Leaves and dirt covered him like a blanket. His feet dug into the earth, stirring up a cloud of dust. Heat evaporated even from the inner layers of the ground and warmed his burning feet, which searched in vain for relief.
Like a decade before, fiery white explosions lit up the sky as the Russians made their initial push into the Atlantic States. He recognized the artillery attack immediately and fled into the rolling hills to the west. For four months, an underground spring and wild game nourished him through the mild winter. Even so, a few nights passed when he thought he wouldn’t make it, the dark chill pressing into his thin coat. The last of the melting ice fed the spring a few weeks ago and prodded him into the journey, a search for refuge in the capital.
He wriggled his toes in the dust. The first shoe fell off in the furious dash across the highway. Russian guns opened up as soon as his traveling group stepped out of the woods, a herd of wildebeest plunging into the river as crocodiles swarmed and gnashed at the unlucky stragglers. The angry buzz of bullets screamed past his chest. The thump as they struck bodies to his left and right hit his ears and churned his legs faster. At the edge of the far shoulder, a ricochet slammed his backpack and tumbled him down an embankment, knocking out his wind but leaving him none the worse for wear. He tossed the remaining shoe a minute later after he caught his breath and renewed his flight.
The howl of pursuing dogs faded with the evening. A low growl, leaves stirred by the breeze, or so he hoped, continued to follow him through the Virginia hills and between the solemn trees rising gray and dry over the horizon. Alone again, he stumbled through the countryside, fearful, tired, weak. Only his thoughts, a jumble of confusion and intermittent clarity, accompanied him. Two weeks from the farms out west to this point where the Potomac fed into the city. Fate, fortune, God – who knew anymore – brought him this far, dodging Russian patrols and wild animals in search of a scarce meal. By dawn, he hoped to enter the abandoned maintenance tunnel where he and Jeremiah used to hide out during the persecution.
Sometime just before Orion dipped below the horizon, a series of shouts propelled him into the bed of a withered stream. They grew stronger, accompanied by pounding footsteps and a roar which froze his heart. He dove into the first pit large enough to hold his frame. The hiding place, no more than a cleft in the rocks, protected him from a casual glance but no more. Peering out from a crevice in the clouds, the moon lit the scene. The man lying on his back, arms and legs flailing upwards. The black beast slashing, diving in to rip away skin and eat the flesh beneath. Orion disappeared as the last moans of the man died away.
Baruch waited for over an hour as the moon played a game of tag in the field of stars above. Not until his feet cramped in the hot earth did he drag himself out of the cleft in the rocks. He tracked the stream bed until it hit the remnants of the Potomac River. A trickle of water, not enough to sustain life, stumbled towards the southeast. He dipped his hand and brought a few drops to his cracked lips. The liquid returned to the soil, bile adding to the flavor of sulfur and raw sewage.
Dried grasses and acorns, dew on the morning grass sustained him along the journey, Nebuchadnezzar in his madness. Exhaustion and moments of fear pushed him towards the wall surrounding the city. Inside, he hoped to find life, a meal to quench the fire in his stomach, water to refresh his spirit.
In the moonlight, the wall climbed above the river. For the most part, the Russians left this part of the city unguarded. The main forces of the siege had set up outside the walls to the north and across the river on the south. Machine gun nests, set up at regular intervals, anticipated, lusted after the deserters trying to flee the capital. How many decomposing bodies had he stepped over to make it this far? How many more lay downstream?
He had watched and waited. Watched and waited. Analyzing patterns. Looking for a way to make it through the defenses, crossing the road once to check the north and returning when he determined the southern route provided the only chance. A dark night would have given cover, but he couldn’t delay any longer. His whole body would crack if he went another day without water.
The moment came. He heard the light conversations as the new sentries replaced the tired ones. His feet picked through a cluster of boulders on the northern bank and slipped behind a grove of broken trees. A quick sprint over an open rise and he dropped into a narrow groove along the edge of the wall. He lifted an ear towards the machine gun positions. No sound. Sliding down the groove, he counted the steps towards a thick patch of bushes guarding the entrance to the abandoned maintenance tunnel. The city workers had long forgotten about it. The thick bushes prevented anyone from seeing it from the outside. If he and Jeremiah hadn’t found it during the persecution, he wouldn’t have known about it either.
The long, dense limbs jabbed at him, tearing at his arms and legs. A branch cut his face below the eye. Blood trickled down in a red, syrupy stream. Slowly so as not to draw attention, he climbed between the boughs and into the mouth of the tunnel.
A rock the size of a fist propped the door open, left there nearly ten years ago by Jeremiah on his nightly forays into the countryside. Mildew and must hung heavy in the air, a fresh breeze entering for the first time since Jeremiah last cracked open the door. Baruch brought his shirt over his nose to protect his lungs from the odor.
He headed down the tunnel, his hands and memory guiding him when the last of the outside light disappeared. A quatern of rats ran across his feet. A flip of a foot tossed one of the rats to the far side. Its body made the same thump the bullets did when they encountered flesh. He moved forward, testing the ground in front for more rats before he placed his weight down. Over and over again, step by slow step, he repeated the process until he reached the ladder ascending to the level above. His weary arms pulled him upwards, his legs pushing against their will. At the top, he turned to his right and continued down another unlit corridor toward his final destination.
The trip, which normally took fifteen minutes when lamps lit the way, lasted much longer in the dark. He cracked open the interior door.
The morning sun peeked over the eastern wall, extending long, gray rays as a greeting. A single head turned towards him as Baruch entered the city. Finding nothing of interest, the woman resumed searching a pile with a dozen others by her side.
Baruch approached the group, wondering if he could help in the search. A man wearing his skin like a loose t-shirt growled a warning. Clumps of dry, brittle hair leaned against his scalp for protection, afraid the wind would come and snap the strands in two. The woman raised her head again, her mouth clenched shut as though incapable of speech. Open wounds ran up and down her arm. Some fresh. Others swollen, red, with a yellowish pus dripping from their centers. Amidst the paper and rocks and discarded toiletries, an odor of rotting meat and vegetables spread from the pile. Baruch gagged at the smell. The group dug back into the pile, picking at anything remotely edible and raising it to their mouths.
A gray sedan motored down the street. Birds chirped at each other in the gray sunshine. A brown dog with a tail raised up in a curl trotted down the sidewalk towards an unknown destination. Otherwise, the rest of the area appeared listless, as though a malaise had fallen over it.
As Baruch rounded the corner, an older woman stopped him. Dark, sunken eyes peered out from desiccated, yellowing skin. Her voice shook as much as the child gripping her hand.
“Are you interested?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” Baruch replied.
“Are you interested?” she repeated.
“In what?”
“Some bread.”
Baruch stared at her and realized she was, in reality, much younger than he was. Besides a dirty, metal ring clinging to one nostril, the only things she had with her were her clothes and a girl no more than seven or eight years old.
“Do you have some bread?” he asked.
“For her.”
Baruch shook his head. “No, ma’am. I don’t have any bread for her.”
“I’ll take silver,” she said. “Or a bottle of vodka. Fifteen minutes. We have a place over there.” She pointed towards an alley. “Are you interested? She knows how to take care of you.”
The young girl began to cry. Baruch turned red. His fist curled up as though it would strike the woman on its own.
“Fifteen minutes. We have a place.”
Baruch stepped back and put his hands on his head. Words, actions, thoughts failed him. A primal rage coursed through his body and came out through his fingers as an uncontrolled tremor. Before he could make a move, a set of tires screeched against the curb. A man dressed in a fine suit hopped out of the sedan and walked up to the woman. He grabbed the girl by the wrist and dragged her towards the car. A single punch to the middle of the woman’s face stopped her resistance. She sat on the ground and shouted at the retreating car.
“Fifteen minutes! And some bread. Or silver. I’ll take silver.”
The shock wore off and set Baruch’s body free. His feet carried him away from the woman who continued to scream from the ground, his head twisting twice to look behind him.
Hunger led him to the aroma of a rich broth. He stuck his head into the door of a café in which three men sat at a table. A large man with a face tattooed around his elbow took one look at him.
“Get out of here,” he said.
Baruch stood still. “Do you have any food, sir?” he asked.
A metal cup bounced off Baruch’s shoulder. The men at the table laughed as the man with the tattoo picked up another cup to throw. Baruch ran off like a dog chased away from its master’s table. The second cup clattered on the pavement behind him.
He buried his hands in his pockets and lowered his head. Even the morning sun couldn’t dispel the chill which cleaved him from the inside out. His legs grew unsteady, and he reached out to grab a light post. A few minutes later, he resumed his march, following the arc of the Potomac towards a destination firmly implanted in his memory.
Everything seemed familiar and yet unfamiliar at the same time. A scene on canvas painted over by an artist inferior to the original. Buildings, recognizable but older, grayer, the life seeping out of them. A tree doubled over by disease or simply a lack of desire to remain upright. The sky, frowning its anger and disgust. His footsteps quickened, pouring all their energy into this one last hope.
In a part of town more decrepit than the rest, if that were possible, he found a structure with a metallic stairway along the side. He climbed to the top, each step creaking and swaying the stairs. Down a short hall to the right, he found his destination. His hand swung up to knock. A few seconds later, the door swung open.
“Baruch?”
Baruch didn’t say a word but stared at the man through hollow eyes.
“Come in,” Jeremiah said. “Can I get you something?”
A few steps in and Baruch collapsed to the ground.