Winter brought an unprecedented haze low over a ragged ocean. The horizon advanced on us until the visibility dropped to about fifty yards. A stranger to the island could run along the beach and never find himself again.
The wind, too, was horrendous. This morning I found myself standing on the deck thumbing at a lighter (you need to do a better job at conserving those, Matthew always said) trying for a cigarette in the other hand (Matthew did not comment on this) and found my tangled hair flung forward in a black wave by a sudden gust and almost catching. I guess being one of two remaining humans on an island that used to house thousands doesn't preclude setting your own hair on fire.
I walked the old Strand this morning and found another. To be honest, I was surprised; I thought we'd found them all. Small, but not frail; an old eighteen or a young twenty; very pale, like Matthew; eyes still open, nearly black like mine.
The body lay in the middle in the broad and cobbled street, between a couple of parked cars that would never move again; the strand was quiet around us; the old Victorian or neo-Victorian façades watched us through the fog with disinterest. Back when we found the bodies regularly—shortly after the bridges had been blown and the only way back to mainland was by boat—there were more people to aid in the disposal, and we would spend many hours out of each day cleaning up.
The worst part of the initial disposal was when someone would be in the midst of pouring gasoline—or whiskey, if they were thinking about preserving gasoline, though most preferred to save the Jack at that point—over a body and the pourer would drop the bottle and then—four or five seconds later—drop dead. Heart stopped, just like that. It was instantaneous. The most efficient plague the world has ever seen—according to Matthew, at least.
I patted my pockets, looking for gloves and not expecting to find any. But I did. They were the blue surgical gloves that we had boxes and boxes of, courtesy of Matthew's old university job. Thank the gods of biology that I didn't end up with a geologist.
I took the cadaver gently under the arms and loaded it into the makeshift PVC trailer behind the little dull black motorcycle that Matthew and I shared. There were plenty of vehicles to commandeer, but it tended to be more efficient to siphon fuel to keep it running than, say, a large car that would burn through fuel faster. Besides, Matthew had a personal connection to the vehicle. Once upon a time, it was his hobby, just as I would go out every morning to surf, watching the sun rise as the ocean batted against my legs. Once upon a time, the island was very bike-friendly, and it wasn't uncommon to see a pack of ten roaring between the palms on a sunny summer day, half the riders shirtless or in those loud pastel hibiscus shirts.
Today, it was silent as I cut the engine on the bike and scavenged the old candy store for some surviving taffee. Still wrapped, of course. The risk of eating uncovered foods was too high. Once upon a time, flies were harmless nuisances.
Cargo safely loaded, I revved the bike's engine, shocking around the old gutted corpse of a downtown like a gunshot. The palms swayed in the wind, their greens mellowed out by the blue hue that the fog applies like varnish to everything it touches. Riding a motorcycle in shorts was not my best idea, but even the winters on the island were warm enough to do so. It isn't solely that, though—a turquoise palm tree-patterned tanktop and ruddy denim shorts seemed incongruous to this atmosphere, but the end doesn't always come bearing sweaters and long pants.
The Strand receded behind me, giving rise to more multicolored Victorian facades that dwindled as the road's elevation dropped below sea level. I heard gulls and waves, but the visibility was too low to catch glimpses of the ocean between the stilts of those houses that were closer to shore. At this point, we could have had our pick of any house, but we remained in the place we've lived for exactly three years to the day, according to the marked-up calendar that hung in the kitchen. It was close to the Strand—and to the slightly newer downtown that sat a block away—so that I could take trips to get supplies (I always felt bad raiding people's personal belongings); it was also close to the university where Matthew used to work, where he had the keys to, and where he still went occasionally. I never asked. Before the end, I drifted from place to place with a half a physics degree and a job-winning smile that also served to get me out of trouble when I needed it. I had a meaningless but content routine. For the academians—real academians, not me—it was different. They had had purpose.
