Survival Log, Edward Collins 10/6/2012
A coastal breeze blows in from the lakefront. Buildings boarded up or collapsed in heaps. Dark stains along each of them like the dried rim of algae in a dried fish bowl, a mark in history from the levee’s eventual failure. No wildlife to collect the rotten fish gathered on the streets, the proof in bodies still lingering in the dirt below, their decay slowed to a crawl from the cold.
Most survivors headed south when the illusion of a governing body faded. We were told for months that help was on the way – first it was FEMA, then the Army Corps of Engineers, then the Red Cross. Nobody came. Help splintered off into self-interested enclaves. They’re still out there: raiding, pillaging. Every town I come across, I can feel them a step behind. Drawing nearer. Stalking.
The back door to the theater hangs on its hinge and I walk inside. Burnt aisles. That odor of molten plastic. Celluloid turned to ash. A pair of skeletons sit in the back row, their heads rolled back, laughing faces frozen in time. Little to take from the concession stand but some sealed bags of popcorn and a dusty box of candy. A lonely projectionist’s pornography collection survived the fire in a filing cabinet. As I thumb through it, a light bulb shatters on the floor behind me, nearly knocking me out of my seat as I twist around and fumble for my pistol…
But I look, and there is nothing. It’s only gravity. Perhaps it’s the building, long unseen by man, trying to say hello. Come inside. See the latest post-apocalyptic thriller. Marvel at its irony.
The past is written in the aisles. A man takes the girl he’s going to marry to a theater. They see a movie but don’t watch, focusing all their attention on each other. She goes down on him halfway through the trailers.
Concentrate. Try to remember her face. She wore a skirt, right? She smelled like…
Her name was…
No… Don’t let me forget. Take everything else, but not this…
I leave the theater and head back down the road towards my car. Little tread left on these boots now – steep curves carved into the heels. Leather patched with duct tape. Every corpse looted, every store pillaged. Somewhere, someone is hoarding shoes and leaving the entire world to walk on rags.
A cooler lies in the street ahead. I step closer, drawing my knife, kneeling down and gently pushing the blade between it and the ground. No traps underneath. I move to open the lid–
–The blow to my back rattles me. I’m doubled over on the ground before I can react to a kick to my stomach. My diaphragm spasms. I can’t draw in a breath. I look up and see the figure with a baseball bat about to strike again, so I throw up my arms right before it can connect with my skull. I gasp.
I can’t tell if it hurts. All I can do is throw my legs out and hope for the best. I feel my boot connect with something; in the brief period of clarity in what’s going on, I can see that it worked. The figure drops to the ground and I grab the pistol from my waistband and line up with whoever’s in front of me. One shot goes off and my ears ring from the weapon’s concussive blast.
Red droplets turn into cakes in the dust and the building behind my target is splattered with red and pink. The figure falls lifeless before me, one eye glazed over, the other missing. Wild, scraggly hair matted down with blood; a few heavy spurts from the gaping wound before the heart goes still.
I get up, scanning the area around me for anyone else. The pistol shakes in my hand. The hematoma forming on my arm. After the initial shock wears off, the pain seeps in. I crush a chemical cold pack from my first aid kit and hold it to my arm. No broken bones or ruptured skin, at least. I’ve had to stitch myself together with dental floss and a bent sewing needle. A little bump is nothing to complain about.
The gunshot will have alerted anyone else in the area, so I drag my attacker’s body into an alley and strip him bare. His clothes look worse off than mine, but the blanket he wore like a cloak is warm and inviting. I wrap it around myself and paw through the rest of his belongings – nothing but a knife, chipped along the edge.
Minutes pass. Nobody’s here. Back to the cooler. Nothing inside when I flip the lid open; traps like this are commonplace now. I need to stay more alert.
The cold pack numbs the pain in my arm to a dull ache but sucks the heat out of me, and I draw the dead man’s blanket tighter across my chest.
