I'll Sell It In The Morning

They told me I have the right face.

Approachable, but not overly-friendly. Familiar, but not memorable. Non-threatening.

And in this line of work that’s important.

It was hammered into us that the next time the world went to war it would be the last. Nuclear weapons. Biological weapons. Itchy fingers on the big red buttons. Warheads capable of speed of sound travel. Mass surveillance technology. Megalomaniac leaders measuring dick sizes. Armies that can be bought, sold, traded, modified.

Ingredients for an annihilation mega stew.

We were told that when the clock finally struck midnight that it would be quick. Not with a whimper. Over before we knew it. Just like that.

But when the day finally came and the levee finally broke, we didn’t all die in a blight flash of light. It wasn’t swift. It wasn’t over before we knew it. And that was a problem.

Whoever was left had decisions to make, and mother nature can be cruel.

***

The chime on my dashboard map pings louder. I’m close.

Dust and debris wash across the windshield as I arrive downtown. The wind is picking up. I wonder how safe breathing the air will be.

What once was the concentrate of the city is now nothing more than a dilapidated field of broken concrete and twisted metal. The detritus of a beating heart.

Shapes weave in and out; destroyed storefronts, rusted monuments, abandoned buildings. The silhouettes of strangers can be seen in the shadows. Survivors of the siege. Ghosts in the abyss. The forgotten.

“You have reached your destination”, the map tells me.

The late evening air is damp and sticky and tastes sweet. A mask and a thick coat are necessary. Most of the forgotten won’t make it through the winter.

A shadow approaches instinctively, a stray Alsatian. It sniffs at my ankles without obvious aggression and its gaunt appearance and loose collar suggests that it’s had a hard time adapting to the wild. Although I can’t offer any food, I run my hand over its face and make peace before it wanders back into the mist.

The source of the ping is an apartment building complex. Once upon a time it was perfect for young couples, for starter families. Expensive, but not unaffordable. It was never meant to end like this.

Everything echoes in the ruins. The slightest footstep. The creaking wind. The whispers of the forgotten.

For the most part the lobby still maintains its foundations, but with each further step I worry about the possibility of an imminent structural failure. Darkness envelops the hallways and corners. The power went out a long time ago.

I take out my flashlight and start scanning. Shadows dance off of the dusty furniture as I rotate...

...until the sight of her face startles me, and I drop my flashlight.

***

It's hard to know the full story of how it all unfolded following day zero, but division was swift and death arrived en-masse. All four horsemen rested and ready.

The doomsday warriors finally welcomed their ideal end of times. The media overlords told everyone to run to the store and buy guns. People were told to pray. We finally saw what a zero-hour emergency broadcast looked like. The worldwide internet penetration rate fell 70% within months.

The conflict hit like a tsunami, the death tool depending on who you were, where you were, and the choices you made in the initial panic.

Those not swept in the initial wave resorted to base machinations, predominantly manifesting as opinionated self-preservation. True nature exposed.

The keyboard warriors and internet militia finally had their chance to take their AK's out from under their desks and start shooting before asking questions. They picked their sides quickly, allegiant to a cacophony of anonymous online communities. Many were caught in the crossfire.

The brokers, bullshitters, celebrities, magnates, and trust-fund babies jumped on their private jets and hid in their slave-built jungle eco-retreats. They drank champagne while they waited to pick sides.

The middle class had the privilege of dying the quickest, unable to buy or fight their way out. The economy subsequently crumbled.

The mass unemployed, blue-collar hardheads, and minimum wage workers demonstrated the most fight, choosing to take the smart option of dying for their countries by killing others for theirs. Willing foot soldiers.

The older generation refused to sacrifice and held on in vain until the bitter end. They couldn't believe what was happening.

The younger generation sacrificed everything.

The wheel kept spinning until nobody knew who was fighting who, and no clear sides existed. And when that first wave of fatigue set in whoever was left had choices to make before the second wave began.

Choices irreversible in every way imaginable.

***

No older than twelve and severely malnourished, the little girl leads me up the damaged stairwell. She maneuvers over debris with a trained familiarity. The only sign of life is the constant dripping of leaking water.

A mischief of rats move past my feet as we reach the hallway of the third floor. It's severely water damaged and slowly moulting. Surviving here must have taken everything.

A woman yells towards us. Although I don't understand the language, I stop in my tracks and keep my distance. The little girl continues on towards the women, her mother.

She shakily holds a pistol on me, apprehensive.

I pull out my device and play back a radio message. It's the mother's voice, a distress signal. Although I am unable to speak for myself, it's evidence enough.

I carry my share of their luggage haul as I lead them back through the streets, the sun now set. Again the hungry Alsatian approaches in hope. The little girl pets it as it licks her hands. The mother shoos it back away into the darkness.

The presence of my vehicle has attracted a small army of the forgotten, all male. A murmur of insults echo through the rubble as a swarm forms. Some get comfortable and take a few steps too close. I draw my revolver to halt their advance.

The mother and daughter anxiously clamber into the vehicle, locking their respective doors. I circle my weapon on the crowd, looking for a false movement. The Alsatian circles in the distance.

The faces of the forgotten fade back away into the shadows as I drive away. The tension relieves the further away we get from the city. The shapes are harder to see in the twilight. The destroyed storefronts, rusted monuments, and abandoned buildings all pass by in a blur.

Relaxed in their seats, it isn't long before both mother and daughter succumb to their fatigue and drift off into deep slumber.

My headlights cut through the pitch darkness ahead.

***

Is one person's hope worth more than another?

When nine billion became less than three, the effectiveness of population control grew exponentially, as did the effectiveness of forming a common enemy. Survival was possible but the opportunities were limited.

Where were you and what had been the choices you'd made? What have you lost? Who have you lost? What if you've lost everything?

Eradicate the enemy, rescue the rest. That was the mantra.

Those of you with military experience please take a left at the end of the hallway, those of you with non-threatening faces take a right.

Eradicate the enemy, rescue the rest. One group for each.

We all want the ability to look past the fear that we might not be who we think we are, to have the freedom of attributing responsibility for our actions to a larger entity. The annals of time have shown us that ignorance can be bliss but someone needs to carry the burden.

Eradicate the enemy, rescue the rest.

I believe I am not in Hell, therefore I am not.

How long has it been since basic? Eighteen months. Three years. It’s impossible to tell when you’re forcing yourself to forget entire days, entire weeks.

Can we rely on the fact that responsibility and accountability can skip generations. How many years does it take for a clean slate? How many years do we have left before we all fade? A thousand? A hundred?

My father used to tell a joke: a man is falling one hundred stories but even as he passes the ninetieth he says, 'so far, so good'.

***

The sun is halfway risen by the time we arrive at the station.

I wake them both up with a gentle nudge. The morning light is harsh on their dry eyes. They probably haven't left the city since it all started.

The ground is warm, baked from exposure. The platform is sparse but functional, the remnants of a terminal. A train track runs off either side into the horizon. Several other vehicles populate the arid landscape, their passengers all waiting for the same train.

As we reach the platform an officer approaches. He takes out a device from his pocket and scans the eyes of both the mother and daughter. He nods at me in approval and wanders towards another arriving convoy. Several other officers stand at attention on the platform, ensuring cordial boarding.

I lay the luggage down on the concrete and signal my goodbyes.

The daughter grabs my hand as I turn away. She says something to her mother, who nods in approval. She reaches into her backpack and pulls out a necklace, a metal heart locket, and hands it to me proudly. Her mother marvels at her demonstrable kind-hearted intuition. It’s tacky, but sterling silver, or maybe silver plated brass. It’s heavy enough to make me lean towards the latter.

I pocket the necklace and nod in silent gratitude. She smiles at me for the first time.

The train approaches as I leave them at the platform, full of hope. Prepared for the prospect of a second chance. Away from all of this. Dreaming of once again feeling what it was like before the buttons were pressed and the walls came down. An exodus.

And then the big metal doors swing open.

And the expressions of hope fall away just like the lives they had once known.

Bodies over bodies of barely functioning women and children stare back from the carriage. Filthy. Tired. Hopeless. Overloaded. It's impossible to tell how long some of them have been in transit. Some have eyes so deep in their sockets that one shine from a flashlight would be enough to draw a tear.

The officers on the platform stand at arms and there are no choices left.

I'm back at my vehicle by the time I catch the last sight of the daughter, looking back at me in the scuffle, her expression...

...unable to comprehend.

***

They told me I have the right face.

Approachable, but not overly-friendly. Familiar, but not memorable. Non-threatening.

And in this line of work that’s important.

The car is quiet, peaceful. I sanitize my hands, and throw the necklace in the glove compartment. I tell myself that the locket’s not an heirloom, just a recycled gift, a cheap antique.

I’ll sell it in the morning.