A Metallic Gleam

Henry sipped a brackish liquid from a thermos, poured from a jug sitting on a chest of drawers, mindful the jug was nearly empty. Rain pouring from the blackened sky was his only hope to refill it. The liquid was harsh going down. His stomach reluctantly kept it in. He looked around his "kitchen."

There was no food. Not even crumbs to pinch with his fingers to push in for his tongue to taste. There were just flat bags and an empty sardine can.

Even more than food and water, he mightily desired rest and sleep. Only on reaching a sufficient stage of exhaustion could he pass out, to remain oblivious of the raucous sounds of war until consciousness returned. Such interludes were unpredictable. Sheltering in the one standing room in the back end of a furniture store afforded the softness of mattresses. But no sleep. This morning he noticed an influx of rats. He feared the rats even more than the incessant explosions. He tightened the cap on the thermos and set it next to the jug.

Aware of heaviness inside his lungs as he moved, Henry went to the door and stopped. He dreaded to brave the floating debris and smoke outside. Plus, fearing the drones would come back. After screwing up his resolve, he forced himself outside, for he must go shopping. He should be wearing a mask, except it was too late for that.

The Cory's Supermarket had been a place to avoid in the past, but now he didn't know where else to go. After doggedly walking the eleven blocks, he gazed wistfully over the bombed-out building, wondering where to start.

Finally, he went stumbling over the wreckage, digging past rubble in search of cans of food. Any such prize would be an overlooked item from hundreds of forays, dozens of which he had undertaken himself. After just five minutes of looking, Henry pulled back a mangled shelf to investigate underneath it. He saw a metallic gleam. Yes. Bingo. A nice, undamaged can. The label was off it. The content was incognito. It made no matter. Whatever, it was bound for a feast. He looked up at the smoky sky, his act of thanksgiving before climbing beyond the twisted metal to rescue the forlorn can. Clumsily, he went down to pick it up. From out of nowhere, a heavy weight blindsided him. He listed to the side enough that the person whose whole body struck him slid down to grab his can. Henry clutched the two wrists of what proved to be a child, holding on and taking it back. As he struggled to get free of the shelf, the boy climbed atop his back and began pounding his head with hard little fists.

On firmer footing, Henry shook the kid off. “Hey,” he said, looking down at the ragged little savage. “all you have to do is ask. I’m happy to share with you.”

The kid lay back in the shattered building, eyes burning, clearly unhappy with the sharing idea. “I’ve got a sister,” he said. “I can’t eat until she does.”

“I don’t believe you,” Henry said, reaching in his pocket for the can opener. “Do you want some of this food or not? I’m prepared to open it right here.”

Dejected, the kid got up to go. “No. I guess not.”

That struck a blow to Henry’s esteem. “Wait, kid. We’ll share it three ways. Do you have plates or bowls where your sister is?”

“Yeah. Come on,” the kid said, leading the way.

“My name’s Henry,” he said, catching up.

“Mickey,” the boy answered.

“What’s your sister’s name?”

The boy turned his surly face away. “You don’t need to know,” he snapped.

Henry gave up on starting any conversation. “Sure, Mickey.”

They went furtively, hoping their movement would not be detected by a drone. They crossed an open lot, running, with Mickey sprinting ahead, then waiting in a recess in the remnant of a wall. When Henry caught up he asked, “How much further?”

“In the church at the corner,” Mickey replied.

Henry froze. He stared at the boy. “That church has been bombed, bombed, and re-bombed,” he said, growing angry. “Listen, kid; if you’re lying to me -”

The boy’s face became pleading, insistent. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll show you. You’ll see.”

His approaching the ruins of the oldest church in town moved Henry to a lower sadness. He’d known a few church members. He brooded as he studied the product of numerous explosions, noting that no scrap of wall or roof rose out of the craters. He followed Mickey to where the back of the building had been to learn that a section of wall had fallen intact over a bomb pit. The kid and his sister had fashioned an entrance that let them into a room the destruction created. Mickey climbed in and stood straight in the room, waiting to show it to Henry. Henry had more difficulty slipping in and he had to stoop a little once inside. He looked around at cushions and boxes. Sunlight broke through in a number of spots. The floor was nearly as large as a normal garage space. He noted as he looked it over that they were alone. Mickey already showed signs of concern and near panic.

“Leah,” the kid shouted.

He scrambled back to the entrance and climbed out of the hole. Henry followed watching the kid look wildly about. The adjoining blocks had just a few bits of wall and roof. There were few places to hide her if anyone had made it their mission to do that in any of those places. Then Mickey spotted a bracelet in the powdery black dust.

He put the bracelet in his pocket. The dust was scuffed in a trail that seemed to point to Second Street, where bombs had been sporadically pounding for days. But it ended at the curb, where tire tracks showed a sharp U-turn. Likely the car had gone straight up Main Street.

Henry stood nearby as Mickey raged, trying to formulate a plan.

“I bet that's the only car in town with gas,” he said. “If we walk that way, any car we spot is likely it. Not sure what we could do -”

The kid bent over and came up with a pistol that had been attached to an ankle. “There is plenty I can do,” he said. “And I have boxes of bullets.”

At that point, Henry was seized by a violent fit of coughing. His lungs were heavy with dust and congestion. After looking on with concern for a minute, Mickey said, “You will stay behind. I don’t need a sick man dragging me back.”

When Mickey began stalking down the street, Henry moved to follow. More violent coughing waylaid him. “I’m going to rest up in your place,” he shouted at the retreating kid.

The kid held up one hand to show acquiescence, continued to walk away.

Henry bent over, hacking up the corruption.

Spent, he struggled inside Mickey’s shelter. After selecting a soft cushion, he hid the can underneath it and lay his head in the softness, immediately losing consciousness. In quieter times he might have thought of his family as he eased into slumber. Mercifully he did not have to think of how each one died seeking medical help but being denied, because hospitals were overwhelmed. Victims of successive pandemics. Alternatively, he might have considered the sudden moving of the theaters of war to the United States by an angry world and the destruction of major and lesser cities by bombs and missiles. He could possibly have slept for days, but the boot kicking him in the side made him come too by degrees. It might have been two minutes later, might have been two hours. He was never to know.

The boot revived the coughing choking. He spilled an ugly mess on the dirt floor. His antagonist jumped away, protecting his boots. For it was a man, with recessed eyes and a scarred face, as Henry came gradually to see. “What do you want with me? he croaked.

“I know you have food,”

Henry stared stupidly until the man said, “The girl told me.”

“Told you what, exactly?” Henry managed to say. “The boy went looking. He found nothing.”

The man grimaced. “She promised he had some food.”

“Under torture?” Henry, who had nothing to lose, said.

“Under torture. What are you going to do about it?”

The man began nosing about the space, tossing around everything he encountered. On finding nothing, he returned to Henry, sitting awkwardly on his cushion.

“Get up. Let me have a look,” the man directed.

Henry put his hand on the can and lurched to his feet with it. As the man came forward to grab at it Henry swung the can with all the strength he could muster. The rim of it struck the man above the brow. The man paused, then swayed. Henry struck him again and when he fell smashed his head over and over with the can. Not sure, but thinking the man could be dead, Henry exited the shelter. The first thing he saw when he looked about was a car with half of the cab top missing as if blown off by a bomb. The trunk end was twisted, but the wheels all seemed intact. He immediately went to look for the key, hoping he would not need to go through the man below’s pockets for it. He tossed the can on the seat as he looked in.

It was still in the ignition switch.

Then he saw her on the back seat. A precious girl of about twelve stared back, her eyes telling him she was weighing the likelihood she would again be assaulted. There was horror in those eyes that he was certain would never be quelled.

“You’re safe now,” he said. “Let me help you out of there.”

She was of the tiny boned sort and almost a midget. She shrunk from his touch, preferring to do it on her own.

On her feet, “Todd? My brother?” she stammered in a tiny voice.

“Not Mickey?”

“He tells that name to strangers. The mouse.” She half-shrugged.

“Your brother is walking to find you. With this car, we might be able to catch up to him.”

Their attention was diverted to a sound coming from the shelter and a man with a bloody head staggering out of it. The bloodied one wiped at his face with a sleeve. He turned to locate the car and started that way.

Henry launched himself at the car’s window, putting his upper half inside enough it enabled him to snatch the key. The man hugged him from behind, reaching for his hand. Stuck, Henry evaded the grabbing for a few moments before pitching it to the floor on the passenger’s side. He hoped Leah might come around and take it before the man knew it had been tossed.

She was still, immobilized with fear and confusion, momentarily. Then she snapped into action. She pulled open the door and slid inside, taking up the key as she came in and immediately jamming it into the slot. She gave the key a turn and threw the started car into gear. Then falling to the floorboard she pushed the gas pedal with her hands.

The car jumped into reverse, swinging around and swiping the man against a signpost, brushing him off to the side. They went in a circle hitting a bump that was the man and continued the turn. “Cut off the switch,” Henry with his butt high in the air and his feet dangling shouted frantically.

Eventually, Leah managed to get the car to stop.

Henry let himself down to the pavement and looked at the crumpled body on the street. He crossed off checking the man for vital signs. Finding any would mean he had to kill him. He looked at Leah shutting herself in on the passenger side. She held the can gingerly, avoiding the blood on it.

After seating himself and starting the engine, he took the can and slipped it into the console. He said, “We can eat what’s in it once we find Todd.”

The gas tank was full. It was not likely he would learn where the fuel came from. As he turned the car into the street, he noticed for the first time that the epicenter of the bombing had migrated off a considerable distance. The fighting might well be over for his town.

The radio only brought static, so, no news. He turned it off.

“Do you have more family, Leah?”

She was silent for a spell. “Dead. The bombs,” she said at last.

He wanted to ask about her ordeal being kidnapped but as he had no expertise in these things and there were no resources to help her, he remained silent. Silent also because it would be so painful to know one more tale of woe.

They rode in silence, with Henry slowing at intersections to look, but always going straight. Then they took to circling blocks. They were chased by random pedestrians four times. At last, Henry turned back. They would have to wait and see if Todd returned on his own. He made a detour to pick up the five-gallon bottle, for it held the only water he knew of. There wasn’t much else to take.

’This car will enable us to look farther afield for food,” he told Leah.

When they reached the shelter beneath the church rubble, he suggested Leah go inside and rest. He had to dispose of the dead body and then park the car. He looked around for a chain or a rope. After considerable effort, he discovered a long cord of nylon and attached the one end of it to the man, the other end to the car. Later he came in to rest and to sleep. He was getting weaker. The coughing returned. After a short time, he saw through the haze of his bleary eyes Leah holding her nose and exiting the shelter. Too weak to do ought but continue to cough up an ugly mess, he couldn’t protest.

Eventually, sleep came. He awakened to find his can of food gone. Leah must have taken it. He couldn't blame her if hunger drove her to eat it. His sympathy rooted for her. Thinking she must have taken refuge inside the car, he went topside, thinking to drive about in search of more food. But the car was gone. He sat on the curb, looking at the empty space where it had been left sitting.

He couldn’t fathom one so small as Leah driving off on her own. What seemed logical, Todd or Mickey or whatever had returned, taken his food, and left with his sister. He felt no blame or anger welling up. Time was limited for Henry. Maybe those two would survive the war and go on to grow up and find mates. He sincerely hoped so. He hoped the war was over. As for himself, he would go seeking another can at the destroyed supermarket as soon as his legs were capable of supporting him on a walk that far. He held his eyes tightly closed and saw a gleam of metal in further store debris.