DUSKLIGHT ODYSSEY

Chapter 2

Ion's eyes opened, but his vision lagged behind. The blur was slow to subside. His head throbbing as hard as his arm was. He wet his lips, cracked and bleeding.

It took a moment to process where—and in what position—he was. He was lying on his back, looking up at the golden light pouring into the subterranean room.

Sunlight.

Ion jumped to his feet too quickly and collapsed again. He was, as yet, too weak to stand. What had happened to his hand? He looked at his right arm, still limp and dislocated. He was no longer pinned to the ground, and old rags were wrapped around his hand.

Ion slowly stood, shaky and unstable as he was. He knew he had to force his limb back to its socket, but he didn't know how. He touched his shoulder. It was sore beyond belief. His muscles tensed, making it worse. Ion breathed deeply and relaxed his deltoid; he grasped his arm and gently lifted it. It popped back into place. He winced and gasped in pain, but it was done. He slunk back to the floor and moved his fingers one by one. It was almost unbearable, but everything still functioned, more or less.

Ion couldn't believe what had happened. He scanned the room. Front and center, bathed in the harsh daylight, was the metal beam which pierced his hand, surrounded by a concerningly large pool of dried blood. Ion was lucky, he supposed, that it didn't pierce something more vital.

He looked up. The room was tall, he had fallen quite far. The wooden beams which tentatively held what remained of the ceiling were splintered and rotting. It was no wonder it caved in. The walls were plain cinderblock, the floor concrete. This was surely some kind of bunker. His pack was cast aside to his left. To his right was a doorway, from which last night's savior must have entered.

Ion chuckled to himself. It occurred to him that his pain-induced, oxygen-deprived blackout was probably the best bit of sleep he had gotten in a long time. Still, his troubles had just begun. He was dangerously close to the sunlight which hurt his eyes to look at, and it was clear he wouldn't be getting out of this place the way he got in.

Ion was thirstier than ever. How long since his last drink? He thought for a moment. Two days, at least. He could feel it. He was dying; and precious blood was spilt all over this floor. Wasted.

Everything aching, Ion stood up, hefted his pack upon his good shoulder, and shuffled to the doorway. A hallway spanned left and right, stretching both directions longer than the light could illuminate. For a moment, the choice paralyzed him. He shook his head and made a choice regardless. Ion went right.

He supported his shaky frame by leaning his left hand on the rough wall as he walked down that corridor. Faint light turned to none; Ion was blind as he felt his way through the dark. The hallway seemed to turn every which way until it finally opened to another room.

He swept his feet in front of him to feel what was in there. His boot met a sturdy box of some kind. Ion went to his knees and felt the container. It was made of splintery wood and had no lid. Ion reached within and felt plastic sacks, likely emergency food rations countless decades expired, hardly fit for eating.

Ion felt further. Something with a plastic handle, a barrel and a trigger. A gun? No, a lighter. He squeezed the trigger, once, twice, three times. Click, click, click. On the fourth it lit up the room with a soft orange flame.

More wood boxes as well as their various effects were scattered around, but nothing that held water. Ion promised himself to remember the place and pick it clean later—but he was in desperate need of drink. Ion needed a way out, a way to the surface where that pool of clear water was.

Holding tight to the lighter and its glow, Ion found himself down another long corridor and through more rooms filled with boxes, cots, pans and pots till at last he saw a stairway leading up to a heavy door, sunlight leaking through its cracks.

Ion paused. The sun—that infernal ball of fire—was still there, waiting for him to make the mistake of venturing out while it reigned. And it would be hours before it set, hours that Ion did not have, could not wait. He needed water while his legs still carried him. He grew weaker every moment he thirsted; he could hardly hold his eyes open anymore.

Ion scoured his memory from right before he fell into that pit. He wasn't far from the oasis, not far at all. That building which bent but did not break—it was only a few dozen meters from where that pool formed, and Ion was only a few hundred meters from the building.

Did he dare risk it? Could he run to the pool, fill his waterskin, and make it back to the bunker unharmed? Ion's dry throat screamed for him to try. Against his better judgement, Ion reached for the door's handle. It turned. Ion couldn't open it. His hand trembled.

Just a peek, he thought, to get your bearings. Before his psyche prevented him, he cracked the door open and peered outside. The light blinded him for an uncomfortable amount of time. After blinking and rubbing his eyes he finally caught a glimpse of the day. The concrete jungle baked in the hot sun. Ion couldn't see the bent building from the doorway. He supposed it was in the opposite direction.

Ion's mind was seized with anxiety. This was treacherous enough. There was no way he'd fully step outside the safety of the bunker. He shut the door and slid to the ground. Ion rubbed his aching temples. What could he do? The sun was far from setting. But his thirst... it was too great to bear. Then again, death by dehydration would be a mercy compared to being caught in the snare of day. Ion was tired, everything hurt. He was especially tired of thinking. He wanted to shut his eyes and rest. Just for a moment... just for a moment. A part of him knew that if his consciousness slipped, he might not be lucky enough to wake again—but that part of him was silenced by the heaviness of his eyelids. Just for a moment... He could feel it, sleep would come to him if he tried, a foreign sensation. His body felt sick, but this aching tiredness, in a way, felt sweet.

Then, footsteps. Outside the door. Something walked past.

The sound was soft but unmistakable. Was it one of them? Ion was suddenly wide awake. It couldn't be. They didn't make sound. The footsteps grew distant. Ion hefted himself to his feet, wondering what to do. Someone was out there. It was day, and someone was out walking around. The footsteps weren't a run, neither were they stealthy. Someone was walking around—in the day—at their leisure.

What a fool, Ion thought. He felt shame that, for a moment, his thirst bade him act just as foolishly. They're going to die out there. The thought made Ion's stomach sink. He imagined screams silenced too soon.

It was none of his business. Maybe they wanted to die. Why else would you walk into the sun? Who was he to deny them? Although maybe they, too, were dying of thirst. Maybe they had no other choice.

It's not like I could stop them, he thought.

But you could try. His conscience relentlessly prodded him.

A part of him denied it. What good is a deed that gets two people killed?

That part grew quiet. What if all you had to do to save them was try?

Ion groaned within himself and felt his hand reach for the doorhandle. It turned. Ion stepped outside.