Over the Darkened Landscape - By Derryl Murphy Page 0,10
wheelchair over a little, giving me room to pull the old kitchen chair up to watch the game. Hearts, a game I learned to hate a long time ago and very far away.
I sit and rest my knees, only half paying attention to the game in progress. My eyes dance from cards to the rest of the room, wondering at the stark brevity of this place where old wood has replaced the steel and plastic and ceramic of years gone by, this new home for the five of us. Old boxing ring in the middle, ropes long gone and mat torn and tattered. Two old wooden benches sitting on the scarred floor, a three-legged stool lying near one of the benches. A water fountain that no longer works.
On the other side of the ring, five beds—cots, really—with curtains hung between them to give some sense of privacy, as though a room this large could not afford any one of us the space we had come to crave, but still give us the company we cannot live without.
Behind me, a small kitchen; microwave, gas-powered fridge, ancient toaster oven, a sink and a few cupboards. Beside it, the door that leads to the showers and toilets and rusted-out lockers. I often find myself spending time in there, taking in the smells. I have yet to admit it to the others, but it sparks a certain something in my memory, being in there. I suspect it is the same for the others. Why else would we be here, together, after so many years, but for memory?
“Bastard.”
I turn my head, join in the laughter as Tom rakes in the Black Bitch. A quick look at the score sheet shows that he was winning, but the thirteen points will put him behind Peter.
Around the table. Beside me is Jason, the oldest of us. His wheelchair is powered, but not smart. Luckily, the arthritis has not too severely affected his right hand, so he is able to steer himself, and play cards, without help.
Next on the right is Peter, cane hanging from the back of his chair, patch covering his left eye. Scars peek around the edges of the patch, remnants of the accident that took his eye and killed three of our comrades.
Beside Peter is Tom, next to me the youngest. He inherited this old boxing club from his uncle, set it up to live in and invited the rest of us when it became obvious we’d been forgotten. He still walks okay, and so far his hands have escaped the withering. I’ve seen him, though, sometimes, when he thinks no one is watching. How he’ll stumble, just a bit, or lean on a counter and grimace, sweat on his forehead breaking out like condensation on a face-plate.
To my left is Alex, the other one with a wheelchair. His has a powerful chip running it, though, so he only needs to talk to it to get it to do what he wants. But his hands work fine, which is good since he is by far the best cook among us.
I’m Randall, the youngest, still moderately spry at fifty-eight. Sure, my knees are starting to ache with too much work, but my family has had a history of joint problems. This was expected, and only barely hastened along. And so far my hands and back give me little trouble.
Alex takes a quick sip of whiskey and taps my forearm. “Go look out the window, will ya? I’m getting antsy waiting for him to show up.”
Old habits die hard. Alex gives an order, I jump to obey. Well, I slowly get out of my chair and shuffle over to the window, but the idea is the same. I do not hesitate, do not question. Alex gave an order that saved my life once, and it has remained difficult to see him in any light other than that of superior.
The street outside is still quiet, bare. The people in this area have no reason to go out in the day, no jobs to go to, no one worth the risk to visit. But there are many people near us, surrounding us. This I do know. The city is congested, crowded beyond belief, thousands flooding in each day as they run from one disaster or another, swelling the numbers to millions and millions.
My first night here I sat and watched as they came out at dusk, setting up small booths on the street, a market taking shape before my