Winter Dawn

Supravo Rahman, Bangladesh

The sun was rising, bringing forth another day of misery. The wintery winds blew across the settlements, making the shanties rattle.

A single man, however, was sweating. He put down his shovel and wiped his brow. He looked at the small grave he had dug. Another one this week, and it was only a Wednesday. Last week it had been three. So much for posterity. What was the point of hoarding resources for a future generation that might not even come to be?

Only last month, two of them had visited the township for help. None had come. This infuriated him. They did not even need manpower – there were still enough adults, despite all the deaths – they just needed the resources to exterminate the bugs.

Oh, who was he kidding? Men had been blaming higher powers for their misfortune forever. Yet no one had consciously made the decision to rid winter dawns of apricity. It was simply the consequence of every man minding his own business until it was too late to have the freedom of choosing.

He looked at the horizon. Clouds were gathering. Not a good sign. The rain would drive more bugs towards them. More bugs meant more death.

He walked back to his hut to light the incense. Every house had an altar of sorts. His was a small affair, with only the sticks of incense, the firelighter, and a small locket. His hands fumbled every time he saw the locket. Shaped like half a heart, broken through the middle. It had been a long time since the two halves had been one. He had considered throwing it away, but never went through with it. Hope was a hard thing to get rid of.

Hands shaking, he lit the incense. The air grew stuffy, but at least it would drive away some of the bugs. All over the village, everyone was doing the same. Some prayed as well. Others had given up hope. For now, that was all they had. Incense and hope. The cold winds carried away both the smell of the incense and the sound of the prayers.

“O wind, if winter comes, can spring be far behind?” they prayed.

Yet it had been months of winter. Where was spring? The man sighed as he looked at the dust blowing over the empty fields. Time to go out again. He put on his suit, one piece at a time, as he did every other day. It was like clockwork now. Boots, helmet, gloves. Everything clicked into place. A hissing sound signaled that the helmet’s filter had been activated. The suit was airtight. He grabbed his rifle and headed out.

The wind of the valley only got more toxic over time. The man trudged through the wastes, looking for any signs of undergrowth. The flashlight attached to his helmet barely allowed him to see through the fog. The giant mushrooms with the glowing spores made things worse. He recalled how his filter had gotten blocked last week, and steered clear of them.

A small fern caught his eyes A clump of berries grew on it. The man carefully uprooted it with his gloved hands and placed it in his pack. That would be dinner. He remembered how the village had once had gardens filled with such ferns. How long ago had that been? Last spring? Or the one before that? Surely such a time would come again. Whether he would live to see it was another question, because he could hear skittering across the pebbles towards him.

It was a bug. It always was. Vicious critters the size of a small cat, running around on six wiry legs and mandibles whipping around, looking for prey. No one knew how they found prey. Was it smell, sound, or something else? No one had the luxury to investigate.

The man aimed his rifle at the approaching bug. It was a loner, fortunately. Struggling to keep his arms steady, he fired. The bug swerved. More dust in the wind. Why could the creatures not run in a straight line? He fired again. More dust. He was almost about to remove the accursed silencer, but the noise might attract more bugs. A third shot. A third miss. At this point, he was just wasting bullets. The bug was a yard away. No time for another shot. He spun his rifle just as the bug leapt for his face. The rifle’s butt hit the underside of the bug, sending it flying. It landed on its back a few feet away. He immediately fired into its belly. The creature exploded.

More skittering. He had been too loud already. Too many to fight. Must run. The fog was getting worse. He ran the way he came but heard them coming from that direction as well. With bugs both before and behind, he decided to go sideways. Off the path, and into uncharted territory.

How many were there? No way to tell. Too many to count on the fly. Too many to stop and shoot. He no longer knew where he was going. Only survival was important.

Suddenly, the ground gave away. He had gone over a ridge. He tried his best to not lose his rifle as he tumbled down, but no luck. The fall was too sharp, too sudden. A montage of bruises and grunts. After that, blackness.

When he came to, he could no longer hear the skittering. That was the only relief. His rifle was gone, and his flashlight was getting dimmer. He tried to get up, but almost fell again. Struggling to balance himself, he fell backwards. He had woken up inside a small cavern, the floor of which was mostly occupied by a giant hole. Tentatively, he crawled close to its edge to investigate. Its bottom was invisible; whether it was because of its immense depth or because of the fog swirling down it could only be guessed. Just as he was about to crawl back, however, the man saw a glint of metal on the ground. It was a familiar locket, the other half of a broken heart. Picking it up, the man wept for the first time over his loss. Not for what had been, but what could have been.

Supravo is a Bangladeshi aspiring writer and undergraduate student at University College London. He writes science-fiction and fantasy, mostly as short stories. Outside of writing, he enjoys reading books and travelling.