The mat underneath me is still stuffed wool. The blanket over me is rough and scratchy. My fingers brush cold concrete if I stick my hands out. I can’t pull my right wrist more than a few inches away from something metal.

  I’m still here.

  I open my eyes, lying on my side, my arm pinned under me, still cuffed to the pipe. It’s chilly if I stick my toes out from under the blanket, but plenty warm under it. Stiff, I start stretching in place, feeling my knees and elbows pop, and rub my wrist to put circulation back into it.

  The fire died down hours ago, it looks like, just cold ashes. The pot is gone, but the snouted thing is still there, its head resting on its arms on top of its backpack, breathing softly but otherwise still. It’s asleep.

  My wrist is throbbing again. That numbing paste seems to have worn off. Some of the scrapes have opened up and started oozing again. I start trying to wriggle out again, but my hand is just too sore. Feeling confined, I climb to my feet and start pacing around my pipe.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” I grumble, sitting back down. My feet are swollen and the soles feel like they’re on fire. I peel away the wrappings to check the damage myself.

  The snout thing stirs in its sleep. I quite down immediately, holding my breath and freezing in place. It’s already awake, though, prying itself off the ground and sitting up. It watches me quietly for several seconds before searching through its backpack for a familiar-looking glass jar and a bundle of wool.

  It moves toward me, slowly, cautiously, the way someone would approach a skittish animal. It settles itself at the end of the mat and starts grabbing for my feet, which I pull away and edge away as far as I can get, which isn’t fast or far.

  It grabs one of my ankles roughly, pulling my leg into its lap, setting the jar down and holding up one finger commandingly. I make a move to kick it in the muzzle, but it steers the blow away, grappling with my ankle.

  “Go away!” I shout. “Leave me alone!”

  Ignoring me, it holds my ankle down and slides sideways, moving along the outside of my leg until I can’t get a strong shot at it anymore. It leans across me to reach the jar and the bundle, catching a good shot in the side. It sets the jar next to it, and then turns and glares at me, holding one finger up again, eye to eye with me.

  It’s sunny outside, must be late morning or some such, the light is flooding inside, letting me see the creature more clearly than the night before. Its face is attached loosely, straps wrapping around the back of the head. The disc-eyes are rubber seals around plastic windows, standing out against the real, blue eyes underneath. The “snout” is a nozzle of plastic with grating across the front.

  It’s a mask.

  The creature takes up where I left off of unwrapping my foot, holding it firmly and occasionally glancing at me or grabbing me again when I try to pull back. Its touch is gentle but firm, only getting rough when I try to pull back or kick it. It spreads the white salve along the bottom of my foot, which goes numb and tingly, again like minty toothpaste. It uses a fresh piece of wool to wrap the injuries, and then lets me go and scoots away with its jar and bundle, staring at me.

  I say nothing, gathering myself at the bottom of the pipe, an itch in my throat and a stickiness on my tongue making me cough. I keep my feet under my and tug at my wrist, my arm wrapped around me, back to the firepit.

  “What are you?” I ask after several minutes of awkward silence. “Why won’t you let me go?”

  It tilts its head to the right, but says nothing. It watches in silence, and after some time it scoots forward a few inches.

  “Don’t,” I hiss, scooting backwards, off the mat, and hissing in pain as I do so.

  It comes forward again. I have nowhere to go but back towards it, so I just pull away as far as the cuff will allow. Eventually, it’s sitting next to my pipe, holding the jar and the bundle.

  “Shh,” it whispers, reaching out, palm-up. “Shh.”

  I push its hand away, telling it not to touch me. It shakes its head, but otherwise sits quietly. It doesn’t do anything after that, it just sits there, watching me watching it.

  “What are you?” I ask.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Instead of answering, it runs its hand along the cuff, stopping at the metal above my wrist, and the swollen, oozing marks. It uses its free hand to set the jar between us, making sure the lid is open, and just leaves it there, leaning against the other side of the pipe and saying nothing.

  When the pain in my arm gets too much, I let it slack, coming forward just a bit, taking a more comfortable seated position. The creature looks up when I move, but doesn’t do much else. I glance down at my rebandaged foot, the sole still numb and painless, unlike the other.

  “So…what is that?” I ask the creature.

  It doesn’t answer.

  I’m thirsty again, my mouth dry and sticky. I could use some breakfast, too, and I’m still a little stiff and sore from all that walking, not to mention the stiffness in my shoulder from not being able to move it and how badly I’ve scraped up my hand trying to escape.

  The creature shows no interest in leaving. It stays leaning against the pipe quietly. I wish it would pick up a book or something.

  It’s kind of odd how human it looks, unlike the others. The hiking boots are old, but in good condition, that generic sandy color they make them in, with thick soles with a repeating pattern of x’s for traction. It seems to be wearing cargo pants, which might have once been olive, with lots of pockets down the sides, some of which seem to have stuff in them. I can’t see much of the shirt underneath some kind of tactical vest, also with a lot of pockets, but the high-collared coat’s tattered hem reaches down to its ankles, the sleeves rolled up to the wrists. It looks like it might have once been dark with a lighter lining, with more pockets on the inside and out. There’s a curved knife or dagger strapped in a sheath to the outer thighs, just under its hips.

  Finally, the creature gets up and goes back to its spot to rummage through its backpack. To keep it in view I take a seat on the mat again, watching it pull out a leather wineskin and a handful of something brown, which it takes around the column, mostly out of view. It reappears after a few minutes and fishes more brown strips out of the pack, staring at me intently.

  “Is that…water?” I ask, looking at the wineskin, acutely aware of that early-morning thirst. The creature’s hand moves to the slightly deflated sides almost protectively.

  “Water?” I ask again. “Do you understand? Water?”

  It picks up the wineskin and carries the handful of brown strips and comes back toward me, taking a seat just a few feet from me. The brown strips look like jerky of some kind, clenched in its fist and sticking through the fingers like a handful of cheese puffs.

  “Is that edible?” I press, looking down at its hand. “Food?”

  It tilts its head to one side, watching me, and then pulls one strip free and holds it out to me the way you might offer a carrot to a deer or a bone to a dog you think might bite. I take it hesitantly, feeling it under my thumb, checking to make sure it is, in fact, food.

  “Food?” I ask. “Do you understand?”

  The creature nods.

  After some careful thought, I wonder out loud, “Did you understand me?”

  It tilts its head to the other side, but doesn’t otherwise reply.

  I look down at the brown strip. It smells like jerky but not…good. I take a testing nibble, confirming that it’s meat of some kind, but aside from a little salt, it isn’t flavored or seasoned.

  “Blech,” I murmur. “Terrible.”

  The creature offers me the wineskin, helping to put it into my hand so it doesn’t spill, water being a precious, precious commodity. It tastes a bit stale and a lot like licking a leather boot, but it’s water and I can’t be picky.

  After it takes the wineskin back, it looks down at it and then past me to the empty windows, and then back at me. It ties a strap around the wineskin’s spout to seal it that gets up to put it and the jerky away. After that, it starts pacing, walking between its column and the door, occasionally pausing to look down at me.

  To say the least, this doesn’t do much to make me more at ease here. I start trying to pull my hand out of the cuff again, always keeping the masked thing in sight, while the glass jar sits beside me, neglected. The foot that didn’t get rebandaged starts to really sting, causing me to wonder what’s in that white stuff to begin with.

  I look down at the jar, checking the contents. It’s got a thick, smooth texture, and a very sweet smell. It doesn’t move when I move the jar, and I’m afraid to touch it with my bare hands. I’m thinking a list of ingredients is out of the question.

  When it notices I’m messing with the jar, the gas mask thing settles next to me and reaches toward the jar, palm-up. I hand it over, but when the creature makes a move for the sore foot I give it a hard kick. It gets the message, seals the jar, and puts it into a pocket hidden somewhere in the coat. It goes back to pacing after that.

  “Are you going to do that all day?” I ask, catching its attention. It watches me in silence, leaning against a nearby column, drumming its fingers against the cement in a rhythm only it knows.

  It finally settles back down again, taking its place by the column, resting its head on the backpack like a pillow, blank eyes staring at me, the longcoat flaring out around it like a blanket. I’d think it’s asleep except for small movements in its fingers.

  “So…” I mumble, trying to free myself from the cuff again. “What’s the deal with this? Why are you holding me prisoner?”

  No reply.

  I glance outside. Someone sprayed, “Out with the old, in with the new,” on the plywood on the storefront next door, slowly losing a fight with rusty nails and weather. Leaves blow in the wind, which has that heavy sound in the trees that seems to signal rain.

  “Can you fill me in on a few things?” I ask the creature, not expecting an answer. “Like…where did all the people go? Is everyone on vacation?”

  The creature sighs, stretched out on its backpack, on the otherwise bare, cement floor. Suddenly it occurs to me that it’s only got one backpack, one mat, and one blanket. It’s alone, with enough supplies for one.

  “I saw a couple of other things like you,” I murmur, giving the raw marks on my wrist a break. “Little gas mask things sneaking up behind me in the dark. Why are you wearing that, anyway? Gas? Is the air contaminated?”

  The creature rolls onto its back, apparently watching out for whatever it’s keeping in its pockets. It stares at the ceiling for quite some time, long enough for me to get bored trying to escape, and stretch out on the mat again. Finished absently drumming its fingers, it sits up, back to me, and pulls the backpack in its lap, rummaging through it.

  It then gets up and puts the backpack on, carrying the wineskin and a handful of jerky to me. It sets it down in my reach, kneeling and making eye-to-eye lens contact, placing its finger against its snout in the “be quiet” sign. It hands me a handful of jerky, and then steps over me, walking out where the front door used to be.

  “Okie dokie,” I mumble to myself, taking a nibble of the jerky. “I’m getting out of here.”