Post-Apastalyptic

Published in Trillium, Volume 12

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I checked all three locks on the door, and closed the curtains over the boarded front window. The only other avenue into the house was the window in the bedroom, which I’d recently resealed with scrap metal. I walked the perimeter of the combination living room and kitchen by candlelight, one last time, checking again that the doors to the bedroom and the storage bunker were securely fastened. I counted all six keys on the ring dangling about my neck to be certain that they were all in my possession. This time, nothing was getting in or out of the house.

I’d already gathered everything I needed in the center of the kitchen, including the nest of firewood I prearranged on the tile floor. I stood my metal cooking frame over it, and set a wide pot of water atop that. Assorted cooking utensils, a colander, tomato sauce, and a blue box of spaghetti noodles all sat in a bowl beside the makeshift stove, with the spare wood. I squatted over my setup, looking everything over twice. I waited until I could see a handful of stars through the smoke hole punched in the ceiling, then began my work.

I pressed my candle against the fire kindling, begging it to catch. I didn’t want to waste any more matches or lighter fluid than I had to. When it accepted the flame, I stuffed it deeper under the pyre. I snuffed the candle and placed it with the rest of my supplies. As the fire grew, a bloom of heat spread across the room, accompanied by the handsome scent of smoking oak. It wasn’t terribly long before vapor rose in streamers from the pot. I held my hands over the vessel, letting the steam soften my callused hands.

While I would feel much safer cooking in the storage bunker, there wasn’t enough room between the packed shelves of stored goods, nor was I willing to risk setting my supply ablaze. The disintegrating carpet in the bedroom wasn’t any good for a fire pit either, so I embraced the vulnerability of the living room for the sake of my pasta.

I glanced at the spaghetti box and pulled a handful of stiff noodles from the tattered cardboard. They clacked like Mardi Gras beads as I ran my fingers through them. I couldn’t help but smile at the sound, stroking them as I waited. Every now and then I shoved another wedge of wood under the stove. The water purred as it came to a low boil. When the bubbles started sputtering droplets into the fire, I slid my handful of spaghetti into the pot. The water hissed as the noodles settled into complacency. I grabbed the tomato sauce, and pulled a bulky little knife from my supply bowl. I stabbed the can open, clumsily tearing the top off, then dug the container into the growing pile of embers. I stirred the pot with my spaghetti spoon as the pasta softened.

Eyes never leaving the fire, I rose and walked backwards to the front door, checking the deadbolts again. The sweep of a boot across the floor confirmed that my machete was still waiting in the corner—the only object with a permanent residence in the living room, just in case. I ambled back to the fire, counting my keys between my fingers as I kneeled over it.

I drew up a spoonful of noodles and pinched one out of the wiggling glob, biting off the end. Almost ready. I dropped the rest back into the pot, and was about to fish out the colander when I was stopped by what I would’ve sworn were footsteps. I held my breath, listening. All I could identify were the huff of the flames, the gurgle of boiling water. I almost thought my mind deceived me, but again there came the crunch of feet on pine straw. A low “Hello?” rang in my head, there was a light knock at the door.

Shock clutched my ribcage; no one could have spotted the smoke in the night, no one should be able to find me. It had been months. Months since I last encountered drifters, months since my last fire. They couldn’t be here now.

I remained crouched over the fire, frozen. After a minute, the footsteps wandered around the house, probably checking for another entrance. They knocked again, harder. I remained quiet, and the knocking became pounding. Their determination to enter matched my own resolve to keep them out, so for the sake of my door, I called out.

“Screw off!” The clamor only paused for a moment. “I barely have enough to feed myself. Go on, get,” I hissed. They continued their advance on the door, relentlessly striking with increasing force. Just when I was sure the door would shatter, a breath of silence. Then all at once a desperate banging at the window that rattled the planks nailed across it. The front window had the fewest reinforcements; they found the weak link.

“Hey!” I roared, but the banging continued, with the heft of an axe. I grit my teeth, loath to desert the fire. “Please… please.” I was inclined to wait out the assault when the give and snap of a board struck my ears. I growled, leaping up. I snatched my machete from the floor, and switched open the deadbolts.

Flinging the door wide, I tore through the air with my blade, which met nothing but the window frame, where it lodged itself. I was alone in the moonlit forest, the only feet stomping through the pine straw being my own. I studied the surrounding darkness, searching for any sign of life, but even the frigid air stood still, mocking me.

I whirled back into the house, praying that this wasn’t happening. I stooped before the darkened room, and my throat forced out an anguished groan. The spaghetti pot was upturned on the floor, the fire reduced to a smoldering mound. The contents of the supply bowl lay scattered across the kitchen. Falling to my knees, I dragged myself over to the pot. Not again, not again. I flipped it over to be certain, but I already knew the noodles were gone.

I scrambled for the spaghetti box—I had about a handful left. There was still time. This time—this time it would work. Replacing the pot on the stove, I rushed to the storage bunker for another gallon of water.