With A Friend

I broke the can opener today. Hold on, look, I’ve got it here…

The backpack’s contents rattle as he rummages around inside it. His lips clamp around his tongue as he forces his hand through the bag. A smile breaks across his face.

There!

He pulls his hand from the bag and slowly opens his fingers. One. Two. Three pieces of metal clatter to the countertop. His triumph fades to forlorn.

It uh… well, maybe there’s another somewhere… Or maybe I can fix it!

He begins rearranging the twisted pieces. His tongue begins to push between his clasped lips again and fierce concentration ruffles his brow. He holds the pieces together in an arrangement resembling the can opener. He wills them to stay together, but the assembly collapses between his fingers.

Worth a try I suppose… Why did I- Yeah, because I wanted to starve. Well, “duh” I didn’t do it on purpose! Look, I even brought back the little shite that did it!

He snatches a can from his bag and slams it down on the counter, clinking the assorted glass and metal debris. He stares at it, cheeks puffed, lips pursed into a pink sliver. The can is nondescript, dull, grey metal mottled with dirt and spores of rust. He brings his face close to it, eyes crossing as he inspects its rim.

Ha- haha. Look here! I scratched it!

He straightens and casts his eyes over the counter.

Watch it be dog food or something from twenty-ten. You heard it here first! I mean, the house it came out of looked like it had been shipped from the fifties. At least, the furniture looked like it had- No, no I’m not bashing it at all. Look, I know you came from that time, okay, but if you just let me finish- Yes, fine, it’s got charm. Whatever. Just let me finish, right, I’ve got a vlog going here. The house was gutted, so it probably looked absolutely fabulous before it got looted. There. See? I’m fair. Anyway, I come in through the front window- No, I didn’t break it, it was like that when I got there. No, the door was stuck, I tried, now stop interrupting! Yeah, so, front window. Me. In. And I think I stood in… something… It squelched, okay, and I’m going to have to clean that up after this because it stinks and those are my favourite shoes. Anyway, all the cupboards: open. Nothing. A whole lot of nothing except for this bad boy under the sofa. And we all know how bad this boy is because it’s gone and broken my can opener…

He leans on the table, eyes passing between the remains of his can opener and its killer.

I’ll find another tomorrow.

-

Day thirty…six. Thirty-six!

He straightens and stretches, reaching upwards.

Do you ever wonder if there were people watching you, like some kind of movie… like, do you ever wonder if your life was a movie and that some TV audience is watching you now and going “don’t do that you utter buffoon”, you know, like you watch those movies and you can see the character is making a decision… and you think “these writers are just terrible” but you have to watch it happen? Yeah, I get that a lot. I get that a lot especially when I’m considering going into the strip mall to find a bloody can opener because YOU-

He motions to grab the can on the counter but reneges, combing his fingers through his hair instead.

…broke the can opener.

Without one? Yeah, go without one. You know the only thing I can eat comes out of cans, right? Like, the only living thing I’ve seen was a rat and the fur was falling off.

I’ll take care. Look, don’t worry, I’ll be back later.

-

You’ve got to tell me more about yourself!

He swallows and washes the mouthful down with a swig from a bottle. He sets it down with a clink and pushes his fork back into the can.

I’ve been doing all the talking. Yes, I know I interrupted you yesterday, I’m sorry. I was upset, okay, my can opener was a tragic loss. Let’s see how long this one lasts… I picked up a Swiss Army Knife too! No, I got the case after the knife. No, I couldn’t find a fridge. Imagine the size of the crank to keep one of those going! Ha-

He snorts and then coughs, eyes tearing. He coughs again, grating the insides of his throat, and scrabbles for the bottle. He clamps his mouth over the top and drinks. He groans as he sets the bottle down and coughs again, wiping the tears from his face.

You stop telling jokes like that whilst I’m eating.

He glances over and smiles sheepishly before picking up the can.

Yeah, don’t talk whilst I’m eating, I know. I’m sorry for scaring you. Anyway, look, so you’re probably from the fifties. Maybe before. No, you don’t look your age at all! You’re charming! Look at that twinkle, that smile! No, not your age, that’s preposterous! I bet you’re funny too. I wonder if you sang…

What did you do before? I was between jobs, not that anybody was hiring, I mean, it got really crazy. Volunteered at one of those distribution centres for a bit, giving out masks and water, you know? I might even have met your folks in the process! Imagine! The best meet-the-family ever!

His gaze disappears into the flames dancing in the bin.

I, uh, I was lucky, I guess… But so were you! I mean, well… I swapped with someone, see? Timetable shuffle. So, I was at home when, well… I mean the pinnacle of unlucky must be standing at the window when it hit… If you saw my front room- I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I mean yours was pretty messed up too from what I saw- yeah, we can leave it.

Ah what a downer. That’s me!

He takes a final swig, finishing the bottle.

Yeah, I miss it. Life. Drank to that, I suppose.

-

We’ve got to go. Must have followed me back from the mall. Oh! The can opener.

-

I think we’ve lost them. Probably five, well, four soon because the one was coughing like a two-stroke in winter. Took another bottle but left them the case. I’m a good host.

He suddenly straightens, head darting around.

Oh, the wind- OH the rain’s coming in-

-

The rain was pretty heavy last night. We, uh, we lost the rucksack. Soaked through. It’ll probably make a Geiger counter sing. There might be something in the house I can use, but there’s a lot of stuff here.

He leans against the counter, surveying the assortment of tools and trinkets spread across the table.

We’ll find some- What the…?

Faint shots crack from outside, coming in sharp bursts. Shouts carry through the humid air.

-

Well, I got a new bag.

He holds a rucksack up, compartments agape.

I think it was the cougher, but it wasn’t the cough that killed them, poor fellow. Just classic, I go weeks- months? No, weeks…

He stops loading the bag and tilts his head to one side, brow furrowing.

Anyway, it’s been a while, okay, and on the one day I decide to go to the mall it’s like everybody in town has followed me back.

‘Ello, ‘ello! What’s this! Someone’s been packing…

He hefts the gun in his hand and points it at a wall. He claps the underside of the handle then peers at it. He claps it again, face quizzical.

Wha-

The magazine slides out of the handle, dodges his fingers, and clatters to the floor. He reaches after it.

… ‘sakes…

Look, you stop laughing.

He jams the magazine against the handle before turning it around to slide it in. He pulls on the housing, and it clicks.

Just like the movies! Hold on-

He freezes, eyes widening, and slowly presses his finger to his lips then forces himself to face the doorway. He steps to one side, white knuckles wrapped around the pistol. He edges closer to the door, finally flattening himself against the wall. A boot reaches into the doorway, owned by a huge black figure, at least a head taller than the pallid man pasted to the inside wall. The figure scans the room and looks directly into the camera. It comes in, pistol drawn, and light from the windows illuminates a hooded head and masked face. They pick up the camera and turn it over. The camera begins to refocus on a glittering pool on the counter but a gloved hand cuts it off, reaching for the glitter.

Two loud cracks split the air. The camera tumbles to the counter. A gloved hand leaves a bloody streak on the counter before disappearing over the edge with a thump. Shouts fill the house.

We have GOT to go!

He scoops the rucksack up, grabs the camera and crashes through the kitchen window. The video fades to blinding white in the sunlight before correcting. Fingers wrap over the lens and the camera goes dark. More shouts are heard. Three shots bark into the street, followed by a distant wail. The fingers move off the lens, leaving a smudge that turns the video into a tumbling blur.

-

I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried. We tried. Didn’t we?

His hands shake. His ear is grazed, mirroring a rip on the shoulder of the plasticated suit. He pushes a hand through his hair, dropping the gun into his lap as he reaches towards the camera and pulls a glittering string from under it. A chain.

Please tell me you’re okay. Say something?

He winds the chain between his fingers, resting its heart-shaped capsule in his palm.

Oh god oh god oh god-

It cracks open with a click.

No, no, no… I’m so sorry. We… I’m… I can save you!

He reaches for the camera, turning it to face the locket in his hand. The dull metal heart is open, revealing a black and white photograph. A woman smiles back, a bright, warm smile that lifts her face. Plumes of blond hair spill down her shoulders. Her pale eyes seem to sparkle, even through the ages.

Droplets are misting the inside of the glass, coalescing, seeping into the photo, mobilising the pigments. Her face fades and distorts under the blotches. Speckles cloud the picture where the droplets focus the sunlight.

The camera remains on the photo until it vanishes under the scintillant fog.

-

Day, uh, forty, maybe…

I’m sorry. It’s just… You don’t- Who are you? Are you listening? Forget it, it’s fine.

-

Day… forty…five? Maybe? Went back. Got some bullets from the guy there. He smelled. Nobody else around.

-

Day forty-nine. Pretty sure it’s forty-nine. It’s forty-nine, deal with it. I think I’m on the tail of those guys. From before. Figured out how to load my gun, too. Remember that? Remember when I… When- yeah…

Anyway, look, I found this.

He places a small battery-operated radio on the counter. It whistles and crackles as he turns the knob.

It’s got battery, so that’s something.

-

Day. Fifty. Two.

His face is blank. The radio whistles and pops behind him. His lips are tightly pursed, and his cheeks are puffed. He opens his hand over the counter, dropping twisted metal on the countertop.

Can. Opener.

He winds the necklace around his fingers, toying with the brass heart as his blank gaze mourns his latest can opener.

His brow furrows, ear pricking. He turns towards the radio.

The whistles fade as voices begin to crackle through the speakers.