Cold Plains

It did not happen the way everyone thought it would. There was no war, no bombs dropping from the sky, or an unknown meteor colliding with earth. People turned on each other, but not because of climate change or food shortages. No, it happened because of a virus, one known for many generations, that finally mutated to be transmitted through the air, and all the known treatments were ineffective. I do not know what the name of this virus was. I was so young when it started; I just remember watching the mayhem on the news until, alas, no news stations were broadcasting.

I sigh as I look across the plains of the Midwest, admiring the sun as it lowers toward the horizon. The ground under me is lush, alive with life, and untamed from the touch of mankind. This evening will be like any other, I have my bedding set up behind me, and I am ready to escape under the blankets I pack along to stay off the cold. I would build a fire, but I am not the only survivor trekking these plains, and not all the survivors will mean well if they happen across me. I am heading south to prepare for the winter, but not too far south because that is where the hooligans thrive. They have unclean towns and vile ways, things my mother warned me about before she passed two summers ago.

My mother was a strong person. She did not mean to leave me alone in this desolate world. While nature is recovering from the damage humans were doing to it, it has become unkind to those who survived and are without a group to help protect them from the many things that would kill them. In my hand, I can feel the cold metal of her necklace. This heart-shaped locket meant a lot to her; it holds the hair of the son she lost to SIDS before I was born and a small snippet from my younger sister, who did not survive. I shift my eyes from the setting sun, running my thumb across the engraved baby feet on the front of the locket. When my mother passed, I added a small cut of her hair to this locket. It felt fitting to keep her with her kids, especially after all she went through to protect us.

The wind kicks up, but I am not bothered by the cool chill that brushes my cheeks. I think back to the time before this devastation, to before I was alone. My mother struggled to raise my sister and me, maintaining a nightshift job while taking care of us during the day. I was in third grade when this virus hit, and things shut down in an attempt to preserve humanity, but to no avail. My family lived out of town, in the woods, so we made do in the wilderness while the rest of the world succumbed to the virus. This is where my mother taught me to hunt, to build snares for wildlife, and shoot a rifle. She was raised by a man who believed in knowing how to live off the land, though my maternal grandfather died when I was a babe. His survivalist books might have been out of date, but mother was happy she held onto them after his passing. They were more valuable than the news channels she eventually turned off because she knew what was coming, and she did not want to scare my sister and me.

During these moments, when the sun is fading, I can still see my mother’s back as we walk back to the house, a deer or string of rabbits slung over her shoulders from our evening catch. My little sister is walking beside me, picking flowers from the ground while mother scolds her to keep up. I remember the look in my sister’s beautiful brown eyes, the light of life that she used to hold. Everything was scary to me, but not her. My sister was always fascinated by everything her eyes landed on. She was the daredevil, always running ahead into the woods seeking adventure, while I stuck close to my mother’s side for protection. I remember getting home and, after prepping the meat for extended keep without cool spaces to keep it fresh, how my mother would send us off to bed so we could be up for the next day’s scavenging. I never liked going to bed when the sun was still sitting on the horizon, I was not an early bird, but my sister was. She would wake up before my mother, bright and cheerful with the next day’s adventure around the corner.

I raise my eyes up, looking at the sun that has sunk low and is disappearing. It is framed by beautiful clouds, sparkling purple, and pink rays across the sky. I hear a bird caw in the distance, and I feel tears rim my eyes. I miss my mother and sister; they were all I had for years. I was ten years old when my daring sister bounded off ahead of us and was bounced on by a bobcat, eager for an easy meal and unafraid of humans because we no longer frequented their woods. I remember my mother’s frantic shouts as she fired her rifle, her aim deadly accurate despite her panic. I remember her pulling my sister into her lap, wailing at the top of her lungs as she held the lifeless body close to her bosom. There was blood all over my sister’s chest from the hole that was ripped in her neck.

We buried my sister that night in the deepest hole we could dig. The clay was hard to get through once we dug beyond the topsoil. We covered it with rocks, hoping to keep the wildlife out, and my mother fixed a cross in place. She held me that night as she cried silently against my back, and I held close to her arms. I had never seen my mother so broken before; she was always strong and kept us focused on the next task to stay alive. She would play with us, chase us around our house in the evening hours, provided that the chores were done. But not that night; she just held me close and wept until the back of my head was soaked with her tears.

When we woke the following day, we packed our bags and left our home. I understood why my mother could not bear to stay in the place her second child had died. She spread the ashes of my oldest brother, the one I never met, across the grave of my sister before we left. She stood stoic against the midday sun; her heart ripped in two. She steeled herself against her pain to protect me, and we left behind the childhood home that I grew up in. We left behind the toys my sister and I shared, the bed we would snuggle together in when my mother put us to sleep, the walls that held our laughter of a youth that died with my sister.

My mother and I traveled for years, living off the land and avoiding people unless necessary. For a woman that lived in the woods, I would have never thought her to be so savvy with the ill-wanted kinds we came across. She taught me what she knew, and we migrated across the lands with the seasons. Mother kept stern with me, but I would see her smile from the corner of my eye when she thought I was not looking. I knew she was proud of me for catching on so quickly. I wish she had told me more often how proud she was of me, but I know she was teaching me to never let my guard down. What she knew is she would not always be around the protect me, something I did not realize until two summers ago.

Two summers ago, my mother fell ill, and that is when I learned she had been sick for a long time. I imagine she lived through her illness through sheer will. She did not want to die until she knew I could care for myself without her. She did not look so good when I left her to check our snares, and I found her pasty white and panting miserably when I returned. I sat with her for three days until she finally told me it was time for me to go on without her, that she was proud of me and knew I was ready to survive. She gasped for air, and I realized her cough and wheezing through our travels was not because of allergies like she claimed. I refused to leave her; I did not want her to die alone.

It was a beautiful sunset that night, much like this one, when she looked across the plains and admired the fading rays of the sun. Her fingers were icy in my hands; I knew she would not make it through the night. She gave me the most enormous smile I had seen in years before she told me she was going to see how my sister and brother were doing. She told me not to worry, that she would always be watching over my shoulder to protect me. She prepared me for this, and I was ready to carry on without her. Her eyes held one last sparkle of joy before they went unfocused, and the weak grip disappeared from her hand. I cried that night while I lay next to her, next to my mother, who had left me alone.

I close my eyes as the last ray of the fading sun disappeared, feeling that last moment of heat hit my face. My cheeks were wet with tears as I recalled the shallow grave I placed my mother’s body in before I left. The cold of night began to set in around me, and I began to think about the cold earth I buried my mother under.

A pained gasp escapes my lungs, and I open my eyes, finding myself now shrouded in darkness. I climb under the blankets I piled up for myself and turn onto my side, dragging my fingers across the loose soil. I am lonely and wish I had someone to talk to, someone to share this pain with to make me whole. I am only sixteen years old, and I already want to go into the void beyond. I want to see my sister’s radiant brown eyes, my mother’s happy smile, and meet the brother I never met. I do not want to continue alone on this plain, where the few humans left are dangerous.

But my mother raised me to live. She taught me how to protect myself and gather food off the land. As I close my eyes, I brace myself for the cold and the next day to come, another day in the loneliness of this world. I hold the heart locket against my chest, protecting my loved ones. I will do what my mother taught me to do. I will survive tonight; I will see the sunrise in the morning. I will survive because my mother and sister were not able to, and my older brother never got the chance. I will make it through tonight because I am the last. I will see the sun rise tomorrow because my family cannot.