Desolation

Deciding to change tactics, she barked, “You lazy asshole, don’t you leave me alone here!” She was speaking some truth because she didn’t want to go it alone. But she was also shooting for the moon knowing Conrad was a chauvinist who for the last several days had acted very protective of her. She had thought the bleeding stopped and that he was on the mend, but a day ago his condition changed. He looked peaked, as if death already had its grip on him. Then this morning, when some throaty rooster broadcast the new day, she found Conrad unconscious, not breathing, and with no heartbeat.

1-2-3-4-5. She continued to push rhythmically on his chest. 6-7-8-9-10. Her shoulders and arms were pistons in an organic engine—1-2-3-4-5—not stopping for maybe fifteen minutes. 6-7-8-9-10. Over and over again (1-2-3-4-5) she went through the count unabated (6-7-8-9-10). Exhaustion and the buildup of lactic acid in her muscles slowed her and made her a bit faint (1-2-3-4-5) but what other option did she have? (6-7-8-9-10) The chance of reviving someone by chest compressions was one in a thousand. (1-2-3-4-5) A bluish tint blossomed in his face. (6-7-8-9-10) She could see further signs of lividity creeping up from where his bare shoulders touched the ground. She stopped, feeling for a pulse she knew she wouldn’t find. Picking up his arm, she confirmed the purplish discoloration.

He was gone.

Right in the middle of bum-hoot Nebraska, in the abandoned shed he had been resting in for the last few days, she collapsed on the floor, her chest heaving for air.

They were all gone. Every one of her crew had died, and she was the only one left. R.T. was most likely dead by now on the space station; four of her crew most certainly burned up on re-entry in the other capsule; Dee Winters never woke up from their crash; and now, Conrad Stutz. He had been pretty banged up and Melanie had had to pull a giant piece of shrapnel out of him.

She continued to breathe heavily, staring at the holes in the roof of the little ten-by-ten shed, as tiny particles of dust danced in the beams of light piercing through them. Probably she should be more affected by watching everyone she knew die, but she wasn’t. Was she that spent physically and emotionally or was she “the cold heartless bitch,” as a fellow NASA astronaut and scientist called her when she beat him out for the ISS mission?

“You wanna trade now, you prick?” she hollered at the perforated ceiling. Her voice sounded hollow and broken, like her spirit.

She had no one left. No family, no friends to speak of, and no colleagues either, as she was out of the NASA game until they could get the power back on. She was utterly and completely alone.

What now?

“Why Rhett, where shall I go? What shall I do?” She started to snicker, quoting the line from one of her favorite movies.

“Ha! And I called Conrad lazy?” she chided herself. “Get your butt up,” she commanded. Slowly she pushed her fatigued frame up on her feet, stooped over, arms cantilevered over her knees. She remembered seeing it somewhere, searching.

“There,” she chirped with a little excitement, reaching over Conrad’s body to pick up an old but formidable-looking knife. Its ten-inch blade had some rust on it, and the handle was cracked, but it would do the job. What else?

“Oh, that would leave a mark.” A sly smile cut into the right side of her face as she grabbed a small jar of miscellaneous nuts, screws, and nails. Touching it brought back memories of her dad’s workshop. He kept his miscellaneous hardware in a mason jar, just like this one. She placed it by Conrad’s foot and then looked once more at his face, the blue tint settling into more of the capillaries around his nose and cheeks. “I know you wouldn’t mind this. It may save my life,” she offered half-heartedly as she pulled on his right sock. She tugged harder until it came loose, his heel landing with a thud. After she emptied the hardware into the sock, she let the jar drop; it clinked and bounced on the wood floor, coming to rest against his foot.

“That’ll do just fine,” she said while holding the cuff and feeling the weight at the toe-end of the sock. It jangled slightly as she bounced it. “Elastic’s still good. Nice sock, Conrad.” She wrapped a mangled paper clip around the sock’s heel to keep the hardware in. Satisfied, she slipped the weighted end into her back pocket, the open cuff end dangling within easy reach.

Next, slightly revived by her activity, she grabbed the little satchel she had been carrying earlier. It held what remained of her life: a long-sleeved shirt she could find little use for in the triple-digit heat, and an empty water bottle. “You are one pitiful woman.”