Waiting for death chp. one

“…For the time is at hand. He that is unjust let him be unjust still, and he which is filthy let him be filthy still, and he that is righteous let him be righteous still, and he that is holy let him be holy still” Rev. 22: 10-11



One

          Kadin leaned his back against the large steel door of the freezer. It still sent shivers down his spine and in his mind he could hear the faint electric hum. Though he could not remember when electricity was last in existence.  Time ran together in a massive need for survival. He could not even tell you what day of the week it was.

          The smell of rotting meat, spoiled dairy, and molding vegetables mixed in the air making the scent in the stale air of the little grocery as foul as a landfill. If Kadin had had anything in his stomach he would have emptied it there, but its emptiness made the place bearable.  Outside the autumn wind blew harshly from the north bringing with it fat gray clouds that blocked the sun and brought false promises of rain.

          There was a loud thumping sound coming from a block or two away. Kadin did not want to go investigate the noise because one he had the slightest idea it might be one of them. He had made the mistake of coming to close to one once before under the false assumption that the kitchen knife he had seethed in his belt would offer enough protection.

          The bastard had bitten out a good chunk out of his calf. It made him limp. He had cut out and cauterized the wound. He had no idea if their bites were contagious, but he was not going to chance becoming a member of that happy little club. They were more like rabid dogs, those whom the cold had not given quick deaths but went to feast on there minds for a while, leaving only a violent shell of the person to face an agonizing slow death. 

          The second reason Kadin did not want to go investigate was that he had hit the jackpot. He had found a grocery that was virtually unlooted. Rows and rows of canned goods and unperishables lined the shelves and he was reluctant to leave such a treasure. Down by his feet was a list of inventory and a broken pencil. He had made a list of what he thought was salvageable and that he could carry in his tattered blue book bag. On the bottom of the page was a broken song lyric, “This infection that stains the soul, lead on to the darkness and the demon in control”. Even in these dire times he could not focus on anything for longer then a few seconds. If He had not lost his guitar a few towns back, he would be playing it now.

          He slowly rose, his body protecting more then he would have liked. He was growing weaker and he feared he could not blame it all on the hours of travel and the emptiness in his stomach. He feared he would soon be going the way of the rest of the members of “Pirates of the West” a band he had formed when he was in high school. Death did not scare him even if it was only trading one hell in for another. Death was the only theme stringing this world together since the cold had mutated into its deadly form eating its way through human, plant and animal like acid. The ones who were not dead or crazy would face the unpleasant task of starving to death. This had all been inevitable when the world had cured everything but the cold. What was nature to do? It couldn’t very well leave them to there happily ever after could it?

          The thought made a sickly smirk plaster itself on his pale face for a moment before drifting away.  He grabbed his book bag and went shopping. He only hit the shelves of canned goods, though he did make a side trip to grab up a couple of boxes of Twinkies. He was craving sugar and someone had told him once that those sugary confections could outlast a nuclear holocaust.

          He had gathered around twenty cans of meats and veggies before he decided it might be more then he could carry comfortably. There was one more item that he needed. He used his tattered bag to break the lock that separated rows and rows of random cigarettes away from there loyal customers. He threw a dozen or so random packages in his bag. Smoking was a habit he had started well…just now. He knew that the cold, or starvation, or a random stranger would kill him faster then the nicotine .  He found a lighter over by the register. There was a little sign right next to the check out that body stated, “WE CARD, 18”. He thought of the 17- year- old I. D in  his pocket and laughed. It was a high pitched laugh of someone who was on the verge of losing it. He heard a loud Thrump from a block away and the laughter died instantly.

          He swept off the moldy bread that lay on top of a wooden cart, and spent the next 30 minuets disassembling the thing. He took a few splintered shelves and found a clear spot to start a fire. He put a can of beans on top of a rack that he placed over the fire. Then he took out a cigarette and attempted to smoke. He smoked like a novice inhaling too much smoke. He choked and started a coughing fit that rattled is lugs. He crushed the cigarette under his shoe and threw the rest of the pack in the fire where it quickly burned in flames of purple and blue. He would keep the rest he had stuffed in his bag to perhaps barter with some one he passed by. He had yet to see people, but he was not so egotistical to think that he was the only one.

          He took the beans off the fire and ate them with a fat can of pop and a stale twinke. His meal finished, he lay down. He was not ready to give up this place just yet. The noise was getting closer and he could hear a steady stream of THRUMPA THRUMPA THRUMP TUMP TINK TINK THRUMP CLINK THRUMPPPA THRUMP THRUMP. It sounded like drums played by a novice in some really bad drum line.

          They would come here, the crazies, he thought, thinking of there rabid dog mentality. They would smell the rotting meat and come in here to feast on the buffet. If they did  he would have to take his bag and hide, and hope they did not smell him to. Fresh meat would surely be better, bloodier then anything they could get at the store. He went to sleep thinking of these things. His body was stretched out by the fire ad his bag lay by his head. The fire danced up and down the remains of the self.

          The THRUMPPA THUMP CLINK THRUMP  was getting closer but he just slept on through. In the end it would not be those driven mad with disease he would have to worry about but a different type of crazy, and just because this particular variety could still think made them all the more dangerous.