When We Shed Civilization

Chapter 40

When Beth woke and opened her eyes, the first thing that struck her was the pain at the side of her head.

She was lying on her back, a sky in hues of pale blue above her. The sawing chirp of crickets filled the air.

Carefully, she raised a hand to her temple and found it raw and tender. She must have hit her head as she fell.

For a moment, she just lay still and probed for other tokens of injury. Yet the only thing that hurt was her head.

Worse than the pain was the thirst, though.

Groaning, she pushed herself up to her knees. She was in a shallow ditch. No more than one step deep and five steps across, it headed straight for the hills.

The sight of the open countryside beyond its cracked concrete walls made her dizzy, but she didn't gag this time. Probably there was nothing left for gagging—no food and no liquid to come up.

She got to her feet, concentrating on her balance.

The ditch was heading in the right direction, it would take her westward. Seaside had to be somewhere up there.

Each step would take her closer to it.

And steps she took, one by one. Her gait was slow and unsteady, but staying here in the desert wasn't an option.

Walking along the sandy ground of the unchanging ditch, the sun's rays drew the last of her strength away.

She fingered the rough fabric of Leo's oversized shirt. Without it, the heat would have fried her by now.

The day was dragging on, with the sun inching towards the west. It must have been early afternoon, and the cool of the evening was still far away.

Her steps counted the seconds, which turned into minutes—and probably into hours. She didn't keep track as she trudged along the dry channel, the cricket sound her steady companion.

A stick on the ground made her stumble. She stopped and listened to her wheezing breath.

The hills hadn't come any closer. She wouldn't reach them before tomorrow. And she'd never survive the next day without drinking.

She scratched her itching arms. Her skin had lost its redness, but it felt dry and flaked off under her fingernails.

Ahead, a thicket of green-leafed bushes grew from the ground of the ditch. Something moved between them.

Beth froze.

Twigs moved, and an animal emerged. Brown-and-gray fur, with a doggish snout, the creature's head was almost at the height of her chest. It stared at her from a pair angry-green eyes.

A mutote! Spike had told her about these creatures.

It growled, baring a set of yellow, pointed teeth.

Taking a step back, she almost fell over the stick on the ground. She picked it up. It was a yard long and not thicker than her thumb. It would probably break on impact, but it was better than nothing.

The mutote took a step towards her and emerged from the bushes. Its coat was shaggy, bare in places, revealing the gray skin underneath.

She held the tip of her stick towards its muzzle. "Stay away from me." The words scratched her throat.

The animal gave a brief, high-pitched bark, almost like a short laugh, and advanced unsteadily, limping on a front paw.

"Hey!" Beth swung the stick, but the animal didn't flinch.

Its eyes shone with a hunger or thirst that mirrored how Beth felt.

Another starving, dying loner—just like she was.

Growling, it advanced once more, and Beth stepped back.

Should she turn and try to escape?

Even if the creature before her was hurt, she knew she'd never outpace it.

Instead, she lunged forward to hit it with her stick. When the brittle wood touched its head, it broke in two.

The part she held in her hand was now no more than a foot long.

The animal barked again and crouched low, anger emanating from it.

She didn't stand a chance—not in her state.

A snarl made her look up. It didn't come from the mutote before her but from another one standing at the edge of the trench. Even taller than the first one, it looked down on the two of them as if confident in its supremacy.

A pack.

The smaller one whined—a high-pitched, unpleasant sound—and looked at the newcomer, just a second before latter jumped.

It didn't jump at Beth, though, but at its companion.

For a moment, the two were a whirlwind of snarls, fur, and barks. Then, the smaller one dashed off, downhill along the trench, passing Beth by an arm's length.

The victor stood still and looked after the one fleeing.

Had it saved her? Beth was bewildered. But before she could give it a smile, the animal turned its gaze on her—a gaze devoid of friendliness.

No, it hadn't tried to save her. It just wanted the meal for itself.

What was wrong with this world? Everyone doing their best to kill everyone else.

The earth had turned into a wilderness—untamed, uncaring, uncivilized. She hated it.

It took Beth a moment to realize that the roar she heard was her own as she advanced on the animal. With a yelp, it jumped out of her path when she stumbled forward, broke through the bushes, and landed hands-first in mud.

As she looked up, the second coyote was fleeing uphill, in the opposite direction of the first one.

Her heart was pounding as she dug her hands into the soft ground between tufts of grass.

Had they decided to co-operate, the two animals could easily have killed her. They'd be able to share a meal now instead of running in fright.

Stupid mutotes. Almost as stupid as people.

Tears blurred her sight, and she blinked them away. Her fingers had buried themselves into the dark mud before her, forming a small hole that was slowly filling with water.

Water?

She searched the ground for its source.

Between her and the left wall of the ditch, grass and small shrubs stood around a small pond, no more than two yards across.