Kristi Helvig: Burn Out

I filled the sink with only as much warm water as I needed to cover my hand. The meter on my water supply lowered until the red lights turned from flashing to a steady red. Dumb-ass lights. When my tender flesh met the liquid it felt like a thousand burning needles stabbing me at once. A loud sob tore from my throat. I pushed thoughts of Dad from my mind, yet couldn’t help thinking that he would have known exactly how to handle this.

I glanced around and spotted the first-aid kit at the end of the counter. If I used the liquid burn treatment and some bandages, maybe I wouldn’t need to use the meds. I forced myself to soak my hand for several more minutes. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine that the water was cold, but it was hard to picture something you’d never experienced.

With burn out happening so far ahead of predictions, the heat-resistant technology had barely been in place to create pipes that wouldn’t melt into the water. People were too busy dying at the time to care whether the water was cold or not. Sure, I could experience cold by going outside at night when the temperatures were frigid, as long as I didn’t mind being ripped apart by the night storms before I froze to death.

The tepid water sloshed over my fingers. I laid my hand gently on a dish towel, careful not to rub off any damaged skin. I dabbed on the burn ointment and gritted my teeth through the pain. After I applied the bandages, I drew a deep breath and peered at the oxygen meter. It had risen to a ninety-four percent saturation level again. Not perfect, but way better than the seventy-four percent it had dropped to thanks to the hole in the line.

It seemed strange that people ever went outside on purpose, even though they had oceans instead of the vast canyons of desert that lay in their place. I’d had enough sunshine today to last me the rest of my life, which likely wouldn’t be long anyway. With the dwindling supplies, the chances of making it another six months were slim. I’d be dead before my eighteenth birthday.

As I placed the medical tape and bandages back into the first-aid kit, my eyes fell on the painkiller container. Dad had stocked up on them while he was still able to trade with his contacts in the pod cities. They were the good stuff; the stuff that made you forget about more than your pain. He’d gotten them for my mother, God bless her addicted soul. I remembered a time when my sister and I sat on the couch with her, waiting for the meds to kick in. I sat brushing my sister’s hair while she held Mother’s hand in her own small one, trying to console her, Don’t worry, Mama. You’ll feel good soon .

For a second, I was tempted. Just one or two tablets under the tongue would ease the scorching pain running through my hand. I slammed the lid shut with my left hand and pushed the kit across the counter. Out of sight, out of mind. I wasn’t worried I’d end up an addict like my mother or anything. It’s just that the container was full. If I couldn’t get off the planet—my Plan A—these meds were my Plan B, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to jeopardize Plan B by depleting my overdose supply.

I’d cram the tablets under my tongue as fast as they’d melt, then drink the last bit of water to wash it all down. An easy death. As Plan A seemed less likely with each passing day, I knew I had to prepare myself for Plan B.

I smoothed the bandage across my hand and decided to do the daily bunker check. The routine calmed me, so I walked down the narrow hallway to scan the bedrooms and office before reaching my father’s gun room. It’s not like things were ever different than the day before, yet seeing the guns secured brought me comfort. After leaving the weapons room, I pressed my hand to the lock and watched with satisfaction as the lock glowed red again.

I returned to the front room and steamed a cup of my mother’s favorite herbal tea. Though water had been scarce, she’d insisted that a cup a day held restorative powers for her fragile psyche. As far as I could tell, it was the only thing apart from the meds that brought her any peace. Her smile and joy had dissipated before our eyes soon after we moved to the bunker. The memory of her laughter from when we lived in the pod city faded over time until I wasn’t sure I’d ever heard it at all.

The painting on the wall caught my eye, and I straightened it the way I did every day—made it perfect, just like my little sister used to do every time she walked by it. The slight movement caused more pain to shoot through my injured hand. She was so proud of that picture. She’d wanted to make our home prettier and thought it was the best thing she ever painted. It was.

My younger sister would have known squat about burn treatment, but she would have tried to hug my pain away. My chest tightened at memories of her enthusiastic embraces. I squeezed my eyes shut, attempting to blot out their charred bodies. My insides clenched and I gritted my teeth against the feelings welling inside me. I couldn’t be weak. You can’t have a pity party; there’s no one left to invite .

I sank down into a chair and glanced down at my Infinity. It was powered by my body’s energy, making it a true energetic device, or e-device as the Consulate termed it. I’d laughed at the ad they’d run on the GlobalNet: Infinity—it doesn’t die until you do . At the time I’d worried they needed better marketing people, but in hindsight, it was the most honest thing that ever came out of their mouths.

Maybe I’d torture myself by checking again for other survivors. My father had rewired my personal locator button so that while I could view the location of others on the Net, no one could see mine. It would only show that someone was online, not where or who I was. This was so the Consulate couldn’t find me, or the weapons, but it meant no one else could either. I had this fantasy that there was someone out there who happened to be online every time I wasn’t and vice versa. If I stayed on long enough, we’d eventually make contact. Though I still checked often, I hadn’t been quite as motivated in the last few weeks. The silence had grown too depressing.

I pushed the button and swore I saw a locator light flash as the device turned on. I blinked and stared hard at the screen. Nothing. My eyes must have been playing tricks on me. I ignored the pain in my hand as I scanned the screen.

A sudden sharp banging on the door overhead made me jump, and my injured hand hit the counter. Blinding pain shot through my arm along with fresh fear. “Dammit!” I grabbed the hand with my good one to still the throbbing.

The pounding on the door sounded rhythmic and human. My mind raced. It wasn’t like I could fight someone off with an injured hand, but I had my gun, Trigger, and my father’s weapons were secure.

The banging grew insistent. Whoever it was knew someone was home. I squared my shoulders and looked up. At least being killed by a person would be preferable to burning to death on the surface. Maybe that’s why they were knocking so loudly—because they were burning alive. With all of my father’s brilliance, you’d think he would have thought of putting in a peephole.

Though the external lock was keyed only to my family’s vibrations and couldn’t be opened by anyone else, there was an extra lock inside—an old-fashioned slide lock. The “just in case” lock, my father had called it. It creaked loudly when opened, but that was part of its purpose.

I crept up a rung on the ladder and yelled at my ceiling. “Who the hell is banging on my door?”

The voice called down to me in a strong but calm tone. It was the voice of someone who was definitely not burning. “Guess who’s banging on your door?”

I couldn’t help smiling as I whispered my response. “Plan A.”