The Burial

The Burial

  Steve M. Benner

  Copyright Steve M. Benner 2012

  It’s getting dark. I need to get back, back to Ellie and Deborah. I can survive in the dark, but they’re alone, vulnerable. A loud, sharp crack behind me; startled, I turn quickly toward the source, my spear ready. It’s only a large section of elevated highway collapsing in the distance. A long, low rumble spreads out across the landscape, bouncing off the ruins of the once-great city. A large brown cloud of dust blossoms out from the impact partially obscuring the broken skyline.

  That’s why I avoid the els. Others use them for cover and get killed when they fall. Maybe there’s something to salvage in the rubble; I’ll check tomorrow. Right now, I need to move. The humidity is rising as the temperature falls; it muffles the sounds. This manmade forest of collapsed structures provides plenty of cover, plenty of places to hide, for both predator and prey. It’s hard to look at the piles of grey rubble and imagine what the city must have looked like when it was intact. I’ve seen the pictures, but there’re just pictures, memories, things long gone.

  It feels like I’ve been doing this all my life: hunting, being hunted. I remember being very young, and Mom caring for me, teaching me to read, playing with me; before Ellie. Then Deborah had to take care of the new baby, playing with me was no longer an option. Ellie’s father had gone out one day and never came back; killed or moved on, we never found out. I didn’t really care except I felt bad for Deborah; she was upset for a few weeks. As I got older, I spent more and more time wandering the ruins; I soon felt I belonged there, felt comfortable there, even with the danger. Though I still enjoy reading at night by the fire, reading the stories of how things once were, stories, like Mom’s, that now seem like fairy tales. And of course, there’s Ellie, sweet, sweet Ellie.

  I need to concentrate. I stick to the deepest shadows, stopping occasionally to listen. Only insects are talking, trying to attract a mate, to propagate. I check to make sure my bag with my day’s haul is still securely attached to my belt. I must keep moving; have to get back quickly.

  The landscape begins to look more familiar: the post office with its flag pole still standing, the grocery store long since looted and now a dark cave, the strip mall of blackened brick walls and no roof. I arrive at our dilapidated brownstone, avoiding the deadly, spring-loaded traps that protect us, and make it to the basement door, calling out, “Ellie!” as I enter. It’s dark and too quiet, too still. The air is heavy, permeated with the smell of wood smoke and cooked food. I cautiously walk into the parlor. A dimly lit room lined with built-in bookshelves, furnished with a sofa and two chairs, and cluttered with the debris of human habitation. Past the kitchen, I finally locate Ellie seated next to Deborah’s bed, her blond head buried in the covers, weeping softly. My heart jumps into my throat; I know immediately what’s happened. Deborah is on her bed, lying motionless; her skin a grey pallor that I’ve seen many times before among the city’s ruins, just never here. I check her pulse to be sure...none. It’s not unexpected, she’s been ill for a month now. I had doubted that she would recover, especially since I had nothing to give her to help, aside from maybe a little aspirin for the pain. I had asked Deborah what she thought it was, but she wasn’t sure. Our best guess was pneumonia but no way to tell for sure. It killed her slowly, wasting her away until her lungs or heart gave out; she was only 41. I always hoped by some miracle she would recover, but that’s not what happens in this place. There are no miracles here.

  I sit on the bed next to her still body, brushing my hand through her blonde hair with its streaks of gray. Tears roll off my cheeks and land, forming small, wet circles on her face. I think of all the times Deborah and I had talked about our family, of the great dying, of the world then and now. She’d talk so lovingly of her parents, our grandparents. She’d show us photos of them, describing their content as her eyes welled up with tears. She’d just go on talking about relatives and friends as if in a trance, Ellie and I just watching, not understanding.

  And how she always tried to make us special meals on our birthdays; she’d secret away bits and pieces from our supplies, saving them so she would have something special to make. Deborah had watched over us alone and protected us until we could take care of ourselves, to survive. She taught us both to read and how to understand what we read, being written before the great dying. I hurt deep inside. Her passing leaves a void that won’t be filled, a permanent hole in my life. Sadly, Ellie and I are the only ones in the world that will note her passing.

  Ellie is still sobbing at the foot of the bed, her small, frail frame shaking with each sob. I tell her all the appropriate platitudes; Deborah is in a better place now, a place without pain, a beautiful place. I tell her Deborah will always be watching over us and will be there when we die. I say this for Ellie’s sake; I don’t believe any of it. The theologies on an afterlife seem ridiculous when we are surrounded by so much suffering and death. Maybe that’s exactly the time to believe in it; I don’t know, but I can’t. All I know for sure is that Deborah will not be here to guide or care for us. We’re on our own from now on.

  I should take Deborah’s body out tonight and not wait for the dawn. She’s been dead several hours already and by morning the smell may bring scavengers to our door. Deborah had told me what to do. Ellen says her goodbye to Deborah as I go out and bring a sorry-looking cart made of scrounged parts to the front door of our hovel; the only home I’ve ever known. I pick Deborah up; she’s light, a pale shadow of her former self. I lay her in the cart, then cover her with a blanket, dirty and moth eaten; I’m ashamed that I don’t have better. I wait outside with the cart and its precious cargo until I hear Ellie close the bolt before proceeding. She’s all I have now.

  Ellie had wanted to come along, which was not like her, but it’s hard to make it to the pits and back in the dark, safely. There’re hungry things in the dark waiting for something to cross their path, a meal. I will have my hands full without having to watch out for Ellie too. She’s still too young and inexperienced to be an asset.

  She was always so happy when Deborah was well. They’d spend all day working in the garden or cooking the small game I’d caught. Ellie would never survive in this world without someone watching over her, first Deborah, now me. Ellie is frail; she knows little of what it’s really like beyond our little enclosure. She’d come with me a few times when I’d stayed near home, but she was always scared and put us both at risk. When Deborah got sick, Ellie would still do the cooking but she didn’t laugh anymore. She’d frequently sleep at the foot of Deborah’s bed. It will be hard for her, waiting alone for me to return each day, dreading that one day I won’t. I don’t know how to make it better for her. Maybe I can catch a feral puppy to keep her company. It’s risky, don’t know what else to do.

  It’s a good hour to get to the pits in the daylight, so this will be a long night. I stick to the shadows, hiding from a full moon that is both a help and a danger. Better visibility, but harder to hide. Those with the best night vision rule the dark. Mine has gotten better with time; I don’t know why, necessity, fear. I stop often and listen for anything nearby. Even with wrapped wheels the cart’s rattling is nerve wracking, like the ringing of a dinner bell. The crumbling buildings lining the streets are lit in varying shades of blue with open maws of impenetrable blackness. I work my way down streets filled with rubble and deep holes where the pavement has fallen into some subterranean chamber. It would be fatal should I fall into one; if the fall didn’t kill me, the rats certainly would. I’m not afraid of the dark; even when young, I stayed out late at night. I can see small animals scurrying about, mostly rats, some raccoons and opossums. More stops, more listening. No la
rge predators so far. Almost there, I tell myself; stay in the shadows.

  I reach the pits. There are dozens of them; Deborah said they were buildings mostly built underground that had collapsed to create these deep chasms. One can only see down into them when the sun is directly overhead, but there’s nothing but rubble at the bottom.

  I lift Deborah’s body lovingly out of the cart, still covered by the blanket; she is a little stiff now, easier to handle. A light kiss on her check. I carry her as close to the edge as I dare and toss her into the pit. There is a long pause, then a dull thud. The sound sparks an overwhelming wave of sorrow. I suppress a scream; I’m already at risk in this place.

  I hear a clicking.

  A dark shape leaps out of the hole, knocking me violently backward. I’d left my spear lying next to the cart, but my knife is out as I slash at the dark shape on top of me. Something oozes down my arm, a pungent nauseating smell. I bring my legs up and push as hard as I can against the hard underside. The thing is forced backward off of me. I roll over, desperately reaching for my spear. It’s one of the large jumping spiders, a night hunter. Luckily it’s not poisonous, or I’d be dead already. We face off, staring at each other, my two eyes, its eight. Its black, hairy body is half the height of a man and twice as thick; its 5-foot long legs make it look much larger than it actually is. The fear is there, but instincts and adrenaline have taken over now. My spear can penetrate its carapace but getting a good shot that won’t glance off is not easy. We circle clockwise, maintaining eye contact. I need for it to attack, to give me an opening. It’s lost its advantage of surprise; it’s now wary. The dark mass of my opponent is hard to see in the dark. I back away toward a pile of rubble, the mutated arachnid moves with me. I don’t take my eyes off my enemy; I cut my hand feeling for a brick. The moonlight reflecting off its head marks my target. I hurl the brick at its eyes; its leg deflects it. My multi-legged adversary is mad but not mad enough. Grabbing another brick, I throw it harder this time bouncing this one off its head. Infuriated now, the spider rears up, raisings its front two legs; it springs at me. Expecting the charge, I drive the spear clean through the thorax. The spider starts to jerk violently, ripping the spear out of my hands, spraying green blood in all directions. It’s mortally wounded but still dangerous. The spear is expendable; I take off running. When I get enough distance, I stop to catch my breath, to hide, to vomit. The spider’s thrashing has attracted a scavenger, a large one, something I can’t recognize. I move to the second story of a dilapidated school to watch; the dark, massive shape clutches the still-thrashing arachnid and begins eating. I can clearly hear the cracking sounds of the spider being chewed. It’s over; I’m still alive.

  Halfway home, I’m still shaking badly but regaining a bit of composure. The trip back without the cart is easier, faster, quieter. I’m extra cautious now because I don’t have my spear, but I keep my knife ready. I’m now thinking of Ellie, she’s now all alone, scared.

  I make it back without further incident. Ellie is waiting for me, worried about losing me as well. She kisses me hard, passionately on the lips. Her light blonde hair glowing in the dim light, her green eyes drawing me in. It feels good to hold her; her smell is intoxicating, reassuring, arousing. She looks older than fourteen. She’s prepared food for me; I’m starved. I describe to her the fight with the spider, playing it down so as not to scare her, as I eat. It’s only a couple hours until dawn; we both need to sleep. Tomorrow, it’s back to the routine, searching for food, water, clothes. We undress; getting into bed together we hold each other tightly, affectionately. We’re both tired and upset by Deborah’s passing. Neither of us is in the mood for sex, we’ll wait. Anyway, with Mom dead, we no longer have to make love in secret.