to find a map. I need to know what’s near me, what’s smallest, what’s manageable. A man without a strategy is a stranger wandering in this vast world blind. I need my eyes back. I need to know where I’m going. But before that, I need supplies.

  Water, I need water. Thankfully, I have a free, infinite resource at my disposal. I just need something to carry the water in. I think about how far I might travel with just one bottle of water. I have survived days, barely, with no water. If I took a few sips a day, I might make it to the next town. Once I make it to the next town, I could find something else to drink, hopefully. I stop and look at the farmhouse, shaking my head.

  No, I need a better plan than that. I close my eyes and think for moment, going over what I know. The towns and cities were full of killers, men and women who would have stocked up on guns, blades, and ammunition. If any remained they were well supplied by actively raiding every building around them. Nothing would remain unguarded, if there was even anything left to protect. Every cup of water will most likely have been spoken for by now. I need to stick to farms. If I stick to farms, the likelihood of coming across another well like this one is greatly increased. Also, rural communities will be less likely to still have marauders. Sure, they’ll be picked clean of supplies, but they’ll be easier to travel through safely.

  I close my eyes and picture a map in my head. I know I’m heading toward Cincinnati and I know that Dayton is still between me and Cincinnati. Both of those will be hard to maneuver around unless I can see a map now and start adjusting. I’m going to Florida, so i
f I travel southeast, I’ll be in better shape than if I keep following the interstate. I open my eyes and look west. The 75 has gotten me a long way and I’m almost saddened to leave it behind me, but it’s too dangerous. I look back at the farmhouse and decide that I’ll keep moving that way. Suddenly, I realize that this means traveling in the daytime. Part of me is now conflicted with this revelation. I cannot travel at night without a compass, so that leaves me for walking in the daytime.

  “That’s okay,” I tell myself. God, I’m talking to myself now. But I have a good point, I’m the only intelligent person around to talk to. So long as I’m away from prowlers and hunters, I’ll be fine moving during the daylight hours. It’s only when dangerous people are seen and more trails of dust kick up into the air that I need to begin to phase into nocturnal travel. I can do this. I smile to myself. There’s hope now. I’ll stop being nocturnal and start moving in the daylight. I’ll keep moving south until I start seeing more structures then divert toward southeast until I am around Dayton and then Cincinnati. I’ll survive. I can do this. I’ll stick to rural America. I smile as I get close enough to the farmhouse to actually start making out its details.

  Unlike the others, this one is built out of bricks. The dark red of the bricks has faded in the hostile world of storms and blistering sunlight that has engulfed the house, but it still stands strong. There are small, dead trees where the lawn used to be and a few larger trees that must have been growing strong for over a hundred years before the end came. There was still the flowerbed with the dried up bark still there, or at least, that which hadn’t blown away in the storms. The wrap-around porch was lonely and forgotten, almost haunting. There was a second story to the house and I noticed that every window had blue shutters that had been nailed shut. That was my first sign that someone had held out here for longer than the Panic. Someone had found this house and I felt a flush of anger. Hopefully they hadn’t looted the place before leaving. I just need a single bottle and I’ll be happy. I decide to tour the property before I make any decisions about entering the house. It’ll also give those who might be living inside a chance to make their presence known. I doubt there’s anyone still here, though.