Bank on the Apocalypse

I awake to the first spring light entering the large murky lattice windows, covered in the grime of time and neglect. Beams of light bounce off the once lustrous marble floors, now stained with decay and littered in carelessness. Warmth from the sunlight across my dark face fills me with a sense of nostalgia, I squint my eyes against the almost-blinding light and for a moment, I see the majestic bank as it once was…before it all ended.

It happened very suddenly. There was almost no warning. In the weeks leading up to the fallout, no one saw it coming, and if they did, they didn't make it known. I doubt much could have helped, humans can be so careless, after all.

Talk of climate change and pollution, viruses, sustainability, racism, sexism, terrorism or worse yet, bio-terrorism, ending world hunger and poverty; all talking points that have seen little or no action or positive outcomes. All the lies, deceit, hypocrisy, backroom dealings, corruption, greed, and all the different forms of self-created, self-inflicted blights humanity cast upon itself ran rampant before the fallout. It would be humanity’s need for dominance over itself that would lead to its eventual downfall.

The massive structure, once a bank, had become my home. It kept me safe from the harsh external elements and deadly fallout. It had been a long winter, and finally the spring light brought with it some sense of comfort. I let my mind go. Bouncing in and out of consciousness and memory, letting the lines blur, another day passing by in this seemingly endless purgatory of isolation.

Before it all ended, I loved being in the bank, even though I was a new addition, my short time there was memorable. The large Neo-classical building with its sculpted walls, marble floors, beautiful arched windows, ornate fireplaces, lavish columns, and overall grandiose design, made me feel small yet important. I watched different people come and go in the bank; first time homebuyers seeking a mortgage, students applying for loans, vacationers exchanging currency; there were all sorts. Now there is no one. Now there is nothing. Or is there? I let myself soften in the warm spring light. Could there be survivors out there? I have not seen a soul for months. Solitude has a tendency to play tricks on even the strongest of minds.

Somewhere between these hallowed walls, the ghosts of time still linger. I can almost hear the rush of people pacing, the low murmur of the tellers, the faint flutter of pages turning, the endless clicks of keyboards, and the scratches of pen on paper. It is nothing more than an exhausted memory and I, its keeper. I had been brought into the bank by the previous manager, under the guise of a potential blossoming future, and dreams untold.

The winter was long and dark, and I had nowhere else to go, so unlike others, whom I assume tried to flee the city, or hide, I stayed here, in the only place I really knew. I was hoping and waiting for some sign of life. Though it seems I have completely lost track of time and meaning.

The truth is, I had been left here among the rubble, scattered papers and lost dreams. I really should not complain though. There is a certain level of peace in solitude; or maybe that is just what I keep telling myself to get through the isolation. It has been months, though I am uncertain how many, since I last gazed upon a human face, or felt the sparks of heat from a caress or touch. However, I am in no condition for such an interaction. Dust and debris cover my black Italian leather jacket and I, just like everything else in this desolate mausoleum.

Before the first blast rang out like thunder in the streets and the power went out for good, televisions flashed images of missiles and explosions across the world, a premonition of what was about to come. Talking heads spewing their warnings of evacuations, dread and doom. Even then, there was no hope for humankind.

I had overheard that it was a group of world leaders that had made the decision, choosing to end the world with the push of a button. All their talk of peace and treaties did no good, as their anger took the best of them; hiding away in their bunkers as they allowed the whole world to burn. I still don't understand why or how it could have escalated to such an extent. I will never know what darkness could reside in humans to allow them to destroy each other.

As events unfolded, a number of people tried desperately to withdraw their life savings, until the realization that their paper money would not help them survive in this new world. A few did hide in the inner depths of the bank, where the thick fortified walls lent protection. Some time after the last detonations were heard and the dust had settled, the few remaining survivors filed out of the basement and left this refuge of protection, leaving me here, alone.

The warmth of the afternoon light makes my racing mind drowsy, I close my eyes, let my spine soften in the warm spring light and bask in the peaceful calls of sleep.

Suddenly I awake from my slumber by a booming creak, followed by a chilled breeze slicing through the silent, stagnant, uncirculated air, unsettling the long dormant dust and upheaving into turbulence, the lifeless papers that scattered the floor. The specks of dust dance and sparkle in the dusk light, like shooting stars in the night sky. Quickly I make a wish upon one of the shooting stars.

To say this entrance into the bank felt like a crack of thunder would be cliché. No, it was more like the moment you take out your old jacket, unworn since last year and unconsciously slide your hand into that old familiar pocket and a long forgotten $20 bill grazes your hand. A happy surprise! Yes it was a happy surprise.

His heavy boots echo across the abandoned floor with his pace creating a chorus, long unheard. The enormous doors moan and close behind him, heavy under their own weight. Beams of light flicker across his dark, deep-set eyes, which tell a tale of loss. His face framed by long untamed hair, with no clear definition between his overgrown beard, which encompasses the faint outline of his lips. He lets out a sigh, as his bag falls to the floor.

Pausing for only a moment, he swiftly walks across the meadow of scattered multi-colored papers, which sway like flowers in the summer breeze, passing right by me. I watch as he pulls open the heavy vault door, releasing a flurry of bills into the air as the chamber’s pressure quickly changes for the first time in months and the stale air exits its hibernation. His left hand grips a tray, as his right quickly catches and releases stacks of monetary notes onto the tray.

Was the outside world back? Did human civilization actually survive? Were humans back to using what they called money? As I watch him, a faint shimmer of hope emerges in my mind. Why else would he be collecting a tray, of what must have been, twenty-thousand dollars in currency?

I sit on the desk, unable to move or speak. I am desperate to get his attention, but frozen for what seems like eternity, as though suspended in time. Again he walks right past me as though I don't exist, carrying the tray to one of the old carbon covered, marble fireplaces. He abruptly empties the tray of paper money into the large firebox. Bending down with his back turned towards me, I hear a quick, abrasive grinding sound, as a flame slowly begins to emerge. He warms his hands near the small flames as they grow in number.

Abruptly standing up, he turns. His eyes rapidly darting across the starkly lit depository, scanning the obscuring shadows and highlights, until his eyes fall upon me. We stare at each other for an endless moment. Time seems to stop. Though his beard obscures the view, I can make out the faint corners of his mouth slightly curving in an upwards direction as his eyes soften their gaze upon me. He slowly makes his way in my direction.

My ivory skin, tarnished by time and dirt, doesn’t seem to repel him. He brushes his hand across my leather jacket, releasing a cloud of dust into the air. I feel the slight jolt of electricity flow through me as his hands wrap tightly around me.

He pulls me into his athletic arms and carries me across the room towards the fire, placing me on the floor next to him. We sit in silence, only the crackling fire whispering a sweet secret in our ears. The flames dance across the backsplash of the old fireplace. Who knew twenty-thousand dollars would burn so beautifully. For a moment, I almost forget about the end of the world.

He stares down at me, his eyes piercing as if beckoning me to speak, but nothing comes out. After what seems like an endless pause, he reaches for me, picking me up and placing me on his lap. As he sits holding my spine in the palm of his hand, he caresses my long untouched edges and curved corners, flipping through my stained and aged pages, which are unblemished, having never been saturated by ink.

Delicately he opens me up. My ivory pages casting back the light it reflects from the warm hearth onto his tired face. The tip of his pen glides across my fibrous skin as ink fills my pores. I bath in his words, tightly wrapped in his script, and for the first time I feel hope.

The sun has long passed, but the glowing fire embraces both of us in its warmth as he scribbles away inside me. He tells me his secrets, his desires and thoughts. His pen starts to slow, I see his eyes staring down at me slowly flutter. He gently closes my Moleskin© leather bound jacket, laying me down next to him. He stretches and yawns as he curls onto his side, resting his head atop me.

In the morning, we will make our way south in search of other survivors; until then, the sound of his rhythmic breathing and crackles from the fire, harmonize into a lullaby as I drift off into a blissful sleep, finally finding contentment. I am no longer alone. Our story is just beginning.