The Nest

“What do you think he’s doing down there?”

“Who knows… crazy old-worlder - who cares…”

“Maybe he’s looking for something?”

“Out there? In all that junk?”

“What’s that old saying? One man’s trash is another man’s treasure?”

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Pitchy youthful laughter bounces around the apartment, reflecting off cold hard surfaces. Vibrating floor to ceiling gleaming glass windows. Through the glass, blanketed in the blue light of this apartment and the thousands like it: the beach. What was once a beach. Now just a shore. The water lapping apathetically up to the dirty sand and the piles of trash.

Skuttle skuttle. Shuffle shuffle.

He weaves amongst the mountains of debris. Moving this here, throwing that over there.

His ornaments clank and his old joints grind as he bends and twists. A hammer, fishing twine, netting and rope, all haphazardly tethered up on his various belts and harnesses. A small radiation gauge beeps rhythmically at his hip. He looks comparable to the carcasses and shells around him, still wound up in fishing net, lying strewn amongst the rest of the shrapnel.

The moon slowly rolls across the black sky as he works away. He knows there are stars up there somewhere, but he hasn’t seen them in decades. Sure, there are lights, twinkling and moving above the clouds and smog. But he knows they aren’t stars. They are satellites and cameras and ships. Things from down here, things that he thinks will end up down here again, probably on this beach - just like everything else.

RED LIGHT. BLUE LIGHT. PURPLE. WHITE. RED.

The lights from homes and bars and offices all stream out over the shoreline, drenching it. The buildings are mirrored across the shallow sea in an almost perfect replica, only slightly blurry and fluid in structure. Illuminated, it’s easy for him to see the details of the objects as he works to move them.

Bright LED screens animate the skyline high above his head.

EARN BITCOIN FAST. NEW SURGERY OPTIONS TAILORED TO YOU. AQUA SPRING - THE PUREST WATER - NEW FROM ULTRAHYDRO. KLX400 NEW VIRTUAL CONCERT COMING SOON.

As he works to clear his path, he stops every now and again. Painted metal rods, mark every few feet or so. He focuses on clearing the bric-a-brac that has washed or blown up into this marked corridor. A hair-straightener, a dishwasher door, a heart-shaped locket, a chair, a wheel, a bunch of electrical cables, plastic bottles. He tosses them all aside, adding to the piles on either side of him. Digging a trench down to the sand.

He only stops for the “smart” things. A laptop, a watch, a phone. Out from his pocket comes a set of specific tools, and his adept grizzled fingers work quickly to pry open the shiny screens and surfaces. The chips go into a satchel strapped tightly to his waist, he’ll trade them in tomorrow, the rest of it flies back onto the pile.

He reaches the rocks.

He runs back through the now clear path, only slightly wider than his own body. Back near the water where he left it, a make-shift sack. He drags it back along the corridor.

Working backwards, he begins to construct. Tying things, affixing, nailing. Scraps of material, a jumper, some jeans, huge pieces of tarpaulin, squares of foam. The moon rises high as the corridor becomes a tunnel, winding through the rubbish from the rocks to the water’s edge.

Finally his work is done. He sits and waits. He takes off his boots, and peels off his socks. He creeps his toes into the sand. It feels warm and grainy. The edge of the water drifts gently up to his ankles and encircles them.

Every now and again he turns around and leans down to peak through the dark tunnel.

Nothing yet.

He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the sound of the water, but it’s a soft whisper under the late night noises still echoing through the city. He focuses his senses more, finding that stillness inside himself.

Squeak squeak.

It’s the sound of sand moving. Here they come!

He can just make out their tiny figures through the dark. Shifting through the sand with their little flippers. Dozens of baby turtles scramble out of their nest, just under the surface. Pieces of broken shell slip away as they push over each other, crawling on their bellies.

He scuttles to the side, throwing his dirty shoes and socks out of the way, and splashes some water gingerly toward the mouth of the tunnel.

One by one, and no bigger than the palm of his hand, they pop out of the tunnel and slide into the welcoming water.