Dystopia Chapter 4: That's My Husband

 A chilly night has settled in as the sun slipped behind our mountain range. We live in the rain shadow, supposedly that patch of land that has become a desert because the mountains block much of the rainfall necessary for plant growth, followed by oppressive heat. Summer.

Winters a different story. It is easier keeping warm than getting warm once chilled. Hats and socks are a must, and outerwear layered, kept clean and in good repair. As nightfall approaches, here’s a suggestion: grab a warm body.

We are without power, lights, heat, and any hope of survival. I don’t mean to sound grim, but suicide and exposure are frequent causes of death. It’s a bleak lifestyle.

Wintertime is our enemy. (summer is our enemy) Hell, every season presents its unique challenges. Like the cold, the temperatures drop into the low 30s. Hypothermia kicks in when the core body temperature falls below 95 degrees Fahrenheit. We all face a potentially dangerous drop in body temperature caused by prolonged exposure to cold weather. So, build a bigger fire, you say. Unfortunately, we live in the desert. Trees are more precious than gold and equally scarce. We spend our days where we scavenge for wood. Some days, these scavengers never return, gone. They have wandered off beyond the edge of our settlement or gotten lost in the desert, consumed by nature. If you are missing… no one is gonna look for ya.

Like the heat in summer, the temperature rises to 100 plus daily for weeks. Time in the sun needs to be monitored and, to make matters worse, a lack of drinkable water to hydrate. Did you know you can recycle your urine? Indeed, we do.

It is late as the sun hides behind a thickening layer of clouds, rain clouds dark filled with despair. Most members of our mini camp have returned after a day of assigned task, many hunting in the fields for scraps of burnable materials to feed our chiminea while others work in growing, harvesting eatable foliage or trapping critters, and/or in the kitchen preparing our meager meals. This was my day. This was every day.

In our bungalow, conversations exist, repeated from the day, weeks, even months before. The same stories. A few play cards with a marked deck of cards gingerly handled. Some attempt to read their tattered books, saved from the flames, for the second time, by the fading light next to burning embers. We have one member able to serenade us on an aged guitar as he makes up songs, some cheerful, most sad. Redundant, we have heard these songs, these stories over and over.

Number two Scout Team left this morning, Number one Scout Team went south, Team 2 went west. Nine souls left this morning. No reports of either Scout Team returning. It is possible they have settled in for the night somewhere, possible.

With the passing of time, we get comfortable, a headcount is done. We have twelve on our roof’s edge. Seems we have a few visitors. The snoring suggests members are dozing off to their world of dreams, dreams of dread or hopes. Moans interrupted the quiet, Dale talking in his sleep (sometimes the highlight of the day), and quiet conversations.

As the fires fade, the cold grabs everyone. Some, awake, drawn toward the fire, like a moth to light.

My personal unit includes a wall on the east and a wall to the north. I’m in a corner and, like most lifted off the floor, resting on pallets. You don’t burn pallets. By design. When it rains frequently, regardless of rain shadow, water flows beneath the pallets and drains through notches chiseled in the walls, before it is collected and stored in cisterns below. Just keep everything off the “floor.” Between storms, we remember to plug the spaces to keep critters out and our limited heat in.

It is never a good idea to sit in front of a chiseled-out block where a flicker of light makes for a potential target. Rarely fatal, sitting can be problematic. That, and no one wants to be the butt of a butt joke.

One way to stay warm other than keeping the fire stoked… is crawling into an aging sleeping bag, sharing heat with a warm body. Our bungalow population increases nightly.

Emily arrives as the temperature drops. She is pleasant both as a conversationalist and as a heat source. She is married but, one of many viewed as ‘married-single’. Her husband, they say, is best described as a hotheaded-jerk, but has surgical skills that are highly valued. Enough about him.

She arrives as the sun disappears, the temperature drops, and the rain begins. Another advantage of working in the kitchen, contact with most everyone and scraps. Not that I would share scraps or use them to barter. Someone who snuck out with crumbs recently and caught by Ms. Bishop… now missing.

Emily enters through one of two access routes, this one along the eastern block wall. Smiles. She slips off a layer of outerwear, then another layer, movements unhurried and familiar, before easing into the sleeping bag beside me. Cuddle time. Her frame is warm and solid against mine. She shares in the daily prattle. Her voice feels comforting; her enthusiasm, refreshing. Her touch, soft. Breath, warm. I doze off.

I am awakened by a disturbance outside, someone yelling, demanding Emily to exit our unit. The shouting awakens other members of the camp. With clarity established, Emily whispered, “That’s my husband.”

“What the f…. does he want?”

I get it. That was a stupid question.

Silence. Maybe he left. Nope, the yelling continues. More demands with interjected threats. The confronter seeks an audience; I assume me, and his woman. Thinking, come on, it’s rainy, windy, chilly, go away.

Heart racing, I had a feeling this would not end well.

Okay, Emily, “here is the plan.” You will exit slowly, reassuring him you are on your way home. Take your time. I will exit through the second entrance/exit. And together we will see if we can rationally talk this out, convince him you were sleepwalking, got lost? Appease him.

She exits the sleeping bag, dresses, and moves toward the east exit, clearly shaken. I dress, collect my revolver, check to see if fully loaded, and head toward the west exit. She freezes. “Why the gun?”

Eyes meet, hoping I need not clarify. “Thinking you may have to make a choice.” Return with him or not. Seems to be your options. I plan to return to my sleeping bag. I turn and head toward the exit.

Everyone is awake now, listening, watching, wondering. They realize on any day, this could be them. Realizing this would be tomorrow’s buzz.

I exit slowly, stand unseen, perhaps thirty feet away. I see Emily has exited, now being grabbed and yanked toward her husband, while he continues to holler. Creating a scene.

I moved forward, revolver at my side, out of view, listening as he continued to berate her, to accuse her, still yanking her like a rag doll, until he realized I was now a dozen steps away. She continues to plead, “Nothing happened.”

“What were doing to my wife?”

Shrugged my shoulders, shook my head, knowing there was not much I could add. “Nothing.” True, but not helpful. Witty I am not. Suggested, “You need to just calm down and leave. It’s all a mistake. Take her. I’ve never seen her before. Go home. Sleep it off.” I’m nobody’s hero.

I tried to slow my breathing. Both armed, waiting. As dark as it was on the rainy, cloudy night, I attempted to see her face, her expression, seeking to read her thoughts, body language, anything that might give me a clue. Although ultimately she may have no say in the encounter's outcome.

Emily, filled with fear. Earl, I think she called him Earl, was under the influence of anger-induced adrenaline. I, shivering in rain-soaked clothing, watched his revolver hand for the slightest sign of movement.

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