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Is it worth fighting? Maybe I should take the guys and lock ourselves into the bedroom. Spend some quality time together. Enjoy our last remaining hours.
But hope always prevails. Us stupid humans with our stupid hope. My rational mind tells me that there won't be any rescue or sudden miracle, but my heart refuses to believe that. It wants to keep on beating.
I've survived for so long. When the virus killed everyone, I lived on because I didn't know what else to do. Then my men arrived, and I fought to live for them. To keep them alive. It's been a struggle for a year, and even before, survival was never guaranteed.
“I’ll take that crate,” Jordan tells me, picking it up before I have a chance to protest. I hate being treated like I’m less strong than the men. It may be true, but I’m pulling my weight just as much as they are. I give him a glare and then take another crate, which turns out being heavier than the other one would have been.
Happy now, Louise?
My arms are aching from carrying stuff back and forth, but this is about survival. That’s what I tell my complaining muscles. If we don’t get all our most important supplies into the part of the station that will stay unaffected by the bomb, we’ll die even quicker.
I think back to the robot we once had to transport things from A to B. It was one of several that had been sent to Mars before the first settlers to set up the station, but over time, most of them perished. The engineers who’d created them back on Earth hadn’t anticipated the Mars dust to be this persistent and damaging. It gets everywhere, into every robot joint, into circuits, into machine oil used to maintain the robots.
The last one – Bertie, we called him – died a pitiful death three months before the virus. We did a funeral ceremony for him, half out of the strange kind of Mars humour we’d all acquired, and half out of actual sorrow to lose the last part of our arrival on this planet. I never got to hold a funeral for my friends. Oh, the irony.
I carry the crate along the corridor, watching Jordan in front of me. His perfectly formed behind is squeezed into tight jeans. If I had time... No, I don’t. No use in thinking of what I’d do or of what could be. We’re in survival mode now, no hugging allowed.
I admire his tattoos that cover his shaved head and travel further down his back, caressing his spine. He’s never told me what they mean; whenever I asked he evaded the question.
“Jordan?”
“Yes?” His voice is just as out of breath as mine. We’ve been shifting crates for two hours now and this is more exercise than I’ve done in a long time.
“Tell me about your tattoos.”
He laughs darkly. “We’re going to die and that’s what you’re thinking of?”
“Now might be my final chance to find out,” I shoot back. “So don’t worry, whatever big secret they tell, I’ll take it to my grave.”
“Maybe they don’t mean anything?” he teases, the darkness in his voice giving way to light humour.
“Even then I’d like to know,” I persist. “Please, indulge me.”
We’ve reached the storage room we’re putting everything in for now – sorting through it will be for later – and add our crates to the stacks of boxes and metal cases already in the small room.
Without warning, he takes off his shirt. Beneath it are hard muscles, his dark skin shimmering with sweat. I’m tempted to touch him, pull him close, but I need answers first.
He turns until I can see his back. It’s not like I haven’t seen him naked before or tried to understand his strange tribal tattoos.
“See that curve on the nape of my neck?” he asks. “It represents how life is fluid, how we never just travel in a straight line. Then, the way it separates into several lines running up the back of my head? That’s tree roots, to remind me to stay grounded. The snake on my left shoulder is wisdom, the...”
“Wait, that’s supposed to be a snake?”
For me, it’s just a black line forming a spiral of sorts. I step closer and run my hands over the supposed snake, enjoying the feel of his soft, cool skin. I can’t help but lean forward and kiss the snake. Well, him. Jordan.
He doesn’t let me kiss more of his tattoo, instead, he turns around and captures my lips with his. So much for finding out more about his markings. Well, sex with Jordan seems like a good way to spend some of our last hours.
