AUTUMN
By William Wilde
When Hobart came out of the medical building, the raw wind cut him immediately, making his eyes sting. The weather was worse each day now.
He ran into Sturgess, just approaching the building.
Sturgess cursed. "Damn wind is killing us!" Like Hobart, he was bundled up in a cocoon of protective clothing.
Hobart grunted. "It's October. We always get it like this in the autumn.""Going upstairs to see my doctor. Probably a waste of time now."
"Mine just told me the same thing. Too late in the season." They stood in awkward silence.
The sidewalk in front of them was full of hurrying, nervous pedestrians. About half of those passing by still retained the waxy green complexion of maturity. But a good percentage were beginning to show the first yellowy curling of their last days.The advanced cases were more spectacular, showing burnt orange and scarlet red faces as the end approached more quickly for them. No one ever knew what his or her final color would be until the end. The bright ones had to be secretly proud of those last glorious signs of self-expression.
Hobart eyed his friend more closely. Beneath his hat brim, Sturgess' complexion had deepened into a plummy purple over the network of thin and cracked veins. The purple coloring was rare and Hobart was envious. His own tepid orange was a disappointment to him. He felt inadequate somehow.
Worst off were those who had already tamed prematurely and fallen away for good. Occasional dead husks rolled past in the wind, blowing into the gutters, where they piled up waiting to be collected by the sweepers.
Hobart's eyes drifted inadvertently toward one nearby pile that everyone else pretended to ignore. He shivered briefly.
On the sidewalk, he saw the crumpled shell of a familiar face blow by like a tumbling ball.
Sturgess had seen it too. "Wasn't that..."
"No, I'm sure it wasn't," Hobart cut him off.
They both came away from the street.
Sturgess shifted his feet. "Time I was going." He put out a hand.
It was dry and papery as Hobart shook it. He knew his own felt the same way.
"Try to hang on, Hobart."
"You too, Sturgess."
They parted quickly. The wind came up again in Hobart's face and he could almost feel his skin split in the cold, dry air.
A block away, the noisy, impassive bulk of a sweeper vehicle was crawling along the street, cleaning up the husk piles at the gutters.
Hobart quickly turned in the opposite direction. His bus stop was three blocks away. He moved awkwardly along the sidewalk, the wind like a heavy hand at his back.
Despite his thick clothing, the chill penetrated to his very core. His limbs were numb and clumsy, and he could hardly feel them as he moved.
He knew he was late for his bus. He tried to hurry.
The wind pushed at him. His body weight was getting so light these days that it was difficult to maintain his balance anymore.
Up ahead, he saw his bus at the stop already. He wasn't going to make it.
He struggled ahead on trembling, wrinkled legs.
The bus pulled away and left.
Behind Hobart, the wind gusted harshly, lifting him from the ground. His body was suddenly light and helpless. He kicked and twisted feebly, but it was futile.
He was blown into the street, unable to stop or control his fluttering movement.
He bounced across the hard, cold asphalt. Coming upon him rapidly, a huge and terrible shape loomed up.
His shrill scream was lost in the grinding roar of the sweeper machinery.
<The End>
