Strangers

I . 

I can’t see the fires, but I can smell them. The smog has become a part of life, I put on my makeshift mask, it helps to filter out the constant presence of smoke. This one has a pentagram on it. I made it from a shirt I found inside a house that was not my own. I have been scavenging for months and have gone through countless masks. It’s the romantic in me that wants to find unusual prints in abandoned houses. Some scavengers collect photographs, some silverware, I don’t have the capacity to carry around useless crap, so I make masks from dead people’s shirts. It’s a way to honor the previous owners I suppose, there aren’t many of us left. I like to pass the time imagining these peoples’ stories. How did a pentagram shirt end up in the heart of suburbia before the fires? It must’ve belonged to an angsty teen. She bought it from Hot Topic and busted through the doors of her immaculate house with a wild yell “This is who I am now, mother! Accept it, or face the wrath of the Devil!” I imagine her mom had quite a laugh. I hope they were able to evacuate safely, but I have my doubts.

  The air is growing cold and I’m quickly losing daylight. It’s hard enough to see during the day, but the nights render me practically blind. The fires started here and killed 70% of the population, the electricity has gone out and there is barely any infrastructure left. No one is coming to look for survivors anymore. The government is too busy trying to get the rest of the country under control, I don’t think there is a state that isn’t burning.

  I look around for a structure that’s most intact to spend the night. I must be in someone’s derelict backyard, there is a ride-on lawn mower overtaken by weeds, and remnants of an old deck. This neighborhood is practically ash, I might have to find a thick bush to sleep under. It’s rare to run into another person, but I still don’t like to sleep out in the open, you never know who is desperate enough to shoot you in a face for a can of beans. 

  I run my stick through the morning glory that’s growing all along a hill, just a precaution to scare any creatures that might’ve thought this was a good shelter too. If I can find some space between the foliage and dirt I will be able to tuck myself away and have a good rest. I almost fall when instead of poking dirt the stick hits air. I move the stick up and down and clear the overgrown weeds out of the way. In front of me is an entrance into the hill. I can’t believe it, I have never found anything like this before; I usually spend my nights in blackened basements.

 I enter the cave making sure to cover the entrance up with the vining plants. It’s dark inside, but the air feels cooler and a little fresher. I hold the stick in front of me with one hand while grabbing the flashlight off my belt with the other. I have been lucky to find a lot of batteries in one of the more intact houses I encountered. I left that house with a Toy Story mask made from a child’s pajamas.

 I am knocked off my feet before I have a chance to turn on the flashlight. Idiot! Of course a perfect shelter would already be occupied. The stick is ripped out of my hand and I fall on the ground hard. I try to fight, but the air is knocked out of me. Someone is sitting on my chest, holding back my arms. 

  “Who are you?” A woman asks aggressively.

  “Theia” I whisper, the weight of her is crushing me. The recent lack of nutrition isn’t doing me any favors, I am weak and small.

  “Are you alone?” I sense a bit of fear in her voice. 

  “Yes. Please get off me.” I hope I didn’t miscalculate by being polite, if she is a predator she might interpret it as weakness.

“I will have to restrain you first.” She gets duct tape out of nowhere and binds my wrists and ankles. I don’t fight, I just want her to get off me so I can breathe again.

  She pulls me up and leads me through the dark. I can feel sweat forming on my forehead, if it’s the end, I hope it’s quick. She pushes me slightly, and it feels like I’m falling down a dark pit in the second it takes for my butt to hit the chair. I sure hope this is her “unplanned visitor” chair and not a “torture” one.

  I can hear things clinking up close than further away. I don’t hear her footsteps at all, no wonder she was able to sneak up on me. When she turns the light on I have to squint. She is using a flashlight that’s pointed at the ceiling to illuminate the whole space. As my eyes adjust I look around. The walls and floor are made of concrete. There are a few steel beams supporting the ceiling. Near the far corner, I can make out a boarded-up window.

 “What is this place?” I ask as I turn my head towards her.

 She has short tight curls. There isn’t enough light to make out her features, but she looks taller and leaner than me. She is holding a gun.

 “Used to be my dad’s workshop.” I can feel her sizing me up. We both know she would win this fight no matter the circumstances, but just to be sure she walks over to me. Her gun nearly touching my forehead as she pats me down. She takes my weapon and my backpack. Now would be a good time for her to shoot me since she’s taken all my valuables, but instead, she points her own gun down and stares at me.

“I don’t get many visitors here. So excuse the rough welcome.”

“No worries. This is an appropriate welcome for the times.” I actually mean this. If I had a permanent residence and a stranger showed up I would likely shoot before asking questions.

“I’m Nichelle, with an N” 

“Nice to meet you.” For a moment I’m transported to the past. This feels like a casual introduction to a new coworker. The tightness of the duct tape around my wrists brings me back to reality.

“Look,” I say “You can see that I’m in no shape for a fight. Can you loosen the duct tape? It’s cutting off the blood flow.”

 She doesn’t move. 

“I need to chat a little more before we do that. It’s been a while, but I can still read people well.”

I like her voice, it’s got a hoarseness to it like she hasn’t used it in a long time. I am overwhelmed by a desire to hear her sing me a lullaby. I shake my head to get the intrusive thought out, even I know it’s weird.

“Where are you heading?” She continues the interrogation.

“North. I don’t think the fires are as bad there.”

She gives me a look of doubt. 

“North? Like New York or something? You planning to walk 3,000 miles through unpredictable fires?”

“It’s not like I have anything else to do. It was just me and my mom and she didn’t make it, so might as well keep it moving.” 

Nichele stares at me for a moment, then she walks over to the far wall. She puts the gun on a wooden table and grabs a chair. I suppose this is a good sign unless she likes beating people with furniture. She drags the chair closer to me and sits down. 

“How old are you?” She asks.

I wonder if I will ever get to ask her questions. Even in this strange circumstance, the desire for human connection is strong, and as long as she isn’t physically hurting me I want to stay in this weird cave and listen to her soothing voice for hours.

“Twenty-five,” I say, and take a chance to see if she’s as lonely as me. “You?”

“I’m thirty-four.” She stands up abruptly and walks over to me. 

I tense up as she gets closer, her movements full of determination. She rips the tape off my wrists.

“You can undo the ankles yourself.” She starts walking away, but then turns back with an afterthought, “are you hungry?”

“Starved.”

II.

Nichelle is still sleeping and I don’t want to wake her. I turn over and look at her. don’t need light to know her features. I want to touch her hand, but she’s a light sleeper. I thank the universe that I found her like I do every day.

Nichelle’s dad was a survivalist, he built the workshop to make into an emergency shelter, but he got sick and never finished. That’s why there was no door, just vegetation to help cover the entrance. Nichelle’s dad died a year before the fires started. She was going to throw out his supplies, and sell what she could along with the house, but luckily she was a procrastinator. So here we were in a fully furnished nearly indestructible shelter, with enough water and canned food to last us at another year.

It wasn’t the shelter and food that I was most grateful for, it was Nichelle. I think I would’ve fallen in love with her even in a world with unlimited options. She stirs as if my thoughts alone were enough to waker her.

“Good morning.” She gives me a hug.

We lay here, uncertain what the day might bring, comforted by the fact that we will face it together.