Circles in the Dust Page 3

  Originally no more than a lean-to just large enough to lie under, the structure had come to resemble a crude log cabin, though there had been no real logs involved in its construction. His younger self had been able to move only branches into place. A little larger than his bedroom had once been, it measured ten or twelve foot square. It had a door on the front, a little to the left of center and not quite as tall as he was, something he had vowed to fix but had never gotten around to.

  Building that little house had been the most time-consuming thing he had ever done. Once the permanence of the cold became clear, David had spent what must have been a year constructing his shelter. It looked nice from the outside, though the inside was a different story; too young to have any real knowledge regarding the building of a house, young David had to learn on the job and quickly, nailing a bunch of branches to a few boards he’d salvaged from the city. Back when there were still things to salvage. The roof he had built the same way, making up for lack of expertise with copious amounts of nails. He added some tin that he had scavenged from some child’s backyard fort later. He smiled now, thinking about how much that fort, that plaything, resembled what he now called home. That was how it had been in the beginning, everything feeling silly and childish. Making this little fort in the woods. Going around looking for a bow and some arrows. He had fantasized about such adventures in his youth, going to live in the woods by himself. Unfortunately, he had gotten exactly what he dreamed of.

  He sat down on the stump next to his fire pit and tossed the rabbit on the ground next to his seat. Using a handful of the small twigs he kept in a tin box, David fed the dying embers of his morning fire, leaning down to breathe life back into them. Now that he had something to eat, he started allowing himself to feel hunger. It had been a while since he had strayed from his forced vegetarian diet. Thoughts of fresh, succulent meat whirled in his head. Not only that but the pelt would make a cozy sock or mitten for the oncoming winter.

  He looked up at the sky, squinting despite the clouds. He couldn’t remember the last time a blue sky had shown through the haze. It was one of those things he knew, but only as a memory. The sky is blue. He had not seen it in years, had no proof at hand, but he knew that it was. Sometimes it felt silly. Some days he had to remind himself that there were more colors than the greens and browns and grays he saw every day. He had to remind himself that he had a family once. Time had eroded their faces though, and he found himself wondering sometimes if he were going insane. Now, as he looked up at the bright barrier above, he chuckled. The sky is blue. He shook his head and resumed his work.

  It might not snow year-round but winter had a monopoly on the seasons. You could tell when it was spring because it stopped snowing quite so much, and in summer the temperature would sometimes rise enough for him to shirk his jacket and feel fresh air on his arms, and the ground could be seen during its peak. It had gotten warmer and warmer as time passed, or less and less cold, to be more precise. That first year had seen the harshest winter David had ever known; snow up to at least ten feet, buildings collapsing left and right in the city, people starving to death in their homes. This year summer had stretched on longer than ever, though you wouldn’t know it after seeing David’s garden, which had carried all of David’s hopes for the future. He tried not to dwell on that disappointment.

  Now that he had his fire going, David grabbed his metal bucket and made off to the river. He was pretty sure it came from the north, which, he believed, had been left mostly untouched, even before the war and everything after. Hopefully it was safe to drink. He had a pump-filter back at his cabin, though it had probably stopped being useful long ago. At first he had avoided touching anything for fear of it being contaminated after all the talk he had overheard in other camps about radiation and sickness in the aftermath of the war but he quickly realized how soon he would die if he shunned every possible source of food and water. This water would keep him alive today, and that was all he could ask for.

  The river had become the proverbial water-cooler of the new world. If he was going to see someone else, it was usually the water that brought them together. Necessity had scattered the remaining survivors throughout the countryside, but they tended to meet at shared sources of water, and would usually stop and talk for a while. Humans are social creatures, and even David, the hermit among hermits, had to admit he craved interaction when he saw another of his kind. They exchanged survival tips, shared what little news there was to be had, traded goods if they had any to spare. Every once in a while, word got around that someone had been found dead in their hut, usually because of a broken leg or some other obstacle to obtaining food or firewood on a daily basis. They might be mourned by the handful that knew them, but death had lost its power over the last survivors by now and the possessions they left behind garnered far more interest than their death. Living every day with the knowledge that everyone you once knew and loved was dead and that you walked a fine line between remembering them and meeting them in whatever lay beyond forced David to stop being afraid of his demise. To see it for what it really was: just a part of life, one last step. Really, hearing that someone had died just meant less competition in a dwindling world to most. Man had been on top for so long and given such little thought for his future, he had left little behind for the survivors.

  Today he hoped to avoid running into anyone at the river. Usually a little human interaction and the chance to talk for a while was all anyone wanted. Sometimes they were hungry, and that hunger would turn itself into an invite to dinner, even at the risk of being killed by someone who had just caught a rabbit and had no intentions of sharing. David had never killed anyone, though. Not for that reason.

  Frigid mud squelched under his weight as he knelt down on the bank of the river, dipping his bucket into the dark, icy water. Even with the awful impact mankind had had on the world, the natural world remained relatively unscathed. It was a beautiful desolation. The trees and rivers that had acted as buffers between life and death since the dawn of life remained and supported him, just as they had done for man’s earliest ancestors as they rose from the primordial ooze. Some resilient bushes continued to produce a few berries; a small number of animals had found a way to survive. Most had been wiped from the Earth or fled, though he doubted there was anywhere safe to escape the ravages of the old world. The old world, with its complex societies and technologies, its class systems and increased life expectancy, its luxuries and cushions. That was what separated the old world from the new; humans had once thrived. They had gone full circle. Once more, they survived.

  David pulled his bucket out of the water and turned quickly back toward his camp, thinking about the meal waiting for him. He started for the trees and stopped suddenly, looking around. He scanned the river, eyes lingering on the far bank, then spun around and set a quick pace away from the water. His bucket swung violently by its thin handle, threatening to overturn and douse the already wet ground with its contents. David lifted it higher, holding the bottom with his other hand, not willing to stop and settle the lively container. Lowering it again once its contents had calmed, he used his other hand to check the slight bulge protruding from his hip for reassurance. A nervous habit.

  He continued under the emerald canopy, weaving through the trees he had survived alongside, reaching out occasionally to place his palm on the bark of a brother or a sister as he passed. He smiled, thinking as he patted one trunk that these were his closest friends, the only family he had. He had a dog once. A scrawny thing he found wandering in the city one day. That dog was his best friend, and it owned his heart. Until food ran short. The worst part of that night had not been the butchering or the look in his canine companion’s eyes before he slipped the knife into his fur at the base of the skull; the worst was how much he had enjoyed that meal.

  There was the old man too. By the time David found him, the elder was no help. He had nothing to offer but stories and myths of the old world. He had let David into his camp for a nig
ht, that one night had turned into a second, then a week, and eventually a bed of boughs and eventually a sleeping bag the man traded a few cans of corn for. His throat tightened to think of his old friend. He had taught David a lot. Shown him how things worked and why. The old man had a lot to say, had filled the hours with his constant blathering about everything from history and what had led to the war to the mechanics of a toilet. He had kept the darkness, the loneliness, at bay. The forest blurred as David remembered. He coughed and pushed a rough hand into his eyes, clearing his vision.

  He sloshed through the small puddles that formed in dips in the ground in his old worn-out boots, patched and smudged with filth. It was getting colder; the evenings brought a chill, more than they had a week ago though so much less than they would, come winter proper. He wished he had worn more than his light jacket on this expedition, the navy sweater that was his uniform. He would have to start wearing his heavier coat, the wool one with the polyester lining. It was an ugly thing, lumpy and stained with stiff clumps of filth, but it had outlasted the rest. It always kept the icy fingers at bay.

  Before long he was enjoying the company of a crackling fire once more. It sizzled and popped as it fought to stay alive in the damp evening. He set the bucket down in its usual place by the fire then tramped over to the stack of freshly cut firewood that leaned up against the already sagging side of his cabin. He loaded a few logs from under the saturated top layer into his arms and walked back over to the glowing embers. He shifted his load to his left arm and began constructing a small pyramid around the remnants of his fire. It sprang back from death’s door with the coaxing of a few heavy breaths.

  When the fire was chuckling contentedly and David had a dented pot of water boiling, he went to his cabin for his knife. The door swung in on its loose rope hinges, falling back as he stepped into this room that contained everything he had salvaged from life before. In the corner was a bed, a small twin mattress that sat on the ground, dirty and disgusting, his favorite possession nonetheless. He had a few old blankets and a couple pillows lying haphazardly on top. Those pillows were his crown jewels, more valuable to him than the largest diamond. Next to the bed a book rested on a small table he sometimes upturned to use as a sort of sled; it was the single piece of literature he had saved from the implosion of humanity that had taken most of its knowledge to the grave along with it, a simple story he knew by heart.

  Nails jutted haphazardly from the walls, holding all the tools that made life possible. He unloaded his bow and quiver on their hooks of honor next to the door and reached for his rusty hunting knife hanging in a beaten leather sheath a little farther down, above the few old bags and boxes that held the rest of his belongings. It was a pitiful stack. He stood there a moment, knife in hand, allowing the cozy atmosphere of the room to draw him in, remind him that he was truly home. The meal awaiting him had a stronger pull though, and he returned to the fire. Lifting the rabbit onto a battered and slashed old board, he slipped his knife into the throat of the animal and wrapped the blade all the way around its neck. His fingers moved with care, peeling the tube of fur away from the delicate body he would sink his teeth into before long. A line of blood ran down the slimy pink flesh, just as a bit of drool slipped over David’s lips. Soon enough he would be enjoying this delicacy, this treasure. He looked up at the tree against which his cabin rested. His tree. He thought of curling up on his bed under that giant with a full belly and smiled.

  CHAPTER 2

  Morning came with a torrential downpour at its heels. David woke to the patter of raindrops colliding with the tin roof overhead. The sound was comforting, a reminder that he was protected from the elements in his cave, buried in a nest of blankets and a fog of drowsiness he was loathe to shake off. He lay there, curled up in a ball, listening to the sky besiege his cabin, letting his thoughts roam. Rain meant he should stay inside most of the day. But there was so much to do. How to occupy himself once he finally rose from his tomb? He needed to start preparing for the coming snow, and there was more than enough to do on that front to occupy him for a day. Of course he knew what he would do, but wondering allowed him to stay in his cocoon a bit longer.

  He lifted the blankets, wincing as the cold air shocked his naked torso. His eyes opened to the scenic view of the wood-framed ceiling of age-warped boards supporting a rusted tin roof. Light seeped through the cracks between the walls and roof, leading the way for rivulets of rainwater. There was task number one. Of course, before even that came breakfast. He sat up, running his hands through roughly chopped, copper locks, pushing it back. He would have to start wearing a shirt when he slept soon, but for now he woke bare-chested, nothing between him and the rough warmth of the blankets. Reaching for an old sweater, he pulled it over his head and rolled out of bed. He folded his blankets and collapsed into the old chair that was the only other real piece of furniture in his cabin. The upholstery was torn and frayed, nonexistent in some places where the wooden skeleton showed through, but its cushions had conformed to his shape over the years. He slid his feet into the cold bellies of his boots, wishing he had some clean socks. The ones he wore crackled stiffly.

  Ignoring the crunching as he stood, David opened the small camping cooler that held the food he dared to keep around. A few vegetables he had managed to reap from his dismal garden were strewn about the bottom, representing the grand sum of his agricultural efforts. He took out a stunted carrot and tore into the end. The meager array of veggies shared the space with a few cans of corn and peas and a large can of rice. He could still remember his surprise the first time he had cracked open one of those cans. Who canned rice? Whoever it was, he could not have been more thankful they were ever alive. What remained of the rabbit he had dried in strips and set apart in a corner, though there wasn’t much left. As long as he paced himself, David could make that rabbit last him a week. A large canteen held what water he had. He drank a few gulps and took it outside with him, wrapping himself in his old wool coat on his way out the door.

  He covered the fire with a tarp and rekindled the feeble flames from the previous night’s fire before beginning his morning journey to the river. The rain soaked his hair and dripped into his eyes. His bucket had an inch of water in the bottom by the time he knelt down to fill it. He stood up with his bucket, looking upriver and down, suspended in anticipation for a moment. His coat hung heavy on his shoulders, his pants clung to his legs. A chill ran through him and he was roused back to consciousness. He brushed the hair from his face and trudged back into the woods.

  Halfway back, he took a quick look around and turned a sharp right into the trees. He walked for a few minutes until a squat maple surrounded by a crowd of pines came into view, looking like some ancient pagan ritual frozen in time. He approached the center of the circle, the tree that stood out. Leaving his bucket a few feet from the foot of the tree, he walked up to a pumpkin-sized rock at its base. He rolled it aside and looked down into his cache. There were a few stacks of cans in the little hollow place, a few of the big bags of rice and flour that were the staples of his diet, alongside a handful of extras, like a tin of salt and baking powder. His last food store. He had been lucky and ended up with a good supply of food soon after the war started, though he regretted sometimes the way he had come by it. The bulk of this cache came from a large family he and the old man had found huddled in the basement of their home. The old man had said they were probably Mormons. David still didn’t know what that meant. They had enough to last them at least a year. Being alone, it had lasted David much longer than that.

  But it was running out.

  He took out a can of coffee. This he had found among the remains of an old woman who had succumbed to the cold last winter. It was all she had left. She must have traded everything she had for a little food to keep her going one more day, until she had nothing left but a can of coffee, which David had found clutched in her arms where she lay dead. No food, no water, but she clung to that can, wrapping herself around it, keeping it
pressed close to her in a final embrace. David buried her and thought of leaving her last treasure with her, the one thing she’d managed to hold on to when the old world tore everything else away. Just before the dented metal vanished under the rising dirt in the grave, however, David had snatched it. He had never tasted coffee, had no idea why that woman would have kept it. It seemed such a waste to leave it there. It went against every instinct he had. So he kept it, squirrelled away. He thought of the half-frozen corpse as he stared at the faded label; and thoughts of another he had buried rose to the surface. The can slipped from his fingers onto the sodden ground.

  He would need that coffee now. The mystery would give him something to figure out while he waited out the winter. There would be little to do when the snow came and entombed him in his hollow. At least during the summer there was a river to walk to, wood to be gathered, food to be prepared and stored. The winter would be quiet and dull. Lifeless.

  He reached in and pulled out a few cans of vegetables and a bag of rice, wishing he had more of the cans. They saved so much better. He kicked the can of coffee back into the hole and replaced the rock.

  Spoils held precariously in the crook of his arm, he tromped back to his cabin. Still faces covered with bits of earth crowded his thoughts, too many to count. He could still see them, still smell them, their naked bodies stark and pale against the dark soil-