We huddle together on the front porch of the house we are currently squatting in. What flickering hope we have for survival will eventually expire with a shudder if something doesn't change. We are thinking that the well here still has water for now, but that the nonperishable food stash is beginning to dwindle. We have packets of seeds for a garden in our possession, but the gray cracked earth here will refuse to yield any bounty for us to consume.
We constantly worry about scurvy and cuts that won’t heal. We worry that we never saw ourselves as the badass heroes of the post-apocalyptic movies we watched before they became less fantastical and more of a guide for survival.
We do not voice our worries. We comment on how pleasant the breeze is. Marvel that the sun can still glitter in the sky when there is so much death below it. A deer wanders into view. We catch our breath and wait. It’s a thing of beauty despite its visible ribs, despite its frantic grabs at what little vegetation has managed to grow.
We have talked about this moment. How one of us — tenderhearted both — will have to spill the blood of an innocent if we’re going to survive. But the deer meets our gaze. Looks at us as if trying to place us. We reckon she has likely not seen any humans before.
We stay frozen. Neither reaches for the weapons we keep at our sides now always, but don’t really know how to use. The deer moves on. We don’t talk about what didn't just happen. It will be minestrone from a can again tonight.
Diane D. Gillette (she/her) mostly writes short things, but sometimes she strings them together to make longer things. She lives in Chicago with her partner and cats. Read more at www.digillette.com.
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