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Authors: D.J. Molles
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cornmeal.
He took the cornmeal and left everything else. It could be eaten raw, mixed into a coarse dough with nothing but a little bit of water, if he could find that. He continued through the cupboards and cabinets, but found them empty. In a drawer he found an old packet of mayonnaise. He squeezed it into his mouth because it was high in fat and calories and he knew he would regret leaving it. Then he moved to the refrigerator.
He hesitated, because a refrigerator without power for several months can smell almost as bad as a dead body. He took a deep breath, covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm, and opened the fridge. It was surprisingly barren. He shut it quickly anyways. Opened the freezer on top and found only a bag of green beans, long since thawed and rotted away into a dark sludge.
He closed the freezer and turned away.
Down the hall, with three bedrooms and a bathroom. He entered the first bedroom, to the left. It was a child’s bedroom—a boy. Full of Disney caricatures and action figures. He checked under the bed and in the closet just to be safe. There was no one hiding in the room. Nothing of interest, and something about it being a kid’s room bothered him. He moved on.
He went into the bathroom. No water in the toilet reservoir, but he wasn’t to that level of dehydration anyway. He checked under the sink, found nothing but a box of tampons and some drain cleaner. He moved up to the medicine cabinet. He rifled through the collection of bottles inside, reading the labels of each. An ancient bottle of prenatal vitamins. Some acetaminophen and ibuprofen, which he emptied into his pants pockets. There was a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton swabs.
He took these items down and closed the medicine cabinet. He looked at the mirror, uncomfortable with what it showed him. He stood in stark contrast to his own memories of himself. Like he’d been transplanted into another man’s body. His face was gaunt and drawn, his beard disheveled and wiry-looking, with bits coming in gray on his hollow cheeks. His eyes were dark and sunken, seeming wide as though they were perpetually surprised.
He looked unhealthy at best. Psychotic at worst.
He turned to inspect the right side of his head. The hair was matted and clumped with dried blood. The long, open wound looked swollen and angry. He reached up, still holding his KABAR and extended one shaky index finger which he used to cautiously probe at the wound. It smarted viciously, felt hot to the touch.
It’s getting infected , he realized.
Then he thought of all the blood on his hands, and how much of that was his and how much belonged to a dead infected somewhere in the woods? Had any of it gotten into his wound? Was his confusion a result of the bullet wound to the head…or was he going mad?
He left the hydrogen peroxide and the cotton swabs on the bathroom counter. He marched down the hall, teeth clenched. He found the washer and dryer, and a wire rack above them that held what he needed. He grabbed a towel from the rack, and then took the bottle of bleach. Then he returned to the bathroom.
At the sink he soaked the towel and used it to scrub his hands until he could see his pale skin underneath. The towel turned into a washed-out red. Like watercolor. He threw the filthy towel into the tub and opened the package of cotton swabs and the hydrogen peroxide. He wet the swabs with the peroxide and got to work cleaning his wound.
It was slow, painful work with the cotton swabs, and the hydrogen peroxide hissed and bubbled against his split skin. A pile of red cotton swabs began to accumulate in the sink until he finally had the wound clean enough to see through the scabbed blood. He considered stitching it closed, but dismissed the idea. That would be the worst thing to do for it at this point in time, when infection was already probable. Closing the wound now would only be like putting a lid on a petri dish and hiding it in a warm
He took the cornmeal and left everything else. It could be eaten raw, mixed into a coarse dough with nothing but a little bit of water, if he could find that. He continued through the cupboards and cabinets, but found them empty. In a drawer he found an old packet of mayonnaise. He squeezed it into his mouth because it was high in fat and calories and he knew he would regret leaving it. Then he moved to the refrigerator.
He hesitated, because a refrigerator without power for several months can smell almost as bad as a dead body. He took a deep breath, covered his mouth and nose with the crook of his arm, and opened the fridge. It was surprisingly barren. He shut it quickly anyways. Opened the freezer on top and found only a bag of green beans, long since thawed and rotted away into a dark sludge.
He closed the freezer and turned away.
Down the hall, with three bedrooms and a bathroom. He entered the first bedroom, to the left. It was a child’s bedroom—a boy. Full of Disney caricatures and action figures. He checked under the bed and in the closet just to be safe. There was no one hiding in the room. Nothing of interest, and something about it being a kid’s room bothered him. He moved on.
He went into the bathroom. No water in the toilet reservoir, but he wasn’t to that level of dehydration anyway. He checked under the sink, found nothing but a box of tampons and some drain cleaner. He moved up to the medicine cabinet. He rifled through the collection of bottles inside, reading the labels of each. An ancient bottle of prenatal vitamins. Some acetaminophen and ibuprofen, which he emptied into his pants pockets. There was a brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide and some cotton swabs.
He took these items down and closed the medicine cabinet. He looked at the mirror, uncomfortable with what it showed him. He stood in stark contrast to his own memories of himself. Like he’d been transplanted into another man’s body. His face was gaunt and drawn, his beard disheveled and wiry-looking, with bits coming in gray on his hollow cheeks. His eyes were dark and sunken, seeming wide as though they were perpetually surprised.
He looked unhealthy at best. Psychotic at worst.
He turned to inspect the right side of his head. The hair was matted and clumped with dried blood. The long, open wound looked swollen and angry. He reached up, still holding his KABAR and extended one shaky index finger which he used to cautiously probe at the wound. It smarted viciously, felt hot to the touch.
It’s getting infected , he realized.
Then he thought of all the blood on his hands, and how much of that was his and how much belonged to a dead infected somewhere in the woods? Had any of it gotten into his wound? Was his confusion a result of the bullet wound to the head…or was he going mad?
He left the hydrogen peroxide and the cotton swabs on the bathroom counter. He marched down the hall, teeth clenched. He found the washer and dryer, and a wire rack above them that held what he needed. He grabbed a towel from the rack, and then took the bottle of bleach. Then he returned to the bathroom.
At the sink he soaked the towel and used it to scrub his hands until he could see his pale skin underneath. The towel turned into a washed-out red. Like watercolor. He threw the filthy towel into the tub and opened the package of cotton swabs and the hydrogen peroxide. He wet the swabs with the peroxide and got to work cleaning his wound.
It was slow, painful work with the cotton swabs, and the hydrogen peroxide hissed and bubbled against his split skin. A pile of red cotton swabs began to accumulate in the sink until he finally had the wound clean enough to see through the scabbed blood. He considered stitching it closed, but dismissed the idea. That would be the worst thing to do for it at this point in time, when infection was already probable. Closing the wound now would only be like putting a lid on a petri dish and hiding it in a warm
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