Shamblin' Sam

Before Sam was a glass bottle of whiskey, a delightful delectation from the old world. The name on the label was too faded to read, but he could recall from the shape of the bottle that it was named after some American hillbilly and would clock in around 80 proof.

He unscrewed the cap and took a long swallow. His nostrils burned. His eyes watered.

He smacked his lips and sighed with pleasure.

“What are you doing?” Ella asked, clearly not happy with him.

“Trying to be good and, as usual, not doing a very good job of it!” He replied, laughing.

Ella shook her head, trying to maintain her grimace. “We should save that for medical supplies, for a disinfectant or painkiller. You know we might not find much of that elsewhere.”

“Sure,” he said, but he took another long swallow before capping it and handing it over.

She tried to look stern when she snatched it from him, but his stupid grin was infectious, and she grinned back.

She uncapped the bottle and took a long swallow. She coughed hard but kept it down, and as the warmth spread in her stomach, then throughout her body, she heard Sam laughing, and wasn’t surprised, when her vision cleared, to see the old man clutching his belly.

She capped the bottle tight and tucked it away in her knapsack.

“Who knows?” she said to the old man. The few people left in this part of the world called him Shamblin’ Sam, because he walked with a limp. “Maybe we’ll be in pain later, around the campfire.”

“May be,” Sam said, chuckling, “with a toast to our bright futures!”

Sam loved Ella like the adult daughters he lost in the war. He couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do than share what might possibly be the world’s last fifth of whiskey with her.

It couldn’t be long now for him, and they both knew it, but that just made his remaining time more precious.

Ella met Sam in the aftermath of civilization’s collapse. He was travelling with three younger men. They offered to share a meal and shelter with her for the night.

When they were all settled in, the younger men tried to force themselves on her.

Sam told them to stop.

“Shut up and wait your turn, old man,” one of them said as the other two held her down.

Sam pulled out a nine-millimeter and shot them all in quick succession, with a clinical precision that made it obvious he’d done that sort of thing before, maybe for a living.

“I can’t believe I called those shitbags my neighbors. Looks like it’s just you and me, young lady,” he said in a light-hearted, off-hand manner as he holstered his nine; but his eyes said he was sorry.

Sorry for her. Sorry for himself. Sorry for these shitbags. Just sorry all around.

The bullets were hollow-point and created quite a mess. She’d been covered in blood.

Sam dug out some clothes from the smallest of the other men’s effects, and coyly turned away as she cleaned herself up and changed.

They left the bodies of the shitbags to rot, and since then the pair were inseparable. Sam might shamble, but he was a military vet and a sharpshooter, and nobody’s bitch. He taught her everything there was to know about survival and self-protection, but more importantly, he taught her there was still something worth living for.

She went from being a terrified bystander in the midst of a post-apocalyptic nightmare to a self-willed individual in a vast and beautiful natural world largely untainted by human want and waste.

She’d miss the old man dearly when he was gone.

Here, she supposed, was a dawning pain worthy of a toast.

***** * *****

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