(Worth a Thousand Words) The Least She Could Do

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The Least She Could Do

by Vaughn R. Demont

There were tracks. Tiny, pitter-patter tracks, but tracks just the same. It was a helpful reminder for her, that she wasn’t alone, that there was a whole other world beside hers that had kept on going regardless. Animals would scamper, birds would fly once it got warmer, fish would… probably swim.
She wasn’t about to jump in the river to confirm that, but she could tell herself that there were schools of them. Trout or pike or salmon, she’d never paid much attention to the local wildlife, never learned how to hunt anything other than boxes of snacks when the lights were out and care was required to not wake anyone up.
That wasn’t a problem anymore, anyway.
The boots were tight, heavy and tan, a size too small, and for men, but the store had been looted and beggars could be choosers. Well, she could have chosen a pair of boots for women but the hot pink ski boots were so groan inducing she’d be constantly in danger of rolling her eyes back into her brain.
There was a breeze, not cutting, or at least it couldn’t cut through the extra layer she’d added that morning before the long walk to town. The snow on the concrete was powdery, light enough to be blown about and cover her tracks, but the two benches in front of her had heavier snow, meaning she’d have to sit on the armrest to not leave too much of a sign that she was there.
It was more dangerous in town, near the buildings across the river, where there were views and stashes and places to hide that hadn’t been discovered yet. She could make a go of it there, if she were inclined, which she was not. Living now was about not being stupid, staying away from other people, and doing what you could to make sure no one knew you were there.
If you saw someone, you hid, and did nothing if they didn’t see you.
The cranes never made her nervous before, but they did now. Out in the open like this, there was no way of knowing if anyone was watching, or watching to see where you went. Maybe she was just being paranoid about all of it, but standing there alone, butt slowly freezing against the cold metal underneath her, she decided, once again, it was better to be on the safe side.
After all, she’d seen another woman out here before, and watched her for a while just to convince herself that she wasn’t crazy. The woman had looked to be in her forties, like one of her high school teachers, bundled up in frumpy coats, pushing a shopping cart with what was likely the day’s scavenging haul. She couldn’t see the exact contents, but she told herself that this woman was pushing along what she imagined her own teachers had hoarded: cigarettes, cheap liquor, granola bars, and dry erase markers.
And then she turned a corner, and was gone.
It was stupid, but she crept up to the corner and took a peek. Only light tracks in the snow remained, and a shopping cart filled with broken furniture to burn. There might have been a noise, she couldn’t be sure. She had run so fast her shoes had seen their last days.
Which is why she was in town in the first place. She didn’t think much about the woman anymore, she’d been given a proper story on the guest bedroom wall. In red ink. She even took time to correct punctuation and spelling in other entries, just for the fun of it. The woman in the story was American, she’d decided, and had a pet peeve about “zee” versus the obviously proper “zed”, but that was Americans for you, even in times like this.
That woman probably had decent shoes. That was why she was taken.
She knew the real reason that a woman would be taken nowadays, but it made it easier to sleep at night to think otherwise, to imagine a former teacher wandering barefoot in the snow until…
It was just easier to think about, because it could lead to simple, logical, albeit tragic, ending.
The river looked cold. She could see the roofs of trucks and SUVs up on the bridge, still, already abandoned and looted. They were just glass and metal and rubber and maybe material for clothes if you were desperate enough, but clothing, outside of boots was the one thing that wasn’t scarce. A simple kick of a door could get you a whole new wardrobe, since people didn’t take everything with them. A change of clothes made you a different person too, which was always safer.
On the off chance someone saw you, a different coat could make them think you’re someone else, and if you moved fast enough, you could strip the top coat and hide in the other, let whoever find it, think you went naked and went into the cold to sleep.
If they still found you, or if you were someplace like here, in the cold, leaning on a bench to catch your breath, to wince from tight boots that were over a week from being properly broken in, you accepted that you weren’t going to be able to run away. You had to accept that this person, this man several years older than you, advancing slowly toward you, knew that you were there, and alive, and had survived.
So, you be grateful that your coats are layered, and covered bulges. You’re grateful that for what you found in the garage the first night in the house of stories that isn’t your home, and that the edge still cut your finger.
And you do what you have to do.
The river has a nice current, it could carry things away. And she planned to write a nice story for him on her wall, in the living room. It was the least she could do.