Fran

My rifle is heavy. My belly is empty. And my mind is racing. I kick some rubble along with a tattered boot. There’s no reason for us to be here. The city cleared out years ago and looting began shortly after. Whatever Chick thinks we’re gonna find here, we won’t. The wind bites through the worn, cotton shirt I wear. My uncle used to tell me stories about the four seasons. How the bitter winter would give way to warmer days and blooming flowers. How the transitions were typically slow and comfortable. Of course that was before the war. The initial explosions killed millions and pretty much anyone left after that became sick. Uncle says he was far away enough that it didn’t affect him much, aside from the economy collapsing and technology becoming useless. It’s cold now. Always cold. Getting colder every year. We fight for survival everyday knowing that the longevity we strive for isn’t likely to bring us happiness. Doesn’t matter what I think though. I’m just a grunt.

“Alright ladies! Let’s head out.” Chick picks up his sack and starts walking. He really is something to behold. He’s not a large man. He stands about five inches shorter than me. He’s not real smart either. Chase and I agree that he must not know it though. He acts as if he’s ten feet tall. We all know he got his position because of his daddy. I pull out my crumpled carton of cigarettes and light one. The sour taste fills my mouth and the familiar sting of smoke in my lungs is enough to distract me from my aching feet. It’s fifteen miles back to camp and you’d be hard-pressed to find a single person with a decent pair of shoes on. I would say morale is low, but that shit doesn’t really exist anymore. There’s a depressing kind of beauty in realizing that past a certain point, the human spirit will simply take a seat. Not broken, not flaming with desire, simply waiting. We’re not looking forward to surviving, but we don’t want to die.

The hike back to camp is uneventful. We’ve made the same trek a hundred times. The same muddy path to walk. The same dead tree about two miles in. The same murder of crows looking down at us. Waiting for us to drop something. The crows are a lot like people. In this dying world it won’t matter if you drop something shiny and beautiful, or something rotting and foul, they’ll snatch it. There’s time to kill, so I think of Fran. That’s the name she gave me anyway. I think of her auburn hair and pale skin. How pretty she could be if I could give her nice things or take her somewhere better. For now she exists in my thoughts and at the brothel on Cherry. It all happened simply enough when the boys and I had a night to drink bad whiskey and make worse decisions. I remember seeing her for the first time. To most, she may look plain. Her skin fair and freckled paired with an exceptionally ordinary gown did not make her a shining beauty. To me, this made all the difference. She was not a doll or some angel of heaven. Fran seemed to be a woman. A real person. Beaten down like the rest of us. Fran was not a lie of love or the false promise of better days. I think this is why I longed for her so. Still, long for her so. Not only with my body as one might think, but with my mind and soul. My heart aches for her. For the contrast of her soft voice to this hard world. Of the warmth her slender body brought to me. It’s been almost three months since I saw her. I’ve been saving my wages. I drink the muddy water instead of the gritty coffee. I traded my best boots to Chase for my cigarettes. I search the bin after mess instead of buying a plate. I’ll be paid in a week. And I’ll have enough to see her again.

 “Hey Walker!” I turn to see Chase, jogging to catch up to me. I look back down at my boots. “You up for cards when we get back?” I smirk. Chase and I have been friends since we were boys. Just street rats who got along well enough not to steal from one other. “I don’t know, man. I’m not trying to lose my belt too.” His boyish grin shows off the large gap in his stained teeth. “Don’t be a bitch Walker, I just want to play for fun. No bets. I’m out of things to throw in the pot anyhow.” I offer him a cigarette and a light. A gesture of friendship and as good as a yes to his card game. Chase and I fall back in line and share a comfortable silence for the remainder of the hike. Once we’re back at camp, everybody signs in and turns anything useful they found in to command. Could be anything from rusted knives to old cans of soup. Most of the guys I know keep the best for themselves though, and only report the small items often enough to keep from being put on ditch duty. It’s every man for himself, even in a group that supposedly looks out for each other. We joke about our name, the cavalry. We’re barely military and we sure as shit don’t have any horses. We can barely even feed ourselves. Only animal we keep is an old dog named Bear, and he’s got three legs and no tail.

My walk to Cherry street is illuminated by the light of a dying moon. The only noise is the squelching of my steps on the wet ground. To call this a street is generous. The streetlamps are useless, the pavement is all but gone, the sidewalks are overgrown and there hasn’t been a running car here in years. The brothel sits at the end of the street, just past what used to be a library. Growing up I had loved books, and read whatever pieces of them I could find. At least before using the paper as kindling. The building is empty now and falling in. There are very few buildings that still stand on Cherry, and they all do so precariously. As I approach the brothel, a faint glow shines through the cracked windows and into the street. It could be described as warm, welcoming even. The old bricks of the place seem strained. The beams of wood supporting the roof complain and groan as much as any old man. The heavy door scrapes the wooden floor as it opens and shuts. Years of use can be seen in the discoloration of the floorboards and the splinters that stick out in all directions. It is warmer inside, enough to notice, but not comfortable by any stretch. I had always been a shy boy. I hate to admit that even now I am quite timid. I wasn’t raised proper and haven’t spent my time with higher society, yet my cheeks burn from entering this place. It must be clear to every woman in here as well, as they look upon me as if I were a small boy in need of a mother. I approach the madam of the establishment and ask for Fran. As I climb the creaky stairs to the second floor I become anxious. My palms are slick upon the banister. My knees threaten to fail me with each step. I stand in front of her door. Afraid to knock. She saves me the trouble by opening the door first. I am in awe of her. She stands before me in a blue dress, faded from many washes. Her hair falls around her face and rests on her shoulders. I so desperately want to speak with her about her life. What she likes. Her biggest dreams and greatest desires. But I may as well have no tongue. We spend the night in breath and sweat. She feigned her desire for me well enough. As I walk home in the early morning chill, I know that I am no closer to her now than I was three months ago.

It is almost Christmas. Chase never cared for the season though to me it has always been a gentle reminder that the world has not completely gone to hell. I’ve gone to visit Fran on as regular a basis as my pay will allow. I wish to whisk her away. Somewhere far away from the conflict. Someplace we can call our own. Grow our own crops and build our own home. If we’re able, even start a family. I’m certain that if I can make her life better for her, her heart will soften to me. No longer a customer or a chore, but the man she loves.

 These past few days I have had to lay my rifle down, for I am ill. To my shame it is not from any battle wound. There are sores on my body. Inside my mouth and on my ass. My hair is falling out. I am growing more thin with each day. The med tent in which I stay is in a pitiful state. The soup we drink is weak and the blankets we use are thin. “T. Walker?” A nurse calls out. I raise my hand. The nurse keeps a solemn expression. “Is there any family that we can contact on your behalf?” She doesn’t look up from her clipboard. These days bedside manner doesn’t matter much and while my ears ring and my head pounds, I am told that I will die of syphilis. The unkind nurse takes her leave. I close my eyes and my heart cracks, slowly at first, then all at once. The breath leaves my lungs quickly, though I bid it to stay. Fitting. That my small anchor, the miniscule amount of happiness I had managed to grasp, will be my end. I am aware of the weight of my body on the cot. Gravity pulling me into her. The rhythm of my breath slows as I begin to give in to sleep. The image in my mind, the scent in my nose, the song in my heart is still Fran.