Between the Darkness and the Dawn

This story appears in M/U’s 2020 speculative fiction anthology, Demiurges and Demigods in Space, Vol. 1. To read this alongside the other brilliant pieces included in the collection, you can obtain paperback and PDF copies in our store, with Kindle versions available on Amazon.

Clara studied the ground, her eyes following the exaggerated shadow of the buzzard circling silently above like a B-52 aircraft looking for its target. Her skin clung to her slight frame as she made her way through the deserted streets and burned-out buildings that she had grown up in before the plague. She refused to look up and give the buzzard any satisfaction. The creature had appeared the day her father died. He was her only companion now, although she had never mistaken him for a friend. They were fierce adversaries in constant rivalry for food and water. 

Her father’s death had been a devastating blow. Clara knew her mother wouldn’t survive long after the virus hit. She had always been weak. Her father was the leader—the hunter/gatherer. He was secure in his role and content with his wife’s weakness. 

Yet he had taught his children everything he knew about the art of survival. Twenty years in the military as an airborne ranger had taught him many lessons in harsh situations. After he retired, his thirst for challenge continued. He had made a name for himself in the Titan Games and even did a season on the cult television show “Naked and Afraid.” So much had changed, Clara thought, as she pulled her tattered shirt tight. It wasn’t a game anymore. 

The buzzard appeared again, sounding an alarm as Clara made her way through the doorway and entered the old commissary. The bird usually remained silent, but Clara had grown accustomed to its occasional grunting noises, like those of a rooting pig. The rooms in the old building were barren except for empty shelves scattered and damaged. Probably the work of her brother’s gang, she thought. Isaac had left before their mother died, something he had feared more than the unknown of life on his own. Clara had understood that Isaac couldn’t stay. Sometimes, she would hear the voices of her brother and the other young rebels in his group on the breeze in the night. She smelled the smoke and salivated at the aroma of the smoking juices of their random kills. 

Clara never lit a fire. She found nourishment from fruits and wild vegetables or raw fish when she was so lucky to catch one. Although her father was a hunter, he had taught her that she had to know everything edible to survive. She hoped her brother would not harm her. But if confronted with the choice, would he follow his group? Gang rule was another form of survival. 

Clara made her way to the unmarked door past the janitor’s cabinet, where her father would take her when he was stocking up for a mission. As she groped her way down the web-draped stairway, her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. She didn’t need to see; she knew exactly where the footlocker of ration meals was stashed. She was the only one her father had shown. 

Clara jumped at the loud tapping on the rectangular basement window above her. She looked up as the window shattered. Shielding her eyes from the raining glass, Clara heard the nasal breath of the gaunt buzzard glowering down at her. She turned and continued to stuff the bags of rations into her backpack, ignoring the buzzard’s advance until he was close enough that she could smell his breath. Clara froze in mid-motion, a bag clutched in her hand. She looked into the beady black eyes, like pools of ink, and saw a light that was almost human. The bag of dried chicken à la king hung between them like the hard crust of the Last Supper. Clara knew what she should do, but hope and yearning for companionship made her hesitate. 

The buzzard spread its wings and reared back, letting out a raspy, drawn-out hissing sound. Its talons shot out from under its body as fast as the switchblade her father had left her that lay useless now deep in her inside pocket. Razor-sharp claws caught her weathered skin and tore the right side of Clara’s face. She opened her mouth, but her scream was stifled. The buzzard’s right claw jammed into Clara’s mouth. She gagged, and her jaw closed like a bear trap. The buzzard’s small head jetted forward and hit the center of Clara’s head with the power of a hammer. She fell back, landing on the cement floor and spit the buzzard’s leg from her mouth. Blood dripped from the its torn stump. Clara’s blood trickled in four jagged streaks down her face. The bird opened his beak and closed it silently. He hopped on one leg to the broken window. 

“Fuck you!” A mixture of blood and spit projected from Clara’s mouth into the dank air.

The buzzard looked back at her, and they locked eyes. Clara didn’t flinch. The bird turned and took flight. 

Clara grabbed the last bag of rations and stumbled to the stairs, dragging her backpack. She ran out the front door into the blinding rays of the setting sun and into the groping hands of her brother’s gang. Clara struggled, one arm pinned painfully behind her back. She saw her brother through her tousled hair. His smile chilled her blood. One of the punks grabbed her backpack and threw it at her brother’s feet. Isaac sneered at Clara as he bent to pick up the backpack. “Dad can’t save you now.”

Isaac never saw the buzzard swoop in, but he felt the talons of the one-legged demon sink into the side of his throat. The beating wings of a six-foot span kept his gang of bastards at bay. The bird’s screams mixed with the gurgling sounds of Isaac’s anguish.

One of the punks grabbed hold of the buzzard’s wing. Clara pulled the switchblade from her inside jacket pocket and deftly hit the button, releasing the razor-sharp blade. Blood poured from the boy’s hand before he knew the blade had touched his skin. He released the wing, and it whipped him to the ground. Dirt flew in storm clouds. The gang scattered, choking on the thick air. 

Clara lay amidst the rubble, watching the buzzard. Both beaten and bloody, a bond formed between them through the dirt-laden air. That night they shared the chalky bags of dried chicken rations, not as friends, but as survivors. 

The world has moved on, and the cities have been rebuilt, but there are still stories told to keep wayward children in line. Legends tell of the times when the claw-faced warrior girl and the one-legged buzzard traveled together. Some say they still dwell somewhere between the darkness and the dawn.