The Lost Gods
Page 25
Jesse circled around the balcony and observed the town. He could see the river and all the little brown buildings. Off in the distance the desert sat, a constant reminder that death was waiting. What he could not see were signs of life. What he could not see were signs of the future that Inanna told him of. What he could not see was a purpose to his being on Earth anymore. Nevertheless, Jesse called out. He yelled as hard as he could.
He made as much noise as possible.
…
He stopped, and he listened for a while.
…
He heard nothing, so he yelled again.
…
He stopped, and he listened again.
This continued until the sun had risen to its zenith. He yelled again, but this time his hope had run out. He was just doing it because he did not know what else to do. His voice was hoarse, and he felt the lowest since Adam had died. At least when Adam died, he knew where he was going. Inanna had left him nothing more than a simple set of instructions: instructions that pushed him toward this dead end. He slumped down, defeated. He closed his eyes, and he felt the warm tears of failure well up behind his eyelids. He felt lost. He was lost, and he was alone.
In his head, Jesse replayed the fall of man. He saw thousands running for their lives, unprotected by their gadgets, from an ancient evil. Exhausted and terrified they snaked through the monolithic skyscrapers, the pinnacles of human achievement, in hopes of salvation. Satellites that had been sent into space, laser-guided bombs, and nanotechnology did not save them from a goddess they had forgotten long ago. People had sectioned themselves off with arbitrary borders and worked against each other when cooperation was their only chance at victory. All that was left of these great modern empires was decaying evidence of their hubris; scattered around the globe were architectural and mechanical love letters they had written to themselves.
Jesse set the walkie-talkie in front of him. He stared at its tiny red light. He was not sure whether to hope for salvation or to pray for a comet to collide with the earth and blot him and all the others out of existence.
A sound came from the tiny speaker of the walkie-talkie. Jesse bolted upright.
“Hello,” said a voice with a thick accent.
And Jesse was not alone anymore.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Horace Brickley is a writer (fiction, science fiction, horror, and mythology), musician, MMA enthusiast, and a fan of most things creative. He was born in Vallejo, California, raised in Western Washington, and spent a few years in Taiwan as an English teacher. Two of his short stories were published at The Squawk Back. His next book, coming in late 2014, is a collection of short stories. Thanks for reading. Keep updated at
http://horacebrickley.com.