Time passes and, eventually, I become a drifter, not relying on the bunker for shelter as much. The elements have taken a toll on my body, but the bunker haunts me. I sleep outside. The summers are tough, but the winters nearly kill me.
The waters crashing against the shore soothes me more than even my mother's voice. I can’t remember it anymore.
It, like many other things, is gone. Of my family’s faces, only their desiccated remains persist in my mind’s eye. All I have to hold onto is my memories and their makeshift grave. No pictures survived. Seared in my mind is the image of her body lying on the floor of the bunker, cold and pale, staring up at me with a face stricken in terror. I remember closing her eyes with shaking fingers.
I long for a companion, a friend. Someone to share the apocalypse with, as selfish as it sounds. I think about it a lot, especially sitting on the docks, losing time as I stare into the murky waters below.
We thought the water was polluted before the war, but it wasn’t anything like now. Oil from boats has floated on the top. Fish and other creatures, all dead, bob in the water. The coast is a winding graveyard, collecting the dead in the tide.
Among the things I find scavenging the city is a wrench, some bottled water, and money. I get a chuckle out of seeing that last bit. Still, I tuck it into my thick jacket. I can use it as toilet paper if need be.
I also find a bag of chips, stale, nearly inedible. I suffer through eating them though and try to recall what they’d tasted like fresh.
One day, I see a small boat coming down the river. I can’t believe it. I leap from my position on the dock and nearly jump in the water and try to swim to it. But the water is far too disgusting. There is no knowing what will happen if I do.
When the boat comes close to the shore, I try to holler. It comes out a croak. Onboard is a man . . . but not. In the captain's chair sits a skeleton in a sailor’s hat. I can’t help but laugh hysterically. The laughter didn’t last long before disappointment set in.
I collapse on the dock, staring out at the boat as it makes its way out of sight. I would have given everything I had for someone to be aboard. Tears linger in the corner of my eye as I slam the pole down several times in desperate frustration.
A voice interrupts my whimpering. “You ever catch anything in there?”
I drop the pole and turned around, mouth agape. It has been so long since I saw another person. Another person alive.
I try to speak, try to force words, but they freeze in my throat. Hearing someone else in this desolate world seems impossible. I guess a part of me hadn’t lost hope.
Standing on the wharf behind me is a young woman, close in age to myself. She has flowing black hair, a satchel laying against her hip and a dirty green sweater. She smiles, exposing rotting teeth. Half of her face is seared.
She’s the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.
My mouth is still open, and I have yet to speak when she drops down on the wharf beside me. “What’s with the mask?” she asks, and I feel silly for having worn it for so long.
My hands reach to the mask, but I stop. I can feel them quivering. I yank it off, and it clatters onto the wooden planks. I breathe my first breath outside the mask and she watches me curiously. “I . . . I didn’t know there was anyone else. I didn’t know if the chemicals would kill me.” My voice is rusty from disuse. It sounds like creaking hinges.
“I’m Brandi,” she says, extending a hand.
“Craig,” I say, taking her hand gently.
“Well, Craig, have you ever pulled a fish out of here?” She points to the water. “And if you have, can you eat them?”
The murky water is questionable. At best. I hadn’t been fishing for food, not exactly. I had been fishing to kill time.
“I haven’t caught anything,” I admit.
She looks at me, smiling, exposing her yellow and black teeth. “May I?” She reaches for the pole. She kicks her feet off the side of the dock, the most careless girl in the world. Brandi’s smile is intoxicating, and I can’t fight one off myself.
“Yeah, sure.” I pass the pole and watch as she reels in the line.
She casts deep into the water with a mighty swing. The bobber plops loudly, creating ripples. “I survived by climbing into a cement mixer,” she says. “Nobody would have thought of it. Between the cement and the steel, I was completely safe from the explosions and the chemicals, for the most part.” She reaches a hand to her face, touching the rough patch of scarred flesh.
I gaze up at the burned side of her face, considering if I hadn’t worn the mask would I look like that too? “I survived in my uncle’s bunker.” I lift my hands and show her the backs of them, exposing my burns. If I hadn’t been wearing long sleeves, I probably would have more scars. “Are there more of you out there?”
“I’m alone, but there are people. I’ve come across a couple. Most of the people remaining are . . . sick. Very sick. I found an older woman about five miles from here, she was in a bad way. I think, if she could’ve found a gun, she’d have killed herself. I offered to help her, but she turned me down.”
“How have you made it this far?” I ask.
“I found a couple of buildings up north full of food. I found a warehouse almost completely intact. Inside was all kinds of canned goods. I stayed there; I don’t know, maybe a year before the food disappeared. I ate most of it, but I suspect there were thieves living nearby. I wouldn’t have tried to stop them. I wasn’t hoarding all the food to myself. If they were hungry, all they had to do was say so. Hell, I would have delivered if they asked.”
“Is there anything left?” I ask, hopeful.
Brandi shook her head. “I don’t think so. I packed what I could, and there wasn’t any left beyond that.”
A sudden tug comes from the pole. She jumps, looks into the water, and asks me what it could be. I don’t have the slightest idea. Once I had a false alarm, the bobber slipped off and the line tangled in weeds.
She clutches the pole, reeling in the line. I watch, my heart racing, waiting to see. The pole bends, nearly touching the water, a good three feet below the dock. Thinking the pole is going to break, I reach for it, but Brandi continues to reel, watching the line jolt from one side to the other.
There’s no mistaking it. This isn’t a patch of weeds. Whatever is in the water is alive. The line lurches forward, almost taking Brandi with it. I wrap my arms around her waist and hold on, using all my strength to keep her steady.
It is a long struggle, but eventually she reels in a catfish. Its whiskers are long, nearly a foot, but I look into its eyes and realize there is no fight left in it. It’s sick too.
“Do you suppose we can eat it?” she asks, looking at the head, just barely peeking out of the water. She clutches the line with one hand, keeping the fish’s head elevated.
“Let it go.”
Brandi reaches down and seizes the monster. She pries the hook from its flesh and sees something in its eyes, something even I hadn’t seen. “I think it might be the last one,” she says. “He looks lonely.”
Brandi takes the hook from its mouth, wriggling it free after several attempts. She shrugs and leans over to deposit the fish back in the decaying water. Standing, she reaches out and grabs my hand. She clutches me tight and we watch as the catfish swims away, slowly.
“I don’t have much,” Brandi says, sliding her bag closer. She opens the satchel and lays out some food. Most of it is junk food, candy and such. “There were a couple of vending machines along the way,” she admits with a chuckle.
“It’s better than nothing.” I smile.
For a few hours we sit together on the dock, hand in hand, watching as the sun tries to punch a hole through the grey clouds above. Streaks of light break through and bright orange rays descend from the heavens, giving me hope. While the sun is nestling down for the night, we speak of the world as it had been and as it might be. We start planning our future. It feels good to have a moment of normalcy. It feels better
not to be alone.
Clarence Carter
About the Author
Clarence Carter is a crime/suspense writer for the misfits. He is the author of the crime thriller No Honor Among Thieves and is co-anchor of the podcast The Writers Block, which can be found on Apple Podcasts (ApplePodcasts.com/the-writers-block/id1484158509)
twitter.com/Clarenc02674180
Acknowledgments
Thank you for reading!
We hope you enjoyed our stories. If you have a moment, please rate this book on Amazon or Goodreads.
Inked in Gray would like to thank everyone who participated in the First Stain anthology contest. It was a pleasure to read everyone’s stories.
A special thanks goes to our contest judge, Val Serdy of Egg and Feather Editing, who graciously read and provided feedback on every story submitted to the contest. She has been a valuable mentor and friend of Inked since our inception, and I cannot thank her enough for all of her support and encouragement throughout the preparation of this release. Check out Val at www.eggandfeather.com
Another note of gratitude goes to our cover designer, Dean Cole. He was amazing to work with and ever so patient with us through all the tweaks and changes it took to make the perfect cover. Definitely check him out on Twitter (@DeanColeWriter).
Finally, none of this would have been possible without you, our readers. Thank you for giving this book a read.
Kindest Regards,
Dakota Rayne
The First Stain Page 27
