Esmeralda takes food where she can find it, and she finds it in abundance. But I don’t have that luxury. These grasses and plants are mostly alien, and I have more than just myself to consider.
I should stay hidden.
I have to eat.
My child needs to eat.
It’s no contest.
“See that?” I speak of a narrow building with a blue door pressed into the middle. “I’m going in. And you’re coming with me.”
My companion says nothing. Keeps on chewing something of interest low to the ground.
“No, no, you have to,” I say. “Just in case.”
A gentle snot rain sprinkles me as she lifts her head and snorts, but she follows me, leaving a polite distance between us.
The asphalt crust is hard beneath my boots. It’s an old habit the way I stand at the road’s edge and look both ways. Although it’s not traffic I’m trying to dodge now, but trouble. But really, what can I do if it comes? I could fall back into the woods, or run forward and hide in a building. Slender options.
Pebbles crumble away from the blacktop as I work the leather toe against the hardened tar.
My pregnancy pokes holes into my brain matter, making the thoughts harder to congeal and solidify. In the untamed groves, I am weaponless. Stealth is my only real advantage. So I cross the road, make the baker’s peel mine, lift a knife with a gleaming edge from the meat shop. And I rest easier because I am armed once more.
The blue door opens freely.
Silence pours into the street accompanied by the sweet stench of old milk and older cheese. There’s an omnipresent gloom that reaches out and pulls us in. The door swings shut behind us; its click is a death knell.
This is a grocery store of sorts. I hoped it would be. It’s not like an American supermarket. The floor is a dark and violent concrete. Products are cramped on shelves that cut me off at the neck. A thick blanket of dust mutes all signs of color to a depressing dinge.
My breath catches; my lungs don’t want the sour air. I force the spongy organs to draw oxygen. Right now I’m grateful I’m long past that first trimester, otherwise I’d be on my knees, painting the floor green. The shop’s stock comes into focus: there’s food on these here shelves, and it’s processed and packed and likely still edible. Whoever said processed foods were bad hadn’t vacationed at the end of the world.
The second best thing about being in a grocery store is that there’s a ready supply of plastic bags. I rip open a box of oatmeal and pour it into a neat heap on the floor for Esmeralda before reaching for a fistful of sacks. And I apologize for the burden I’m about to bestow on her.
She doesn’t seem to care.
It’s the chocolate that catches my attention. I can almost taste the sweet, smooth confection before I peel away the packaging and cram it into my mouth. Flavor explodes and my taste buds shiver with orgasmic pleasure. Moments later, there’s a rolling sensation in my belly as my baby somersaults. I laugh and unwrap another bar— some kind of wafer layers with chocolate pressed between. I scrape off the top wafer with my teeth and shamelessly lick the others clean. Soon my fingers are sticky and there’s that feeling of insubstantial fullness that only comes from ingesting mass quantities of junk food. My body hums as I surf the sugar high; I’m Superwoman shoving boxed foods and luxuries like toilet paper into bags.
And then Esmeralda stops snuffling the ground and begins the soft-shoe shuffle of unease.
My entire body tenses. Even my baby holds still. The thought is fleeting: how sad it is that my child has to come into a world where there’s no chance for normal, no pretense even of safety.
The word floats in on a malevolent draft from beneath the blue door:
A taunt.
If not for the donkey’s agitation, I could convince myself my mind had manufactured the word using my fears as tools.
Someone is out there. The cleaver takes on new weight, reminding me it’s ready and waiting should the need arise.
The wall presses against my back as I take a measured step closer. Gravity works its magic and eases me to the ground. My bones creak in appreciation. From here I can see the front door and both windows. There’s no other way in or out. I balance a candy bar on my belly and wait for dark to come.
Minutes tick by. They huddle together to form hours. I don’t know how many, only that the sun shifts slowly in the sky.
The heat grows, but down here on the concrete floor I can feel the cool of the earth seeping into my skin. When Esmeralda dumps her oats, I try not to care about the smell.
Wait. Watch. Listen.
Eventually, the night strides in and forces the sun from her comfortable chair. As she’s unseated, so am I. For hours there’s been no noise beyond the usual sounds nature makes. No more whispered taunts, no breathing that doesn’t belong. But I don’t trust it so we have to leave under the cover of dark and hope that gives us enough of an advantage.
The truth is I could leave Esmeralda, cut my way through the land with just me to worry about, but I don’t want to. Her company makes me feel less lonely. One by one, everyone I’ve cared about has been stripped from my life, and yet I can’t stop feeling a bond with this beast. Please let me be able to keep her safe.
We ease out of the building, onto the barren road. Hugging the curb is a necessity because I can’t see my way back into the bush without light. Risking a fall is not an option. Whoever is out there is likely watching anyway. For now, all I can do is make that task more difficult by hiding in the shadows, the baker’s long-handled peel held in my hands like a magician’s staff.
At first there’s a gentle wind that stirs the leaves making a soft
I stop. A half a beat later, there’s the faint echo of another footfall. We’re being followed or pursued. Is there even a difference? One implies a sense of urgency, while the other says,
On the heel of my boot, I turn and scan the pitch.
It’s just a flicker in my peripheral vision, like the fluttering of a panicking insect when it realizes it’s just flown into a spider’s web and become entangled. That’s all it is, nothing more substantial than that.
The adrenaline seizes control. Propels me toward the twisted olive trees. I half run, half walk, deeper and deeper into the wild land. Esmeralda stays close without complaint, more sure-footed than me. Guilt washes over me; she trusts me to keep her safe and I hope I can honor that.
Fate steps in, reaches out and places a hole where ground should be. My ankle twists. Pain shoots through my shin and I fall. The last thing I see is a woman emerging from the black, her face scarred, her hair that of a madwoman.
The Medusa of Delphi.
NINETEEN
The city has fallen into an endless hush. Silence is a sponge soaking us up. Shoes slap silently on the sidewalks. Coughs fade before they’ve left their irritated throats. The only noise comes from vehicles
