Bulletproof Heart

Chapter 2

Static. Just the name pierces my heart like daggers. I immediately push all thoughts of him from my mind.

Sometimes, it is easier to just forget.

Suddenly, I spot something on the horizon. I squint at the dark blob that slowly morphs into a small building as I get closer. Somewhere safe, hopefully. I speed up, falling into a slow run, then immediately regretting it as my abused lungs shriek in complaint. I stop, clutching my sides and breathing raggedly, dry air blowing across my chapped lips.

"Dehydration, you're a bitch." I say, letting out a dry laugh that burns the back of my throat.

After recovering for a few moments, I continue, slower this time. As I near the building, I am I able to see it better. It looks like an ancient, abandoned gas station: probably back from when cars were legal. Deserted gas pumps stand in rows like soldiers-- monuments from another era. A faded sign hangs crookedly across the front of the building over shattered glass doors. A few of the words are missing, but I think it said "Jiffy Gasoline" at one time.

I enter the building carefully, stepping through the door to avoid being ripping to shreds on the jagged shards of glass still clinging to the metal doorframe. Yet, despite all my caution, the upper sleeve of Static's yellow leather jacket gets caught and tears, leaving a three-inch long gash in my arm. I let out a stream of swears and stumble into the store, immediately slamming into one of the many half-empty shelves that stand in neat queues. My shoes leave visible footprints in the inch thick dust covering every available surface. I wander through the shelves, holding my arm where it's sliced, red blood gathering in my hand and seeping through the spaces in between my fingers only to splash onto the floor. Although the shelves are mostly empty- their merchandise long since destroyed or looted- a few roadside essentials still stand on display, left by courteous zone runners.

I spot a glass bottle on a shelf to my right and grab it with my good arm. I open the screw cap with my teeth and take a small whiff. The strong smell of alcohol hits my nose and makes my brain feel fuzzy. Vodka. I carefully poor a small trickle of the clear liquid onto my cut. It stings like hell and makes me scream but at least it will not get infected now. Get blood poisoning out here and you're as good as dead.

I continue pouring the alcohol onto my arm until only a tiny amount remains in the bottle. I'm about to dump that onto the cut as well, but decide to swallow it on second thought. Bad idea, I think after I gulp it down. It sears my dry throat like fire on the way down and makes my eyes water. I throw the now empty bottle back on the shelf and continue searching the store.

A glass refrigerator is in one corner, inside are two precious bottles of water. I try the sliding glass door's handle only to find it stuck with years of rust. I fix the problem with the bottom of my boot, ramming it into the glass until it large cracks appear. I deliver a final blow and jump back as the surface finally shatters and falls onto the floor with an almost melodic tinkling sound. I reach into the fridge and pull out the blue plastic bottles. After opening one, I take small sips that don't quite satisfy, but take the edge off my thirst. Static taught me to always drink little amounts of water at times when severely dehydrated. 

After eventually draining the first bottle, I stick the other one in my beat-up black duffel bag for later.

Even though my arm is still stinging, at least my throat feels less like sandpaper. My attention turns to the checkout counter. I go around behind it, completely ignoring the cash register. The old money hasn't been circulated in years and is useless now. Instead, I search for a first aid kit. Luckily, the white plastic box with a red cross stamped across the lid is there, and I set it up on the counter. It opens easily, and inside is an assortment of medicines and bandages. I pull out a bandage and wrap it firmly around my hurt arm.

I rifle through the box, stuffing useful things in my bag and leaving the rest. I make sure to only take what is absolutely necessary, making the rest remain for other runners to scavenge. Another thing Static taught me: always leave things for others. We gotta help each other out if any of us wants to survive.

After shutting the box and stuffing it back under the counter where I found it, I glance outside. The sun is slinking behind the horizon, taking the heat with it. The desert will become an icebox once it is gone.

I decide to make camp at the store, dropping my duffle bag onto the floor behind the counter with a feeling of finality, dust clouds springing up as it lands. I collapse next to it, sitting Indian style and unzipping my duffle bag, rummaging through the contents. I don't keep much in here, just a spare change of clothes, a few charges for my gun, and some nonperishable food and water items. I take l out a tin of canned pears and pull the top of. I don't like pears, but I'm starving. I bend the metal lid and use it as a spoon, stuffing the sliced fruit into my mouth. The juice runs down my chin and leaves it feeling gross and sticky, but it's better than the Power Pup-- moist dog food-- that I'm used to eating.

When I've finished off what is in the can, I chuck it over the counter. I hear it hit a shelf before falling to the ground with a clank. My eyes begin to feel heavy with exhaustion, I must have walked at least twenty miles today. Bringing my legs up to my chest, I curl into a tight ball, laying down and using my bag as a pillow. It is hot and stuffy in the store, but at least it is shelter from the chilly night air. It is ironic how during the day you beg for cold and during the night you pray for warmth.

Mother Nature is also a bitch.

Being this close to the dust makes my eyes itch, but I don't really mind. I watch the orange sunlight shining onto the wall next to me slowly fade to blue and then black as night arrives. It takes a while, but I soon drift off.