We're All Alright

I want you to know that the end of the world isn’t all that bad.

It’s not easy, but it could always be worse. Besides, I never saw the world before the end. There isn’t much to compare it to.

We have Trunks, the creatures that started everything. They came over a century ago and brought the stones with them. Or maybe stones came first. No one’s really sure about that timeline. They have bark where their skin should be, they glow a violent yellow from their joints and eye sockets, and they have a real vendetta against whatever stands in front of them. From what little I know about the pre-end, things weren’t looking good for humans. All their major cities were, essentially, being swarmed by armies of trees. Wherever they landed, they buried their roots and started sprouting more. Some think that humans still stood a chance. They just needed to think. Then their thinking sunk the entire ship and ensured certain doom for most of the world.

The human’s solution was to blow everything up. That’s not too far off from our solutions these days. Though, it’s usually our last resort and not the first stop. A woman who lived in Quarter 47 for a while told me that her great-grandmother saw it all happen. I’m not sure if I believe her, but it’s a good story. Humans did some half-hearted evacuations of the occupied cities and then released nuclear warheads all across the world. When the dust settled, it looked like they may have won. Then the Trunks crawled out of the woodwork. See, having clear evacuations in the middle of the day alerted the Trunks that something was going on. And they brought a new set of friends with them.

Well, not friends exactly. Trunks hate Mutants. Mutants hate Trunks. It’s a war with three players. Nuclear radiation from the blasts mutated whoever survived them, whether they were deep underground or just on the outskirts of the explosions. Their skin burnt and melted over their bones, their eyes turned into deep black pools, and their minds weren’t the same. If anything moves around them, they attack. Beating, clawing, and tearing until it’s gone. They could be manageable. Except the radiation also made them ridiculously strong, great at seeing in the dark, and not luminescent (so you can’t spot them at night like we do with Trunks).

Basically, the end was nigh and mankind managed to drag it out and make it worse.

It’s not all bad. I promise it’s not. It’s rough most of the time, but there’s still some good in the world. I think you’d really like it.

Those who survived long enough to find others started making societies. We call them Quarters, where I live. It’s basically a couple of streets or even whole towns that can be defended. I’ve seen ones built atop mountain peaks, inside of airports, and even one group who used an abandoned oil rig to live on the water. Quarter 47 is settled somewhere in the mountains. We don’t remember what city is nearby since they all look the same when they’re crumbling. I’ve heard we’re near Charleston, Lexington, or maybe Asheville. What I do know is that my people were better equipped to survive than the city folk.

When the power grids were knocked out, they went straight to burning wood and the little coal that was left. Hell, they even fixed the power grids after a while. They were used to being forgotten and doing everything on their own, so they went ahead and did it. They fortified their homes before Trunks or Mutants were even close. Not all of them made it. It was still a war that we weren’t prepared for. These people just had a bit of a better chance. They were more spaced out. They had land. They could figure out how to live off that land.

Quarter 47 is on the edge of some mountain town. We have lush fields, trees not hell-bent on our destruction, and plenty of space for more survivors. Over the years, we’ve made taller watchtowers and thicker walls to keep the nightmares out.

I think you’d like the stones too, but you wouldn’t like that I like them. None of the scientists could figure out these huge, floating gemstones that hum and glow. It seems like a warning if you ask me, but no one does. What they did figure out is that they’re basically like doors (if you power them right). Natural ones, without any intervention, get you to another nearby stone. And these things are everywhere, so it’s not hard to get around. Fully powered stones, usually buried in some old government facility, can take you to other worlds. They’re all connected like railway stations and we can travel between them. All the beings on the other side are fighting the Trunks just like us. None of us seem to be winning right now.

I’ve become a bit of an adventurer, but that one isn’t entirely my fault. It’s her fault.

I was eight when Sloan got to our Quarter. She came with her dad and sister. By the time we managed to get the gates open for them, only Sloan was left. She didn’t talk or get out of bed much that first week. She also didn’t seem to like living in our little bubble. I guess watching your family die in front of you can make you a bit bitter.

We were friends. As close to friends as a young woman can be with an orphaned eight-year-old. She told me all about the Outside. She told me everything she knew about the world before the end. No one talked about it inside the Quarter, it made them miss what they had never got to see. Sloan didn’t think like that. She thought there was nothing freer than living out there. Being able to move whenever you wanted. She’d been all across the country, settling into empty homes and moving whenever the time was right.

I’d find my way to her bunk, we both lived in the barrack by the fields, and ask her to tell me a story. She always did, so I don’t think she minded. My favorite, and one of the only ones I remember (which is probably why it’s my favorite), was the story about the Queen who donned knight’s armor to fight in a war over who she belonged to. The Queen gets injured in the final battle by her father, who is battling her husband, and she ends up saving her people by making him promise to surrender on her deathbed.

It was a few nights after that that the hum woke me up. It was pulsing through the Quarter from beneath the Founder’s home. Her basement window was never locked, so I made my way inside. The entire basement was alive, the shadows dancing on the walls in the green light. I found a stairwell that went down, down, down deeper than I ever knew a house could go. Through record rooms and past busted monitors, I found it. In there, I was enveloped by the hum. The light was a warm, earthy green. It felt like home. Nothing scared me. I was living in the end times. A 15-foot stone floating above the ground, shaking the earth with its vibrations, and keeping the space alight wasn’t the weirdest thing I had ever seen. Neither were the trio dressed in armor, guns strapped to their backs and swords on their hips. What terrified me were the adults standing in front of them. I knew the Founder, the General, and the woman who ran the bakery (the actual power broker in this situation). They were talking fast, the green hue from the stone making them look ill.

The one in the middle took off her helmet, long hair falling to the side as she spoke. Her voice was steady, as steady as it was during all her stories. Sloan said she couldn’t sit back while the world burned. That she would bring anything back that she thought could help us, but none of the adults were too keen on her returning. I felt very differently and clung to her legs like I was the only thing that could stop her. I wasn’t, but I did set her back a few minutes. Sloan cradled me while I sobbed against her neck. She didn’t say much. She didn’t tell me that she would come back or that we’d both be alright. Sloan said that she loved me. That she hoped one day I would understand. She took off the necklace she’d worn since we met and pressed it into my slick palms. I watched as they put their hands on the stone and vanished in a flash of brilliant white light. The Founder never asked me how I got into her house and I’m still grateful for that.

I think I understand. No one else does. None of them can figure out why I leave every chance I get, why I trek the other worlds searching for answers, or why it’s never crossed my mind to stop. Even now, sitting on top of a ruined building in Charleston or Lexington or Asheville, I’m not sure that I could say why. It’s just the right thing to do.

Every time I touch the little heart-shaped locket against my collar, I know that I have to keep going. It’s a metallic brown from where my fingers have worn away its sheen and it opens with a little click. On the left, there’s a tiny sketch of Sloan holding me while I sleep. Photographs aren’t a big priority these days. Either Sloan or Hunter had to have drawn it before they left, they were the only two who could have done it. I hope I’ll get to ask them who made it someday.

On the right, there’s a picture that I drew of you. I can’t really remember what you look like. Truth be told, I can’t be sure I ever got to see you before you were gone. Not when I was old enough to remember, at least. Sometimes I dream about you, so those have helped me piece it together over the years.

I don’t know if you’d want to be around. I don’t know if you’d like what the world is now. I don’t know if you’d be proud of me. But I need you to know that the end of the world isn’t all that bad, Mom.