Chapter 2: Shelter

Some events in our life can cause dramatic, drastic changes to our personality and the way we function on a daily basis. Everyone deals with change in alternate ways, coping mechanisms, as per say. But what is a mechanism to cope with a change that alters not only the person, but their entire world around them. Their friends, family, pets, home and soul are invaded with changes. Can a person survive? Will they lose themselves through guilt and loss? Is rebuilding an option? Do our loves and lives define us as a functioning being? One must begin to question…

Three months since that day. My life changed, hell, my eating habits and typically optimistic mood took a swing for the opposite side. Weston and I have become closer in the past three months, I guess we had to, with no one else about. We did what the note told us, kind of. Grabbed two backpacks and stocked up on what we thought would be necessary, but after eating many tins of spaghetti it begins to taste like bitter regret, or worms. The only positive note of leaving town is the walking. Long, hot, exhausting, silent walking.

 

“Hey Brandy boy, what you think about that little cove on the beach over there? Look comfy? I’m supposin’ the waves don’t come up too far on nights, we could probably set up camp or somethin’… save all this darn walking.”

Weston had learned ‘slang’, or he’d tried to, I don’t know why. He used to be so proper like he had a stick up his a*s or something, so I guess after he abandoned his job, he left his snobby business persona behind.

Zoning out, I gazed over the pebbled beach. My grandmother used to accompany me to this very shore, bringing a basket full of items that I could never guess. Biscuits, kites, balloons, board games and squares of torn carpet. “Lets ride on a magic balloon-guided carpet over the sea, my boy”, she would playfully chase me to where the waves lapped at my feet, and we would play for hours. I guess those moments seem to go by so fast, and you don’t realize how much you treasure them until they’re gone.

“Brandy? Mate? C’mon, let’s go! Looks cosy… should hide us from this wind for a while. Who knows, we could even stay here and start over!”

Weston coughed, spluttering loudly, like old men and women do when they’ve smoked most of their lives. Without hesitating he made his way through the reeds, onto the beach and towards the cave.

On approaching the pebbled earth, I smelt a familiar burning, like smoke and ash of a fire burnt not long before. Scanning the perimeter I noticed a deep crevasse close to the entrance of the cave. Maybe someone had stayed here? But where were they now? How many? Where were they from? Had we stumbled upon a survivors camp? Or a camp of infected, deceased or decaying beings?

I cupped my hand under a crashing wave and gently poured it over what looked like a pit hole for a controlled fire. The water sizzled and evaporated in a noisy jumping parade, meaning it hadn’t been out for long.

“It looks like there have been people here! Look, there was a fire here not long ago, maybe someone has already called dibs on the cave for the night.”

I hollowed to Weston, who had already made himself comfortable in the cavern.

“I suppose we could stay here, aye Weston? Looks a heck of a lot warmer than out here.”

The cave was quite large in length, not height, but tall enough to walk comfortably around on two feet. I revised back to my grandmothers wisdom, remembering how she used to tell tales of men who were abandoned on islands far out to sea, and made beds out of leaves and food out of the earth. I could never tell whether she was telling fables to frighten me, or whether they were true. I guess that was irrelevant, the stories sounded real enough, and believable, at least for a naïve child.

I spoke briefly to Weston about how we could gather tree branches and other materials for comfort, warmth and protection. As I adventured and collected leaves and bark for bedding, Weston collected a large sturdy stick and a reed vine to make a rod for fishing. We hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days, so any catch would suffice.

The leaves I collected didn’t seem even relatively comfortable, but they would have to do. If the sleeping bags were on the dirt and rocks in the cave, our body heat would just slowly pour out and escape. I placed them on the ground towards the back of the cave, or where I had estimated the ‘end’ to the dark was. The sleeping bags were slightly damp from the moist air so I assumed that the further into the cave, the less chance there was of vertical precipitation affecting them.

The cave was surprisingly humid, considering it was literally on a beach. I realized how deep I had wandered into the cave when Weston’s muffled shouting echoed and bounced off the walls. Quickly pacing towards the entrance, I saw Weston’s waving in the air, struggling to lift his fishing rod higher than his own height. It seemed as if tinned worms were no longer on the menu tonight.

Weston had already blown all his oxygen onto the embers to ignite the flame, which had started to flicker and grow. The warmth made my knees buckle and I held my arms outward towards the blaze, ignoring the initial burn. The wind began to thrash violently and the waves crashed relentlessly, as if it were trying to push us away. If we were to stay on this beach, within a cave on the shore, there would need to be some sort of protection from wild animals, or people. The open cave wasn’t exactly welcoming but no chances should be taken.

I had remembered when my grandmother used to haul me down the coast and we’d find all sorts of materials, even man made, that you would not have thought to find on such a pristine untouched beach. There was an old heap of timber not far from our location that I believed was ripped off a boat in a storm, which would be ample for perhaps a balcony or a fence. I struggled up and wandered off to find the wood.

Once I had reached the pile, I lugged as much as I could physically carry back to the cave. My arms had become weaker without proper meals and poor nutrition. I once had small, but firm arms, able to move heavy objects and assist my grandmothers weight where needed. Now I could barely lift two planks of wood without my arms shaking and convulsing as if I were about to crumple.

 

On my last trip back to the cave, the smell of smoke and fish tickled my nostrils and I began to salivate incalculably. We used paper plates from our packs and our fingers to scoop the flesh from the bone. It was silent apart from the howling wind and water lapping the rocks, so in between mouthfuls I tried to make light conversation.

“I thought we could use the wood there for some fences, or overhead protection, if we were to reside here for a while. Mmhm, this fi-, good, very gommm.”

Weston laughed and it bellowed over the waves and out to sea. He was quite a friendly looking man, apart from the intimidating ruffled bush of facial hair that had accumulated over the bottom half of his face in the past 3 months. Weston had always been a larger bloke, with soft, plump skin and what my grandmother used to say, ‘big bones’. It was apparent that he had lost quite a bit of weight since, though.

He stood up promptly and brushed the sand of his pants, throwing the dry bones into the reeds. I couldn’t help to feel as if I were acting like a wild animal, scavenging between the thin twig bones on my plate for any remnants of flesh. I was so damn hungry I considered licking the plate clean, but instead followed Weston’s lead and left the bones for another bird to pick dry.

We began to haul wood across the sand towards the entrance, and lined them up where we thought would be a good angle to shelter us furthermore from the wind. I picked up a shell, eroded from the salty water and sand grains, and began to form a small crevasse to slot the planks in, side by side. We got halfway across the entrance of the cave when the wind began to push against the wood, forcing me to steadily place my feet further apart to secure myself.

“Hey Weston I think it’s time to pack up for tonight, it’s getting mighty dark and windy over here, can’t stand on two feet without bending over backwards!”

My voice travelled with the wind around the fence and to Weston’s general direction. Sighting a slight nod from Weston, I chucked the shell behind me and dusted my hands, which had becomes calloused from no more than a couple of hours work. We both made our way into the cave and settled into our sleeping bags, which were certainly poor excuses for beds but were shockingly toasty, once the thin layer of icy reside had soaked into your clothes.

Weston’s cough had become more prominent since we’d parked ourselves in front of the beach front, it must have been the cold that affected his lungs I suppose.

            “Weston?”

            “Yeah, B.” He spluttered

            “Did you have anyone, you know, back home? A wife, kids, family? You’re my local doctor so our conversations only ever expanded as far as how my stomach felt or what colour my snot was..”

Again, spluttering, Weston chuckled to himself. I’d guess that Doctors conversations with clients could be amusing at times, but not in these days. A simple hello Doctor I’m feeling mildly ill has drastically changed to ‘help me, I’m dying, I’m only 5 years old, please, what is wrong with me’… the whole town would have said that. The whole damn town.

            “Divorced. Inseparable once in my life, but that turned for the worse as quickly as the sea churns into a storm. Got a kid, actually, had a kid. Poor kicker passed after getting infected, one of the first cases I found. He was only- only 7…”

The silence could have killed someone, or caused someone to suspect danger because it was too damn quiet for the circumstance. I wish I hadn’t have asked, but like the words you say are to the paths we take, irreversible and worsened when attempting to turn back.

            “Poor kid, he was, the only thing important in my life I guess. I know it sounds bad but I would have traded one hundred people’s lives that I saved to spare his.

But I still see him, every now and then. He breathes on my face like the wind, and dances at my feet with the dust. He’s everywhere, my boy, he never left me alone for a second.”

I stared outward to the planks, one of which had fallen over and smashed the shell into pieces. I tried so hard to think of how to respond to what Weston had just disclosed. How much pain he had suffered losing his child, I had no clue what sympathies or condolences would relieve the tense, humid air. I almost choked to death the air was so thick.

Waves crashed continuously against the side of the cave, almost lulling me to sleep. Just as I drifted into my mind, the abnormal crunching of reeds outside the cave heightened my senses. Normally reeds would sway in the breeze and batter upon each other, but only crunch when an understandable weight was pushed onto them. Someone, or something was outside. I threw a can of spaghetti a Weston and it hit is bag, making a loud clink. He rubbed sat up flailing his arms, notifying me that he had heard the same.

We both rose and crept towards the entrance, sleepily peering through our eyelids, crusted together with sticky sleep. As I emerged from the wooden barrier, I turned to signal Weston, but he was no longer there. I stared blankly at his limp body on the ground in confusion. What had happened? Then it hit me…

Reviews

[DC Patterson]

I like the story and find the characters interesting.

I do struggle with your transitions from moment to moment in some cases - as in "I turned to signal Weston, but he was no longer there. I stared blankly at his limp body on the ground in confusion" He's not there, but I'm staring blankly at him. Which is it? I'm confused as you suggest.

Perhaps you could look around and suddenly spy his immobile body crumpled in the shadows (the reason we couldn't see poor of Weston for a moment).

You'e glossed over 3 months in a couple of sentences, but no one learns survival in 2 lines. I think you have robbed us of the slow and painful decent into loneliness the two men must adjust to as the population dwindles and they move further into the wilds.

But in 3 months, they seem to have only gotten as far as old Gran could walk with a young Brandy.

I also wonder it took 3 months to discover Weston had lost a child - if this happened before Grandmother, then why was Weston smiling sympathetically all over the place while slipping G'ma the death blow?

OK - put the gun down, have a drink, and remember all this noise is just wind blowing.

I like your stories, and you seem like a nice couple o' people - so I'm sorry if I am a) sounding rude or b) way off into my own delusions...

Keep writing and finish the book! Bash on regardless!

[WeatherTattoo]

Hey DC Patterson,
Thanks a lot for the review, we really appreciate your review, and value your comments and input more than you could imagine!

This is our first story that we have written together, so I understand what you're saying about the skipping and confusion as we're both quite new to this 'long' story writing etc.

One of the reasons we'd skipped a few months (i.e. the survival transition) was because we feared it dragging on and ending up with a 'blah blah blah' chapter, if you understand what I mean haha.

On that note, we do really appreciate your opinion and will take into consideration your points about slowing it down and being less confusing in future chapters.

We're glad to hear we have some regular readers and writers having interest in our story and look forward to hearing your suggestions in further chapters.

-Sam and Ben

[Lluvi]

Wow what a nice work! Thanks for sharing and it was enjoyable to read.

[Zeph]

Niice work :)) just as well written and enjoyable as the last chapter
will stayy tuned for moreee

[WeatherTattoo]

Thanks Zeph, appreciate it!