By Heather Picardat
I always hate waking up this way, dry, peeling and full of bugs. The last 13 mornings have been a repeat of the same tired scene. I attempt to open my eyes, only to find that the slugs have returned and created some thick glue-type mucus seal, adhering my eyelids together. If I can find the gummy end of the sludge, it’s incredibly satisfying to pull the film across and peel it away from my skin, but it’s usually not that easy. One time it was so stuck to me I had to use the crusty bits of my shirt sleeve to scratch it off. Like an insatiable itch, it throbbed and burned at my eyes with such intensity that I nearly passed out. I lost just about all of my eyelashes that day. Thankfully, they d grow back, a little patchy, but full enough to appear somewhat normal. Of course, eyelashes really are the least of my problems these days hasn't been that bad in a long time. I’ve gotten used to this general Hell-On-Earth, and luckily, situations like this have been teaching me how to survive more effectively in my current state.
This morning, I feel blindly around my bedding, searching for a shooter of vodka, my fingers aching from the dryness with every movement. Once I find one, I smash the neck of the bottle against the wall. It’s easier than fumbling with my useless hands to try and twist a cap off. I feel the glass break in my hands, tiny shards embedding into my already aching skin. Although I definitely feel the sting of alcohol burning my nose, I’m unsure if the liquid rolling down my hand is blood or vodka. It’s probably both. I quickly raise the shattered bottle to my face, ensuring that at least a few drops of vodka make it to my eyes. It doesn't really matter if the glass bits fall into my eyes; that's a problem I would address later. I know if anything, the abrasiveness of it will give me less of a need for salt. And the salt, ugh, that’s the worst part. That's a problem for later; now, I scrunch my face up, then raise my eyebrows as high as they’ll go, rapidly repeating this motion until my left eye begins to feel the coolness of the air blowing through the small opening. I’ve done this so many times already that my body barely reacts to alcohol dripping into my open eye. I begin to peel the slime, picking and pulling until my eye comes fully open. I move my eye around the best I can in slow intentional circles. It doesn't feel good, but it's a small comfort I allow myself after total blindness.
With one eye reclaimed, I sigh in relief. My mouth has been paralyzed for weeks, so I repeat
in my head, “You got this, Lara.” I still need these affirmations to get me through the day; I guess some things never change. I pry my other eye open, throw a pinch of salt at my face, and rub aggressively with the heels of my palms. My vision is still blurry, but at least I can see. I’ll take what I can get. Never in a thousand years did I imagine that pouring vodka into my own eyes would be the most satisfying start to my day, but here we are.
Once the fogginess of my vision starts to clear and I begin to get used to this version of seeing that I’m experiencing, I can finally roll myself into a semblance of a sitting position. My whole body hurts, and I cannot move my joints, but that’s not new. When the rains stopped coming, everybody's skin started drying up. Of course, the government solution to forced rain didn't help. Whatever they did caused a dust bowl and everything from there just began to snowball. Dust bowl, acid rain, fungus spores, black mold. The good news, I suppose, is that the slugs are absolutely thriving. This is their world now. Ironically enough, they also seem to be the solution to the shriveled up human condition. That is, if we can find the sneaky little buggers.
Since my eyes were slimed, I know there’s at least one slug hanging around here. It's like back in the day when chapstick was an essential pocket companion. Slugs have become the chapstick. I can salve my cracking skin and start my day. It would be amazing to get my legs working. Maybe I’ll make it out before the dust.
I see one little slitherer out of the corner of my eye and suddenly feel an adrenaline rush. It's not very big but I'm sure it's enough to oil the tightness in my skin.I will my body off of the makeshift bed, skin cracking with every movement, thankful that slugs move even more slowly than I do. This guy is like living, solid gold. I know if I can just get it between my fingers I’ll be able to bend and stretch, maybe even leave my confines today. Flinging my arms above my head in one swift motion, I feel the skin rip between my fingers, between all my joints and crevices. My arms feel like a thousand pounds, as if they were asleep and now the pins and needles are coursing through my whole body. I take a moment to breathe and focus. I’ve perfected this motion, mostly because I know that gravity will continue to work even when the rest of the world fails. If I pounce on the thing, I’ll likely be stuck on the ground, body like a sack of sand, but if I can pinpoint where my hands need to land, I can lunge upward just enough to crash down and gather the slug into my hand. Once the sludge begins working it'll be like oiling a stuck hinge. I'll be able to bend my fingers. By God, the dexterity would be life-changing.
The first time I tried this method, I thought I would die on the cold cement floor, shriveled up like an old forgotten raisin. But I lucked out when a thin drizzle of rain began dripping through the cracks in the ceiling and gave me just enough lather to sit partially upright. It was a rare occurrence, one I haven't experienced since. Back then, I still had a stash of canned and bagged foods: beans, nuts, some powdered milk. Enough that I could lap up with my tongue and keep myself alive for a few days, as my body seemed to be turning to stone.
It hasn’t rained since then, so if I found myself incapacitated for any reason it would just be over for me, unless by some miracle an unexpected rain passed through again. Or…if by some miracle, Leighton were to come back, I’d stand a chance. Although, he's been gone for so long now I’ve all but convinced myself that he’s either dead or dying.
Right now, the reality of the situation is that I am out of food, I have very little water, and my life quite literally depends on my ability to catch this slug. When I slam my upper body downward, I feel the comforting squish of the thing beneath the palm of my right hand. I’m instantly soothed. I’d be lying if I said my skin was cured, but it’s somewhat soft and pliable enough to help the muscles beneath the surface move without feeling as if they’d been shrink-wrapped. As soon as I’m able to, I squeeze the lifeless slug in my hand, feeling the slime and guts ooze between my fingers, I work the mucus against my knuckles until my hand starts to behave. Then I turn it over into my other palm, repeating the process.
This one is pretty juicy, and for that I’m thankful. It means I might actually be mobile today. Now that both of my hands work, I take the deflated corpse and rub it against the soles of my feet, forcing my toes to flex and relax over and over again. With only a small amount of goo left, I squeeze it like a nutcracker beneath each knee and then across my ankles. That’ll just about do it, methinks. I slowly rise to my feet, bending and straightening my knees as if to pump the life back into them. It works well enough. I close my eyes, and slurp down what’s left of the slug. I like to imagine that I’m having some kind of exquisite delicacy when it comes to slug breakfast. I’m instantly reminded of Timone and Pumba, “Slimy yet satisfying.” Satisfying it is not, but I'll tell myself that it is. Why not? The French eat escargot without a second thought, and I once heard that slugs are about 90 calories a pop. Not delicious by any means, but with the right mindset it couldbe Lobster Thermidor. Bon Appetit.
It’ll be enough. It has to be enough. The slime coated and moistened my mouth so that I’m able to fully close my lips together. It gives just enough energy to will my legs to move me forward, however slowly. I'm able to scoot myself with enough intensity that it finds me outside breathing untainted morning air. This is the furthest I have made it since I ran out of food. I was counting the days, but I’ve since lost
track. I know I’m on borrowed time here. I probably only have two hours or so before I start seizing up again, and then I will just be stuck wherever I dry out. I venture outwards anyway, leaving my door open a crack just in case I can't turn the knob when I return.
The first time Leighton left, he spread Vaseline along the floorboards. Back then, I hadn’t fully dried up quite yet. Naturally, I thought he had lost his mind, but giving him the benefit of the doubt I let him do whatever crazy act made him feel better. Now he’s gone, and I rely on slugs for survival. The Vaseline on the floorboards gives me just enough extra moisture to get me out the door. It’s amazing how long it has lasted. If I can find more, I swear I’ll lather up the entire room.
On the outside of the door, the large brass characters, “2A”, are bolted to a wooden panel that used to be a part of the outer door of our apartment. Once Leighton started to become affected by the dust, he went into super-survival mode, studying dryness remedies, how to collect rain water, trying anything he could think to make our home livable. That meant eliminating obstacles, like storm doors and dry floorboards. I thought for sure that he was experiencing psychosis, but that was before I, myself, started to suffer from the dust. Grateful, I thank him in my mind. “Thank you, Leighton, for the vodka, the Vaseline, the silk bonnet–somehow still mostly intact, hanging from the “2A” –for the rain barrels and the slugs.”Okay, so I know he didn’t give me the slug, but it had been so long since I’ve seen one;in
some way, I feel he’s responsible for today’s blessing.I unhook the bonnet and tie a tight knot around the ratted, holed out parts of itself. Then, I stuff it into my pocket. Immediately, I begin to head towards the rain barrel along the south side of our unit. I know some of our neighbors have had better luck moving about freely, not yet seized up or drying out completely. I won’t be surprised if the barrel is completely empty, but I have to try. On the off chance that it isn’t, I may even find some worms inside. That would be a real treat.
I peer around the corner, cautiously, hoping to run into a Partial Body or perhaps even be the only one out this early. One rarely gets so lucky, and by now I’m too physically slow to run, and too mentally quick to afford any brash moves. One slip up and I might find myself being chewed up like a jerky stick.
Before I can get there, I spot a group of Unafflicted gathered beside our rain barrel. Good thing I didn’t get my hopes up. I both envy them and pity them. I simply can’t imagine having full mobility, whilst also being so inept that I might someday eat myself alive. The Unafflicted always start off with pure dumb luck. None of them have ever had to eat a slug or a worm or any other gross delicacy I consume for survival. None of them have experienced drying out. They remain completely unphased by the dust, almost as if it can’t touch them, like it just slides right off… physically, anyway. Unfortunately for them, they experience all of the psychological effects and then some. Many of our neighbors were Unafflicted, poisoned by the dust, but physically still limber.
In the earlier days, before we really understood what had happened, I remember seeing our 12-year-old neighbor devour her own leg. Completely unphased by her own action, she proceeded to hobble off into the dust, one leg dangling freely. Four days later Leighton found her. Everything from the waist down, missing. Yet, somehow she was gnawing away at her own fingers. Her entire family would later be identified as Unafflicted individuals. Guess it runs that way. Her mom and dad and all three of her sisters had boarded themselves in, sending her and her brother out to seek help, refuge, whatever. I guess they thought that the two of them would either Partialate or slowly dry out. Either way, probably better to eat oneself than to be eaten by your own family. As far as I know, the brother made out alright, but I never saw him again so it’s hard to say.
Back at the rain barrel, I lock eyes with one of the Unafflicted. This particular person and its posse are ones I’ve seen out here before. They seem to have claimed the old rusty barrel as their own. I don't even want to know where the black and red chunks of flesh surrounding their feet came from. Last time I left our unit a few of them were there frozen in a sort of frenzy, gnawing away at somebody’s cat. What a party. I know that if I get too close I will become a human sacrifice. I shift my eyes to see if the Unafflicted will look in that direction. When he does, I determine that he's already forgotten he considered me a meal, butI can’t risk it. Stealthily, I turn around. Best to just pretend I saw nothing at all. I head towards 2B.
My neighborhood seems to have become a hot spot for Unafflicted. They really will eat anything that moves without a thought behind their eyes. I once heard some scientist on the news claim that their studies suggested some kind of genetic mutation occurring only in about .5% of those who inhale the dust. I'm convinced all .5% live right here in Dedam, Massachusetts. I don’t really know if one situation is better than the other. On one hand, they can walk at a normal pace, their skin is almost glowing, smooth as a baby’s bottom. They can move around freely without fear that their skin will dry out or their joints will seize up, and they certainly won’t starve to death. On the other hand though, their brains stop working; they eat themselves and everyone around them, unable to recognize their own families. You don’t have to be too clever to avoid them, but you need to be a whole lot faster than I am if you want to outrun them.
Meanwhile, with Partialbodies, the major downfall, is longevity. I’ve never seen or heard of one surviving this thing for more than a week in the outside air. They may be immune, but their hearts are not and they die of Cardiac Arrest within just a few days of direct exposure.
I've been thinking a lot about apartment 2B. I haven’t heard them through the walls lately, but they may have just been as catatonic as I have been lately. Suppose they could be Unafflicted. That, or they’re dead, which means there’s probably a few slugs in there, having a feast. Maybe they still have food to share. I should stop by, be neighborly and check on them.
I dig through the hanging basket dangling from their awning. They used to have beautiful mums and poppies blooming in there. Now, all I can see is a sad brown branch and a few handfuls of soil. I smack the side of it, willing some of its contents to dump out, that way I can get to the good bits of soil, and hopefully, find something of value. If anyone is still living in 2B, they’ll appreciate the gesture of a slimy worm or a budding seed if there is anything left. I reach in, feeling around for something resembling life. I find an unreasonably small egg from some unknown type of bird and turn it over in my hands. I don’t see any holes or cracks and don’t notice any offensive smells. Safe to consume. It's definitely coming with me.
I tap on the door in our sector’s secret pattern. If anyone taps back I’ll know at least they’re not Unafflicted. If they don’t tap back though, the only way to know what their condition is would be to open the door. No tap. I can’t take the chance.
Slipping the egg into my bonnet, I examine the pot. There’s a chance that another egg could be hidden in there somewhere, or that some other form of sustenance is in that soil. So, I dump the rest of the contents of the flower pot out. If 2B is in there, and they muster up enough strength to make it out the door, they’ll be thankful for whatever has fallen at their doorstep. Before leaving,
I rip a small scrap of my bonnet off and stuff it into the drain holes of the pot. Now at least they have a chance at a taste of rain water if it ever comes again.
I press my ear against the door just to double-check. We used to be closely acquainted and I do care about them. Plus, it would be nice to have a friend, but I haven't made it this far by being friendly or careless. To ease my stupid empathetic nerve, I push my body up against their door frame and attempt the tapping one last time. No response. What a shame.
But now I’m starting to feel tightening around the corners of my mouth, and in my elbows. The stiffness is a reminder of time and my lack of it. . It's now or never; or actually, it's now or whenever I have a two-slug day. I pry eight fingers beneath the top section of the door frame. It’s loose enough to pull off. Exerting as much energy as I can at one time, I pull it loose. With the upper frame dangling just above my head, I give it one last good pull and it’s off. Leighton once said, “ a walking stick in this world is just common sense.”
Looks like I’ve got some common sense now, too. I look it over to ensure that it will not splinter my hands. Not only is it mostly smooth on all edges, I am lucky enough to have pulled up a worm with it. I hope I won’t have to eat it, mostly because the one time I did eat a worm I felt it wiggling all the way down my throat. It’ll definitely be useful for a bit of moisture to keep me moving though, so I stick the slimy little guy into my bonnet for safe-keeping. I wrap one of the tattered edges around my new walking stick and tie it as tight as I can.
I need to find a few more necessities before the dust sets in for the day. At high-noon it’ll be impossible to move, let alone see, so I’m trying to strategically plan out the most effective use of my time. I think I can make it one or two more doors down before I have to turn around. Even that might be pushing it. If I’m lucky though, someone might be willing to trade the egg for coconut cream or powdered milk. I could live off of that for a while. Just maybe it would give my body enough to get moving. A little bit of hope goes a long way.
Heater Picardat is a Michigan-based artist, writer and philanthropist. She has recently published two collections of poetry, and has plans to continue her craft, diving into fiction works. As a stay-at-home mother of three, she has also spent time volunteering as a hold advocate in her community and has participated in fundraising event efforts to benefit children with trauma. In her writing, she showcases experiences from her own life and has taken inspiration from personal experiences along with occurrences that she has witnessed, some of which have been turned over and show up as metaphors for the unfortunate circumstances of life.
Comments