"So you grow wheat?" I ask, carefully tracing the piece of toast Deon just placed in my hand with the tips of my fingers .
I am not hungry. The quantity of food I devoured last night would usually last me for several days. My stomach hurts. It was nothing like the quickly baked fish and wild tubers I am used to eating, after carefully examining them for traces of deadly toxins. Everything was so delicious that it didn't cross my mind spices and overindulgence might not be good for me.
"No," Deon answers. "Growing wheat is impossible. The soil is no longer fertile enough for the purpose. Same goes for corn and rice. We are forced to go back to the ancient crops that people grew before modern agriculture was developed. I'm talking about barley, teff, oats. In fact, in addition to being more sustainable, they are also healthier. This is a very nutritious bread by an Ethiopian recipe. It contains only teff flour, water and wild yeast. Try it. It will benefit your muscles, strengthen your heart and nervous system."
"I'm sorry. I don't think I can put a bite in my mouth," I mumble. "At least not now. I am really grateful for everything you do for me and don't want to be rude..."
"It's ok, Chris," he pats my hand. "Don't worry. You need time to switch to normal food again. Step by step. We're in no hurry. I can give you some antacid if you feel unwell."
"No, thank you. I'll live. What about the strawberry jam?" I ask again out of pure curiosity. "Is the soil good enough to grow fruit?"
"Oh, no," Deon says with noticeable regret in his voice. "That would be even harder. Only some particularly resistant vegetables can endure the harsh conditions, even though the environment in the greenhouse is strictly controlled. The jam is from your mom's stash, a twenty-year-old treat. If something has enough sugar in it and is vacuum sealed, it can practically last forever."
"I doubt it," I laugh. "But why didn't you open it earlier?"
"Umm, I'm on a special diet," he mutters. "I avoid spices, salt, sugar and some other foods, quite a few of them actually. Not a big deal. Most can no longer be found anyway."
"Oh," I nod in understanding. "Thank you for seasoning the food especially for me."
"You should really stop thanking me," Deon chuckles. "You are very welcome. I enjoy taking care of someone so nice and agreeable. You certainly deserve it. Not that I wouldn't do it if you were a grumbler."
I am about to thank him again when a strange noise, reminiscent of a triggered off security alarm is heard nearby. It becomes louder by the second.
"Fuck!" Deon groans. "Does it have to be right now? I'm such an idiot."
"What?" I breathe out. His hesitation about how to proceed is obvious. He is nervous and I feel him getting more and more tense with each passing minute. It is enough to make my heart skip a beat. "What is happening? ORDs?"
"Listen, Chris," Deon grabs my hand and pulls me to stand up. "Everything's fine. I promise. You're safe. Don't freak out, but I have to ask you a favor and I can't explain why. Please, trust me on this and do exactly as I say. You will go to the second floor and stay there for a while. I need you to put on a coat as well... actually two coats... or three. No eavesdropping this time. No sneaking near the railings. Ok?"
I am too taken aback to question further and just start nodding energetically in agreement. There is nothing else for me to do, but to believe him. He is the only one who can help me against the mysterious menace and has not failed me so far. I will trust him, although this is all too odd.
The noises around me are getting weirder. The windows are rattling. The floor is shaking under my feet. Suddenly, the air becomes freezing cold. A strong blast of wind hits my face, as if all the doors and windows are open while a snow blizzard is raging outside. But it can't be. It's the end of August and still a blistering summer.
"Shhhh!" Deon hisses insistently.
I am even more puzzled because I am completely silent, not making a single sound. I probably look like someone who is about to start screaming. That must be the reason. He doesn't have to worry about it, though. I am so petrified that I wouldn't be able to do it, even if I wanted to. He leads me quickly up the stairs. I am squeezing his hand, trying to focus on the steps and avoid tripping. It's hard because I am already shivering with cold. We reach the bathroom and Deon shoves me inside.
"Stay here. Don't move," he orders firmly. I don't want to let go of his hand. It is the only thing that gives me some warmth. Clothes are not helping. The cold is seeping through them, sending chills all the way to my bones. Deon puts his palm on my cheek and insists, "You're safe, Chris. I'll be back in a second. It's ok. Let go."
"No," I whisper. "Please, don't leave me. I'm freezing. Please!"
"I'll bring blankets," he comforts me, raising his voice a little to make me come to my senses. "Your lips are turning blue. I must warm you up as soon as possible. Don't be afraid. Stay calm. I will talk to you the entire time."
"Were w-we not s-supposed to be q-quiet?" I stutter. My whole body is shaking. I've never been so cold in my life.
"No. You don't need to whisper." Deon manages to pull his hand out of my grip. I hear him turning the shower on. Hot steam fills the room. My tight muscles relax a bit. His receding steps indicate he is in the bedroom. The wardrobe doors are creaking. True to his promise he keeps talking, "I'm going to put blankets in the bathtub. You'll lay inside and I'll cover you with some more. That will keep you warm until I... um... resolve the problem."
A horrible high-pitched whistle comes from the first floor. The blood freezes in my veins. I drop on my knees and cover my ears, unable to stand the piercing sound. Suddenly, it all makes sense. The realization almost knocks me unconscious. How can Deon be so composed? We'll die. There's no way we can survive this. He yells something like 'swift', 'lift' or 'whift'. I can't distinguish the word and I don't see how it would save us. Seven encounters. No survivors. All victims found in the form of icicles. One lived only long enough to describe the creature.
The terrifying screech stops as abruptly as it started. Relief washes over me when Deon comes back and scoops me in his arms. I am not able to utter a word, but he doesn't seem frightened at all. I obediently wait till he settles me in the tub, wrapped in blankets and old coats.
"I have to go," he finally says, gently brushing his fingers through my hair. "Don't move from here. Wait for me to return. I won't be long, no more than an hour. How do you feel?"
"It's a SUP." I grab him by the sleeve, ignoring his question. "An ice bird. We're dead. It's in the house, isn't it? Deon, don't go. You'll freeze to death. We can take suppressants and lock the door. It may not find us at all. Why would it enter a room full of hot steam. It surely doesn't like the heat."
"Chris," he shakes me by the shoulders to stop me. "I can handle this. I swear we're safe. Calm down. I'll be back in no time."
"Wait!" I shout after him, but he's already gone.
I curl under the blankets and try to ease my breading. He didn't deny it, so I was right. There is an ice bird in the house. Why didn't the military warn him? Is that what the security alarm I heard was for? But it went off too late. It didn't give us any time to prepare for the encounter. And why didn't Deon show any signs of fear? He sounded more annoyed than startled, as if it was expected, but he was irritated that the monster didn't choose more suitable time to pay him a visit. The cold didn't bother him at all either. He seemed more concerned about saving me from freezing than with the fact that we both might die. What did he shout to stop the beast's dreadful screech? I'm sure the word he shouted stopped it, but what was it? My head will explode with all the questions, seeming to have no answers.
This man is an enigma. I am not ready to part ways with him yet. I need time to solve the mind-boggling riddle. Who is he?
Please, Deon. Don't die. Come back to me. I need you. Not because I am blind. Not because I am panic-stricken. I just can't imagine my life without hearing your voice, feeling your touch and marveling at your laughter anymore.
Image by Vlad Min from Pixabay
Photo 992838476 by solarseven | istockphoto.com
Photo 121372816 © Volodymyr Tverdokhlib | Dreamstime.com
A/N
Hello at the end of chapter 8!
Thank you for reading and supporting! ❤❤❤
It seems being in the house with Deon is no less dangerous for Chris than wondering alone across the wasteland.
What do you think is happening?
Is Deon risking his life in an attempt to chase away a SUP?
What do you think he shouted to stop the terrible screech?
Share your thoughts. I appreciate constructive criticism and will answer to all your questions.
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Love: Anny