On the third day we took to drinking piss. By then so much ash had fallen that the water was worse. It was all worse. Sipping urine was the best thing left to us in this charred and lonely world.
When I say ‘us’ that’s an assumption of course, because it’s just me. Well me and Sheila, but she’s a goat and hasn’t drank much of anything since It happened. Turns out goats don’t drink piss under any circumstance whatsoever.
I did, however, see some people a month ago, so I’m not the only one. Two boys in orange t-shirts scuttling off with an old woman — a grandmother, maybe. Looked like she had their supplies tucked under a cloth on her head.
Couldn’t talk to them, though — nervous as hell, they were. Soon as they spotted me one of the boys blew an old whistle like a cat dying, then they disappeared. Now I’m back on my own. Alone, except for Sheila.
I’m not sure if it’s really what they call bestiality any more. With no people left I think the comparison doesn’t hold. It’s just animality now, raw love between living things. So few left, I’d say it’s fair.
Anyway I believe she likes it — I do. Every time we’re together she gazes off the other way, glossy black eyes staring in the distance, but in a nice way. Then she bleats in a fashion I could only describe as wise. The sound rumbles out of her like an old mountain stream, like the cry of an animal who knows something no one else does.
Well maybe that’s the truth. Maybe she knows more about living in a world like this than any man could ever hope to.
But hell, there’s no time for philosophy; the sun’s plunging down, purple as a bruise. We need to sharpen our spears before They filter out of the shadows, lusting for whatever meat remains in this tar-blackened husk of a life.