As the World Was

Wanderer wandered, as he often did, in search of nothing. Though of course, just as all wanderers in search of nothing, he hoped to find something.

In his forty years, the man’s desire to explore The Wastes had all but disintegrated. The land lacked generosity. Though it was not the land's fault, the vast hills and long-dead forests blanketed in thick snow were scrapped of all their resources by The King’s orders and his father’s orders before him. Licked clean by the voracious dogs called humans.

And with so little to find, days felt meaningless. No scrap meant no coin, and coin was survival. Wanderer often thought about moving back to Meteor, although not the city itself. The city was abhorrent, It mostly consisted of dumb, impoverished peasants toiling away for a king that, like every king before him, didn’t give a damn about anyone other than himself. To make matters worse for the lowlifes of society, they worshipped a rock. A literal rock. A large, black rock shoved deep into Earth in the middle of town. They called it The Meteor, and Wanderer called it a rock. But this rock gave the people hope, which was infinitely more than The King ever did.

However, for Wanderer, life in Meteor would be easy. There was no need to pray to the rocks. Wanderer was a lucky one. His father was a Shot-Caller, and so was he. The Shot-Callers were the select few who were able to live. Not survive, but live. And living happened in the Ark.

The Ark was an exceptionally large metal structure, unlike any other that existed. It sat atop the hill overlooking the city, and it was filled with huge dining halls and impressive libraries and the great big greenhouses that fed the masses. It was only accessible to The King and his Shot-Callers, as the Ark was their home. The highest class spent their days there, away from the filth that lived on its doorstep. The building was said to be sent by The Meteor, a divine offering for The King. But Wanderer didn’t believe in gods, he didn’t need answers, and he didn’t care why the Ark existed.

When he lived on the Ark as a boy, Wanderer read stories and heard songs that taught there was virtue in survival, that it gave purpose, and made legends. And, as he realized that the hedonistic lives of the Shot-Callers gave nothing of substance in return, he was anxious to give up life. To roam The Wastes. To try his hand at the epic, heroic way of living known as survival. But in his time as Wanderer, he learned it was all the same. Years spent sifting through garbage, collecting scraps, and hauling them back to The King he hated so much led him nowhere. He couldn’t stray far from the city, there was nothing out there, so his life was no different than that of a peasant that would slave away in the greenhouses to earn their coin, praying for prosperity to the deaf ears of the gods. Survival was a cycle. Living was a cycle. Everyone was trapped in Meteor.

If he moved back to the city, he’d be a Shot-Caller again. Wanderer knew this. He did not like The King, but the two were on good terms. The wanderer was the best scrapper in The Wastes. He shoveled faster and found more than any other, proving very useful to The King, who was always in need of more for his endless projects that the public never saw. So, The King wanted him back on the Ark.

“Wanderer.” The King raised his glass in the dimly lit metal walls of the dining room. “You’ve always been good to me. You’re more well-versed than any priest and stronger than any warrior and more loyal than any serf! So why must you live on the outskirts? You’d be much more useful in the city, I’d give you food and a home in the Ark.” He leaned back in his chair. “You could direct my scrappers! Teach them your ways, help so many!”

“I have no interest in helping.”

“But why? Your skill is unmatched, you’d do much good in the city.”

“I don’t like the city.”

“You don’t like anything, do you?” The King’s brow furrowed as he put down his glass. “Always brooding and moping and groveling and sulking. You know there is more to life than just barely scraping by?”

Not for your citizens, Wanderer replied in his head.

“I apologize, your majesty, I am content with my life as it is.”

Wanderer was not content with his life. Although he knew the lifestyle of a Shot-Caller was not preferable. For the ignorant it would be, but he was not ignorant.

The King shook his head, his frustration turned to sorrow and his voice became sincere.

“In time, you will regret turning down my offer,”

“I apologize,” There was silence. “I think I’ll be on my way.”

And Wanderer went on his way. And he continued to wander. With The Wastes drying up, he had to travel farther than before. So he bought a horse, but he did not name her.

“Slow down, girl.”

It took a week of travel to find anything worthwhile. Untouched rubble surrounded him now, protruding from the snow. Remnants of something lost with time, although the scrapper did not bother to ponder what. To him it was just charcoal, rotting into mush. Clay, eroded to dirt. Steel beams so red with rust that he joked aloud, to no one, that a glance might give him an infection. He gathered what was salvageable and placed it in his cart. He pushed aside what was not.

His shovel broke the sopping mud, which was launched into the air. The most lucrative treasure was below. It always was. Wanderer dug as he did countless times before, tearing up the ground without a thought. No one would pass by anytime soon, if ever. So he dug.

By tomorrow, the blemish would be unnoticeable, hidden by the frost that came every night without fail and erased all that happened during the day. Nothing was remembered, nightfall made sure of it. So he dug.

The world always seemed to work that way. With time, imperfections always perfected themselves. If they didn’t, they were hidden away so deep that it all seemed perfect regardless. So he dug.

And the spade hit the stone.

Rough stone. For a fraction of time the shovel scraped amongst the surface, sending an unpleasant chill up the metal and up the handle and through the wanderer’s spine. He put down his shovel and examined the rock, which he found to be concrete, and he picked up his shovel again to clear the mud. Concrete was a great find. It was the most sturdy material, other than steel. Great for building roads and homes, and it was almost always discovered in large quantities. He couldn’t take much at once, but he always brought a pick to break the stone apart.

Wanderer cleared out more mud. The concrete, dark gray from the moisture, appeared. It curved. A cylinder, with no top or bottom yet. Wanderer had never seen concrete in this shape. It was found in large slabs, never poles.

Who knows how deep this thing goes. He thought, and with that brilliant assessment he chose to unearth the top of the concrete pole, rather than find the bottom.

When he cleared out mud, he found a metal trapdoor atop the pole. The latch was intact, and it was locked. So Wanderer hit with his spade until the lock snapped off. He opened the door and saw the ladder that led into darkness. Grabbing his lantern and gripping his shovel, the scrapper began his descent.

He reached the bottom and the light from his lantern, no longer confined to the concrete tube, stretched its arms and touched what was there, allowing Wanderer to see.

And he saw a room with a desk and a bunk bed and boxes stacked upon each other, and a painting of a dog that hung next to the lines scratched on the concrete wall, and the fungus and remnants of bone that littered the floor. And he felt the room that was warm and humid and uneasy. It smelled of rot.

He walked about the room. There was not much to find, until he examined the desk. It was littered with papers and pens and cans all painted with dust. Some of the papers were notes, yellowed with age and written with haste. One was left unfinished.

Wanderer could tell they were English, though written in such a way that they were almost illegible. There were spelling errors and jumbled phrases and words that didn’t exist. At the bottom of each note, next to the author’s name, was a symbol he didn’t recognize. It seemed to be two hooks, flipped upside down and conjoined at their ends. Wanderer paid it no mind, as there was no way to know its meaning, and continued to decipher what he could. And what he could decipher told him all he never knew he needed to know.

Wanderer’s heart pounded, his sweating became profuse. He folded the notes and stuffed them in his pocket. The drawers of the desk flung open as he searched for more. And he found something.

It was a necklace, a locket, made of brass like the trumpets and tubas the Shot-Callers forced their jesters to play. The locket was a round shape, almost a sphere. It was the shape of the symbol that he’d seen scribbled onto the note. At the point on the bottom was a latch.

He flipped the latch, and it opened. In the locket, Wanderer saw an image in vivid color and immaculate detail. It was a person. A man. And he stood, wearing a clean jumpsuit and glasses so black you couldn’t see his eyes. His hair was freshly cut, and he wore misery upon his face. And the Ark stood behind him.

It was incredible, almost beautiful. No rot or rust or age of any sort. It was a bright, untarnished silver: The Ark in its glory. Its gigantic door was lowered to a ramp and specks of people were walking onto it.

And so Wanderer knew what all the scrap he collected throughout the years was for.

And Wanderer knew why he’d regret turning down The King’s offer.

And Wanderer knew why he should not have wandered.

The scrapper closed the locket and ascended the ladder without bothering to look for anything else.

He rushed to Meteor. The hooves of his horse and wheels of the carriage relentlessly sloshed through the snowy mud of The Wastes. The week-long trip took him only five days, yet felt like eternity. When the wanderer finally reached the outskirts of Meteor, he saw the city. The patch-work buildings laden with ice, the billows of smoke escaping through the chimneys, the concrete roads covered by crowds of peasants, and the great rock surrounded by worshippers chanting their prayers with ferocity and desperation that Wanderer had never witnessed before.

The wanderer saw the city.

But he did not see the Ark.