Agoraphobia

Day 363 (The Trail)

The sun was streaming through a break in the curtains when I woke. I had a moment of disorientation and panic, wondering if I was late for school. Then I remembered I hadn't gone to school in a long time, and all my teachers and classmates were dead.

Uncle Peter was laying next to me, snoring like a warthog with apnea. An ugly bruise flowered on his cheekbone. We were both fully clothed except for our shoes. Uncle Peter had not bathed in a long time, and he stunk. It was not his fault, of course, but it made me realize how sanitary and sweet-smelling my world was before the agoraphobia apocalypse. Potpourri, air fresheners, perfume, deodorant, body wash, detergent, mouthwash, scented candles. They had helped create my childhood's pleasant-smelling atmosphere.

After the peak, all that changed. Everything stank. Body odor, human feces, bad breath, animal dung, garbage, hog slop, chicken droppings. These were the "normal" smells I encountered on the farm every day. Then there were the smells I encountered while scavenging... Mold, decay, rot. And, of course, the abominable stench of human corpses at every possible nauseating stage of decomposition. Not to mention the tinny and sickly-sweet odor of gushing human blood. I hated all those smells. As I laid there, I reflected grimly how badly my life stank.

I looked over at Uncle Peter, his gun protruding from under his jacket. I imagined how simple it would be to slip his gun out, shove the barrel into my mouth, and pull the trigger. I'd never have to smell another corpse or push another wheelbarrow of feces. My anxiety, my hopelessness, my fear, the totality of my pathetic existence... would all be snuffed out instantly.

Then Uncle Peter farted. The fart was so big, it lifted him off the bed slightly. And it was so loud, Uncle Peter woke up with a start. "Are we under attack?!" he asked, still half asleep.

"No, you just farted," I giggled.

"What?!"

"You farted! You farted so loud, you woke yourself up."

"I did not!"

"Oh, yes you did! I was here." The awful fart smell hit me. "Wow! That's strong! What did you eat yesterday?"

"What are you yapping about?" growled Uncle Peter, still cranky and disorientated. "I don't smell anyth—" Suddenly he shook his head and covered his nose with both hands.

"SEE! Wow..." I jumped out of bed and made a big show of waving my hands. "Did something crawl up inside of you and die?!" I then had a good, hard laugh at my uncle's expense.

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After a light breakfast, we left the residence with a sack lunch. A twenty mile hike to Elwood's lay before us, and we were reluctantly resigned to it.

That's when we stumbled upon an odd trail leading away from a duplex's front door. It was a trail of food wrappers, empty water bottles, remnants of human feces, crushed soda cans, empty spam tins, etc... It was as if someone drank some water, moved a couple feet, ate some food, moved a couple feet, pooped, moved a couple feet, and then did it over and over again. Our curiosity peaked, and we let ourselves into the duplex. The trail ended (or rather began) in the duplex's bedroom.

"These droppings were left behind by a snail-agoraphobic," reasoned Uncle Peter. "According to the articles I've read, snail-agoraphobics are extremely rare."

"Why are they called SNAIL-agoraphobics?"

"Because they're able to move anyplace, but only at a 'snail's pace' of a foot or two at a time. Between moves, they must rest and acclimate before they can move again."