Cut

Day Two

The burning in the pit of my stomach wakes me at sunrise. I pick dandelion greens and eat three handfuls at once, but I'm still hungry. After a trip to the reservoir for a drink and a visit to the blackberry bushes for a few sour, reddish fruits, I return to my makeshift hut and open Runner's book. It distracts me from the empty feeling that spreads all through my abdomen, chest, and brain.

The mentioning of bone injuries kept me thinking until I fell asleep. Then came the dreams of piles of bones, all dented, thick blood leaking from them.

I reread the first chapter and can make a little more sense of all the information. If mortality means dead people, morbidity could mean infected people. There's no alternative explanation that would make more sense. So if 40% were infected and of these, 80% died, then only a third of humanity died because of the pandemic. No other disease is mentioned in the book, at least, none that seems important. Typhus was discussed, as were syphilis and a few others that had caused a number of deaths, but nothing close to ten billion.

I lie back down and gaze up at the ceiling, tracing the injuries my knife has inflicted on each twig and branch. Bone injuries. What else but hard impact can make bone yield?

A shudder runs up my arms. Is it possible we killed each other?

The idea doesn't make much sense. One person hitting the other, sure. One person murdering another is possible, too. I've read about this. Some sickos have their own chapter in our history books because they butchered an entire family, kids included. But murder on a global scale and then...everyone taking part?

Runner's words niggle at the back of my neck. The council decides how much the citizens are allowed to know; but what about memories? If there were so many people killing other people, Grandfather must have seen it. Why did he never talk about it?

I shake my head and rub my eyes. What crazy thoughts. The book must be wrong.

I creep out of my hut and brush pine needles off my pants. Warm thick liquid leaks from between my legs. Yuck. I hurry my pants off and squat next to a tree. My stomach grumbles unhappily. I need more breakfast. And I need this menstruation crap to be over already.

———

The bush doesn't provide much cover, but it's all there is. The lawns are shaved; the tree line is far behind me. Nothing but a few small hazels block the view from orchard to forest. I'm crouched down behind the largest of them, twigs and leaves tickling my face. In the dusk, the orchard looks ghostly with the linen fabric draped over each tree for storm protection. I'm surprised they are keeping the trees covered. The last heavy wind and rainfall was yesterday. They must be expecting more of it. Runner's words are ringing in my ears, 'I came because of the storm.' How can he know the weather days in advance?

A rumble issues from my stomach. I thought of stealing eggs from birds' nests, but all the chicks have hatched already. And I don't think I'll ever try raw eggs. I'm probably not hungry enough. My brain feels furry, though, and my knees and fingers are weak.

I've been sitting behind that flimsy bush for more than two hours now, waiting for dusk to grow darker and the last workers to leave. I have to make sure I don't miss anyone. Like couples smooching behind the tool shed, or something.

Bending low, I quickly make my way to the picket fence, push a loose stake aside, and squeeze through the gap. The thought of almost-ripe peaches makes my mouth all watery.

I swallow the flood of saliva, fumble at the knot that keeps the protective linen bound to the tree, unfold it, and stick my upper body beneath the cover. The first peach goes directly into my mouth, as does the second, third, and fourth. They are a bit tough and sour; I need to be careful so as not to mess up my digestion.

I tie the cover closed and visit another tree, and then another, picking only a few fruits each time so my nightly visit won't raise suspicion in the morning.

With a grin on my face and my rain jacket bulging with fruits, I make my way up the hill.

———

Ugh, half-ripe peaches and unripe pears. Even thinking of them makes my stomach churn. The thought of dandelion is even worse. How did this happen? I've been careful with the fruits. After stuffing a handful of them into my mouth, I ate only another five or six, slowly, one at a time. Did the dandelion do something funny to my innards? I've never eaten it, let alone in such amounts. Groaning, I roll onto my side, curling up like a baby. My belly hurts. My legs tremble.

A gurgling spasm shoots through my intestines and unbearable pain follows. I jump out of my hut, yank down my pants, and double over, not knowing which way the food wants to leave first. Front or back? There's no time to dig a pit.

With clammy hands, I wipe vomit off my mouth. Spruce twigs don't make for good ass wipes, but they're all there is.