New World Blues

“Damn dust.”

Das slid his goggles back over his squinted eyes, wiped off the orange caked over the lenses with the back of his worn gloves, and slung his pack over his shoulder.

“Next house it is,” he grumbled to himself. He took a look round the hallway, checking for anything useful he might’ve missed. Not likely. Good scavenging takes practice, and he’d had a lot.

He brought his hand to the doorknob, held it there a moment as he listened to the menacing whistling of the wind outside, seeping through the cracks of the broken house, watched the dust flutter in through the shattered windows. He sighed and pulled the makeshift balaclava around his face just that bit tighter. You can never be too careful, out in the dust. He braced himself and opened the door.

The first gust hit him right in the face, an orange smear over his freshly-wiped lenses.

After a few steps the second blew him from the side, and he pushed his arm up to shield what he could. The third was barely noticeable in comparison, and after that - well, he was used to it. This was one of the lighter days.

He took each step down the weather-beaten garden path, over the dust-wrought cobbles, through the dead grass. His hand brushed a rusted gate, and he grasped it like a lifeline. He brought his head up and stared out.

A dark yellow burn across the red sky, a coffee stain on the miserable clouds that never seemed to leave. The dust rose so high and so gracefully up it could’ve been a thousand birds swooping and rising, circling underneath the stain. The sun was somewhere there, casting whatever yellow light it could down through the tiniest of gaps in the haze. Nothing new. If he was lucky it might rain later, clear the dust for tomorrow’s early start. The rain hardly ever came, and when it did the sky might as well be pissing on you for the colour of it, but at least it meant you could breathe outside without burning lungs.

Das cast his gaze down the way he’d come. A country lane, no wider than a car or so. Thick with choking dust, and one side swallowed with yellow-stained trees and hedgerows with all the leaves long since departed. Ideal for scavenging, tucked away in all this dead space. He’d hardly believed his luck when he found it this morning. Two houses to his right stood at the end of the lane, both already cleared today. One of the former families had generously left all their canned goods on the cupboards, which now filled his pack instead. The other had a garage - thick with dust both grey and red, but the shiny new hammer and wrench dangling from his pack were worth it. The one he’d just left had been in considerably better shape but worthless, aside from a single pack of sardines in the cupboard which, though he hated the stink of them he’d taken anyway. Das figured the residents had taken up and left. Might even still be alive if they were lucky, but his gut told him otherwise. Luck was rarer than food, now.

A sharp gust of wind crept through a hole in his neck scarf and gave a dry jolt through his shoulder, sending it hunching up in a spasm. “Dammit,” he mumbled, rubbing the already-sore skin. “Need to be moving,” he muttered to himself. He creaked the gate open and walked carefully to the next house.

The crumbling building stared down at him through the orange haze; the dust-stained white walls, at the broken-in windows, the dead ivy desperately trying to cling on to it all. Slates were scattered over the dead lawn at sharp angles, the withered plants blew crisp in the wind and a small skeleton, curled up by the empty doorway, gaped at him with empty yellow sockets. A cat, by the skull, and by the size, though half of it had already been swept away. Das scrunched his nose, and stared at the stained bones. A year or so ago he might have swallowed a bitter lump in his throat, maybe even tried to bury what was left of the thing.

Now he just sighed. Dust didn’t feel for anything. Not for people, not for animals, not for plants. Everything was dead, soon to be dead or clinging on by a quickly-weakening length of string.

He went to put his hand on the gate, only to find it grasping at nothing. There was nothing on the bent hinges. He stifled a small chuckle and crunched over the grass to the house.

Stepping over the threshold, he looked left, and right. A small hallway, with a door hanging off a single hinge at the end, a room to his left with some mysterious black stain at the beginning of the dust-worn carpet, and some plaster-strewn stairs to his right. All was silent, save the wind whipping quietly through the house. A familiar mix of damp wood and mould reached his nostrils. Something in the kitchen, probably.

It looked empty. But better safe than sorry. Das cupped his hands to his mouth.

“If anyone’s here,” he shouted, though the words scratched at his dust-caught throat, “I don’t mean you any harm. Just looking for supplies.” He brought his hands by his down and let his right lower to a knife strapped on his thigh. It was useless, he knew. No one was ever anywhere. He hadn’t seen another person in weeks. Months, maybe. Time was all but an orange blur of sheltering, sleeping and scavenging. But after a chance encounter with an over-eager fellow survivor a few months ago that resulted in an arrow in the leg, he wasn’t taking any chances. So he stood, still as he could, muscles tense as coiled springs, and he listened.

The house didn’t make a noise. He let out a relieved sigh, set his pack by the stairs and went into the room on his left.

A living room, much like the hundreds of others he’d seen. A TV bracket on the wall, hanging out limp with its former resident smashed apart on the ugly yellow carpet. The blue leather sofas upturned, as if to shield against the dust. A picture hung from the wall, lopsided and cracked - a family. A Mum, a Dad, a son, a daughter. Even the family dog was included, smiling as the son ruffled its fluffy black head. Das thought they looked very much like his own family, for a moment, but to his shame he realised he had little recollection of if that was true. He'd long forgotten his Mum’s voice, his Dad’s face or his sister’s laugh. If it wasn’t useful, if it was any sort of burden, the dust had killed it. He bit his tongue and grimaced. The picture suited the cracked glass, really. He swiftly turned his back and left for the next room. This one had nothing useful.

He went through the hallway and gently brushed aside the hanging door with his hand. Something rotten reached his nose as he walked in and he squinted his newly-watering eyes. Stifling a cough in his burning throat, he scanned the kitchen for the source of the offending stench. Dust crept in through the barely open back door, whistling dryly. A counter to his side, one in the middle, a fridge and freezer left wide open in the corner, still dribbling water. The steady drip-drip against the tiles had made a puddle nearly all the way round the island.

A fridge with water? After this long?

Das’s hand crept to his knife as he crouched. You can never be too careful.

His ears twitched for the slightest noise as he padded softly against the wet tiles, circling round the island counter with a tightly held breath pressing against his lungs.

The water was pinker now he came round the corner, the stench of rotting meat stronger all the while. A faint buzz joined the drip-drip of the fridge. The water turned darker still, nearly scarlet now, and thicker. He swallowed as he saw it.

A dog. Dead, and for a good few weeks by the burning of Das’ nostrils. Its face was caved in from decay, as was its chest, damp white fur tangled with what remained of its insides. Scratches marked its body, including a wound so deep the paw was dangling off now only by a few green sinews. A mass of feasting flies squirmed around inside its chest, buzzing happily.

Ah, well. He’d seen worse. He wondered how it had survived all this time alone. Maybe it’d eaten its owners, one by one. Maybe they were all upstairs, skeletons picked clean by their own loving pet as thoroughly as the flies were now doing. He wondered for a moment how it had got those wounds, but soon decided it wasn’t worth his time.

He stood up and began rooting through the cupboards, though to his dismay they’d all been emptied. Only black damp and the occasional insect greeted him.

“Dammit,” he grumbled. He opened one last cupboard, near the way he’d come in. A single can of beans stared back at him. “Bingo.” At least it wasn’t a total loss. He reached his hand inside and wrapped his hands around the cold metal.

Something scraped upstairs. Das’ head snapped up, and he was greeted by a smattering of dust from the ceiling.

He wasn’t alone.

The knife was gripped on instinct as he crept back along the hallway and round to the bottom of the stairs. A door stood at the top, with a small landing covered in the dim orange light spilling in from unseen windows.

“Is someone there?” he tried to shout, only managing another scratch in his throat.

Nothing came.

Steadily, he shifted up the softly groaning stairs, knife gripped so tight his fingers burned.

A grunt. A shuffle of feet.

He flinched at the noise, hunched his body even tighter. Whoever it was, they were ready to spring. He slid up the last step quietly as possible, and softly pushed open the first door.

A bathroom, littered with dust and mould. But otherwise empty. If he survived, he’d have to come back to it. He looked away.

Two doors stared at him. The far one was locked, the closest open just enough to allow an anorexic shaft of light through. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, flowing soundlessly over his goggles as he stared, dry-mouthed at his options.

“Is anyone there?” he tried again, “I mean you no harm.”

A shuffle behind the closest door, the flicker of a shadow. The fingers on his knife rippled. His breathing halted. His heart seemed to slow. He inched forward.

His foot slammed into the door and the figure was on him like a shot. The knife tumbled from his hand as his eyes clamped shut. Soft limbs flailed over his body, pressing him down. Something wet slapped at his face and hot breath hit his nostrils.

It barked.

He shoved forward and opened his eyes. A black dog looked back, smiling. Das blinked and shook his head. The dog from the picture. It darted its head toward him again, nose butting gently against his forehead as it attempted to lick him once again.

“Oi, oi,” he found himself giggling at the unfamiliar sensation, “get off.” He allowed himself a smile as the dog bounced around him.

In another frenzied bout of nuzzling, Das spied a heavy, heart-shaped locket dangling from its collar. He grabbed it as the dog tried to get closer, and clicked it open.

On the left was the same picture of his family. On the right read, ‘This is Blue. Please look after him’.

Blue settled down on his lap, still smiling. The dust may not feel for anything, but it seemed people still did.