crossmyheartandhope (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-11-08 07:38 pm
crossmyheartandhope) wrote2021-11-08 07:38 pm
Entry tags:
Memory 32: Rust
The chain-link fence is still standing, bowed but upright. In a city that's mostly rubble, that's a practically a miracle.
It's held closed with a length of chain at the gate, pocked and rusted, sealed with a padlock. Whoever locked it up kind of half-assed it, though; they could have doubled the chain back around two or three times and made sure it was secure, but the way it is now, there's a gap about as wide as Hurricane's palms together, side by side.
At ten, Hurricane's narrow and wiry and great at getting into places he shouldn't be; it's plenty.
He wedges one shoulder into the gap and turns sideways. He takes a breath in and holds it – presses hard and wriggles through.
Hurricane's standing on the other side in less than three seconds, kind of proud, and mostly tired, and trying really hard not to hope.
It used to be a gas station, once upon a time. The ground is paved over with concrete, but there are cracks here and there, deep black things thick as Hurricane's arm. Hints of grass have started to poke their way through.
One corner of the roof is caved in, but most of the building is still standing, and the gas pumps out front look ready for the next customer to pull up.
That's exactly what he's here for.
He doesn't know how to drive, and the roads are thick with scrap metal and pieces of battered buildings, too much for a car to be viable. But he's pretty sure a motorcycle could get through the tight places. He's pretty sure they could get out of here, if he could find them a bike.
Anywhere'd be better than here. Ma's getting worse, and there's nothing to eat, and he ran into another crazy three days ago, trying to scavenge supplies out of what used to be a block of apartment buildings.
He's been lucky so far, but sometime that luck's gonna run out.
So. Gas for a motorcycle, then a motorcycle, then they get the hell out of San Francisco.
Easy.
Hurricane takes a long breath in, to steady himself, and he starts to move – not toward the pumps, but toward the station. There's got to be portable gas cans in there somewhere, the red kind with the handles. All he's got to do is find a couple, load them up, and take off.
The door handle is cool under his palm; the sign in the window is turned around so the word CLOSED faces out.
It's not locked, though. The door swings in steady and even, and it reveals a shop that looks exactly like it must have before the world ended.
The shelves are all standing. They're even stocked. Some of them are missing a couple of things here and there, but it looks like the delivery truck was running a little late, not like the city got caved in and a couple million people died in the space of twenty-four hours.
Hurricane stands there in the doorway, and he stares.
He takes one step, and then another, the footfall from his prosthesis heavier than its counterpart. His eyes skitter across the store, uneasy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But there's nothing. There's just this pristine service station, with its rows and rows of snacks. He can see the empty gas cans stacked up behind the counter.
Nothing's ever this easy, but he goes for it anyway – takes three quick steps to the first shelf and grabs hold of a box of Ding Dongs. He tears the box open in three seconds flat – tips out one of the little snack cakes and pulls the plastic apart with shaking hands.
He crams the first one in his mouth – chews, and swallows, and lets his eyes slip closed for a second so he can enjoy it. It's sweet and soft, only a little stale. He could probably go through the whole box, he's so hungry, but he's been real good about making sure half of everything goes back to his ma, and he doesn't plan on stopping now.
Hurricane folds up the wrapper and sticks the second cake back in the box, then unzips his backpack so he can start loading up some other stuff. There's chips and jerky and dried fruit and – and everything. There's enough here to get them through a couple months, at least.
He's only just gotten the Ding Dongs in the bag when the sound reaches him. It's soft, a little tentative, and he doesn't know what it is. It sounds like some kind of bird, maybe – a gentle "ah ah ahh?" that's how he's always imagined a dove cooing.
He hesitates – glances back at the shelves.
The sound comes again, less gentle this time. It trembles on the final note, something like a whine, and every hair stands up on Hurricane's arms.
"...hello?" he says. "Anybody there?"
The sound comes again, the same three staccato notes, more urgent now.
He can feel his feet start to move, even while his brain tells him this is a bad idea. He's seen horror movies before. He knows you don't go check out the weird noise by yourself, but here he is, going anyway, heart slamming in his chest, rounding the edge of the gas station shelving.
He doesn't know what he expects.
Whatever he expects, though, it isn't this.
He goes stock still there in the middle of the aisle. The whole room seems to lurch sideways, and his vision goes a little grey at the edges.
Here in the center row, there isn't any food on the shelves. They've all been cleared out, pristine white expanses that stretch away toward the back of the store. Where the food should have been, there are tools. A saw. A crowbar. Thick, heavy iron nails, the kind they use for railroad tracks.
There's also a person.
It's a girl, Hurricane thinks, but it's hard to tell for sure; the hair's been shorn right up against the scalp, and she's wrapped in shapeless fabric, like someone threw together a sloppy mummy costume just in time for Halloween.
She only has one eye. The other is a gaping ruin, wet and red.
She has no legs, and she has just the one arm, and when she opens up her mouth like she wants to say something, the only thing that comes out is that soft, "ah, ah, ahh," sound, and a spill of blood, because she has no tongue.
Hurricane sways a little, on his feet. He presses a hand against his mouth, so hard it hurts.
He wants to scream; he wants to cry. He is crying a little, sympathy tears that burn at the corners of his eyes.
He's got to go, his brain is telling him, a thrumming panic somewhere under the white noise that's settled over his thoughts.
He's got to go.
But she's staring at him with that one eye, and her mouth is open, and that little "ah, ah, ahh," sound comes again, like she's asking for something.
Hurricane bites down on his lip, hard. He glances toward the door, and then back at the girl. He takes a jerky step toward her, and then another. He can smell the blood now, thick and copper. It fill up his lungs and catches in his throat.
"Hey," says Hurricane. His voice is quiet, pitched low and gentle, like he'd talk to a stray. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
He reaches a hand out, careful, and touches her. She's hot, like she's running a fever; the eye that's still whole glistens, and tears start to spill down her cheek.
"C'mon," says Hurricane, and reaches out toward her. "Let's get you out of here."
She's whimpering now, a full-on whine that goes on and on. It gets louder when he eases his arms under her and starts to lift. He's hurting her, probably, but anything's better than leaving her here.
"Shh," says Hurricane. His voice is shaking a little. Her blood is all down the front of his shirt, slick and shockingly warm. "Shhh, it's okay. I got you."
Her sole remaining eye is wide, now, almost frantic. She thrashes her head from side to side – makes as if to jerk backward. Her gaze darts up, over his shoulder, to something behind him.
Oh, Hurricane thinks, as understanding clicks into place.
He starts to turn, but pain explodes in the back of his head before he can, a flash of white that beats behind his eyes.
Then darkness rises up to swallow everything.
It's held closed with a length of chain at the gate, pocked and rusted, sealed with a padlock. Whoever locked it up kind of half-assed it, though; they could have doubled the chain back around two or three times and made sure it was secure, but the way it is now, there's a gap about as wide as Hurricane's palms together, side by side.
At ten, Hurricane's narrow and wiry and great at getting into places he shouldn't be; it's plenty.
He wedges one shoulder into the gap and turns sideways. He takes a breath in and holds it – presses hard and wriggles through.
Hurricane's standing on the other side in less than three seconds, kind of proud, and mostly tired, and trying really hard not to hope.
It used to be a gas station, once upon a time. The ground is paved over with concrete, but there are cracks here and there, deep black things thick as Hurricane's arm. Hints of grass have started to poke their way through.
One corner of the roof is caved in, but most of the building is still standing, and the gas pumps out front look ready for the next customer to pull up.
That's exactly what he's here for.
He doesn't know how to drive, and the roads are thick with scrap metal and pieces of battered buildings, too much for a car to be viable. But he's pretty sure a motorcycle could get through the tight places. He's pretty sure they could get out of here, if he could find them a bike.
Anywhere'd be better than here. Ma's getting worse, and there's nothing to eat, and he ran into another crazy three days ago, trying to scavenge supplies out of what used to be a block of apartment buildings.
He's been lucky so far, but sometime that luck's gonna run out.
So. Gas for a motorcycle, then a motorcycle, then they get the hell out of San Francisco.
Easy.
Hurricane takes a long breath in, to steady himself, and he starts to move – not toward the pumps, but toward the station. There's got to be portable gas cans in there somewhere, the red kind with the handles. All he's got to do is find a couple, load them up, and take off.
The door handle is cool under his palm; the sign in the window is turned around so the word CLOSED faces out.
It's not locked, though. The door swings in steady and even, and it reveals a shop that looks exactly like it must have before the world ended.
The shelves are all standing. They're even stocked. Some of them are missing a couple of things here and there, but it looks like the delivery truck was running a little late, not like the city got caved in and a couple million people died in the space of twenty-four hours.
Hurricane stands there in the doorway, and he stares.
He takes one step, and then another, the footfall from his prosthesis heavier than its counterpart. His eyes skitter across the store, uneasy, waiting for the other shoe to drop. But there's nothing. There's just this pristine service station, with its rows and rows of snacks. He can see the empty gas cans stacked up behind the counter.
Nothing's ever this easy, but he goes for it anyway – takes three quick steps to the first shelf and grabs hold of a box of Ding Dongs. He tears the box open in three seconds flat – tips out one of the little snack cakes and pulls the plastic apart with shaking hands.
He crams the first one in his mouth – chews, and swallows, and lets his eyes slip closed for a second so he can enjoy it. It's sweet and soft, only a little stale. He could probably go through the whole box, he's so hungry, but he's been real good about making sure half of everything goes back to his ma, and he doesn't plan on stopping now.
Hurricane folds up the wrapper and sticks the second cake back in the box, then unzips his backpack so he can start loading up some other stuff. There's chips and jerky and dried fruit and – and everything. There's enough here to get them through a couple months, at least.
He's only just gotten the Ding Dongs in the bag when the sound reaches him. It's soft, a little tentative, and he doesn't know what it is. It sounds like some kind of bird, maybe – a gentle "ah ah ahh?" that's how he's always imagined a dove cooing.
He hesitates – glances back at the shelves.
The sound comes again, less gentle this time. It trembles on the final note, something like a whine, and every hair stands up on Hurricane's arms.
"...hello?" he says. "Anybody there?"
The sound comes again, the same three staccato notes, more urgent now.
He can feel his feet start to move, even while his brain tells him this is a bad idea. He's seen horror movies before. He knows you don't go check out the weird noise by yourself, but here he is, going anyway, heart slamming in his chest, rounding the edge of the gas station shelving.
He doesn't know what he expects.
Whatever he expects, though, it isn't this.
He goes stock still there in the middle of the aisle. The whole room seems to lurch sideways, and his vision goes a little grey at the edges.
Here in the center row, there isn't any food on the shelves. They've all been cleared out, pristine white expanses that stretch away toward the back of the store. Where the food should have been, there are tools. A saw. A crowbar. Thick, heavy iron nails, the kind they use for railroad tracks.
There's also a person.
It's a girl, Hurricane thinks, but it's hard to tell for sure; the hair's been shorn right up against the scalp, and she's wrapped in shapeless fabric, like someone threw together a sloppy mummy costume just in time for Halloween.
She only has one eye. The other is a gaping ruin, wet and red.
She has no legs, and she has just the one arm, and when she opens up her mouth like she wants to say something, the only thing that comes out is that soft, "ah, ah, ahh," sound, and a spill of blood, because she has no tongue.
Hurricane sways a little, on his feet. He presses a hand against his mouth, so hard it hurts.
He wants to scream; he wants to cry. He is crying a little, sympathy tears that burn at the corners of his eyes.
He's got to go, his brain is telling him, a thrumming panic somewhere under the white noise that's settled over his thoughts.
He's got to go.
But she's staring at him with that one eye, and her mouth is open, and that little "ah, ah, ahh," sound comes again, like she's asking for something.
Hurricane bites down on his lip, hard. He glances toward the door, and then back at the girl. He takes a jerky step toward her, and then another. He can smell the blood now, thick and copper. It fill up his lungs and catches in his throat.
"Hey," says Hurricane. His voice is quiet, pitched low and gentle, like he'd talk to a stray. "Hey, it's okay. I'm not going anywhere."
He reaches a hand out, careful, and touches her. She's hot, like she's running a fever; the eye that's still whole glistens, and tears start to spill down her cheek.
"C'mon," says Hurricane, and reaches out toward her. "Let's get you out of here."
She's whimpering now, a full-on whine that goes on and on. It gets louder when he eases his arms under her and starts to lift. He's hurting her, probably, but anything's better than leaving her here.
"Shh," says Hurricane. His voice is shaking a little. Her blood is all down the front of his shirt, slick and shockingly warm. "Shhh, it's okay. I got you."
Her sole remaining eye is wide, now, almost frantic. She thrashes her head from side to side – makes as if to jerk backward. Her gaze darts up, over his shoulder, to something behind him.
Oh, Hurricane thinks, as understanding clicks into place.
He starts to turn, but pain explodes in the back of his head before he can, a flash of white that beats behind his eyes.
Then darkness rises up to swallow everything.