The Last Pilgrimage

The small notebook seemed to weigh heavier on him every day. Maybe it was the weight of the tale scrawled on its pages. Maybe it was the weight of the new bookmark and what it meant. Maybe every insignificant weight felt an immovable burden to him now. It didn’t matter much; it’d be the last night he wrote in it anyways.

He took a long look at the battered cover of the book, then the bruised and callused hands holding it. It wasn’t long ago that those same hands were soft and delicate. Those are the times, though, the delicate either become hard, or they break.

It took a long time before he could turn to the next fresh page in the journal, fearing what he knew would be there. More challenging than anything he’d had to do up to this point. That brought a resentful half chuckle gurgling out of him. After everything he’d seen, everything he’d done, the thought of seeing that mocking reminder made him want to crawl into a ball and never get up. He almost did.

But he made a promise.

With a deep sigh, he flipped to the bookmark. It almost slid out of the notebook when he opened it, but he caught it by the chain before it hit the dirt. Now that it was out, he couldn’t take his eyes off it. He let it dangle out of his hand, swinging back and forth, his measly fire making the silver sparkle and glisten like something was living inside it. That thought didn’t sit well with him at all; he’d been starting to hear her laugh the last couple of nights. So, he stuffed the thought deep down and began writing.

Day 215; ~300 days after the fall.

It seems I was looking forward to finally finishing this journal for so long. Now that it’s here, I’m not sure what there is left to say. I started this thinking I would document the end of times, maybe find a rhyme or reason to it. Some grand lesson.

I can’t say I learned anything worth knowing, but I can say that the decline of a civilization is nothing like they make it out to be in the movies. There was a great power outage, but that happened long after society collapsed. No natural disaster of apocalyptic proportions, though a few small ones eroded at the foundation. No zombies, unfortunately, though if you broaden your definition of the word, then zombies were most to blame. It wasn’t just the disease that did it, though after it took its toll and half the fathers in the country found themselves widowers in a few short months . . . it’s hard not to point to the tampering of scientists as the main fuse that detonated the powder keg.

In the end, it was just humans. The wide range of emotions and feelings that makes every person unique work against us when a society becomes too big. Greed, envy, love, hatred . . . they’re all manageable in smaller settings, but they slowly degenerate the most progressive of civilizations eventually. Before the fall, working as a journalist, I saw some of the most incredible moments of hope, but I also witnessed some of the worst existences imaginable. I had always wondered how a place could become so mired by crime and violence and despair in my supreme naivety. What a fool I was. All of us are always one wrong step away from madness; it’s a miracle we could build what we did while we had the chance. All it took was a few bad leaders, some influential people who couldn’t think for themselves, a dash of chaos, and it all came crumbling down.

What happens to us after this? I can’t say I have any idea. I’m not even sure what life holds for me at the end of this path, never mind predict the future of the country, or our species, for that matter.

That’s it. That’s all I’ve gained from this grand quest—bitter resentment at the world and mournful guilt for my own shortcomings.

To whoever reads this journal next: leave it where you found it. It’s not for you, and it’s precisely where it’s supposed to be.

Thank you,

Darren Michaels.

P.S. Lara, if you’re still out there and you find this, I’m sorry I wasn’t as strong as I could have been for you.

He heaved a great sigh, took the chain from his pocket, kissed the pendant hanging from it, and placed it back in the book. Funny, the notebook seemed lighter now that he had finished the story. As if whatever he was carrying around inside was dumped into the journal, and he could finally breathe again. He placed the book back in his pack with a newfound reverence, pulled out the battered old blanket, and tucked his bag behind his head. Sleep came easy tonight, for his remorse was blessedly absent.

He woke wok the following day, covered in a thin layer of sweat from the sun beating down on him. He’d slept later than he wanted to, but that didn’t change anything. The can of beans was cold, but he didn’t have the energy to start another fire, so he downed the cold beans and let the can clatter to the ground. There was a time he would’ve yelled at someone for so brazenly littering, but the world was already dying, so it was hard to see the point. He scooped up his pack, slung it over his shoulder, and made the long, painful ascent up the rest of the mountain. The path was deeply familiar to him, like reacquainting with an old friend and finding nothing has changed. Up the winding path to the site of his deepest sorrow and his most painful regret. Up the winding path to the thing he’d feared most over the past 200 or so days. Up the winding path to his old life.

The long hike would have taken him much longer back when the world was a safer place and he a softer person. Now, though he was scraped and worn, ragged and malnourished, the hike was merely an inconvenience for him. His body had long since adjusted to hardship.

He took his time going up the trail, admiring how everything had changed. It had less than a year since he was here last, but the hours had felt like days, and the days like months, the months like decades. He was half expecting there to be no trail at all, the wilderness finally reclaiming its territory, but it was still there, if not a bit weedier.

Memories came back to him now, after images of joy. Him and Lar turning over rocks looking for bugs; for some reason, the millipedes were always her favorite. The reminiscence was so vivid he thought he could hear her laughing when she found one. Earlier moments then, he and Maggie on their first hike here darting through the trees like children, even though they were well into their twenties. That memory quickly dragged the thought of their last walk here back to the fore of his mind. He clamped his eyes shut and let the few tears that trickled out roll down his face, letting the thoughts drop away with them. The memories never helped; they only proved to slow him down and take his mind off the only important thing anymore, surviving.

His pace had started slowly; having to confront your failures is a hard pill for anyone to swallow. Even though he was a changed man, this was the hardest thing he had to do in a year of impossible tasks. Now that he was approaching the final bend, he realized he was upping his pace. Partially the nostalgia lent more strength to his stride, but mainly as an effort to run from those haunting memories.

He wasn’t sure what to expect when he arrived at their old home away from home. He was worried there’d be squatters; he was afraid he’d have to fight to get back into his own house. He didn’t want to, he’d had his fill of violence, but he would if it came to that.

So, he was relieved that the old cabin was just how he’d left it. All the windows were cold and dusted over, the garden that he and Maggie so dutifully tended was grown over with weeds, the porch swing was still creaking back and forth with the wind. His relief was short-lived, though, as he plodded towards the back, towards the overlook he’d spent countless hours presiding over. The crystal blue lake was just as beautiful and calm in this ugly existence as it was before the fall.

The scene was somewhat tarnished for him now because his eyes could not leave the small stack of rocks that marked out his wife’s grave.

He forced his legs to carry him to the nondescript plinth, every step agonizing labor until he was stood looking down over it. He wasn’t ready to speak, so instead, he let the pack slide to the ground and rooted around until he found his journal. He gripped the chain, slid the bookmark out of the notebook, then placed the book before the stones.

It took all his strength to undo the tiny latch on the locket with shaking hands. The heart sprung open, and it felt like his own heart mirrored it. He could not hold back the tears this time, weeping openly as his wife and daughter stared back at him from the small picture. He hadn’t seen it in months, and he wasn’t prepared for it at all. The words came out of him then, just like his tears, in a torrent of pity and sorrow.

“I’m so sorry, Mags. I couldn’t do it.” He took a ragged breath, nearly choked on tears as he did.

“I couldn’t find her. I went to your parents’ house, and she wasn’t there, but I found her necklace. I brought it back because I think you’d want to have it.” He shakily held it out in front of him; it felt like he couldn’t lift it, the weight of his failure dragging his body downwards.

“It’s awful out there, Maggie. It seems like the world’s gone crazy. I tried so hard to find her, but the world is in chaos now. I didn’t want to stop looking, but I’m so tired, Maggie, so tired of the hunger, of the fear, of the evil I’ve seen and had to do. I can’t take it anymore, Mags. I’m sorry. I’m so so--”

His words cut off in a strangled weep as he sank to his knees in front of the grave of his strength, his best friend, his support, feeling like an utter incompetent. He was weeping then, great mournful wails.

To add to the mounting weight of despair, he heard Lara’s voice again, terrifyingly real. It just made him weep all the harder.

“Daddy?” too real.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

Was this madness then? He didn’t think he’d be able to recognize it happening, always assumed it was something that you slid into without knowing it until one day you’re cursing at the sky and tearing at your hair.

“Dad!”

Closer this time. Far too real…

Darren’s eyes snapped away from the grave and back to the house. He could barely see through the tears. When he wiped them out, his breath caught in his throat.

He was up and running then.

The heart-shaped locket with the picture of his life in it forgotten in his hand as it tumbled to the ground and landed half on the one stone tablet set apart from the rest that read ‘Maggie Michaels 1985-2025’.