Scribbles and Drabbles

Notebook Drabbles 62

Remy crawled through his window and collapsed in a crumbled heap on the floor. He dropped his bag of supplies and caught his breath as his injuries settled in and ached. His ribs hurt. The Baker Street Dogs were real pricks. Remy hadn't been bothering them, but that didn't stop the overstimmed jackasses from jumping him with iron bars in an attempt to frighten him into handing his keys over. 

He didn't have keys.

The door to his apartment was flash-burned shut. Some doomsday preppers did this to trap any ill people in their apartments. Most people escaped out the windows and onto the fire escapes. Remy's place didn't connect to the fire exit. To get to his apartment, he needed to clamber across a ledge that would kill him in winter. 

The pros of remaining? No one else could access his home. The con was getting to the place was exhausting. 

Strength failed to reappear in his legs. Instead, an endless pulsing of pain flashed from where one of them managed to slice him with a blade. He reached down to pat it. It was wet and sticky. Wincing, he clambered to his feet. Leaving it bleeding was not an option. 

He peeled off his clothes and did his best to clean the wound. It wasn't deep, and it didn't need stitches. Thank goodness, because otherwise, he wouldn't be able to climb into the apartment. The more significant issue was his lack of meds. He'd used the last of what he had and had no luck finding replacements. 

Boiling water, he grimaced at how little he left of that too. It hadn't rained recently, so his water collection was struggling. He needed to find a way to get some water from the river up to his apartment. The gangs guarded that area with delayed force. If he didn't get more, or if it didn't rain soon, he would be dead by the end of the week. 

His body trembled as he washed the wound and rubbed some expired antibotics over it to try to stop infection. He put a large plaster on it and wrapped it up as best he could from the angle. 

-s-

It hurt waking up. It had rained, but not in the right direction. His buckets had barely enough to boil to drink safely. Moving didn't help. The skin around the plaster wept red, and the whole thing was hot. His luck had run out. 

-s-

This wasn't going to get better on its own. He had a decent stash of supplies, but they meant nothing. He needed medicine to survive this. 

Opinion one: die.

Opinion two: head to the soup kitchen, make it and have a slight chance of surviving—a small sliver of one but one. 

Three: Head to the soup kitchen, fail and die a painful but hopefully shorter death. It wasn't much to work with, but it was what it was. 

Four: give up and jump from the building for a short, merciful death. 

He hadn't survived this long to take the coward's way out. Plenty had. He vowed not to be so dramatic. It didn't feel that way, with his side burning and his body starting to feel the infection. This was not the time to be racked with indecision. If he wanted too long, he wouldn't have the strength. 

Getting to the ground proved challenging. He made it. His arms and legs shook uncontrollably, his palms grazed, and blood ran from his fingers, but he got down. The soup kitchen was in an old school a little way into the city. He started in that direction, glancing at his haven before keeping to the shadows. It was not easy. The sun shone high and beat down mercilessly on the cracked and broken tarmac. 

Stone crumbled under his feet. Gravel crashed against his cheek. He was worse than expected. The sun continued to back against him, and heat swallowed him in a tight and unforgiving grasp.