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“Matter of fact…” He stands up, and undoes the buttons of his jumpsuit. The crowd recoils as he slides it off to get a full, unabridged look beneath the lighting. “Yeah, looks awful, doesn’t it? Ever wonder why mommy tells you to draw the curtains shut when it gets a little too bright? I never disobeyed my mother after I nearly cooked by the window.”
His is a chest covered in an ugly, pockmarked section of scar tissue and burn marks. Even on his leathery skin, tanned and salted with decades of working on an off-shore rig, the injury looks no less angry. More than one person looks sick, and someone actually retches.
You grimace, if only slightly. That’s a sight that never gets old. Almost a rite of passage for the fresh faces coming onto the Duck. Whether or not you had reacted the same way is a matter of contentious debate.
Larking eventually buttons back up, and eases back into his seat with a fresh cup of booze. He eyes everyone, checking to spot any doubters. Your gazes meet, but you merely shrug in response. Satisfied that he’s found no disbelievers, Larkin returns to his story once again:
“A week. That’s how long the Scouring lasted. My da went up to the bunker’s entrance, scouting to see after all the shaking had stopped. I’ll never forget the look on his face that he had when he came back. ‘Hell on Earth’, he called it. Scared the shit out of me. Never was one for exaggerating.”
The old man gestures to the shortwave radio, hanging on the wall. “The grid was fried. Fragments of satellites and space stations were falling from the sky. Everything was still burning and melting. Stepping outside in nearly hundred-degree weather. Dust and ash clouds polluted the air for months, but the sky itself…the Ring was still burning, still spitting smog into the air. Blocking out the sun…blocking out the warmth and light…”
He’s overtaken by a coughing fit. Several of the closest riggers move to help him, but Larkin waves them away with an angry huff.
“I didn’t survive the Scouring and the Dark Winter to die of a dry throat,” he growls. “I’d sooner jump off the Duck than croak from that.”
The crowd answers with a rippling laughter. Nervous, but genuine. It cuts through the tension, and bleeds the memory of Larkin’s scars.
“But where was I?” the old man mutters.
“Something about blocking out the sun?” suggests a cook.
He nods. “Yes, yes, that’s right. The sun. The smog and ash blocked out the light. Our relief that we wouldn’t burn to death quickly became fear. Heat turned to cold. And the cold seeped deep into the roots of the world. For the next thirty-one years, there would be no sunlight as the planet was held in the chill, icy grasp of the Dark Winter.”
Larkin shudders, making a show of flashing the two missing digits on his left hand. The stubs of his ring and pinky fingers wiggle in the light. Even you have a hard time swallowing your next bite of stew.
(cont.)
