I pick up my pen and place the tip on the page before me. It pierces the pulpy skin, and bleeds a spot of black ink. I don’t know what I want to write. My thoughts are far too chaotic to refine into words. There’s too much to work through, a maelstrom of senses and a tangle of incomprehensible voices. I can’t focus on any of it. What do I do?
Did I ever get a chance to tell you about that story I was writing before the world ended? The one I never got to finish? Maybe it might mean something to you. At one point, it certainly meant something to me. Maybe it still does. I don’t really know. In spite of everything happening here in the present, it keeps coming back into my mind, haunting me, just another piece of unfinished business that I can’t forget about. Another memory of the past that was never resolved.
It was about a man who I named Jonathan. Jonathan had lost his family in a car accident. He’d been driving late at night, and had hit a drifter in the middle of the highway, which made him spin out of control. The story was about how he could never really come to terms with his loss. After the accident, he would spend years slowly descending into madness as his past haunted him and his life was taken over by horrible, never-ending grief.
At the midpoint of the story, he’d be approached by a mysterious, shadowy man in a trench coat, who would offer him the chance to change everything, to go back in time to the night of the accident and save his family’s lives. Then, he’d do it, quite eagerly too. He’d go back in time, and wait on the side of the highway until he saw the car approaching in the distance, and then he’d run out into the road to stop it. Then would come the ironic ending, of course, where he’d just get run over and prompt the accident to happen anyway. The man he’d though was a drifter all those years ago was actually just his future self, come to warn him. It had seemed an amusing way to close the story, at the time. I always liked twist endings.
The moral of the story, I guess, was that Jonathan’s refusal to let go of the past is what ultimately led to the tragedy in the first place. If he’d just come to terms with what had happened and gone on, living his life in spite of the loss, well, I suppose then it would have all been okay. It was meant to be a lesson to not live in the past and to always hope for a better future.
That’s what I’d wanted to write, but, of course, I never did get to finish it. To this day, I still don’t know if the idea was flawed from the start or if it was just that I couldn’t find the right words and tone to do it justice, but in the end, it just wasn’t working.
Now, I suppose it really doesn’t matter anyway. Nobody has time for stories. Nobody cares about lessons. Nobody cares about anything except where the next meal will come from.
It’s all about survival. It’s like that in the frozen wasteland outside, and it’s like that here in New City. You can’t do anything about it. That’s all that’s left. Either you learn to deal with it, or you stay stuck in the past.
I can’t help but be stuck in the past.
I’m beginning to question how there can be any future to look forward to in this.
Feeling more depressed than ever, I put down my pen, close my writing book, and climb into bed. I just don’t know what to do. Will I ever be free of this constant sense of dread?
The shadow spends the night standing beside my bed, smiling coldly and watching me with his burning, evil red eyes. I just wish it would leave me alone.
But it won’t leave me alone.
Chapter Fourteen
Thus begins April, the cruel month. Claire is dead. I’ve lost everything.
It’s the first thing I know in the morning as I wake up from a night of dreaming about people getting shot and being chased through the snow by a pack of relentless shadows.
“Leave me alone!” I shout, dodging through the twilight into a thicket of trees. “I’m not the one you want!”
You’re running for nothing, taunt the shadows, trapping me in a circle and closing me in. You don’t deserve to be out here. We’re here to stop you. We’re here to make you into one of us.
“No!” I shout, pulling out my gun and firing a bullet, which sails right through the shadows harmlessly.
I back away and feel myself bump up against a cliff-face that has materialized out of nothing. I’m trapped, and the shadows have caught me. I can see the bloodlust in their glowing red eyes. They want to feed on me.
You’re dead, Lionel, they whisper, hungrily. You’re dead inside.
They close in on me. All I can see is darkness.
A bell tolls.
My eyes flutter open, and I’m staring at the cracked ceiling of Rowan’s bedroom. I’m cold. I pull myself up against the headboard and look down at my body. I can see my pale skin. I’ve kicked the bedcovers off in my sleep, probably thrashing around during a nightmare. On the bedside table, an analog alarm clock, most likely left there by Morrow during my shift yesterday, is ringing shrilly. It’s 6:00 a.m.
I climb out of bed and give my head a quick shake to dispel the horrible sense of foreboding that has crept into my head in the night, but it doesn’t work. Somehow, I know today will bring only misery.
As I reach for my coat and my rifle, propped up against the wall, I hear the creak of my door opening. I look up to see Jessica walk in, wearing a crinkled-looking black dress. She gives me a quick wave of good morning, but I can tell her heart’s not in it. She crosses to my bed and sits down on the edge. She stares at me for a minute, not saying a word.
I take one look at her face, and I already know what she’s going to say.
“It’s Claire, isn’t it?” I ask, as if I’m still allowed to hope that I’m wrong.
She nods softly, and hangs her head.
“They couldn’t stop the infection. The antibiotics were too little, too late. She died an hour ago, two minutes before sunrise.”
I stumble, shocked even though I knew what was coming. Before I know it, I’m weeping into her shoulder and she’s stroking my hair like a mother, telling me it will be okay.
It won’t be okay now. It won’t be okay ever again. I’ve lost Claire.
I’ve lost Claire.
* * * *
Thomas Morrow has the decency to hold a memorial service for her. She’s buried just outside the city wall, in a makeshift graveyard for the deceased citizens of New City. Her grave marker, a crude cross made of two whittled tree branches tied together, is erected between Morrow’s wife and a farmer who was shot by marauders while looking for wild mushrooms in the hills.
The memorial is held at one o’clock sharp, just after lunch. There are only four people present: Morrow, Jessica, an annoyed looking guard who’s digging a grave in the slush with an old shovel, and myself. The rest of the city goes on, uncaring. The farmers go to the crops, and the guards watch them. The water workers go to work in the factory, and, to them, this day is exactly the same as the one before. Claire’s dead. It doesn’t mean anything.
Nobody says anything as we watch her grave being dug. My eyes linger on the bundle of blue tarpaulin beside it, where Claire’s body sleeps. I can’t see her face because she’s completely covered, but I’m not sure I want to. Seeing her face would mean looking upon death itself, and I don’t think I can face that. I know she’s dead, but at the moment, it seems surreal and disconnected, like a passing dream that will fade into obscurity in the morning. It hurts slightly less like this. I want it to stay like this.
I look away.
Bury her! Bury her! Hurry up and cover her up forever. I don’t want to look at her. I don’t want the realization to hit me.
You want to run away, says the shadow, hovering behind my shoulder. How typical of you.
For once, I agree with it. It’s better if I don’t accept this. It’s the only way I can still hope that this world will be a better place someday.
At last, Claire’s been lowered into the ground a
nd the guard’s piling the dirt and snow back on top of her. I wipe one last tear out of my eye and turn away.
I walk towards the city gate, towards Rowan’s apartment, where my writing pad and backpack are.
“Where are you going?” Jessica says, reaching out to stop me. I dodge her and keep walking.
“I don’t know,” I say over my shoulder, “but I have to get away from here. I can’t stand being here.”
Suddenly, I feel very cold.
The shadow’s laughing.
* * * *
Claire’s dead, but life goes on. I can’t control it. In New City, nobody is allowed to stop and reflect on the past.
After the service, everybody goes back to what they were doing before, uncaring. The guard who dug the grave goes back and plays a game of cards with his friends at the gatehouse, talking about the movie they showed in the dining hall last week and telling crude jokes. Jessica goes back to the guard headquarters and traces the whereabouts of nearby marauder groups on a faded map. She doesn’t have time to think about Rowan, and she doesn’t have time to think about Claire. Her job is too important. If she doesn’t pay attention to it, people will die.
Morrow comes and finds me in my apartment. He sits me down and gives me false comfort. He tells me I’ll be okay in time, and that he’s sure Claire wouldn’t have wanted me to be upset and to not blame myself, the usual empty words grieving people don’t want to hear. He gives me the rest of the day to calm myself, and tells me I have to continue work the next day.
“Time stops for no man,” he says. “I’m sure you’ve heard that old cliché before, but it’s true. We have to do what we can to move on.”
We have to do what we can.
“We can’t give up the will to live just like that. It’s up to us to make sure there’s a future for everyone to look forward to.”
A future to look forward to.
“It doesn’t matter if you don’t think you have a reason to go on. Everybody else is relying on you to go on. It’s not just about you. It’s about all of us, humanity. You have to find a reason to go on.”
Find a reason?
“Are you listening, Lionel? You have to put this behind you, and move on.”
I nod, unable to say anything.
“If you still feel down later,” he says, putting a firm hand on my shoulder as he stands up. “Come and see me. I’ll give you a nice book to read. It’ll take your mind off things.”
He leaves, and once again, I’m collapsed on my bed, staring up into the blank ceiling.
Claire’s gone. She’s not coming back. I can refuse to believe it, but that won’t change anything. Morrow’s words repeat over and over in my head. To some degree, I know they’re the truth. No good lamenting over a past that’s gone forever.
I know I have to move on. I have to find some way to keep living in this place.
There’s nothing left, Lionel, says the shadow, who’s materialized above me, staring down with an all knowing gaze. Nothing for you here.
Yes, there is, I scream silently, turning around and trying to think of what to do next.
I just can’t find it yet.
* * * *
On the counter before me, all my possessions, and all of Claire’s are neatly arranged. My backpack is open, waiting for me to pack it. I fold Claire’s spare clothes and put them inside, then I roll up my blanket and put it in on top of them. I grab a handful of rifle clips and stow them inside, then I take a loaf of bread I stole from lunch and a bottle of water, and pack them too. I nestle my revolver into its familiar spot inside my coat, and look down at the small bundle of items that remain.
There’s a creased square of white cardboard lying on top of my writing pad. I pick it up and turn it around, and look at the fading image of Claire on the other side. It’s the same one I cried over, two weeks ago before we left the homestead, and she was still alive. Before we found the ranger’s station, before I heard the broadcast, before I led us both down a path to death. Here she is, all that’s left of her now, waving at me happily, looking out at the world from someplace where everything is still fine. Her face is swollen and distorted, stained by the tear that fell on it when I last looked at it, but I can still make her out.
I still have Claire. She’s not completely gone. She still exists. She’s right here, in my hands.
The sadness sneaks up from behind me and my vision is fogged up with tears. I quickly fold the photo in half and put it in my pocket. I don’t want to destroy it, or leave it behind. I have to keep it safe. It’s all I have left of her.
I can’t lose her again. I have to keep her with me, to remember why I keep struggling onward in this world.
You’re alone now, says the shadow, clasping a hand on my shoulder as I tremble.
I lean over and bury my face in my arms, and cry.
She’s gone. Now there’s nothing left in this world for you. No hope.
I know. It’s all my fault.
You’re a monster.
Everyone here is a monster.
You don’t deserve to be here.
I don’t want to be here.
With only the shadow as company, I pack the rest of my things into the bag, and then pull it up onto my shoulder. Not sure where I’m going, I leave the apartment.
I don’t look back.
Chapter Fifteen
“You’re leaving?” Jessica asks, stopping me as I pass through the city gate.
“Why? What are you thinking? You can’t just walk off like this.”
I sigh, and try to keep walking. She grabs me by the hand and pulls me back. I struggle, vainly, then slacken and stop.
“There’s nothing for me here, Jessica,” I say, hanging my head. “This isn’t my home.”
“No,” she says, putting her other hand on my shoulder and trying to turn me around, “but you’re safe here. We’re all safe here. We can live here.”
“I only came here for Claire,” I reply, pulling away. “I thought she would be safe here. I dared hope as much, but now she’s gone. We watched them put her in the ground a few hours ago.”
“So what? You’re leaving? You’re just going to wander on your own into the wasteland? You know what’s out there.”
I sigh.
“You’re trying to tell me to stay? After everything I’ve seen here already? There’s nobody here I care about, no reason for me to stay. You should know how I feel. I’d have thought, because of Rowan…”
“Rowan is dead,” she says in a soft voice. “Nothing I do will change that. Both of us knew about the danger in this place, how each new day would be a risk. We accepted it, as a condition of living here. I’ve got no choice but to move on now, and forget about him, and you have to do the same. Life goes on, whether we like it or not.”
I pull my fingers out of hers and take a step forward. I hear her say my name again, so I turn around and look at her. Her face is firm, expressionless. She’s been hardened by the horrors of this land, but there’s still something about her that is uncertain, like she doesn’t fully trust her own words.
She frowns and slowly shakes her head.
“Why are you doing this? You don’t have to leave. There’s food here, water and shelter, too, and there are other people. Didn’t you say you wanted to find what was left of humanity?”
“This isn’t where humanity is. There’s no happiness here, no hope for a future. You work all day, every day. You do what you need to do. That’s not living, that’s existing. Claire and I were looking for a place where humanity still lived. I’m starting to wonder whether there still is such a place, after all I’ve seen, but in either case, there’s nothing for me here.”
I give her a nod of good-bye, then turn around, and start walking into the purplish dusk.
“I ca
n’t stop you, can I?” asks her voice from behind me.
I give her one last glance over my shoulder as I walk away.
“I’m going back into the outside world, where I belong. At least when Claire and I were trying our hardest to survive out there, we were living for something. I’ll find my reason to live out there. I’m moving on.”
Then, at last, New City is behind me. I’m gone, never to return.
There has to be something out there besides this. Anything. I’ll keep searching until I find it.
Claire was alive out here.
I was alive out here.
I have to go back to where it all began.
* * * *
The sky begins to slowly turn grey as the sun cowers behind a far-off hill. I glance over my shoulder. There’s no shadow there. I don’t know where the shadow is. I’m all alone. I like it this way.
Ahead of me, the deteriorating railway tracks are swallowed up by twilight. They seem to go on forever. Lead nowhere. For some reason, the thought excites me. I don’t ever want to get anywhere. I want to keep walking and never stop, never think. If I think, I’ll realize I have nothing left to make continuing on like this worthwhile. Not without Claire.
I hear faint laughter somewhere in the distance. Unintelligible shouting. I shake the melancholic thoughts out of my head and look up.
There are two men walking along the tracks towards me, only silhouettes in the increasing darkness. I stop where I am and crouch behind the couplings of a junked train car. My right hand inches into my coat, questing for the cool metal of my revolver while my tired eyes squint and try to make out the approaching men.
One of them guffaws loudly and raps the man beside him on the shoulder. In his other hand, he holds a crudely made sword, dragging along behind him in the snow. His friend shouts back something containing the word “fuck” and flips him the bird. He laughs and suggestively pats a bulge on the side of his coat. I lean forward to get a closer look. It’s the barrel of a handgun—nine-millimeter police standard issue.
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