aftermath

In all the universe, there is but one world where the dead and the living fully interact, one world which is so condemned as to have no choice in the matter. On this world, the thin boundary between life and afterlife has collapsed, the result of a devastating accident of an apocalyptic war. Living bodies of flesh exist side-by-side with the spirits of the dead. There is no happiness, only despair. All is lost on this desolate world trying to atone for committing the gravest transgression of civilization: succumbing to the loathsome, contemptible lure of violence and engaging in civil war. The year is 2132. Welcome to Earth.

* * *

San Majura walked with immeasurable weariness into the small desert shelter where he and his only friend, Onaran Ndari, lived. His head hung low, San fell heavily and exhaustedly into his uncomfortably-hard wooden chair. He was among the living on this world, though one could hardly tell it by looking at the wretched man. Though only twenty-five years old, he looked at least twice that. His thin and withered body shook noticeably as he sat. The thick, black hair of his youth had been replaced with scraggly grey strands. His formerly strong, brown eyes were now bloodshot, sunken, and surrounded by dark bags. It had been so long since San had enjoyed a good meal, it looked eerily as if the skin of his face was attached directly to his skull. This intolerable place had taken its toll on him.

He and Onaran dwelled here not by choice but by exile. San had been banished from his native Cambodia nearly six years ago for challenging the Supremist annexation of his government. As for Onaran…well, Onaran had never chosen to share with San the reason he was here. He had just shown up three years ago, and San had taken him in. To be fair, San had never shared his story with Onaran either. They had been living together in this god-forsaken place for three years now, and they’d never really spoken more than a few words to each other at a time. It hadn’t really seemed to matter. But lately, San had began to realize-and he suspected that Onaran felt the same-that since neither of them had any apparent future, they should at least share with each other their respective pasts. It was time for three years of silence to be broken.

Because any introductory small talk would do nothing but detract from the story, and perhaps cause him to inadvertently bypass the telling of his tale altogether, San launched directly into his narrative without any forewarning or explanation. Staring blankly ahead-giving himself over to the memory-he began to speak, hoping that Onaran was listening but knowing that even if he wasn’t, it would feel good to finally get this off his chest and into the open.

* * *

“Six years ago,” San began, “the Supremists arrived in Cambodia. They already had control of half of the Eurasian continent, but out of some misguided sense of nationalism, my brother and I joined the army, foolishly believing that together we could take on those arrogant, genetically- engineered bastards and win back our homeland.”
A wistful, ironic chuckle escaped San’s lips and was quickly followed by a sorrowful sigh. “We underwent basic training, and were both shipped out to the front lines. We were no match for the Supremist fighters, but we still thought we had a chance. Until…jagged rock splinters…”

* * *

The end of the sentence caught Onaran by surprise. Jagged rock splinters? What did that mean? For the first time since San had began speaking, Onaran looked up, and saw that San had gone into a state akin to a trance. He continued to tell his story in such a way that Onaran could not help but realize that his companion was reciting the words from memory. He must have written them in his journal at some point and read the entry thousands of times since then. San, looking haunted, continued.

* * *

“Jagged rock splinters. I watched them fly outward from the impacted boulder in a brilliant, terrifying burst of light and fire. Silently, the small, sharp fragments shot through the air, leaving trails of flame in their wake, and nearly piercing deadly holes in the young soldier’s uniform as they went by. I wanted to help, but I was afraid. If I ran out into the open, would I help, or harm us both?

“The cause of the explosion had been a phased-particle beam emitted from a small atmospheric cruiser. Through his darkly-tinted helmet, I knew the war-embittered man could see his attacker, and despite the lack of marking on the hovering craft, he knew-as did I-by the sleek, silver design that it was Supremist. He drew his weapon and fired fiercely, again and again, but to no avail. A final burst of energy left his rifle as the rock exploded again, sheering huge gashes in his protective uniform-his only safeguard from air locally poisoned with biotoxins. I should have helped him…but the enemy was so close. I would have died, too. And then we both would have been lost.

“Life and breathable air slowly seeped from the soldier’s ragged uniform. In a futile attempt to save his dwindling life, he launched himself from the brown-soiled shore into the water of the bordering Tonle Sap Lake. His impact sent ripples cascading through the water. Then the ripples seceded, and the enemy craft flew off. All was as it had been, but for my grief, but for my regret.

“I ran toward the water, but it was too late…too late. My brother was dead, and I could have helped him. I could have saved him. I should have helped him.”

San took a deep breath, the weight of his terrible secret no longer resting solely on his shoulders. He did nothing to stop the tears from running down his face. “I was captured a week later at another skirmish, and I learned that Cambodia was now in the hands of the Supremists. I was brought to a labor camp and told to dig trenches for a mass grave. I refused, knowing that the punishment for such was death. But rather than simply kill me, they for some reason decided I needed to suffer…for a very long time. And so they exiled me here, where I suffer. In spite of their plans, I suffer more from guilt over having not saved my brother than from being forced to live here, but still I suffer, and have suffered, ceaselessly, for the last six years. And that…is my story.”

* * *

Onaran sat in silence in the tiny room’s farthest corner about twelve feet away and wished desperately that he could do something to ease San’s pain. But wish as he might, there was nothing he could do. He should know; he had his own guilt, guilt that stemmed from an event that had resulted in a tragedy far worse than one man’s death. It was a guilt that Onaran had refused to reflect on for the past three years. He hadn’t been willing to think about it at all, let alone share it with someone else. But the time had come to face his unforgivable sin. San had shared his story, and Onaran would too.

Continue . . .