Bad Company

Through the cracks in his gas mask, the man inhaled the acrid morning air. He stood upon a hill of cinder block, carefully scouting the greenish-grey hellscape.

To his left, where the dimly lit heavens met the barren earth, the remains of burning buildings stood in the distance. To his right, a mountain of rubble and a forest of fallen streetlights. Before him lay a river of cars, forever imprisoned in space and time. But all around was silence, an unbearable silence, that was only interrupted by the whipping winds beating against his back.

The man inhaled again and, upon expelling air, let out a horrendous wheeze. His lungs burned down to the alveoli. He burst into an involuntary fit of violent coughs; the last of his mucus struggled to climb out of his larynx. Each cough freed the phlegm from his dry throat. The sticky mucus contrasted against his chapped and withered lips.

The man grabbed his canteen, practically weightless now, and gently lifted his mask. He pressed the bottle to his lips. The wind returned stronger than before, attempting to jostle the man from his concrete throne. The man relented to his omnipotent adversary and began his trek to the rubble below.

His consciousness shifted from his head to feet. They were cold and damp. The gauze and rags adorning them were tattered and tinged a deep crimson. His callouses ached, desperately wishing for a resting place. The awareness of his bodily pain fluttered yet again, arriving at his solar plexus. The emptiness in his stomach harshly reminded him of a dire need for nourishment. His hunger persuaded him to bear the pain in his feet a little longer.

The man slowly traversed past the vehicles before him, noticing the beauty in their weathered exteriors. His attention shifted once again. The surrounding silence was much louder than before, almost deafening. He felt as though what remained of the surrounding buildings silently spectated, waiting to see if he would succeed in finding the sustenance he so desperately needed.

His nemesis returned once again, and stronger than ever before. The strength of the wintry winds was compounded by the surrounding buildings, and it knocked the man off of the soles of his feet into the asphalt strait below. He fell face forward, cracking his mask completely on the concrete beneath him.

The man gasped in horror as the caustic air seeped into his dry lungs. Instinctively, he scurried into the nearest building and promptly slammed the door behind him. He hyperventilated furiously, exhausting his poisoned lungs. As his sympathetic nervous system calmed, fatigue returned to him. He collapsed on the department store floor wheezing and fighting to recollect himself. He slowly crawled upon the cold dark wood floors toward a broken mirror. He removed what remained of his broken mask to reveal himself to the mirror’s glass.

The room was dimly lit by the greenish pale sunlight peeking out of the boarded windows surrounding the room. The pale light highlighted his ghoulish appearance.

His eyes were sunken in, their pupils barely distinguishable in the green twilight. His wild auburn hair was matted and decorated with the dirt and debris from his endless travels. His cheek bones jutted out violently, drawing attention to his malnourished state. His skin was so wrinkled and worn it belonged to a man many years his senior. And his lips were cracked and taut, lacking the plumpness characteristic of a living creature.

The man peered into the glass, and the glass looked back. He would mistake himself for one of the dead if it wasn't for the unsettling sound of his soft wheezing. His weak hand caressed his reflection and at long last, he understood how tired he truly was. In the bottom right corner of the broken mirror, the man noticed a silver trinket illuminated by the pale sunlight.

The man’s curiosity commanded him to inspect this suspicious subject. He began to crawl cautiously to the object with the care of a hunter in deadlock with his prey. When he arrived, he picked up the odd metal trinket. It was a 9mm bullet casing. Over his left shoulder, behind the cashier lay a corpse with a pistol in its left hand. Upon further inspection, the man noticed something clutched tightly in its right hand. He slid across the hardwood floor and pried open the stiff’s hand. Within the right palm of the cadaver rested a silver heart-shaped locket. On its surface was a gentle etching revealing a date, almost 20 years ago. Inside the core of the locket was a picture of a woman and newborn. The man examined the stiff again, taking notice of its fractured skull. He wondered if hunger, disease, or loneliness had pushed him to this point.

The man leaned against the wall the corpse laid on and tightly gripped his chest. The man’s wheezing was labored, slow, and barely audible now. The rhythm of his heartbeat began to crescendo. His eyes were heavy and he finally felt just how tired he truly was.

His eyes lingered on the stiff once again. The peaceful corpse coaxed him to join it in rest. The man slowly closed his eyes, relaxed his sore muscles, and joined his new acquaintance in a well-deserved slumber.