Old Hats Die Hard

Toilet King

The tall man with the sunburned face and ratty duster entered the building marked 'Public Restroom'. He stopped in the open doorway, one foot on either side of the threshold. His back propped the heavy door open, allowing the harsh afternoon sunlight to pour into the room. Roland was breathing heavily with exertion; fatigue had long set in and was now rapidly grinding the old, travel worn man to dust. His cold, faded blue eyes scanned the seemingly dormant restroom; he calmed his labored breathing as best he could and listened. There was no sound, save for the soft settling of an old building such as this. The only threat was the almost overpowering scent of lingering piss and shit that had been baked into the walls by the merciless Californian heat. Apart from that there was nothing, and so Roland focused on the sinks.

They were neatly rowed in front of cracked mirrors, like ancient soldiers standing at attention. He went to the nearest one, his legs threatening to buckle. The short distance seemed to span for miles and when he reached it, he had to clutch the sides of the porcelain bowl with both hands to keep from falling to the floor. The bathroom door swung shut lazily, leaving him in an almost irrepressible gloom. He squinted in the murky darkness, he had been in the sun too long and his eyes were paying the price. Roland squeezed them closed in an attempt to clear them, but large, vibrant dots danced upon closed lids and when he opened his eyes again he felt nauseous. So he stopped, reached out to the sink and turned the faucet marked 'Cold. The sink gave out two heaving clunks, as if coughing to clear a century of phlegm and produced a black tarry substance that hit the basin with a hollow 'sploosh'. There was nothing more after that.

'No…no…fuckin…come on!' Roland cried in frustration, but his cry was merely a croak. His throat ached for the promised moisture.

He went to the next sink, now pawing like a thick brained baby at the tap, his hands shaking uncontrollably with anticipation and desperation. There was nary a sound from this one, it was long rusted and dried up. He methodically went through the next three, knowing the outcome but not believing it. He couldn't bring himself to, this bathroom was his last chance, and it was meant to bring respite. But there was no liquid to be drawn from the taps, he cursed to himself then turned away from the sinks in disgust. He meant to survey the rest of the bathroom, but his tired legs gave out and the man fell to the hard tiled floor. The smell of lingering piss was worse down here, strong and bitter and cloying in his dried nose. The tile felt cold under his hot hands though and Roland laid his sun stung face onto them. Blessed relief was instantaneous and made him nearly delirious with pleasure. His wide brimmed hat came free and rolled along the floor for several feet before finally coming to rest on its back. Roland didn't notice. He lay there for several minutes, trying to resist the urge to sleep. He knew if he did he probably would not wake up; just fade out into sweet nothingness. But he rested for a few moments, trying to collect what remained of himself. When the tile began to grow hot under his face and the sting began to bite again he got up. The thirst was painful and more prevelant now. His tongue was swelled and raw and hot, it felt like a long dried sea bed. His throat also was dry and blistered. His heart felt as if it had been covered in tar and left to grind out each beat with monumental effort. He looked longingly at the urinals, knowing it was futile but still not accepting his fate.

Roland took a moment to gather what little strength he had left and managed to lift himself onto hands and feet. He crawled like this to the urinals. His arms and legs felt like tightly wound rubber bands that had snapped. They were flimsy and unpredictable, but with effort he made it the twelve feet across the room. Roland couldn't remember the last time he had taken a drink of water; time seemed to blend into one, becoming a seamless rotation of dark and light. He had had a large silver canteen at some point and the water was fresh and pure and always cold. Had that happened? Or was it just wishful thinking? His tired, distorted brain could no longer tell.

He reached the ancient toilets and pulled the plunger the despair was worse when nothing came forth. The man dunked his hand into the bottom of the bowl, hoping for just a drop of moisture but it was bone dry.

'Fuck you!' He cried out to the empty room 'Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!'

He screamed until he tasted blood in his throat and a pounding headache which stretched across his temples like thunder across the desert, hot and angry. He sat with his back against the wall between the urinals; he was panting now, his breathe coming out in short ragged gasps. Roland reached up and pulled the plunger on the urinal to his right and it gave a single dry 'Clunk' and nothing else. He would have to leave this cool place, he knew and search for another means of hydration. But Roland couldn't bear thinking about the long highway and where he might find another place such as this before his body could bear the strain of survival no longer and finally just stop. He saw the vultures dance around his forgotten carcass, fighting over his eyes and picking the rest of his rotting body clean. Saw too the raiders and hunters pick through his things (as he had done to others when he came across them, dead on the road) and claim what was once his. It was part of survival in the wasteland and he couldn't resent them for it. Before then though, before facing the impossible heat he would rest, just close his eyes for a few moments and drift off. Roland turned his head away from the door, succumbing more to the darkness and noticed his vision had cleared considerably. That was good he thought, as he was closing his eyes. He was looking at the stall in the far off corner of the room at a pair of shiny black engineers boots.

They didn't register at first, his mind tiredly wondered about them somewhere in the back of his brain. He hadn't caught it at first; it was like someone whispering beside a generator. The thought of blessed, delicious sleep drowning out all other thoughts he might have. His eyes had been drooping closed his body relaxing when his mind spoke up. Don't use the bathroom friend, you'll tarnish the water.

'Wha…' He asked the empty room tiredly.

He jerked awake, out of the dose he hadn't remembered falling into. His eyes opened and he frowned, what water? He looked around the bathroom and then truly saw them. A pair of feet under the stall, someone was on the throne.

The man in that cubicle was obviously dead, surely must have been, or else he would have come out when he heard Roland screaming. Right? Instinct told him yes and instinct would win out in most situations. But Roland didn't rightly trust himself at this exact moment, he was tired and thirsty and desperate. The last one was the most important, he had seen many men make mistakes in desperation and he promised he wouldn't become one of them. The man opened his worn duster and took out his revolver which was kept holstered discreetly under his left arm. Had he reloaded it? He thought so but couldn't be sure. The weighty piece of iron felt like a thousand pounds in his hands, but he held it straight, pointed as steadily as it could be at the cubicle.

'Ho! You alive in there?'

The bathroom sat in its glum, still silence, except his echo bouncing off the tiles. How it hurt to yell like that, he could taste blood in his throat and on his tongue which now felt like a piece of sandpaper. Roland hefted himself to his feet; it took several moments and was more of a trial than he anticipated. He got there though and used the wall for support as he limped to the stall.

Roland pushed on the door and found it locked. The flimsy bolt rattled in its metallic hold. He took one deep breath and kicked the door with all the strength he could muster. It gave away without much resistance and he stumbled inside, his leg still outstretched and would have gone headlong into the stall if he hadn't fired his gun. He unconsciously squeezed the trigger and the weapon discharged with a thunderous boom that erupted through the bathroom, making Roland's ears bleed. The ricochet sent his tired body backwards and into the rear wall. He never heard the bullet, but saw it had struck a mirror in its insane dance around the room. Roland shook his head, trying to stop his ringing ears but they kept on buzzing, as they would for the next hour or so. He dropped his weapon too in his alarm and it clattered to the floor, but didn't discharge a second time. He ignored his discarded weapon and walked back into the cubicle. It was indeed a corpse, it wasn't long dead, but definitely would never rise again.

The screwdriver was the first and most alarming thing to catch Roland's attention. It jutted out of the man's left ear and the blood around it had congealed to a thick paste. He saw the blood trail leading to the bathroom he had missed before, he blamed his sun damaged eyes but mostly, he just hadn't cared to notice. The handle on the tool was big and he estimated the actual screwdriver had to be at least four to six inches; it was buried to the hilt. The eye closest to the screwdriver had hemorrhaged and bulged grotesquely out of the young man's skull. Small droplets of blood had dripped down his cheek and pooled in a crease on his shirt. The other eye looked directly at Roland; there was no life behind them. His death had been recent but not swift, for some unknown reason this young man, after being stabbed, had managed to drag himself into the stall and lock it. People did odd things in the throes of death, Roland knew, he had seen many a people die. But this one was one of the oddest.

'You don't look to good Pardner.' He said, he chuckled to himself but didn't like the way it sounded in the restroom so stopped.

He saw his prize, wedged between the toilet and the wall. It was a small burlap sack. The bloody hand prints had dried but he still felt uneasy touching it. Roland had an odd superstition of going through the dead's belongings. To scavenge made him feel no better than those birds, fighting over the last morsels of meat on a used up carcass. Still though, it was desperate times. He reached over the dead man, who had just begun to smell in the hot bathroom. Thick, hot and gassy. Like rotten turnips he thought crazily, trying to quell the urge to vomit. He beat that urge, though it was partially because there was nothing more that could come out of him. Roland plucked the sack from beside the toilet and backed out of the cramped stall. He got down on his haunches, pulled the drawstrings apart and tipped the contents of the bag onto the tile floor, a few items fell out and amongst those was a half drunk bottle of water. It hit the floor and rolled away but Roland lunged and caught it in his deft hands. He greedily undid the bottle cap and had to force himself to take a small sip. It was gritty, dirty water he could taste the sediment slide down his throat and knew he would be paying for this later, but for now he was thrilled with the sensation of moisture. His dried tongue cracked, blood mingled with cool water and poured down his blistered throat temporarily relieving the pain. He waited but his body didn't reject the dirty water so he took another sip and then another until the bottle was only quarter full. He wanted to drink it all, could have easily but forced himself to restrain. He laid the bottle aside and rifled through the other items that lay scattered on the floor. There was a jet inhaler, three bottle caps (he pocketed these) several shells to a pistol. He took these also, Roland could use the gunpowder. There was also a hunk of unrecognizable meat but it had long since rotted and the man threw it aside. He looked longingly at the bottle of water; his mouth was still deathly dry but he felt better, slightly more rejuvenated. The shake in his hands and legs had diminished. He looked at the man again, his one good eye staring at Roland. With a sigh the man stood and went to the boy. He closed his dried out eyes and pulled the screwdriver from his ear, it came loose with a hideous slurping noise. It was eight inches by the way and Roland put it behind the toilet. Not knowing why he was hiding the weapon, just knowing he had to. He then crossed his arms over his chest. It was an effort his body had tightened with rigor mortis but Roland accomplished the task. If he could spare the water he would have cleaned the blood away and fixed the boys hair. He couldn't and so left it as he was. Unsure at why he had performed this act Roland uttered a short prayer, something he hadn't done in many years:

'God, allow you rest now.'

Content to give the man some morsel of dignity, he lifted his quarter bottle of water and put in his pocket, retrieved his weapon and left the bathroom, once again at the mercy of the wasteland.

When this world is dry, and baron with nothing left to give and our kind have long departed, no one will remember us for who we were, only for what we have done.

Excerpt from Roland's Diary, dated,

2280

This is somewhat of a prequel hopefully it does the character some justice. Thank you for taking the time to look this over, reader. If you could take another moment to please rate it would be an amazing help to me. It would be great to know where I am going wrong and what; if anything I may be doing right . Again, thanks for your attention - Stew