Snow On The Tombstones: A Collection of Flash Fiction and Vignettes

Mandarin Oranges

The shelves are empty. Dust covers the places cans used to live. The small ones, full of lentils, soup, and ravioli; the medium cans, packed with pumpkin and enchilada sauce; the larger food storage cans with the rubber lids, the ones full of dried apple, powdered milk, and oats; it's all gone now, eaten by Grandma or stolen by the bandits that invaded the house weeks ago.

He stands there, in front of the pantry, looking for something to eat. He knows he won't find anything, but it relieves the boredom a little bit, to stand there and wonder. He knows there is nothing left to eat. All that is left is half a can of mandarin oranges in the center of the kitchen table, and, even then, Grandma will eat most of that before the day is out.

The fridge, behind him and to the right, was the first thing to go. They ate well for the first week, the two of them, back when he was trying to get rid of all the meat he couldn't dry and all the fruit that was already going bad. Now he wishes he had been a little smarter. Still, the fact that the fridge went out was to be expected. It died before the generator behind the linen closet stopped producing power, before the power lines themselves were downed. A refrigerator, no matter how durable, simply can not function without power. It's probably full of mold now. He wouldn't know. He refuses to open it.

A finger swipes through the thin layer of dust coating the once-white shelf of the pantry, etching his name in thick, calculated letters:

R U D Y

He traces the figure of a smile in the dust, grins at it, then swipes his hand through it. This was dumb. This entire thing was dumb. If any bandits were watching right now, he would be so embarrassed.

His stomach growls, clenching painfully inside of him as if to remind him that he hasn't eaten. Of course he hasn't eaten, dumb idiot stomach, there's no food here. No food for him, anyway. There's only that can of mandarin oranges on the table, covered with a film of plastic wrap that has bunched up around the edges. He could eat all of them right now. Grandma would never know. She doesn't notice anything these days, and he has tried his hardest to make sure it stays that way. Her room doesn't have a window that faces anything that matters. All she can see is the rusty sky and the backs of buildings that survived the blasts. She would never know the difference. Grandma doesn't have to see the husk of what once was a city outside her window every day. No, that's his task.

Today's plan is this: take Grandma, her soggy, sweet oranges, play a board game, and find something to do. Something, something, something other than sitting around here, day after day, waiting for his stomach to stop growling, waiting to just die already. Maybe he'll play a board game with Grandma. She would like that.

Or maybe, and here's a thought, maybe he'll see if the bandits and raiders, the other survivors in the city left anything behind. Maybe he'll go down to the bodega that used to be on the corner. Maybe he'll go to a bigger supermarket further downtown and try his luck there, among the rotting fruit and carcasses of what used to be customers. As far as he knows, he, Grandma, and the bandits that passed through-- One-Eyed Larry and John Angel-- are the last surviving people in the city. Maybe they are the last people on the planet. He doesn't know.

A glance at the analog clock on the wall forces him to remember that it's time to feed Grandma. He sighs, snatches a dusty bowl from the cabinet, and pours a third of the oranges intoit. For a moment, just a moment, the juice rolls in the dust, blasting sun fuzzies toward him and creating an unbreakable ball of orange nectar. Then the moment is over and it is just him, the dusty, juice-filled bowl, and the prospect of another day of growling stomachs and sudoku. The bits of orange swim in their own blood like happy worms after a night of rain.

They haven't had rain for a while, or some of their problems might be solved. If they had rain, he could start a garden. He could use a rain barrel and catch water for the two of them-- but the sky is closed off from them, ignorant and toxic. There is no rain, and there may never be rain around here again.

Rudy pulls a cup-- blue plastic, fom IKEA, back when that was possible--down from the cupboard. There is something about the way that the light catches on the dust on the rim of it that makes him pause. When was the last time he cleaned the dishes? When was the last time he had the courage to clean anything? He is still wearing the same clothes he wore on the day it all went down. His hands, dark as they were before, look ashy, feel dry, and are dirty.

He looks away, and puts the cup on the counter. It is empty, and there is a dotting of dust and dirt at the bottom and on the sides. He looks away from the cup, too, trying to to think about how his tongue is dry and his limbs are weak. His mouth feels like it's full of cotton, but he is trying not to think about it.

He picks up the bowl and holds lit like it is some sort of holy grail that is holding the world together. This is Christ's blood, this is God's piss. This is Grandma's orange juice.