So stiff were his legs the next morning, Davis barely moved them, though he gave it good effort. The rate at which he walked was hindered further by the numbness in his toes and hands, to the point that he stopped far too often. He’d only left last night’s camp half an hour ago.
Like his mood, not only was the sky the dullest gray hue, like a dappled horse—nothing new for the Northwest—but the fog, too, was so thick he felt he needed a shovel to make any progress. He had a hard time walking through the thick stuff with any confidence that he wouldn’t knock into something or someone. If he had to calculate it, he had maybe an eight-foot visibility range. “When does this crap end?” He didn’t only mean the fog. He meant everything. It was all crap. Thick…gray…crap, from the moment he woke to the last second before he fell asleep from pure exhaustion since this all began, or ended…it depended on your frame of mind at the time.
Davis went to take another step when suddenly a buzzing in his ear was followed by dense white clouds spinning by his head. “I’d better sit down. I must be a bit dehydrated.” He wobbled on his feet, crouched down and sat his ass hard on the cold damp asphalt.
He hadn’t taken his boots off the night before, knowing that would allow the swelling to take over. He didn’t want to try and shove a balloon up a tight sphincter. It sounded like a bad idea last night. Now he wasn’t so sure he’d made the right decision. As he sat there on the road, he clearly saw the back fabric of his jump boots was soaked with blood. Much of it was brown and oxidized. There were new spots too, vibrant and rusty. “Dammit, I wish I hadn’t seen that,” he said, because before that he had been able to put the pain out of his mind. Now it was right before him. And it burned like hell.
“Got to get these damn things off.” He quickly unlaced each boot, letting the pressure inside subside a little. Then, taking three quick breaths, he loosened the left one, braced himself and pulled steadily. The pain would’ve brought him to his knees had he not already been on his ass. As it was, white sparks shot through his vision. A moan escaped his lips as he peeled off the bloodstained white crew sock. He took a few more breaths and avoided looking at the damage just yet. Taking another deep breath, before he changed his mind, he reached for his right boot, and did the same thing. He wasn’t ashamed that he nearly cried. It hurt like hell. Had his young sons been there as a witness to his turmoil, he could not have shielded them from his misery. By then his hands trembled as he dropped the last boot on the ground, where it toppled to its side. Davis laid his wrists on the top of his knees. He took a moment to calm his pounding heartbeat. Then after a while he peeked at the actual damage. That was the first time he really got a good look at his heels from behind. In somewhat identical red blood triangles, they were bereft of skin from the top of his Achilles tendon to the base of his foot. The brown skin had worn away, leaving what looked like exposed red muscle tissue.
Now his feet burned so much even his calves shook with the pain. “What a dumbass,” he said to himself through gritted teeth. Even through the pain he couldn’t excuse his own self-care negligence. He was a soldier, after all. A trained one. One all too familiar with foot injuries. He knew to minimize friction around his feet. But that was the last thing he thought of as he fled the crazy gates of hell the day before. Now he felt lame. And that was the last thing any soldier wanted to be. It was a recruit mistake.
Glancing at the bloody white cotton crew socks piled to the side, he said, “That’s what you get. Wool, man, always wear wool socks.” Though in the apocalypse you get what you get or nothing at all. And wool socks were hard to come by. Hell, the cotton ones were in short supply. Still, he knew better. And now he was going to pay the price.
Davis hung his head down between his knees. He knew better than to go barefoot. He knew better than a lot of things that he’d done lately. “Get a grip, man.” It was an encouraging plea in self-talk. Taking two more controlled breaths, Davis sat up, pulled the knife from his side, and grabbed his left boot. As he began cutting, he said “I hate to do this, but it’s not like I can go barefoot. Not for long anyway.” He made long incisions from the top of the back of his boot all the way down to the heel. He was left with a long flap that he cut away too. He flexed the piece in his hands, not sure what use it might have now, and sat it to the side but would take it with him. “Okay you bastard, let’s try this.” Carefully stuffing his left foot inside the boot, he checked to make sure the cut edges were clear of his injury. “Not too bad.” With a few more adjustments he whittled down the edges and tried the fit again, making sure they were clear of the injury. He then modified the straps of his boot to adjust around his calf. There would be a little rubbing there, but it was better than the alternative. Once he completed the other boot he tried standing. He couldn’t help groaning in pain as the skin flexed and pulled. “I got to find some supplies. We can’t let this get worse. It’ll easily get infected. That’s all I need.” He trudged on then and yet he still continued to hear a slight buzzing sound in the distance. “Coffee… that’s what it is, freaking caffeine withdrawals. Wish I had my pack, dammit,” he said and trudged on into the thickening haze.