better
description.
“Think we should eat
something before we move on?” I ask.
Charles looks
towards the city, the bit of blood ice poking from between his lip looking like
a miniature tongue.
Angelo approves the
idea by unslinging his pack, and Meredith’s eyes light up even brighter.
“We won’t stop
long,” I say to Charles as I hunker down, forming a small circle with our pack.
Charles spits, the
glob staining the snow a bright red eye that stares at us as we crack open our
individual cans of fruit. It’s always half frozen, the semi-hard bits of
pineapple and pear and peach crunching in our teeth, their cold stinging deep
down to the roots of our mouths. It chills the bones but fills the stomach.
“I’ve always hated
peaches,” Angelo says between bites. “They always make everything else taste
just like ‘em.”
“Not as bad as
cantaloupe,” I say.
Angelo nods his
agreement.
The stillness of the
snow takes over, and the next few minutes fill with visible breaths and the
occasional whisper from the wind.
Charles continues to
stare into the distance, scraping his boots across the ground and grimacing.
“How long do you think it’ll be before we get there?” His eyes narrow a bit
further, their dark green all but disappearing.
“Two, three days.
Depends on the weather.” I want to say more, to ask if we’re doing the right
thing but don’t. I replace the words with a half-frozen maraschino cherry
instead. I feel the tension in the air, the fear thick and full in the thin
atmosphere. I know they’re wondering the same thing, but they’re good enough
not to voice their opinions. A blessing, for me at least, since they’d expect
an answer, and I won’t have one to give.
I finish my cup of
fruit and drop it to the ground, stand and stretch, and gauge the distance
between our breakfast and our destination. Jutting up from the ground, about a
day’s travel out, I guess, is one of the Spires. We’ve had luck at others,
finding a few missed cans of food, or sometimes full-on freeze-dried cuisines.
It’s as good of place as any to head for. Maybe we can make it by tonight.
And, as usual,
Charles reads my mind. “We’re going for the Spire?”
I nod.
“Think there’ll be
any food?”
“Don’t matter,” I
say. “Any shelter that isn’t a hole in the snow sounds good to me.”
“What about the
Jo-Bran? Don’t they check those places regularly?” Angelo stands and stretches.
I sigh. “We’ll just
figure it out when we get there and scope the scene.” I shift my gaze to
Meredith, who’s still holding her empty fruit cup. “You ready?”
She turns to face
me, those aqua eyes washing over me, a perfect crest of beauty and power, then
nods. She stands and takes the first steps towards our goal.
Chapter Three
The wind is gentle.
The sky clear. Bad days for traveling.
On days like this,
when you can stretch your sight for miles and miles, it isn’t safe, because
although the Jo-Bran mainly attack at night, it doesn’t mean they aren’t on the
lookout. And, there is always the Banjankri.
We stop often,
checking the horizon through Charles’ cracked binoculars, searching for any
dark specs, anything with teeth and claws. We trudge on, the sun making its
slow swoop across the sky. After a few hours, we stop for lunch, sharing a can
of kidney beans, enough to keep us moving, but not enough to keep our stomachs
from growling. They are the only sounds heard across the frozen landscape, our
mouths shut, our words and thoughts to ourselves.
I can’t help but
think this is crazy, this whole fucking thing. The things we do to survive,
digging through every abandoned building in hopes of a few scraps of food, some
leftover cans, trying not to be ripped apart by something twice our size, and
attempting to find something to smile over.
Flashes of my wife
and child inevitably come. Their grins plastered across each face, full,
bright, warm. I push them away. They don’t make
description.
“Think we should eat
something before we move on?” I ask.
Charles looks
towards the city, the bit of blood ice poking from between his lip looking like
a miniature tongue.
Angelo approves the
idea by unslinging his pack, and Meredith’s eyes light up even brighter.
“We won’t stop
long,” I say to Charles as I hunker down, forming a small circle with our pack.
Charles spits, the
glob staining the snow a bright red eye that stares at us as we crack open our
individual cans of fruit. It’s always half frozen, the semi-hard bits of
pineapple and pear and peach crunching in our teeth, their cold stinging deep
down to the roots of our mouths. It chills the bones but fills the stomach.
“I’ve always hated
peaches,” Angelo says between bites. “They always make everything else taste
just like ‘em.”
“Not as bad as
cantaloupe,” I say.
Angelo nods his
agreement.
The stillness of the
snow takes over, and the next few minutes fill with visible breaths and the
occasional whisper from the wind.
Charles continues to
stare into the distance, scraping his boots across the ground and grimacing.
“How long do you think it’ll be before we get there?” His eyes narrow a bit
further, their dark green all but disappearing.
“Two, three days.
Depends on the weather.” I want to say more, to ask if we’re doing the right
thing but don’t. I replace the words with a half-frozen maraschino cherry
instead. I feel the tension in the air, the fear thick and full in the thin
atmosphere. I know they’re wondering the same thing, but they’re good enough
not to voice their opinions. A blessing, for me at least, since they’d expect
an answer, and I won’t have one to give.
I finish my cup of
fruit and drop it to the ground, stand and stretch, and gauge the distance
between our breakfast and our destination. Jutting up from the ground, about a
day’s travel out, I guess, is one of the Spires. We’ve had luck at others,
finding a few missed cans of food, or sometimes full-on freeze-dried cuisines.
It’s as good of place as any to head for. Maybe we can make it by tonight.
And, as usual,
Charles reads my mind. “We’re going for the Spire?”
I nod.
“Think there’ll be
any food?”
“Don’t matter,” I
say. “Any shelter that isn’t a hole in the snow sounds good to me.”
“What about the
Jo-Bran? Don’t they check those places regularly?” Angelo stands and stretches.
I sigh. “We’ll just
figure it out when we get there and scope the scene.” I shift my gaze to
Meredith, who’s still holding her empty fruit cup. “You ready?”
She turns to face
me, those aqua eyes washing over me, a perfect crest of beauty and power, then
nods. She stands and takes the first steps towards our goal.
Chapter Three
The wind is gentle.
The sky clear. Bad days for traveling.
On days like this,
when you can stretch your sight for miles and miles, it isn’t safe, because
although the Jo-Bran mainly attack at night, it doesn’t mean they aren’t on the
lookout. And, there is always the Banjankri.
We stop often,
checking the horizon through Charles’ cracked binoculars, searching for any
dark specs, anything with teeth and claws. We trudge on, the sun making its
slow swoop across the sky. After a few hours, we stop for lunch, sharing a can
of kidney beans, enough to keep us moving, but not enough to keep our stomachs
from growling. They are the only sounds heard across the frozen landscape, our
mouths shut, our words and thoughts to ourselves.
I can’t help but
think this is crazy, this whole fucking thing. The things we do to survive,
digging through every abandoned building in hopes of a few scraps of food, some
leftover cans, trying not to be ripped apart by something twice our size, and
attempting to find something to smile over.
Flashes of my wife
and child inevitably come. Their grins plastered across each face, full,
bright, warm. I push them away. They don’t make
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