A Thousand Days

My feet hit gravel and I glance up. All around me are buildings. I’d wandered into some sort of town.

Above a nearby doorway, a sign creaks as it swings back and forth in the slight breeze. I shield my eyes as a cloud of dust blows by. I don’t know what city or town this is, but I know one thing is certain: I’m standing in the remains of what was.

I wipe the sweat from my brow and take a sip of water. The days were as hot in the day as they were cold at night. It made traveling uncomfortable no matter when you had to.

I cross the road and head over to an old convenience store. All of its supplies had most likely already been taken, I just needed to get out of the sun.

The door is unlocked, so I push it open and step inside.

As I’d predicted, the shelves are as barren as most of the world.

I slip off my backpack and sit down. Leaning against the store’s counter, I unzip my backpack and pull out my journals. Of all of my few belongings, the journals are the only things I have had since the start. Ever since the world fell into ruin and everyone and everything I ever knew either died or disappeared.

There are few left now. Me included.

I should consider myself lucky to be one of the only ones left alive. But I can’t help but believe the dead have it better. They don’t have to worry about surviving the night out in the wilderness or the ruins of some city. They don’t have to figure out where their next meal will come from. Or how they’re going to find clean water.

No, it’s the dead that are lucky. They’ve gone on to a better place where they aren’t suffering day to day.

Before, death was something to fear. But now, death is something to be welcomed. To be greeted, like the old friend he is.

But for now we’re left to pick up the pieces of this fallen world. Except we can’t. There’s nothing we can do but sift through the dust and ashes. The dust and ashes of what was.

I open the newest journal and flip through scribbled pages until I find the latest entry. I give it a quick read.

Day 997

They say if you live with something long enough, you learn to like the taste. It’s been a little over thirty-two months since the world fell and I still can’t say I like the taste of dirt.

Though I do have to admit that I don’t mind the dust as much anymore. I’ve had a lot of time to get used to the constant dust coating my skin and clothes. But I wouldn’t say no to a good shower.

When was the last time I had a shower? Like, an actual shower? Not just a dip in a pond or a rinse in a stream. It has to be before all of this happened. Though I might’ve found a working one since then. I can’t remember.

But then again, it doesn’t even matter.

I run a finger over the words and it comes away with pencil lead on it. I wipe off my finger on my pants and flip to a blank page.

Digging into my backpack again, I find a pencil and begin to write.

Day 998

Nearly a thousand days later and for some reason I’m still here. For some reason I continue to...

I glance up from the page. The building is quiet. But something seems off, like I’m no longer alone.

I quickly shut my journal and let it slide to the floor. I get up and move into one of the aisles so I’m not standing out in the open.

Then I listen.

A minute passes by. Then another.

Nothing happens.

It’s only then that I realize I’m still gripping the pencil in my hand, clutching it like a knife. I put it in my back pocket.

Still feeling uneasy, I walk out of the aisle and snatch up my backpack. Shoving my journal into it, I zip it up and swing it over my shoulder.

I turn to leave.

And that’s when I hear it.

The sound is muffled and quiet. It seems to be coming from the back room. I can’t quite make it out. But it sounds like coughing.

I know I should just ignore it. I know I should just leave. The safe thing to do is leave and forget I was ever here. Leave whatever is in the back room alone.

And that’s what I’m going to do. But as I push open the door to leave, a weak voice calls out, “…hello?”

I hesitate. But the voice doesn’t speak again.

I ease the door closed again and turn back into the store. I take off my backpack and reach into one of the side pockets where I keep a wrench. It isn’t much of a weapon, but I feel a little better with it in my hand.

The door to the back room is closed. A faded sign hangs from the door, with the words employees only on it.

I creep up to it and close my free hand around the handle. I give it a soft turn.

It’s unlocked.

I take a deep breath, ready the wrench, and push open the door.

The lights are dim and at first I don’t see anything out of the ordinary. But then I do.

A woman is sitting in a corner, slumped over. It takes me a second to realize she’s holding something in her arms, wrapped in a blanket.

I approach her slowly. Though I doubt she has a weapon, I keep both eyes on her, but she doesn’t even look up at me.

Her breathing is shallow and ragged. Her skin is covered in scratches and bruises. Her left leg is twisted at an odd angle. She can’t be older than thirty, but her dark hair is already streaked with gray.

I stop a few feet away from her and crouch down. I let the wrench drop to the ground.

I say, “Are you okay?”

It’s a dumb question. She’s certainly not okay. She looks more dead than alive, but I don’t know what else to say.

As expected, she doesn’t answer. Her breathing is weak. She isn’t long for this world.

My attention is now on what she is holding. I can only guess what’s in that blanket. Maybe supplies. The last of what belonged to her.

My curiosity gets the better of me. I reach out to take a peek at what’s in the blanket. The woman winces. I stop.

“It’s okay,” I say. “I won’t hurt you.”

The woman raises her head to look at me, but she can’t hold it up and lets it drop. She shifts her body and I see that her shirt is torn on one side. But then I notice something else and my heart misses a beat.

A nasty gash takes up most of her lower side. It seems to go pretty deep too. Dried blood stains her fingers and clothing.

I can’t tell how she got hurt, but taking another glance at all the bruises and scratches, it looks like she fell into bad company of some sort.

I ask her, “You know what’s happening, right?

Again, she stays silent, but this time it’s different. This time, the silence is answer enough.

I pick up the wrench. “Let me help you.”

The woman is still only for a moment. Then she reaches behind her and pulls out a small handgun.

I stand up. “Whoa.”

She thumbs back the hammer.

I back up and raise my hands to shoulder level. “Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

She raises it..

I freeze.

“Hang on,” I say softly. “Just… you don’t have to—“

She hands me the gun.

I blink. Then blow out a breath. “Okay.”

I drop the wrench and grasp the gun. I look at the woman. She’s leaning her head against the wall, staring at me.

Her brown eyes are filled with so much pain. But I can’t tell if it’s emotional pain or physical pain. It doesn’t matter. Either way I’m doing her a favor.

I bring the gun up to her head.

“Have you…” she rasps. “Have you ever… ever done this before?”

I smile sadly at her. “Once or twice.”

That’s all she needs. She nods and closes her eyes.

I pull the trigger.

Her head snaps back, then falls forward. Dead instantly. Better than lying here, bleeding out onto the floor. Waiting to die. I came in like the reaper himself and took the last thing she had left in this world.

Her life.

Like I’ve done so many times.

Now that she’s gone, I step forward and move her arms off of the thing she was holding. I untuck the edges of the blanket and lift a corner.

I find something unexpected, yet not surprising.

A child.

A girl, no older than three or four years old. Her body is marked with bloody lacerations.

A silver, heart-shaped locket hangs from her neck. Noticing little hinges on one side, I reach out and pop the locket open. Inside is a small picture of three people. The woman is there. And a man I haven’t seen before. They’re holding the little girl between them.

They’re all laughing.

And now look at them. The man is nowhere to be seen. The woman and girl are dead. I don’t consider myself to be an emotional person, but my eyes become misty seeing this broken family.

I close the locket. Then I pick up the blanket covering the child. I smooth it out and spread it over both of them.

After tucking in the blanket, I stand up and walk out of the back room. I head over to where I left my backpack and unzip the top.

I check the barrel of the handgun and find there are three more rounds left. Hesitating for only a moment, I tuck the gun into the small pocket. Then I head for the door.

I move forward like I’m on autopilot. Walking, but not voluntarily. Looking, but not seeing. Breathing, but not feeling.

I push open the door and walk outside. It’s time for me to get going, but instead I walk over to a bench and sit down. The bench is rusty and covered in dirt, but I don’t care.

I don’t want to walk. I want to sit on that bench and stay there. I don’t know for how long. Maybe forever. Maybe I’ll just turn into a statue and change from what is into what was. Like everything else in this godforsaken land.

Looking up, I realize that dusk has fallen. The fiery sun has started to set and the horizon is awash with orange and red.

As it always has been.

I should be walking. It’s best to stay on the move. But I just sit here on the bench and watch the sun go down. I sit here until it disappears. Then I sit here a little longer.

Eventually I stand up and start walking away. Away from the bench, away from the convenience store. Thoughts and feelings rush through me, but I don’t try to process them.

Watching the sunset stirred something inside of me. And now I’ve come to the conclusion that, yes, the world and everything in it keeps changing. But I guess some things, like the sunset, don’t.

I guess some things never change.