Free as a Bird?
I only moved at night. By day I crept into ditches or any surviving clumps of trees and tried to sleep.
My backpack had been full of food when I slipped out of the city - that's what made me such a tempting target. I'd swear they could smell it even though it was all hoarded dried stuff and cans. The weight had been painful on my shoulders and my back still ached.
It's much lighter now but I'd be happy to have the weight back. I'm getting hungry.
I'd thought of going to the old hut when things got really grim. The power had gone along with any hope of food. My toilet was backed up. Gangs of hungry rioters were out hunting in the dark, or even during the day, as any pretence at law and order had long since vanished. I kept fingering the scar across my cheek, hoping it wouldn't go septic.
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The hut was where I'd spent a summer as a volunteer warden on a bird reserve. It lay near the end of an isolated sand and shingle spit. You had to cross a battered wooden bridge to get to it. There were old-fashioned gas lamps with delicate gauzes like spider webs. There wouldn't be any food but there was a chemical toilet in an out-building. It seemed rough when I was a warden but now it sounded like Heaven.
A strong memory of that distant summer was when I woke really early one morning and heard noises in the living room area. Somewhat spooked I slid down from my bunk bed and crept through, expecting to discover a burglar - or worse. Instead, I found a bird-watcher who hadn't realised anybody would be there. I was entranced by the birds he had netted under the bridge as they flew down the creeks to the sea. Each one had been hung in a little mesh bag from hooks in the kitchen. They were all gazing out through the open door to the blue skies beyond. Quite powerless, they appeared calm and resigned to whatever fate would bring them. They didn't know they would be freed once they'd been ringed.
I was surprised now, years later, to reach the coast without incident. I remembered the route and found the bridge. It seemed in far worse repair than I recalled and was easy to break down once I'd crossed. That might make them think nobody could be over on the far side. I couldn't see myself wanting to go back again.
The hut was also there but the door had been broken in. There was no sign of any gas bottles and the wonderful lights were smashed along with practically everything else inside. Nevertheless, the roof was sound and the toilet was much better than anything left in the city. I dropped my pack and tidied up as best I could. For the first time in weeks, I slept soundly.
The next few days were idyllic after the horrors I'd seen. I still had a little food and some bottles of water. I could have collected driftwood off the beach to make a fire but I didn't want to be seen. In any case, the weather was mild, the winds light and the tides rolled imperceptibly in and out through the creeks bringing with them seabirds and waders looking to feast in the sticky grey salt marsh mud.
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However, I knew they'd come eventually. I heard them struggling across the broken bridge at low water, cursing and fighting each other. There were gun shots. I fled the hut, hoping they wouldn't look any further.
I'm sitting here now at the end of the spit. There's nowhere else I can run. I can hear them coming through the dunes behind me.
I pull my coat around my shoulders and imagine I'm hanging in a mesh bag gazing out at the sea and the sky.
THE END