Sun Bleached Winter

by D. Robert Grixti

  I stagger into the relative warmth of the room and carefully lay Claire down on the desk, shoving aside bits of paper and an old book with my left hand as I do so. I tuck my gun back into the belt of my pants and quickly move back to the door, leaning out to retrieve my lighter and then pulling it shut before the night wind freezes me alive.

  I take a few seconds to dump my backpack on the floor in front of me and retrieve a candle from it, which I light and set on the desk next to Claire. I open the first aid kit and hold it under the flame, squinting to make out the labels on the bottles. Eventually I find the bottle labeled “disinfectant” and I unscrew the lid. I pour some of the amber liquid into the removed top and then I trickle it into the cut on Claire’s head, rubbing it into the blood with my hands. Claire gives a grunt of pain in her sleep as it melts into the wound.

  “It’s okay,” I whisper, blowing on the wound like our mother used to do when we were children. It helps to soothe the pain. “We’re safe now. I’m just cleaning your wound.”

  I replace the lid on the disinfectant bottle and reach into the kit for a stick of styptic. I unwrap the plastic stick and use my finger to spread the dot of blue gel in the center along the plastic, and then I place it facing down over the cut and use a plaster to hold it in place.

  “Almost done,” I say to Claire, as she starts to whimper in pain from the styptic’s sting. “I just have to bandage it now.”

  I retrieve the roll of bandages from inside the pouch and unroll a length of it, which I wrap around her head, using my left arm to lift her into a sitting position. The bandage is old and yellowing and I’m not confident that it can stop an infection, but it’s better than nothing. I cut the strip off with a pair of scissors and use another plaster to stick it in place. I stand back and take a look at what I’ve done. It’s a clumsy dressing, that’s for sure. The bandage is lopsided and it doesn’t look as if it’s tight enough.

  I grab the bandage roll again and I’m about to redress the wound when Claire groans and opens her eyes.

  “Don’t worry, we’re back in the ranger’s station,” I say as I place my hand on her head and begin to unwrap the bandage. “I’m just making sure your wound is dressed properly.”

  She notices the roll of bandages in my hand, already half exhausted from dressing her wound the first time. She reaches out her hand and weakly touches me on the arm.

  “No, save it,” she mutters weakly. “I’ll be okay. It’s just a bump to the head. We need those supplies.”

  “How do you feel?” I ask her. “We took quite a tumble. You looked pretty bad.”

  “I’m fine,” she insists, through a wince of pain. “It just stings a little, and I have a headache. I need water.”

  I reach over and pull my backpack towards me, and then I fish through it for the small plastic bottle inside. I pull it out and hold it to the candlelight. It’s almost empty, and the water inside is murky. It’s sustained us for the last week, but we’ll need to find some more soon.

  “Here you go,” I say, filling the bottle cap with water and pouring it into her open mouth. She splutters and I know she needs more, but I can’t give her any more.

  “Sorry,” I whisper sadly. “There’s hardly any left. If we had any more, I’d give you as much as you need, you know that.”

  “I know,” she whimpers. “I’ll just try to sleep instead. We’ll try to find some more in the morning.”

  “Of course. I’m not going to let anything else happen to you. Not again.”

  She nods weakly, manages a smile, and then closes her eyes. Within seconds, she’s fast asleep. I’m alone again and then the seriousness of the situation finally strikes me: I almost let my sister die today, and our supplies are about to run out.

  * * * *

  I spend the night staring at the radio receiver, pondering, but I end up leaving it alone. There’s no point searching for meaning where there is none. There’s scarcely any meaning left anywhere in this world. Society imparts meaning through stories and it’s through stories that we learn how to live as human beings. Stories teach us the difference between right and wrong, and how to live a productive life. They show us what we can achieve if we put our minds to it, and challenge us to think, to question, to strive for better.

  Nobody has time for stories anymore, not when the only thing that matters is fulfilling that desperate need to survive, no matter the cost. Nobody has time to pass on the lessons of humanity, and nobody has the time to listen. There’s no meaning without society and without meaning, without something to strive for, we’re without hope.

  I’ve spent my whole life trying to tell stories. It’s my duty to write down the story of this lawless land. Maybe if I can define the apocalypse in words, I can find meaning in it, and then, once I’ve found something to strive for, I’ll know what to do.

  As the greyness of the early dawn begins to fill the room, I find myself writing down the events of the past few days. It’s the only way I can clear my head.

  Chapter Five

  When the sun rises on the morning of the twenty-fifth, the mood is grim and desperate. Claire’s still in pain and tells me she feels dizzy just walking around. I’m not quite sure the medicine I dressed her wound with last night is doing anything to prevent infection. Her face is sickly and pale. Her eyes are bloodshot with fatigue and dehydration.

  After we finish repacking our things, I give her the last mouthful of water in the bottle, telling her I’d rather die of thirst than let her catch a fever.

  “What will we do if we don’t find more?” she asks weakly as she funnels the precious liquid down her throat.

  “It wouldn’t have lasted longer than today anyway. There was less than a mouthful left in the bottle,” I say, contemplating the empty bottle.

  “What happens if we can’t find any more?” she asks again, this time with a hint of fear in her voice.

  “We’ll be fine,” I reassure her, but I’m not too sure of it myself.

  I can only hope we find a source of water soon. I don’t want to have to resort to melting the snow. There was a man Claire and I met once, whose plan was to bury himself in a cave and live off the snow that gathered around the cave entrance each morning. Confident that he’d formulated the perfect survival plan, he melted a ball of snow with his lighter and drank the water. There must have been something poisonous in it. When we woke up the next morning, he was dead, dried blood and froth gathered around his still open mouth.

  Maybe his death was just a coincidence, but we’ve never been quite sure about drinking the snow ever since. We’ve been fortunate enough to have never, by sheer luck, strayed far from a river, creek, or rusted-out rainwater tank in our wanderings. There’s nothing to say that the liquid water is any safer to drink than the snow, but you know, Claire and I haven’t died yet. I’m trying to keep an optimistic face for Claire, but I’m inwardly hoping our luck hasn’t run out.

  I figure that without water, there’s no need to conserve food. I use my survival knife to pry open the can of Spam and we make a meal of it. I heap half of the mush inside into Claire’s lap, but she struggles to eat it.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask her, running my hand along her forehead. It’s a freezing morning, even inside the thick walls of the ranger station, but her skin is unusually warm.

  “Stop it, I’m fine. We have more important things to worry about than a cut on my head.”

  Inside, I’m starting to worry. She’s getting sick, and it’s my fault. I stare into her bloodshot eyes, wondering what will become of her, and I feel my own eyes moisten with the beginnings of tears.

  “What are you crying about?” she asks, pulling her bag over her shoulder and adjusting the beanie on her head. “We don’t have the time to sit around here. We have to get going!”

  I sigh and pick up my backpack and then make sure my
gun is firmly secured in my belt. I have to remember to keep it with me at all times. I can’t help imagining that she’s going to drop dead of infection at any moment. If anything else happens to her because of me, I’ll need it. I can’t stand the idea of living with the knowledge that I indirectly caused my sister’s death.

  * * * *

  We don’t travel in the same direction as yesterday, for fear of running into the marauders. Even so, I walk with my right hand on the hilt of my gun, ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice.

  “You look like a gunslinger out of a Western movie,” Claire croaks, walking beside me. In spite of myself, I manage a small smile. She’s right. I’m clad in a black trench coat and wearing my father’s old wide-brim hat. My face is obscured in shadow but if you could see it, I would assume it would seem worn and weary. I’m walking in silence with my hand on my side ready to leap into a gunfight, and there’s nothing but wilderness for miles around. I’m a lone ranger, exploring the frontier of civilization, doing whatever I can to survive and prosper in a savage world full of people who would have me dead as soon as we crossed paths.

  “This town ain’t big enough for the two of us,” I joke back in a somber tone. This land isn’t big enough for any of us. Not when there’s hardly anything left to go around. If you see something you want, you have to take it before anyone else can get it, and that often leads to blood.

  Even though I’m expecting gunfire to cut through the air at every step, our journey is uneventful. Despite this, however, there’s a strange tension in the pit of my stomach that I can’t dispel. I’m not calm at all. I’m anxious about where we’re headed to, what’s going to happen next, and whether Claire is going to be okay. Our trek through the silent wasteland is far from tranquil. More than it ever has before, the specter of death hovers over us like a hungry vulture, threatening to move in at our first moment of weakness. I don’t know what awaits us at the end of this overgrown mountain path, but I hope that, whatever it is, it’s not going to be what finally finishes us off.

  Eventually, the trail leads us down from the hills onto a cliff-top observation platform overlooking a frozen lake. We come out from behind a mass of withered trees, and our feet crunch into a layer of decaying asphalt. I stop and look around, surveying the area for danger before leading Claire further into the open.

  The two of us walk briskly along the edge of the platform, glancing quickly at the coin operated telescopes bolted to the ground but ignoring them. At the opposite edge, there’s a wrought iron gate that bars off a set of stairs leading into an adjoining parking lot below. Wrapped around it is a heavy chain, bound by a rusting padlock with an ornate keyhole.

  “You got the key?” Claire asks sarcastically.

  I shake my head, and look for another way around. A thick stone wall flanks the gate and runs along the perimeter of the observation area. Unlike most other things we’ve seen in the wastes so far, it’s still perfectly intact and not liable to be breached by anything I can do.

  “Climb it, maybe?” Claire suggests. I look up to check if there’s anything to grab onto. The top of the wall is lined with barbed wire. “Not unless you want to be cut to shreds,” I point out solemnly.

  I return to the gate and rattle the chain, trying vainly to pull it loose. It doesn’t budge, but the catch on the padlock jerks a little, worn down by months of extreme weather. I grab it with both hands and yank hard. Something inside it makes a loud click and it looks for a moment as if it’s going to open, but then it lazily snaps back into place.

  Beside me, Claire frowns. She kneels on the ground and fumbles for something, then rises again and thrusts a large rock into my hands.

  “Yeah, I’m right ahead of you,” I say. I hammer at the lock and, with a single well placed blow, it springs open. The chains immediately loosen and slide to the ground. Smiling, I toss the rock into a patch of slush and push the gates open. We climb down into the parking lot and start to walk through. The empty car park leads out onto a winding mountain road, and as we take our first steps out onto it, we come face to face with an abandoned truck parked up against the outside of the stone wall.

  There’s a faded red cross painted on the side.

  Excited, we scramble into the back and I tear open my backpack, ready to fill it with supplies. The inside of the truck is filled with ruined blankets and bundles of bedding. Nothing else. Starting to feel a hollow disappointment eat at my insides, I take Claire’s hand and we turn to leave.

  Tucked in the corner adjacent to where we climbed inside is a small metal crate with the word “perishables” emblazoned on its lid. The disappointment dies a little. Tentatively, I flick open the catch on the front and lift the lid open. The box is filled with bottles of clear water and snap-lock bags of bandages and medicine.

  I feel Claire’s hand rest on my shoulder as she leans over to take a look. Her face lights up with excitement.

  “We’re saved!” I whisper, reaching in and grabbing a bottle of water. “There’s enough water here for at least a month!”

  “Hey, don’t you dare touch that, buddy,” warns a stern male voice. I look up. A bearded man in a camouflage vest stands outside the truck, eyeing me warily with a loaded shotgun. Behind him, a pimply teenage boy stands at attention, his left hand nervously twitching on a leather gun holster.

  I release my grip on the bottle and edge away from the box. The man seems to calm a little.

  “Good. Now, how ’bout the both of you just climb down out of there? I don’t want to have to use this thing,” he orders, in a shaking voice.

  Slowly, I climb out of the truck, guiding Claire down with me. When we’re back on the asphalt, the gunman nods approvingly and nudges us away from the truck with his gun. Once he’s satisfied that we’re out of the way, he motions to the teenage boy behind him with his hand. The boy nods and climbs into the truck. He starts piling bottles of water into a knapsack.

  “Well, go on and get outta here,” the gunman prompts us, nudging towards the road with his chin. “We don’t want no trouble. We’re just taking our supplies here and then we’re gonna move right on back home.”

  “Your supplies?” I repeat, incredulous. “There’s more than enough water there for all of us.”

  The gunman shakes his head and jabs his shotgun at my torso. “We found this here truck before you did, buddy. That makes it our supplies. Everything in that crate belongs to us. We stumbled across it an hour or so ago while we were looking for new batteries for our flashlight. Went back to our camp in the woods to get a bag to carry some of it in, and while we’re gone, you show up out of nowhere and try to steal it from us.”

  “We don’t want to steal it,” Claire says coolly. “There wasn’t anybody in sight when we got here to steal it from. Besides, we can’t carry all of it, anyway.”

  “Yeah, well, that don’t matter now, does it?” asks the gunman gruffly. “We found it, and we’re keeping it. Now, please just get the hell out of here and leave us alone.” A spasm of frustration crackles through my muscles. I clench my fist and feel myself about to hit something, but I calm myself just in time. I sigh and hang my head.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble either. We just want a bottle of water, that’s all. Just one. We’re all out, and we’re desperate.”

  “Yeah? Well, we’re desperate too, buddy. Been on half a cask of dirty water for the last week, me and my nephew,” he replies through gritted teeth. I raise my head and stare him in the face. Beside me, Claire fidgets nervously. I take a deep gulp of air to try and force a rising wave of anger down into the pit of my gut, then make eye contact with him and talk, trying to keep my voice level. “Please. We don’t have anything left. My sister is injured and she needs something to drink. Just put the gun down and let us take a mouthful of water. That’s all we’re asking.”

  The man frowns, thinking. He takes his left hand off t
he barrel of the shotgun and uses it to ruffle his dirty beard. I see something flicker in his brown eyes. Suddenly, he blinks and shakes his head. He removes his hand from the beard and places it back on the gun. He steps back and trains the weapon’s sight on my midsection. He shoots me a threatening look and glances over his shoulder at the backside of the truck.

  “Hey, you done in there yet?” he shouts. “Any spares left?”

  The boy pokes his head out from behind a flap of canvas. He smiles and then ducks away again, emerging a few seconds later with a bulging bag slung over his shoulder. “All done, Uncle Curtis. Managed to fit them all in.” He taps the bag proudly. “We won’t have to leave anything behind after all.”

  The gunman sighs wistfully and lowers his shotgun. “Guess you’re out of luck,” he says to me, grimly. “No spares.” He turns away from us and starts walking down the road, beckoning with his finger for the boy to follow. The boy glances pitifully at us over his shoulder as he unscrews the lid off a bottle and takes a long sip. He swallows it down and looks away, quickening his step to catch up with his uncle.

  “Damn you, you selfish bastards!” I shout after them.

  They stop walking. The man with the beard turns to face us. He looks incredibly tired.

  “I’m sorry. I have me and my own to look after. It’s every man for himself out here.”

  He continues walking, his back slowly receding into the distance again.

  Fucking bastard.

  I plunge my right hand into my coat and start to yank my revolver out from my belt. Claire sighs softly and wraps her fingers around my arm tightly, to stop me.

  “Lionel, don’t,” she warns.

  “Claire…”

  “They’re both armed. It won’t do you any use.”