When you ignored the hot, choking air, the glowing ruins that lay in clustered heaps, and the sounds of the dying that came from within and around them, life was only a little less than torturous. When you also ignored the unrestrained glare of the blood red sun and the thick smoke from the ever-burning fires, life was nearly livable. And when you went the extra mile and ignored the pain that would inevitably shoot through your body and the suffocating sense of hopelessness, life was almost acceptable.
But while life could be livable, it was never worth living. Those who lived were survivors by nature, those who clung to life for the sole purpose of living, regardless of the conditions of life. Or, they were those who were simply afraid to die, those who feared what might or might not be beyond the grave that would eventually take them, and had resolved to spend as much time away from it as possible. It was no longer easy to accomplish this, but possible for the determined. Still others had some goal they had vowed to reach in life, and could not die until it had been completed.
So, which one am I? The young man had repeated this to himself over and over throughout his life, never reaching a real conclusion, though never really caring. He didn’t place much of a value on life or death, though he tended to prefer the former. He could probably call himself a survivor, since he’d made it through many ordeals thus far, and would probably-hopefully-make it through many more to come before taking the long dirt nap. He’d only survived, though, because to him there had been no alternative, not because he just had to live. Nor was he particularly afraid of death. When it came, it came. So, that left…
What’s my mission?
Revokov brushed some of the dust from his trench coat, walking briskly past the jumble of shelters and barracks used by his people as homes. Those he passed wore the same looks of tiredness and indifference on their faces as he wore on his. His cold blue eyes searched every face for emotion or an urge to communicate. Finding none, as usual, he continued on his way to the Castle. He stopped, again as usual, to stare up at the sky. The ruthless sun stared right back, forcing Revokov to shield his eyes a little in order to take anything else in. Though it was daytime, the sky was curiously dark, except around the sun, making the giant, distant ball of fire seem like the only light at the end of a very deep tunnel. At night, when only the dim moon could promise any light, navigation was impossible, unless you followed the fires-some intentional, some not-and hoped you wound up where you wanted to be. He’d mapped out a way back to his own shelter to the point where he could start at the Castle and return home with his eyes closed, so he didn’t have to worry much about getting lost. It was the pickpockets and prowlers that worried him.
Today, his plans were identical to any other day. Once at the Castle, he’d socialize with the others he’d come to know who hadn’t yet become zombies. Together they’d recall their past joys and have a little something to eat, as they always did but never tired of. It was all they had. Revokov’s stomach growled at the mere thought of food. He was malnourished, but still always managed to eat enough to survive, and he was surprisingly fit. Mara would be there by now, he reasoned, resuming his speedy gait. Talking to her always seemed to make the day worth getting through. She was a generally happy person, or at least as happy as one could be under these circumstances, and had the ability to cheer up Revokov because of it. Their friendship went way back, and Revokov had eventually taken her under his wing.
He neared the Castle, his dusty black coat flapping behind him in the sudden bursts of wind that tended to plague this area. The coat was heavy and hot, and its black coloring absorbed the sunlight like a sponge, causing annoying trickles of sweat to appear over Revokov’s body, but the coat was necessary. In it was hidden most of his tools of survival, mainly a large dagger that he might need if his visit extended past sunset. Just before making the final turn on the poor road leading to his destination, he heard a small scream to his right, promptly cut off by the sound of a hand slapping a face.
In this world, one did not get involved where one didn’t have to. One never made more enemies than absolutely necessary, because there were no laws anymore. Revokov knew he should keep going. He knew the owner of the voice probably couldn’t be helped. But nonetheless, he stopped and turned to the right, making out another of the dark alleys so common in this area. The voice was familiar to him. It was probably just his mind playing tricks, he reasoned. It had happened before. However, this feeling in his gut had also happened before, and he had never regretted taking its advice. He did so now, placing a hand on his dagger and moving into the darkness.
When he could see, he froze in mid step. Not ten feet away, a man was pressing a young woman against a wall, hand clamped over her mouth as he ripped away bits of her clothing. She struggled to no avail, only making him tighten his hold and strip her faster. Though he hadn’t ever seen it happen in person, Revokov knew exactly what was going to take place here, and that realization alone compelled him to take action. What sent him over the edge, however, was the identity of the victim.
“Mara…” he whispered, temporarily paralyzed by the moment. He had been right to come to this alley, for now he could stop this man, this indigent, this vermin from getting away with his deed. His eyes locked briefly with Mara’s, and she stared back a brief second before the attacker realized there was a third presence. He brought his hands up, balling them into fists as a challenge, but he never had a chance. Revokov let his primal instincts take over and became a whirling blur of limbs, attacking his enemy with the speed of a cheetah and the ferocity of a lion. His hands finally got around the now defenseless man’s throat, and he thrust the vermin’s head into the hard wall a few times until his eyes became glazed over, his body falling limp in Revokov’s arms. He wasn’t quite dead or unconscious, amazingly, stared up at the victor with pleading eyes. Revokov simply glared, and robotically removed his dagger and slit the man’s throat. He twisted the body around so the geyser of life fluids painted the wall instead of his own body. Sure, he could have spared the man’s life, but in this world, you never took a chance like that. Wiping the bloodstained dagger on the dead man’s own cloak, he nestled it back into its sheath within his coat and turned to his friend. She was a shivering wreck, and immediately latched on to him, unleashing the tears she’d refused to cry in the despicable attacker’s presence. He gently pushed her away far enough to remove his coat and drape it over her thin shoulders, and then embraced her, for the first time in his recent memory displaying any real emotion for another human being.
“Thank you, Vasily…” she whispered, “Thank you…” He responded with silence, merely continuing to offer comfort.
This then, he decided, can be what I live for. What’s nobler than living for another person?
“The Castle” was not a castle at all, but a giant skyscraper, one of the few that remained in tact. Around it was a large plaza where people could gather and talk. Few people actually resided in the Castle, since most of the building was unstable. One man who did lived on the third floor, having converted a room into his own chambers. He could open a window and have a great view of most of the colony he lived in and presided over. There was no government anymore, since who would obey one? Rather, the clusters of survivors supported and revered those who distinguished themselves as their protectors, and this man was one such protector.
Renato D’Antonio was closer to fifty than forty, and in this day in age, that was pretty good. After The End, he’d found a group of people to travel with and settled on land near here. Many others did the same, until the area had so many different groups that they all congregated into one makeshift city. The Castle’s imposing presence served as the center of town. The End had left several cities like this in its wake. As one expanded, it needed more room, and took it often by force. D’Antonio had made a name for himself by being incredibly active in stopping one such group that wished to consume his city, and was now somewhat of a local hero.
Now, he looked out of the window as he always did around this hour. The usual people were in the plaza below him. It was good for his emotional health to live so close to a place where human emotions were still exhibited, rather than in the slums around the Castle, where the only things filling the senses were the screams of the dying and the smell of the unclean. D’Antonio turned his attention from the scene below up to the black sky, like he always did, trying hard not to look into the sun, wondering as usual what he was still doing here. What were any of them still doing here? All of his life had been a struggle for survival, and he had survived. Now what? What was left? The End had left them all in the dust.
D’Antonio sighed again, as he always did, and continued to stare. There was nothing left, and he’d be long dead by the time something replaced what had been lost. Perhaps his mission was over.
Regina Thompson reclined in her old rocking chair, one of the few things she’d been able to keep with her throughout her life. Sixty-five and strong, she was old enough to remember what things had been like before The End. She’d spent most of her life running from death, determined not to be ensnared in that demon’s terrifying claws. However, now that she’d escaped death this long, she had found that she now craved what she had fled from. How long would it be before someone leapt from the shadows and took her life to obtain her belongings? How long before the maniacs to the west decided to set their city ablaze again? How long…before the fear ended?
And it didn’t have to be this way! Regina shook her head slowly, gazing out at the dark, daytime sky. The sun was out in force, the brightest and only visible star in the sky, since the aerial chemicals still colored most of the sky black.
All those in power had declared that they were the allies of man. They had promised a fruitful future and a peaceful world. Where were they now? Buried in the rubble their greed had created. Greed had destroyed the world with the pushing of a single button. When had it happened? When was the fatal shift in leadership or ideals that had caused this? Somewhere in the same city, a peasant, a hero, and an elder were thinking the same thing.
Where had Earth gone wrong?