Dimensions

Chapter 11: Sleeping in a Dead Man's Bed

Written by @pen-to-the-paper

Carina

For three days I have been walking with Dylan.

It has barely involved us talking.

I've begun to warm up to him a little, but he's definitely still not my favourite person. He's far from being there, but I try not to let it show.

Dylan is still struggling to come to terms with it all. He still thinks of Clara as Daisy George.

I do too, to be honest, but I suppose because he likes her it's different.

I like her too, but as a friend, you know. Not like Dylan does.

We hope that we will come across her soon, because she is not a person to give in easily. Never.

Well, we hope.

But she has a duty to her country to look after the people, and in her position, I would put that before friends and family, however much it hurt.

I have to admit, we've both begun losing faith in her.

But for the meantime, we must keep walking. Until we find something.

Something interesting. Some thing fun. Or a pizza. That's what Dylan keeps talking about: pizza. A real one, like they used to make years ago before everything was vacuum packed and freeze dried to last as long as possible.

The sun slowly sets in a dull grey sunset; there aren't any pretty colours any more. Just grey.

Dylan and I settle down to sleep on the dead grass of the outskirts of the city. But suddenly, it starts raining.

It very rarely rains here, but when it does, it is polluted and very very acidic. And not like vinegar or lemon juice (not that we have lemons any more). Acid, like proper, burn through think walls and flesh and pretty much everything else that's not half a metre thick acid. The kind of acid that would be labelled 'corrosive' in a science lab. In fact, worse than that; it wouldn't even be used in laboratories unless they were under strict protection.

I feel the first part of it hit my skin, and it burns and fizzes. We need to find shelter, and fast.

"Dylan! It's acid rain! Run! Come on!"

But his legs are in a puddle of acid, which is slowly burning into his flesh. I see his face contort with pain, but he tries to hide it.

"I can't...I - can't move - m-my legs-" he says weakly. As he tries to clamber out of the puddle, I see his legs, all the way up to the knee.

They're dark red with blood and I can see raw flesh all over his body, mostly his legs.

My distaste for him leaves as I see him desperate.

"Dylan! come here you're going to be okay!" I reach for his hand, but he swathe it away.

"Leave me here - find shelter - find Clara. Save - yourself..."

His head rolled back, eyes scrunched up in pain, and he looked at me in such a pleading manner that I had to go. For him and for Clara.

"See you soon, Dylan," I choke out the words, barely, and he rolls to the floor, panting, "you're going to be okay..."

And I am once again alone. The image of Dylan's legs stays into my mind. Etched into my thoughts. I swallow back a bitter sweetness in my throat.

How could I have left him there?It would have been so easy to pull him out. But the damage had already have been done. It would have taken twice as long to reach this village, and by then he would be even worse.

I'll come back for him later, I think, He'll be okay.

Tears flood down my face, tears that I thought I would never shed for him, but I run, on and on, until I see a small village just outside the city.

It is my only hope; pus-filled blisters are already covering my body and my skin is beginning to peel. My burns are really irritating my skin and all I want is to just into a bucket of ice to soothe my fiery skin.

After twenty minutes of silent and painful running, I arrive at the first house. My blisters have popped, and are painfully pulling as they dry and set into shape.

I peer through the window and no one appears to be inside. Thank God. I need to be alone. I have to avoid human interaction. People make me nervous, and they're unpredictable.

Most people in these settlements have died anyway, or moved into the city, so it's no surprise that this house is empty. Everyone's starved or died out of grief or disease. You'd have thought that in a well-developed world people could be saved. Yet we did nothing to help that; we've just killed ourselves off.

I quickly open the door and look inside the house. It is sparsely furnished and pretty basic.

The kitchen is dirty and rusty, packets of genetically developed food littering the floor. Discarded clothes, photos, and books have been dropped here hastily. Whoever left here went in a hurry. Or maybe they never left at all.

The bathroom is still intact, but the shower doesn't work when I try it. Neither do the taps or oxygen system. But I don't need them.

I can survive on my own. I'm strong like that. I don't need help. Not ever.

I wander upstairs into a bedroom.

Here there are more packets littering the floor, and it's a bit dirty, but generally hygienic enough. At least, clean enough to sleep without dying.

I can't find any water to help soothe my wounds so I just rip up some old curtains and create bandages that aren't very hygienic but are at least better than leaving my burns exposed. 

I lay down on the bed, ready for a snooze, when I have a disturbing thought.

I could be sleeping in a dead man's bed.

Or woman, let's not be sexist. Or child.

Although I think alien would be going too far.

I hear a noise from downstairs. Food packets crackling underfoot.

I was wrong. I'm not alone.