Do Not Eat the Corn

I remember the view from this spot before it all began. There was a rainbow touching down at the top of the hill, which was covered in green grass and overlooked a creek, long dry by now. On the other side of the creek were fields of corn, green and luscious. Then the rain tapered off to almost nothing. Tornadoes and high winds further dried out the land. The population was a fraction of what it once was.

Now looking towards that spot, imagining a creek still existed, I could see a man crawling through the dust and dirt, looking desperate for food or drink. The Midwest United States, long affected by the drought, had been turned from fertile plains into a desert. Grasses had withered away leaving large stretches of blank, dry ground. However, years of genetically modified corn plantings still affected the region. The corn could be seen in many places, impervious to little rain and a withering top soil. The man spotted a cornstalk. Looking through the binoculars, I could see he could take his hunger no longer. He went for an ear of corn. (They always do.) He took a bite. (They always do.) He passed away shortly thereafter. (They always do.)

I am unaware of what makes the corn poisonous straight from the cob. Desperation made me boil some and leave them about years ago. Those who tried it survived. So, I have been planting corn both as a defense mechanism and as a food source, surviving off of boiled corn on the cob and my own well water, but living among cornstalks is terrifying. Any breath of wind rustling through the cornstalks sounds like a person walking through a corn field, meaning I live in continual fear. I still have my childhood home though. The house looks derelict, and the corn is planted haphazardly. I do not want travelers to realize how good I actually have it here compared to most of the Midwest.

Days go by, and I am continuously alone. The red-wing blackbirds, whitetail deer, and pheasants have long left without a food source to sustain them. My wife of ten years was also taken from me, and I have very little left to remind me of her. I wear a locket, originally hers, around my neck; the last picture of her protected inside. More days go by. Memories are my only company now.

The warm sun is out again today. There are a few clouds which raise a small amount of hope in me of rain. I have not felt rain in months, and the well must be getting low. After dozing off for a time, I hear a sound. A traveler spotted the well cover and made his way towards it. I take the heart-shaped locket on my chest and tuck it under my shirt. My late wife lives on only in that piece of metal, but she does not need to see this. I position the traveler’s chest in the middle of my scope and fire. She never approved of guns, and I never shoot travelers unless they threaten my water source. Now, it is time to wait. Hoping a coyote would come for the body that night, I could actually have meat for a week or two.

Corn continues to rustle. I look about, remembering there is little wind today. I lock eyes with another traveler. His steel-gray eyes tell me the other traveler had been bait to give away my location. His handgun is pointed at my chest, and he fires before I can react. The bullet hits the locket, and my life flashes before my eyes.

I was tickling sweet Jane on our second date. She slipped down the couch as she giggled. I leaned over and kissed her for the first time. Then, I was on one knee as she said yes. The scene changed again, blurry as we fought back tears while the doctor told us we could not have kids. (What a world those kids would have had to live in. Maybe we were fortunate.) Last, I held her after the tornado debris had struck her in the head. If I had not had the metal locket, I may have only had that beat-up face left in my imagination. However, the metal locket has no effect on the bullet, and I soon will die in the house I was raised. Someone else will have what is left of my well and be stuck eating boiled corn, holding out for hopes of a coyote or rabbit. Maybe this stranger is doing me a favor. Maybe I will wake from a terrible dream. More likely, I will see her face shortly.