Mulchant Sesspool

"What's that sound?" I say as I sit up.  The light in the room of the cottage is darker than it normally is. 

Annie walks over to one of the windows and peels back the black garbage bag a crack to inspect.

"It's raining," Annie says with pursed lips before returning to her bedding in the middle of the floor.

I help myself to a bottle of water that we were lucky enough to find in one of the closets in the hallway.  We've replaced our ration with this new water, and with each gulp I imagine it washing away all the sores in my throat and mouth.

"That's not good, right?" I say in what is probably the worst rhetorical question ever asked.

Mildred gives me a blank stare.

"So," I start, in an awkward effort to try and ease the tension.  "We just wait it out here, right?" I ask.

Annie sighs before rolling over on her side and turning her back to the both of us.  "I can't take this anymore," she mumbles -- but then a moment later I hear her deep breaths and know that she has left us for now.

Mildred drops her head.  She is deep in thought, and so I stand and walk towards the window.  The rain will offer some protection from the sun -- and through the window pane I yearn to see what's left of the landscape.

Mildred looks up for a moment, but decides not to scold me.  And a moment later I hear her heavy breath and know that she too has joined her sister.

In the crack of light that seeps from behind the black garbage bag I can now see the colour of my fingers as I raise my hand to create a peep hole.  My knuckles are withered and boney.  My fingernails are more yellow -- like a Disney villain.  My hands have seen better days.

I try not to dissuade myself with futile thoughts as to why we are even bothering to continue north.  The sickness has become more violent in all three of us, with Mildred taking the greatest hit.  Her vomiting has increased in the past few hours.  The water will only offer a mild comfort to the inevitable.

As I peel the garbage bag back, I try not to touch the curtain.  Through the two or three inches of viewing space, I peer through the glass to the other side.  The rain fall is heavy.  The dark haze bleeds a toxic spray that turns most of the ground and grass into a mulchant sesspool that bleeds back into the lake.  I stare for what seems like hours, drifting in and out of thought.  I have no more tears.  My eyes are a desert void of any sympathy.

When I am done staring, I let the garbage bag fall back into place and the room once again turns dark.  I make my way back to my spot and try not to worry about tomorrow or the day after.  I have no control over the unknown.  For now, I will rest.  The rains will eventually stop.  And when they do we must remain strong so that we can continue our journey.