Day Eight
I started the day off in high spirits. The decision had been made, the day had come, and all the agonising arguing with myself was at an end. Filling the trolley the night before had been exhausting; it took a good 20 trips up and down the steps, arms full with as many items as I could possibly carry at a time. I had considered postponing the move until I was completely ache free… but when I woke this morning, I was basically a bundle of energy and raring to go. Now I’d decided, I just wanted to get on with it.
Yeah, that didn’t last long.
Manoeuvring through the streets was harder than expected – I’d managed to get a trolley with a screwed front wheel and the bastard kept turning in the wrong direction. A smart person would have thought to check that first, especially when I always managed to pick the shit one when actually shopping in the before, but no not me. Also, have you ever tried to push a trolley through the snow? Granted, it’s mostly a thick grey sludge at the minute, but I think I would have had an easier time pushing through tar.
The before. That’s what I’ve decided to start calling it. Writing before the bombs hit, before the war, before the planet was wiped clear of the human disease, each and every time is unnecessary. Should it be capitalized? The Before. I think it was a big enough event to earn that distinction.
I visited home. I couldn’t leave without knowing for sure, it would have driven me insane before much longer. I don’t know what I was expecting, or even what I wanted - closure, I guess. Whatever it was, I didn’t get it. The house was a mess, and not just from the passage of time and weather. Drawers were pulled open, the ragged remains of clothing, papers, books scattered across the floor. In my room, an open suitcase had been placed on the bed and a jumble of wet soggy clothes had been stuffed inside.
The other bedrooms seemed oddly empty. My family had fled. Did they even know where I was? Did they look for me? The suitcase at least is evidence that they thought about me and I felt a surprising wrench of guilt. Did they have somewhere to go? Had they delayed their departure in worry for me, perhaps delayed too long? They’d left the house, there was no question about that – and no bodies to be found. Had they had enough time?
I felt a mixture of relief and despair at not finding them. Relief, perhaps selfishly, because I didn’t have to bury them in this cold desolate place, but despair because I doubt I will ever know what actually happened to them.
At least I was able to leave, then, without looking back.
The length of time it took to just get off my own street is ridiculous. I nearly went back. Nearly. Pushing that damn trolley took all of my strength, and more besides. It took hours to get as far as a 20-minute brisk walk would have taken me, but I persisted. I fell into a rhythm and soon my mind was far away; that, along with procrastination, was my greatest talent.
I could bore you with how each step felt heavier than the last. How I alternated from pushing to pulling to flat out kicking the trolley. How I even started talking to you out loud as if you could even hear me. I won’t. I don’t know exactly how far I struggled along today, it feels like at least twenty miles, but it’s probably more like two. I stopped when a black rain started to fall so fast it obscured what limited vision I had. I didn’t even notice when it started drizzling; only when it pounded down so hard I felt like the nail beneath a hammer. The little bit of skin I had uncovered tingled and then burned under the assault, it’s still cold, but not nearly as cold as it was even a few hours ago.
I’ve taken shelter inside an old grocery store and, using broken furniture, built a small campfire in the middle. I have to say, it felt quite therapeutic to smash bits of chairs and shelves against the wall to break them down even further. I am beyond exhausted, I feel like I could just lie down now and die. The high spirits I’d started with had drained away with each passing step, each passing glance at the world around me. It’s as if the bombs sucked all colour, as well as all life, out of the world. I feel like an actor in some old black and white film.
I’ve seen no sign of plant life, no animals, not even a single cockroach. Aren’t they supposed to be the ones to survive everything? If the cockroaches are gone, what hope does that leave me?
On the plus side – according to George’s books on nuclear warfare – I should be feeling the effects of radiation poisoning by now, so the gas mask must be doing its job. I almost wish it wasn’t; I’ve grown to despise that thing with a passion. The Darth-Vader-like-noise was appealing, at first. It was a reminder that I am actually still alive, still breathing. Now, it drives me nuts. I actually find myself holding my breath for as long as possible just for a bit of quiet – not that that actually works. Still, I don’t dare take it off; I need to start thinking of it as a second skin as it seems I’m going to be living inside it for quite some time.
I’m disappointed. It’s not like I expected to turn off my street and find a thriving world, full of noise and vibrancy. I suppose I thought to see the world as I knew it – just minus the people, like I’d still been underground even after emerging, and the further I got from the bunker, the brighter things would be. I guess I hadn’t equated colour with life, before, and now that both are lacking it feels more like something covering my eyes. I thought I’d come to grips with the death of humanity during my two years below ground, but I find myself on edge, waiting for something … someone. The thought that the whole world is like this… it’s too much to grasp.
It’s not just that its dark. In the torchlight, I can see that where lush green grass had been Before, now lies a black burned husk.
I wish we could swap places tomorrow. You push that horrid thing, and I’ll ride in it, blind to the world. How does that sound?
The rhythm of the rain on the roof, and against the metal shelves I’d pushed in front of the gaping holes that had been windows, is soothing. It’s almost normal. If I just close my eyes, I could be back in my bedroom, buried deep in a book, with the rain as background music. Jess would be in her own room, headphones on and music blaring, and she’d be staring out the window as if the weather was a personal affront to her. How dare it keep her from her important, life-threatening, meetings with her friends and her man?!
Mum would be at the computer, working. She was always working. She complained often about how much she had to work, and yet whenever something forced her to take time off, she soon climbed the walls out of boredom. Dad’d be in the kitchen, trying yet again to convince us – and himself – that he could cook. There’s be muffled swearing, banging, burning.
We’d end up ordering takeaway again.
God, but I miss them.
Sometimes, I wonder if I survived two years underground just to lose my sanity up here. I’m no more alone now than I was then – sure, I had my books full of my favourite stories and favourite people, but I didn’t even have you until the end. Why am I finding it so much harder now? I guess ignorance really is bliss. It sounds weird, insane even, but I’m starting to miss myself too. Rooting through the remains of this store for anything that might be of use, I found the owner’s bathroom. I found a cracked mirror.
The person that stared back at me in the torchlight is a complete stranger. I knew I’d lost weight, but I’d always been on the chubbier side, and now I’m almost skeletal. My face is gaunt, my cheeks hollow. My hair, always the best part of me, used to be a thick and luscious black, now its lank and greasy, and when I ran my fingers through it, a large clump pulled loose in my hand.
I cried, then.
I’d never been one to look in mirrors before; a brief glimpse to check that my hair was straight, avoiding looking at anything else. I’m not like Jess. I never was what one would call pretty… merely plain. The fact that the bunker had been outfitted for a man, I hadn’t even missed the lack of a mirror. Other things... women’s necessities... had been sorely missed, but not the mirror. Those other items, I found in this store in abundance. I guess looters hadn’t stopped to think about a woman’s monthlies, and I cried then too... in gratitude.
You spend twenty-four months underground with wads of toilet paper and sellotape, and you’d cry when you found some real honest to god sanitary pads too! I added every last packet to my trolley.
Curled up now before the fire, no longer worried – or even caring – if it caught and burned the building down around me, I find myself thinking again on the books I’ve read. I’m beginning to understand why the goal of each and every one of those stories is to band together – I honestly don’t think I’ll be able to survive alone much longer, not just physically, but mentally. Sorry, Rachael, I don’t mean to highlight your failings, but I really do wish you could talk back, sometimes.
I always thought the settlements were because people needed each other, and I’ve always prided myself on not really needing anyone. Now, I’m beginning to see that it’s not just that; life needs some kind of purpose, something to aim towards. Wandering about pointlessly as I am, you start to lose a grip on something important.
I need to find someone. Something.
I need to find life.