Ashes of Hope
A Post Apocalyptic Dark Fantasy Short Story
Lydia Sherrer
Chenoweth Press
Contents
Ashes of Hope
Preview of Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus: Beginnings
Afterword
Also by Lydia Sherrer
Acknowledgments
About the Author
To the what ifs that we ponder with masochistic obsession
and hope desperately will never come to pass.
Ashes of Hope
The ash feels soft on my cheek as it falls. The flakes catch in my hair and pile on the tops of my shoulders and backpack, but I don’t bother brushing them away; I’m already so dirty it doesn’t matter. Hunger makes my knees weak and my feet drag as I take one weary step after another. I can barely remember a time when I wasn’t starving or cold. It had to have been before the war, but I’ve lost count of the days since then.
I close my eyes for a moment, trying to pretend the flakes brushing my face are snow. The nuclear explosions that started, and ended, the war put so much ash and smoke in the air that the sky actually disappeared. With the sun obscured, temperatures dropped. The plants died, then the animals. No more seasons. No more rain or snow, just ash. The rhythms of life are gone. All that’s left is this never-ending, cold, gray hell.
The sharp edges of canned goods poke my spine through the threadbare backpack. Their heavy weight pulls against the supporting strap tied across my chest. The strap would flatten my breasts, if they weren’t already so sunken after endless walking and little food. But I’m all skin and bone. Shifting the pack doesn’t ease the pain, so I give up and keep walking. Since the war, anyone not killed in the explosions or poisoned by radiation has been slowly starving. Canned food is all that’s left, so I’ll carry it no matter the pain.
Shivering, I pull my tattered coat closer. Everything I love has been turned to ash, and that tiny bit of warmth is the only comfort I have. All else is gone: governments toppled, cities vaporized, cultures extinct. Everything that was good or beautiful died in the wake of the war, including our humanity. The only thing left is survival, though some days I wonder if it’s worth it. Whatever comes after can’t be worse than this lifeless horror. But instinct drives me on.
I stumble suddenly, catching my foot on the cracked asphalt of the road. I start to fall and have a flash of panic, afraid I’ll break one of my fragile, nutrition-starved bones. But I don’t hit the ground. A cold, spidery hand appears and catches me by the elbow, steadying me with a strong yet gentle grip. Not looking at the hand’s owner, I keep walking with my eyes downcast and soon sink back into my stupor. I know he’ll keep watch. All I have to do is put one foot in front of the other.
The hand belongs to my master. My owner. If I were an optimist I’d call him a partner, a traveling companion, or maybe a caretaker. On a good day, I might even admit he was my savior. But good days don’t happen anymore, so mostly he’s just my master. I don’t know his name; he’s never asked for mine. We don’t talk. We simply survive.
Bones.
They catch my eye because of their stark whiteness against the gray ground. I stare at them dully, holding back as my master moves to the side of the road to check for anything useful. But the pile has already been picked over. All that’s left are rags and signs of a fire with the roasting spit still stuck in the ground.
I shiver. Those are human bones.
That’s how it is now: eat or be eaten. Sometimes groups of survivors even band together and keep prisoners as a living meat larder. They cut off limbs and cauterize the stumps, slowly consuming their victims alive. It’s a fate worse than death.
It almost happened to me.
My master returns to the road and beckons me to keep going. I try, I really do. But now that my forward momentum is gone, the weight of my backpack roots me to the spot. Instead of taking a step, I sink to the ground while my limbs tremble with fatigue and my head droops. I wish I could lay down and die.
But he won’t let me.
I feel the weight of the canned food lift as he carefully slips the backpack off me. Then, he slings it across his front, so that he’s carrying both my pack and his own. His bony white hands reach down again, grasping me and helping me up. He supports my weight until I regain my balance, and then he helps me forward.
Why does he keep me going?
Because I’m his cow.
I know it, and it’s frightening. He’s kind, but that doesn’t change what I am to him: food. He keeps me safe and as well fed as anyone could be in this gray hell. In return, I let him drink my blood—though “let” implies that I could stop him if I wanted to. Our arrangement works, but it can’t last forever. What he takes isn’t enough for him, and it’s too much for me. We’re both growing steadily weaker.
Isn’t it strange that in a world where everything else is dying, it turns out the stuff of fairy tales and fantasy is quite alive?
I could leave. It wouldn’t be hard. He treats me like his ward, not his prisoner. To find me enough food and water, he often hides me somewhere safe and leaves for long forages. I could slip away at any time. But I never do. He’s frightening, but what frightens me more is being alone.
I was traveling alone when the cannibals caught me. I knew right away what they were. Eating humans drives you crazy, and they all had that mad light in their eyes. They threw me into a muddy pit where they already had an old man who was missing all four limbs. The man begged me to kill him. Sometimes I can still hear his feeble voice sobbing in the dark.
I knew I was going to die.
But he got to them before they got to me. The first time I saw him, reaching down into the pit to lift me out, his clothes and hands were stained crimson with their blood. After he’d set me down, he went back for the limbless man, too. Or at least, that’s what I thought at the time. But when he returned, he was empty-handed, and there was a fresh smear of blood on his lips.
Ironically, my master does the same thing to me that those cannibals would have done: consuming a part of my being. Except what he takes is renewable.
Does that make him any less of a monster?
At first, I didn’t think so. Every day I waited for him to tire of me, to find some new source of food and dispose of me in one last glut of feeding. But as the endless days and weeks passed, that fear faded; you can be terrified for only so long before you grow numb to it. Over time, too, he has grown more gentle. So gentle. It’s as if he fears the slightest bump will break me, and he goes out of his way to keep me comfortable. But maybe it’s only because I’m growing so weak, and he’s simply protecting his investment. A man takes good care of his cow, after all, at least until he decides he wants steak for dinner. Every other human we’ve encountered, my master has killed and drained them dry. Why shouldn’t I assume my turn will come?
Yet, he is the only reason I’m still alive. My hope of survival with him is far better than the certainty of death—or worse—without him. So, I stay.
I don’t know how much longer we walk before he stops me again. Looking up, I half expect to see more bones. But he points to the side and I follow his hand, peering through the gloom of day that’s now darkening to night. The road we’ve been following south has come to an intersection with a small hill beside it. On the hill sits a house with a few outbuildings. It looks thoroughly deserted, and so should be a safe place to spend the night. My spirits rise a little. At least we’ll have shelter tonight.
We climb the hill cautiously, layers of ash muffling the crunch of gravel and dead grass under our feet. I wait in the yard, nervous and shivering, as my master checks the buildings. When he returns, he beckons me inside the house.
Though an omnipresent blanket of d
ust covers everything, the house is in relatively good condition. There is a musty smell that clings to its walls, but I welcome the odor. It reminds me of when the world was still alive and full of water and green things. It has been a long time since anything but the acrid sting of ash and stale tang of our own bodies has graced my nostrils.
We rearrange the furniture to make a small camp in the living room. The old couch is soft and comfortable, and I lower myself onto it with a grateful sigh. It feels so good to rest my weak limbs that ache from the miles of road that lie behind us. Being in a house again is comforting.
Besides the couch, there’s also a small woodstove. Open fires are dangerous, as they can easily catch the attention of any scavenger for miles around. But a stove would hide the light, and the darkness would hide the smoke. My master gathers fuel from a woodpile outside and starts a tiny fire.
The flames’ warmth feels like luxury beyond belief. Sitting on the couch in front of the stove, I carefully peel away the layers of cloth around my hands and feet to reveal bare skin, airing them out for the first time in days. I drape the threadbare gloves and socks on the hot metal of the stove, hoping they’ll warm without getting singed. Baring my pallid skin to the cold air makes me shiver, so I lean closer to the fire, trying to soak up the heat into my very bones.
My master stays away from the fire. He doesn’t seem to need heat to survive. He wears only one layer of clothing, and whenever he touches me, his skin is always cool. In a way, it’s unfortunate. With no body heat, he can’t help to keep me warm on nights when a fire is too risky. But then, considering what sharing body heat would probably involve, I’m glad his physiology makes it useless anyway. As incredulous as it may seem, he has never taken advantage of me—at least not in that way. Any other man left on this dead husk of a planet would have, I am sure of it. But he never has. At first I assumed he restrained himself because he didn’t want to risk damaging his food source. Yet after days and days of travel together without a single lecherous look or groping touch, all I can conclude is that he is either uninterested, or simply being a gentleman.
Can a monster be a monster and a gentleman too?
I might have been curious to know the answer, but the pain of my shrunken belly and the weight of despair that beats down on me every day leaves no room for curiosity.
While I warm myself in front of the stove, my master takes supplies from our backpacks and makes a meal for me. He started doing this recently, and I can’t decide whether to be bewildered or amused. Does he fix my food because I “fix” him his? It certainly isn’t because he eats it himself. So far, he’s survived on my blood as well as that of the roaming bands of scavengers who sometimes attack us. He always dispatches them with cold efficiency, and then he gorges himself. When that happens he doesn’t need to feed from me for a while, which makes me grateful, scared, and reassured all at the same time: grateful to be spared a few weeks more, scared of his power and ferocity, and reassured to know I’m worth protecting.
Those brief encounters are the only flashes of color in our otherwise gray and monotonous journey from north to south as we seek a warmer climate and the possibility that somewhere, somehow, civilization has survived. So far it seems a foolish hope, but we keep going. With the sun, moon, and stars hidden behind thick layers of cloud, we use a compass I found in an abandoned house to guide us.
My master finishes his preparations and hands me the bowl, along with a precious cup of water. I carefully take both from his hands and hunch closer to the warm stove. Tonight’s fare is baked beans mixed with pork squares. I close my eyes, trying to forget all else and lose myself in the delicious taste of food and the cool kiss of water in my throat. When I open my eyes again, my master has disappeared. I’m not worried. I know he’ll be close by watching for danger.
As I mournfully scrape the last bite from my bowl, he reappears to clean and stow our things. Watching him, I have a sudden thought which threatens to quirk my stiff face into a tiny smile: my master now waits on me hand and foot, as if I’m the master and not the other way around. But my amusement dies when I remember that, no matter how kindly he treats me, he still drinks my blood, slowly killing me day after endless day.
This dichotomy of safety and danger, kindness and cruelty, hope and despair stretches my nerves to the limit. But it’s better than just danger, cruelty, and despair. Isn’t it?
I hope, and I assume he hopes, that there’s a place somewhere on earth that escaped the destruction. That there’s still green somewhere. That’s why we walk day after day, through the dead fields and broken cities. That’s why he cares for me―and why I let him drink. It’s for the tiny glimmer of hope that somewhere things are better.
That somehow we might be saved.
Having finished his meager chores, my master approaches the couch, and I feel my muscles tense. I know it’s time. Every third night he drinks. Resigned, I hold out my wrist and look away. I stopped shaking like a leaf after the first few feedings; the horror fades with repetition.
But instead of taking my wrist, he gently places something hard and square into my hand. I look back at him, surprised, then glance down to see a plain wooden box, scuffed with age and gray with dust. There’s a tarnished turn knob on the side, and I realize with disbelief that the object is a music box. He must have found it while searching the house.
My master gestures toward the box, watching me intently. I draw it to my chest with trembling hands and get the faintest whiff of roses, as if the box had been long handled and caressed by a woman who favored a floral perfume. I take in a deep, relaxing breath, then carefully lift the lid. It opens with a creak of rusty hinges, and a high, tinny song begins to play. I don’t recognize the tune, but it doesn’t matter. In that moment it’s the most beautiful thing left in the entire world. I begin to weep quietly, sitting curled up in front of a warm fire and listening to the first music I’ve heard since before the war.
Closing my eyes, I sway to the rhythm as the tiny cylinder inside the box turns again and again. Its sweet but haunting tune reminds me of an intricately painted Russian music box my father gave me when I was a girl. He had brought it back from a business trip to New York. With that thought, a flood of memories bursts forth, making my long-numb heart ache with bittersweet longing for all that I’ve lost. For my family who were once alive and well. For the new clothes I used to wear, the fresh food I used to eat, and the meaningful career I was on the cusp of beginning.
For the life I once had.
Abruptly, the music stops, and I open my eyes to stare dumbly at the box, my mind addled by the torrent of memories and emotions the music brought. A pale hand enters my vision and turns the knob, which starts up the music again. I look up at my master, and I’m startled to see the slightest upward curl of his lips. The expression brings his grim face to life in a way I’ve never seen before, and I look down with a flush. Is he laughing at me? But the music soon swallows me up once more and makes me forget my embarrassment. My surroundings fade as I focus my entire being on one thing and one thing only: escape into a place where there is no more pain or despair—a place I long to reach with more than just my mind. When the song reaches its end the second time I turn the knob myself, never even opening my eyes.
After the third turn he takes one of my wrists, gently pulling my hand away from the box. I keep my eyes closed and concentrate on the music, so I barely notice the bite. Maybe that’s why he gave me the box, to make things … easier. I find I don’t care. I’m just grateful for his gift and the fleeting happiness my memories bring.
The feeding seems to be over more quickly than normal, whether because he took less than usual or because the music made time fly, I don’t know. As I consider which it might be, he carefully cleans and bandages my wrist, even though the bite wound is always gone by next morning.
After that, there’s nothing left to do but sleep. I curl up on the couch, where I crank the music box over and over until I drift off. I sleep more deeply than I
have in a long time. Absent are my usual nightmares of explosions and everything falling, dying, and burning. Absent, too, is the horrible vision of a man’s insane grin, teeth red, blood dripping from his lips as he holds a severed human arm in one hand and reaches for me with the other. I dream only of sunny, green fields where a soft breeze carries with it the far-off notes of half-formed music.
* * *
I wake with a start, a cold hand clamped over my mouth. Everything comes into sharp focus, and I realize it’s my master, crouched on the floor next to the couch. Once he sees I’m awake he holds a finger to his lips, shushing me. I lie still and listen, fear building in my gut. After a few tense moments, my ears pick up what he’s already heard: car engines.
Pushing weakly against the couch cushions, I try to sit up so we can grab our things and run. But my master holds me down and shakes his head, pointing to the window. I realize day has come, though the dim, gray light penetrating the ash cover can barely be called day. The house is surrounded by miles of flat, open ground, so they’ll see us if we run. It would be safer to wait for them to pass by. If they don’t, my master can always ambush them when they search the house.
I try to relax, but worry seeps past my defenses. What if there’s a lot of them? What if they have guns? Nervous tremors seize my limbs while my master seeks out the best place for me to hide. The sound of engines grows closer. I try to swallow my fear as it threatens to turn to panic, but a nightmarish image of the cannibal from my dreams fills my mind and I can’t block it out.
He settles on the hall closet for a hiding place. Though I try again to rise, he scoops me up from the couch to place me there himself as if he’s afraid I’ll take too long getting there on my own two feet. Once I’m huddled on the floor among the boots with coats brushing my head, I clutch my knees to my chest and watch the door close on the only friendly face I know—possibly the only one left in the world. My master pauses just before shutting the door completely, his gaze lingering on me and his lips parting as if he might utter a word. But then he snaps the door closed, and silence descends. I don’t hear his footsteps fade away, because he never makes a sound when he moves. Muscles tense, I try not to shiver as I listen hard for the sound of engines. I hope desperately to hear them pass by and continue on their way.
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