Survival

Chapter 6 Warmth

Cynthia walked for two days, looking for a place where she could take refuge from the torrential rain storms, scorching heat of day and the ice of night. Nothing had come up, squatters or the disaster had claimed all of the structures to date. She had tracked down two more water bottles from the store, less breakable that the last and grabbed the last processed bread treats off the shelf, an indication that this neighborhood had been scavenged and was probably highly inhabited.

That or it used to be. Corpses still lined the streets; some were fresh additions and others weeks past their expiration date. Cynthia tried not to look too hard at their contorted faces, afraid that they may begin to move on her. The pain in her heart was far too great as each lifeless coffee-colored face sent her heart racing for fear that it might be Winston or her husband, John.

She reached a neighborhood that had been charred by fire. This wasn't bizarre, but the glowing embers in the buildings' remains concerned her. This was recent. The area couldn't be safe. She wondered who or what would set fire to the little that remained in terms of shelter. The fire had taken dozens of side by side houses, built too close to resist the teasing of the fire's greedy fingers.

Scavenging alone was growing exhausting and lonely. She longed to find her son and husband, but the odds were growing slimmer. Navigating the city on foot was proving far more challenging than she imagined. Destroyed expressways and sunken streets had her going around in circles in areas of the city she had never seen before. She sighed, thinking of all the times GPS had become her sense of navigation, leaving her present self completely unprepared to charter this territory.

The sun grew lower on the horizon, and her mind grew more frantic. Each night seemed colder than the last. She swallowed her pride and walked up to a lone man with matted dreadlocks starting a trash can fire. He was a decade past youthful, but the brightness of his hope still lingered. He met her eyes as she approached.

"Evening," she said with a smile.

He returned the smile like they had met camping instead of in this wasteland. "Good evening, are you here to join the fire?"

She nodded. "If you're willing to share."

"There's plenty of warmth, but we're short on food." He used a long stick to rearrange the logs. The mention felt more casual than predatory given that he focused more on the fire than her. 

Cynthia dug in her bag for one of the cakes and handed it to the man in exchange for the company. Instead of opening it up, he brought it over to a young girl who lay propped up against the building. Her eyelids drooped and her body sagged to one side. Her blonde hair was tied back tightly to her scalp and vomit was crusted to the side of her face.

Cynthia walked over and placed the back of her hand to the girl's forehead. It burned like a hot Fourth of July barbecue.  Her eye's met the man's who was trying to wake the girl up. Cynthia dug out a water bottle from her bag and held it the young teen's forehead.

"How long has she been like this?" Cynthia asked.

"We found her yesterday. She passed out on the street and has been in and out of consciousness ever since." The man shook her shoulder's gently, "Wake up, we've got some water for you."

Regret crept into Cynthia's heart. She had been so focused on her own mission the past few weeks that she had banished the possibility of helping others along the way. After the first week, her trust and altruistic nature had been overwhelmed by the selfish and unforgivable nature of others.

The girl's eyes slowly crept open, fighting the weight of her lethargic eyelids. Her eyes widened at the new faces in front of her, and she pulled her legs close to her chest.

"I want to give you some water," Cynthia spoke, passing her the bottle. The blonde scooted further back against the wall. "I just want to help. I am or was a nurse."

The girl scanned Cynthia's body then reached out with trembling hands. Cynthia placed hers on the bottle to steady it and help bring it to the girl's parched, cracked lips. Her first sip was small. The second was better.

"What's your name sweetie?"

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes, "Vita, my name's Vita." She looked around at her surroundings.

"I'm Cynthia. I need you to finish that water alright? Then we'll see about getting you some food."

"My wife and sister-in-law are off getting some herbs for her nausea," the man said.

Cynthia nodded and watched the girl slowly tackle the water bottle. It was hard for her to look back at the dread-locked man, knowing he had the one thing that she so sorely wanted back, a family.

"How far have you come from?" the man asked.

"I made my way down from 23rd street downtown. Have you been here the whole time?"

The man nodded, "We have an organic vegetable patch nearby. We're trying to recover and reseed as much as we can. The cold nights aren't helping much."

Once Vita had finished the water, she managed to eat the cake that the man had given her. The pastry stayed down without any signs of nausea. After half an hour, the red color faded from her face and the fever began to decrease. They helped her to a sheltered corner of the building on an old mattress to get some more rest.

"Where did she come from?" Cynthia asked as they stood around the fire for warmth after the sun had gone down.

Peyton looked further down the street and shook his head, almost in disbelief. "I swear she came out of one of the burning houses, but I can't be sure. So many came running after the flames swept through, but none of them dropped like she did."

"It's kind of you to take her in," Cynthia said, leaning closer to the flames for warmth.

"Society may have crumbled, but humanity hasn't. We can still fight for life." His gaze remained fixed on the fire, but from his tone she could tell he'd likely witnessed the opposite at times, as had she.

 "What's your name?" Cynthia turned to face him with a smile. 

"Peyton, Peyton Fairbrook. And yours?"

"Cynthia Ross," she answered, feeling her voice quiver speaking her surname. It astounded her how the mere thought of John's absence could destroy her good mood.

"Do you have family Cynthia?" Peyton asked. He must have sensed something in her tone.

"I'm not sure anymore." 

Peyton placed a reassuring arm around her shoulder. "We had a daughter, Lily, a strong, independent, beautiful girl." 

Cynthia was afraid to ask what had become of her. He sighed, dropping his eyes to the ground. His arm fell from her shoulder as did its warmth. 

"She was at a friend's sleepover when the building collapsed. We went looking for her, just in case, you know?"

Cynthia nodded, trying to swallow the tears that were beginning to form. Her son was supposed to be at his basketball game that night. She had been called in to work to deal with the swamped E.R. She made her choice and had to live with it now.

"We found her, our beautiful angel, she didn't make it. The hardest thi-" His voice shook and his body trembled. "The hardest thing is imagining exactly what their last moments would have been like. Her face," he said, covering his mouth and shaking his head, before composing himself. "It wasn't the Lily we remembered." The fire crackled in the background and he sniffled.  "We buried her out by the garden." He stared off into the distance for a moment, tears trickling down his face. "Are you still looking for your family?"

"I'm trying," Cynthia said softly and wrapped her arms around her torso. After his story she was a little afraid to find out what had happened to them.

Peyton smiled weakly and wiped away his tears. "It's good to have hope, but be ready for what you may find in its place."