Short Stories | Terrence Hart

Shards

The endless asphalt crumbled beneath her feet. She kept moving. The desert wind stirred the hardpan into a maelstrom of grit. Still, she kept moving. The sun baked the water from her pores, her emaciated limbs aching with each step, the carrion birds marking her passage with greedy beaks at the ready, but she kept moving. For all the world was a tomb, and it consumed those who sat idle.

It was always best to keep moving.

She hummed in rhythm with her steps. It wasn’t a particular tune, just noise to bide the time, and it kept the dust from her throat so to speak the clearer. A town lay up ahead, and if a confrontation was coming, she didn’t want her voice to crack. It was important to project strength when you came upon a stranger.

As the girl approached she unshouldered her rifle, cocking the bolt to chamber a round. The metallic crack echoed downwind towards a line of dilapidated buildings, but nothing stirred save the tumbling of weeds and the howling dust devils to the east. Either there was no one around to hear her, or they were waiting in the shadows. She continued with a cautious step.

The outskirts of the town was marked by a pile of wrecked automobiles, rusted and crumbling to be reclaimed by the earth. The heap may once have served as a sort of barricade from which to defend the town, but it looked as if many years had passed since that time. There wasn’t a footprint she could spot among the ruins.

She fell to her knees behind the barricade, perching the barrel of her rifle upon the crumpled bonnet of the nearest vehicle, peering along the sights to scan the buildings ahead. Towns were always dangerous. There were too many dark windows, too many hungry bellies that after having their fill of horse and rat, had cultivated a preference for the long-pork. The girl would take her time – it would cost nothing to be patient.

Eventually the sun peaked overhead, yet still she was hunkered behind the barricade, searching for any sign of movement. Crows gathered along the eaves, their soulless eyes cast downwards, their mournful caws ringing in her ears like an omen of death. She waited some more. By now she was familiar with each of the derelict structures that lined the street. Most of the doors hung ajar, the roofs caving, and there wasn’t a window that had endured the bad-times intact, though this didn’t come as a surprise. There was no longer glass left anywhere in the world. All that remained was shards.

For a time she had travelled in the company of an old man who told her that glass used to be everywhere, that entire cities were built of it. The girl could scarcely imagine such a wonder. She released her grip on the rifle and scooped her hand into the shattered remains of the car windows littered about her feet, and blew away the dust. The handful sparkled in the sun like diamonds, a collection of little stars. How marvelous that once there were cities of this, but it was unlikely to ever be again. Not for a hundred years had there been anyone who knew how glass was made. The old man seemed to believe that it was a simple matter of melting sand, but she didn’t think that was true.

She missed travelling with a companion. Everything from collecting firewood to hunting was made simpler, and it was always nice to have someone to talk to. There was much she had learned from the old fellow, but eventually his age had caught up with him. She had returned to their camp one day to discover him writhing in agony. In her absence, he had slipped and broken his femur, the thigh muscle bundling the limb into a bulging mangled mess. Though she valued his company, there was no way to treat such a wound, and no way for her to carry him. So she had collected her things and abandoned him there by the fire. She never said goodbye, and he had made no effort to convince her to stay, they had both known that his days were at an end.

The girl tipped her hand, watching as the pile of gleaming rubble tumbled from her fingers, then tentatively she rose to her feet. There were none that called out to her, no gunshots that pierced the dry air, so she ventured beyond the safety of the barricade. Her gaze was fixed along the barrel of her rifle. She swung it here and there as she made along the vacant street. She didn’t blink, even though the dust stung her eyes and sweat trickled down her face to muddy her vision. But the shadowed ruins didn’t spill any secrets.

The buildings were mostly gaping and empty, having been ransacked long ago, but there was one homestead near the center of town that was boarded up and maintained to some degree. There were clear signs where the roof had recently been mended. Someone at some stage had locked themselves inside, and there was no way of knowing if they still remained.

She approached with a wary step, the rifle shaking in her hand, eyes darting side to side, spying the gaps between the planks that covered the windows. The landing gave a tired creak as it took her weight, her breaths shortened. If the occupants had earlier been oblivious to her presence, they would surely be alerted by now. She considered calling out to demand that they show themselves, but in the end thought better of it. Best she not forfeit the element of surprise without good reason. She tucked the stock of the rifle under her arm and reached for the door knob, and though it was reluctant to turn in its socket, it definitely wasn’t locked.

As the door swung inwards, her hand snatched back to the rifle. She was shaking terribly, gasping each lungful of air, but ventured inside just the same. Where else was she likely to find food? The air was stale, stagnant, as if it hadn’t shifted in a long time. It was almost a certainty that nobody lived here, but still she proceeded with caution. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and she scanned the murky innards of the building, her ears cocked for the slightest disturbance. It should have come as a relief that all was quiet and still, but terror tends to hide in the silence.

There was a burst from the corner of the room, an arching flash of fluttering white accompanied by an ungodly cacophony. She screamed and spun the rifle in the direction of the disturbance, and was only just in time to see a bird flee for the safety of the front door. It had been nesting in the corner and had managed to escape her notice. She snarled as she lowered the rifle. She should have recognized the smell of bird shit. Had she been swifter, she would have had a pigeon to roast.

She crossed the space to check the bedrooms toward the rear of the house. The one on the left was stacked with old furniture, most of it damaged, none that would be of any use. She closed the door and moved towards the room on the right. She turned the knob and booted the door aside so that both hands were on her rifle. As the chamber came into view she let out a gasp.

In the center of the room was an ancient iron-framed bed with a straw-filled mattress, aside it an armchair with the corpse of the previous tenant. The skin was mottled and grey, flaking like charred paper, the lips peeling backwards in a horrific grin. Even so, it was easily recognizable as an old woman. Still she donned much of the dress she was wearing the day she died, her hair now wiry and brittle, falling well beyond her shoulders. The girl let out a long exhale and lowered the rifle. She expected no trouble from the lady of the house.

Now that the coast was clear, she returned to the main room and started searching high and low. She upended every container, checked through each cupboard, though the state of the house made it clear that she was not the first. Other than a few unmarked cans that she discovered behind a shelving unit, there was little left worth taking. She let out a sigh, loading her meagre fare into her knapsack, and returned to the bedroom for a final look around.

As she spied the corpse grinning from the corner, she noticed a metallic glint from about the woman’s neck. It was a fine gold chain, plunging into her withered cleavage, vanishing beneath her dress. The girl rounded the foot of the bed, reaching to withdraw the necklet from its keep, and discovering a heart-shaped pendant. It was an odd sort of possession, she thought, vain and entirely pointless, much better melted down and made into something useful. She turned the trinket over in her hand, and noticed a split running along its edge, a small hinge skirting one side. Perhaps something of value was within?

She picked apart the locket with her finger nails, and as the contents were revealed her eyes widened in disbelief. She giggled quietly despite herself, scanning her surrounds to make certain she was not being watched. Inside was a flawless piece of glass, immaculate, perfectly transparent, entirely unmarred, behind it the faded image of a young man. She had come across photographs many times before, but never such a splendid piece of glass. Her eyes started welling and she wiped them with the heel of her hand.

It was the most wonderful thing she had ever seen.

The girl had no intention of leaving the necklace behind, so she worked it over the corpse’s head, and took a moment to inspect her newfound treasure. Not only was the outer shell of the pendant set on the hinge, so too was the sheet of glass. She swung the miniature pane aside and plucked the photograph from underneath. She turned it over in her hand, and on the back saw that a single word was writ, though she was unable to make much sense of it. She wasn’t even sure what a Henry might be. The necklace she snapped shut and secured around her neck, the image she let tumble to the ground. The picture had over the years begun to spoil, and she was worried that the pane of glass might spoil with it.

The girl shouldered her rifle and left the old woman to her business. She would have liked to stick around and tuck into one of the cans of food, but as always, it was best to keep moving. As her footsteps faded and the town fell silent, the man in the photograph stared hopelessly towards the woman who once had loved him. It wouldn’t be long before they were both reclaimed by the approaching desert. So what sense was there in burying the dead?