Sane Survival

By: May Young

Screams of anguish, whimpers for mothers and home, and frantic yells and orders were drowned out by the destructive noises of continuous gunfire and explosions. Corpses lay broken on the crimson ground. Machines purred, whirred, rumbled, and growled. Bombs were detonated. The syrup of death poured itself onto the Earth until it covered the whole planet.

It was World War III, also known as Mankind’s Final War.

Eric Wilson stepped carefully on the muddy ground. His prey was so close. It was a rabbit—a thin one but good food nowadays, regardless of the size. He hoped that another person would not either steal his prey or disturb his hunt. Suddenly, the rabbit pricked up its ears before, in one quick movement, it bounded away.

Eric cursed colourfully. The sky was already beginning to darken. Checking his nearest traps and snares before he retired for the night, he found them to be empty. Eric sighed as he headed out of the forest. He guessed that he would have to cook some grubs and cockroaches mixed with dried herbs for supper. However, if Feith had gotten something, they would be having a feast tonight.

Leaving the darkening forest, Eric walked cautiously along a rugged road, his knife hidden in his ragged jacket. He turned back once to see withering trees. They were so scarce that it could hardly be called a forest any longer.

Hunched people leaned tiredly against the blackened remains of buildings. Some of them were moaning, others were silent; but all of them were despairing. Desperate men, women, and children beseeched for food and water. Even infants begged with their grimy mouths wide open in hopeless cries.

The sun was practically non-existent for the survivors of the Final War. Eric had caught only four glimpses of the star in the past six months. He distinguished a grey sky as day and a black sky as night. “No life can exist without the sun” had been the main belief, but Eric was determined to survive, despite the harsh conditions.

Eric carefully picked his way along the single, safest path through the traps placed strategically around his home. Feith would have used the one other way, dangerous for a human, but fairly manageable for a dog.

A welcoming bark greeted Eric as he entered the underground basement he called home. There were no upper levels as they had been destroyed in the war. Smiling, Eric knelt down to hug his unique companion, the only one he could trust: a Doberman Pinscher named Feith.

“Did you get anything, boy?” Eric asked, scratching behind Feith’s ears. Feith whined shortly and shook his head. “That’s okay. We still have food,” Eric reassured his now guilty-looking dog.

Padding over to the other side of the room, Eric dug out his storage of firewood. He took out a couple of twigs, then lit a match by striking it against a matchbox, one of the five items that he had grabbed before rushing out of his house during World War III. After dumping a small portion of bugs over the fire, Eric carefully lifted out a rough metal box like it was Pandora’s. He opened the lid with a creak and tenderly grasped a picture frame. Dim orange firelight speckled the reflective surface with numerous, tiny sparks. His father, with his crinkled, laughing eyes, had his arm around his mother’s waist, her white teeth sparkling. His big brother, Ben and Eric posed playfully in front of their parents.

Eric would survive this hardship. He had survived the war because of his family. They had sacrificed their lives to protect him, the youngest in the family. Eric would not allow their sacrifices to be in vain...to be worthless.

Whenever Eric went to bed, which was a flimsy mattress with virtually no stuffing, Feith slept with him. One reason was for company. The second reason was for warmth. Eric shared his blanket filled with holes and his pillow of extra bundled clothes. He cranked his flashlight one more time, hearing the mechanical gears clicking within, in order to be able to stare lovingly at the photo.

“Good night, Father,” he whispered. “Good night, Mother. Good night, Ben.” Kissing the picture, Eric cautiously put it back in the metal box that also contained two water bottles, some dried food, and five empty chocolate bar wrappers. He tucked the box protectively against his chest, put his knife under the pillow, bid Feith good night, and then finally settled into sleep.

In the gloomy night, two small figures crept low to the ground, deftly avoiding traps with the help of their four-legged friend. They stole from one home to another, avoiding detection from any potential witnesses.

The next morning, the polluted sky slowly turned grey. Eric’s inner clock woke him, and he automatically reached for the comforting texture of his knife.

Upon relieving himself, Eric noticed that his handmade hammer and extra makeshift matches were missing. Searching his room fruitlessly, Eric realized that he had been robbed. But how was that possible? His traps around his home prevented any animal or human from trespassing…unless they were lucky and found one of the only two existing ways to overcome them. But that was very unlikely. Nothing and no one had ever gone past before. It was impossible that in one night, a thief could sneak past all those traps and steal his possessions. Fortunately, Eric always slept with the most essential and important things to him: clothes and a blanket, his knife, the photo of his family, the manual flashlight, and his kit consisting of dried food, water, and a matchbox. Eric supposed that he would just have to make another hammer and more matches, but he was annoyed that someone still managed to get past his defences.

He checked the traps outside to make sure that the culprit had not fallen into one during his escape. Unluckily, most were inactivated, except for three. One held crickets. Eric had used one of his precious bottles and had put a little wheat and sap in it. Taking a scavenged pipe from a wrecked house, he attached it to the mouth of the bottle, bending the pipe slightly at one point to prevent the crickets from escaping. Another trap had been created with a wire cage. Feith had discovered it on one of their foraging expeditions. It resembled a crab trap. Eric had placed a few scraps of meat inside for a couple of days. Attracted by the smell, flies had laid their eggs on them, therefore, there were a cluster of maggots ready to eat. The last was empty though it had been activated. Disappointed that that there were neither game nor thief, Eric wondered if the last trap had almost stopped the robber. He set up the three traps again and reinforced the others.

Eric instructed Feith to stay home to guard his treasures. He wasn’t taking any chances of getting robbed while he was away during the day. As was routine, Eric first checked his hunting traps. One of them had caught a duck. Delighted, Eric freed the dead bird, stuffing it into a sack that he had brought with him. Heaving the sack over his shoulder, he set back down the street, darting amongst the ruins.

Eric occasionally stole from others. This time, he figured he could pinch a bit of salt to flavour the duck. Regrettably, the shelters he was able to enter turned out to be unrewarding. Eric hoped the next one would be more productive.

A muttering of voices interrupted Eric’s attempt to break in, and he quickly slipped away. He caught a snippet of conversation as he escaped.

“Not again!” a woman was complaining loudly.“The greedy thieves!” her friend spat. “But the thing that

bothers me the most is that I can’t even see them properly! A glimpse of a shadow…that’s all! Honestly, those freaking, irritating…”

Her voice faded away as Eric sprinted off in the opposite direction. “So it wasn’t just me,” he mused with mixed relief and smugness.

That evening, Eric and Feith put up a few more traps together. Nevertheless, four figures tiptoed into the basement and snatched some firewood and Eric’s supply of insects. Their cries of delight had to be muffled when they discovered his storage space.

Impatiently, Eric drove away a beggar pleading for food. He was in a bad mood and slashed his knife in the air to scare the man away. The thieves had gotten past his entire quantity of traps! They stole his food too!

Besides, in this survival competition, there was no room for compassion or pity. He knew that once one showed sympathy to one beggar, a whole horde would come knocking at your door. That was how Hugo Mac had died. He had been kind to everyone. In the end, he died from starving himself. Another example was Fiona Reed. She had been killed by the very people she was helping. The overwhelming number of desperate folk got rid of her to get at her depot of food, water, utensils, and tools.

Eric fished out a dirty sock from his pocket. He had found it hanging on a protruding stick from one of his traps, likely having been ripped from its clumsy owner. Winnie the Pooh grinned on the child-sized sock. Eric assumed that this was either a stolen item or the thief was needy enough to wear a child’s socks. It wasn’t hard to believe with the world’s current devastating situation.

Eric decided to stand guard the following night. However, it was useless. One blink lasted for an hour. The next thing he knew, his pillow of clothes was gone and the metal box’s lid open. Sitting up, a horrified Eric dug around inside the box to look for the familiar photo, but he couldn’t find it.

Choking in fear, Eric felt something sticky beside him as his hands touched the ground around him frantically for any sign. It was his family photo but with no frame. Relief welled up within him as he picked up the picture, not caring that that there was no frame. His family was all that mattered. Feith came up beside him, nosing his neck with his wet muzzle. Eric’s relief suddenly transformed into rage. How dare the thief rummage through his box! How dare he touch his most sacred and precious treasure! He would hunt him down!

Eric scavenged among the ruins and in the forest. Feith stayed at home again. Eric’s ears were pricked up, straining to listen in on anything that he could catch. Out of the blue, an irate yell roared up the street. Someone had just discovered that they had been robbed.

Eric’s information gathering concluded that the burglar was truly a mysterious group of thieves, and no doubt proficient. No one knew who they were for no one had seen them clearly. They only caught a movement in their peripheral vision, or a brief flash of light or shadow.

Eric was determined to find out who these thieves were and to bring the stealing to an end. The determination burned within him with a fierce flame. In the process, he was also helping others. They would appreciate his skill and intelligence and stop regarding him as distant and aloof.

Feith was the lookout this time while Eric slept, his hand securely grasping his knife under the blanket.

Just after midnight, when the sky was a dark inky black, six figures sneaked towards Eric’s home. One clutched an unlit lantern, its glass chipped and cracked. There was a brief, surprised gasp. A short yell succeeded before it was abruptly cut off. The sixth thief was new to the group, which had taken him in. With inexperience came carelessness. Hence, he was in greater danger than the other members of the group. It was unfortunate that he fell on his first expedition. Eric would have been satisfied to know that his trap was effective.

A gunshot followed by a loud whine woke Eric up. Cursing mentally, he cracked open one eye slowly as not to alert the intruder or intruders that he was awake and aware. Unseen under his blanket, he gripped his knife more tightly, wondering if Feith was all right. He heard footsteps quietly walk around his bedroom. Unconsciously, he curled protectively around the metal box with its precious contents.

Before going to sleep, Eric had placed a water bottle and three chocolate bar wrappers, which appeared full but were in fact empty, relatively close to his bed to lure the thieves in. A dog—a Basset hound, Eric guessed—slowly approached the bait, sniffing along the ground. Eric was certain that it was not Feith in spite of the dark. This dog had a different smell and shape and made different sounds. It also made sense that a dog was able to get past his traps. The thought of why a dog would steal those certain items, such as a hammer or a picture frame, did not cross his adrenaline-pumped mind.

Suddenly, with lightning-quick speed, Eric flew out of bed, his knife silent as he brought it up in an arc before him. A thud declared his successful aim. As he stood in the middle of his room, Eric wondered again where Feith was and how a dog could have gotten past the amazing Doberman Pinscher.

Without warning, light erupted from one side of the room. It revealed two girls and a boy. The girl at the head, who looked around fourteen years of age, appeared to be the leader. The other girl was around twelve to thirteen years old and held a lantern in which a quavering flame resided. The boy standing beside the leader looked about the same age as the lantern holder. Eric glimpsed one of his makeshift matches lying on the floor, half burnt. He heard movement behind him and understood with dread that he was surrounded. All of a sudden, another realization dawned on him. Feith had been killed…and the children had a gun.

As if reading his mind, the leader raised her gun as emotions flickered across Eric’s face. She sneered mockingly. “Adults…” she said derisively. Her smirk widened as she looked at Eric, who was rigid.

“You have been outwitted.”Eric’s mind was numb with shock. Feith was dead. All

the troubles, thefts, and angry frustration were caused by a group of kids. She pulled the trigger.

Pain sprouted in Eric’s abdomen area. The world twirled in dizzying circles until it blended into a blur. Pictures then began to form—moving pictures in long, overlapping films: his brother, Ben, laughing at a joke; his mother talking joyfully about her day’s work as a dentist; his father ruffling Eric’s hair; Feith barking cheerfully as a puppy, his eyes wide with innocence; a big family picnic in a lush park…

“I must live on” was his last thought.