2013: The Aftermath

by Shane McKenzie

  Sam had hired a property manager to watch the house when he was working, but was sure that in the end, he had either died or had bigger problems to worry about. Sam chuckled to himself and closed the door.

  “Sam, it would be best to avoid contact with the corpse. The moisture in the decomposing body may still carry the virus.”

  “Right,” Sam replied absently.

  “We should find somewhere else to go.”

  “No, this is fine, I’m staying put. This is my house.”

  “Sam, I think you should reconsider.” Eve paused before continuing. “There is something you need to know.”

  “Enlighten me.” Sam’s words were laced with sarcasm.

  “There are other survivors.”

  The astronaut cocked his head to the side. “What are you talking about? I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Not here, Sam. New Orleans is completely dead. North, in much colder climates.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There are details about your mission that I could not tell you about until now.”

  Sam laughed. “Eve, I don’t know how to break it to you but the mission is over. Epic failure, wouldn’t you say?”

  “That’s not true, Sam. In fact, it has just begun.”

  “Look around you, Eve!” Sam gestured wildly at his surroundings.

  Eve continued undeterred. “Not long before you left, scientists discovered a virus. While still isolated to a handful of remote locations in Africa, the strain exhibited unique qualities which allowed it to spread faster than anything ever studied, and they feared a worldwide pandemic was inevitable. As a precaution, the government developed a robust contingency plan in the event that the worst came to pass. For months they worked in concert with other nations to contain the spread of the deadly strain, but ultimately their efforts failed and the planners had to take action.

  “You are among the group of those chosen to rebuild. To ensure the highest probability of survival, many of the lucky ones were quarantined in remote areas. Your particular group was the smallest and most isolated. One hundred vessels like the Discovery were sent away for what physicists calculated would be a two year trip. Upon your return, you were to be reintegrated into what was left of mankind.”

  “That’s crazy. No one told me anything about this.”

  “Of course not, Sam. Secrecy was paramount. Most involved didn’t know until after they were relocated.”

  Sam considered the possibility of what Eve was telling him. A few days ago, he would have laughed at such an implausible story, but after seeing what was left of the world, anything was possible. Sam felt his face flush with anger and he growled, “You knew the whole time. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because we had to preserve the integrity of the project. Since your group was the first to go, there was still a chance to avoid a worldwide infection. Sadly, when we returned, it was obvious containment of the virus had failed. However, I have confirmation that the contingency plan is successfully underway.”

  “You’ve been talking to someone this whole time?” Sam clenched his teeth as he fought to contain his building rage.

  “I’m sorry for the deception, Sam, but I needed to make sure the recovery element was still functioning. There was a problem in Houston and I couldn’t confirm until just moments ago that the team is able to accommodate your repatriation. You’ll be pleased to know that arrangements have been made for your extraction. Of course, you will be quarantined, but I’m confident that given your limited exposure, you are uninfected.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?”

  “For now, somewhere cold where the virus can’t survive. The encouraging news is that because of the virus’s lethality, its life cycle is limited. Within a year, maybe two, there are plans to repopulate in warmer climates. Needless to say, the cities will be off limits for decades.”

  “I can’t stay here?”

  “Oh no, Sam, that’s out of the question. It’s far too dangerous.”

  Sam paced the small space of the foyer shaking his head. The world had changed in ways he could never have anticipated. When he accepted the offer to leave for what amounted to two years, he took comfort in the fact that the one thing that he still cared for would still be waiting when he came back. Now the city was gone and he felt utterly lost.

  He looked around at the familiar surroundings in the old house. Memories of his old life flooded his mind and his anxiety began to slowly fade. Sam knew he was right where he needed to be. Even though things were different now, maybe there was just enough left that he could go on living for awhile longer.

  He finally spoke. “Eve, what if I want to stay?”

  “That’s not possible. You’re much too valuable to the project.”

  “I don’t care about the damn project!”

  “I’m sure you must understand the risks. You will die if you choose that course of action.”

  Sam considered the warning before speaking. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing else left I care about.”

  “Sam, you’re upset, but I’m sure your outlook will change over time. What you are feeling is normal. There are people in the settlement that can help with that.” Eve’s consoling tone seemed disingenuous.

  Sam imagined the futility of trying to explain his loss to a therapist. The unique people and culture intertwined with a lifetime of memories made up the essence of who he was.

  Sam whispered, “Eve, I’m staying here.”

  Eve’s demeanor turned stern. “I can see you’re not thinking clearly. If you are not willing to come along voluntarily, you will be forcibly repatriated.”

  “I’ll hide.”

  “You can’t hide from me, Sam. Be reasonable.”

  “Please, Eve. Let me go.”

  “No, Sam.”

  Sam stood motionless for several minutes. He looked at a picture of Charlotte resting on the mantle in the living room. He walked towards the portrait and picked it up as tears began to roll down his cheeks. He sat down next to the decomposing man.

  “What are you doing, Sam?”

  “Go to Hell, Eve.” He reached out and touched the rancid flesh and then swept his hand across his face to wipe away his tears.

  “Stop! You’ll be infected!”

  “I suppose that’s true. Call off the teams.” Sam smiled wryly. “I’m staying.”

  “I don’t understand, Sam. You could have lived. After everything you saw today, you should be happy you’re not alone.”

  Sam blinked at the stinging in his eyes and thought about how he would spend his final days. Maybe he would take another walk in the morning. He always liked to watch the sun come up by the river. After that, he decided we would spend what time he had left taking in as much of New Orleans as he could before he got too sick. He didn’t mind dying. He only hoped he had enough time to say goodbye to his city.

  Sam opened the liquor cabinet in the back of the room. He searched inside until he found the bottle he was looking for. He opened the expensive scotch Charlotte had given him to drink on the day of his military retirement. He poured himself a glass and savored its flavor as he drained it in one swallow. Eve’s words resonated within him. She was wrong about one thing. While he wasn’t the last man alive, Sam Breaux was the last of New Orleans’ native sons. He couldn’t imagine a greater honor.

  About the author:

  C. Douglas Birkhead hails from the panhandle of Florida. He passes the time reading and writing fiction of all genres. He has recently been featured in the Pill Hill Press anthology Love Kills: My Bloody Valentine. You can contact him with comments at rotodome01@gmail.com.

  Troglodition

  or

  HOW R U, Cometh the Man

  by Jacob Edwards

  Long have I waited to tell this story—to put down in corporeal form those climactic events that never may I speak of. Years have passed since first I thought of setting pen to paper; yet now, though my recollections remain clear and bri
ght, there seems somehow less tale to tell, as if the happenings of that time are akin to a lit candle, continuing to burn and flicker but diminishing towards an inevitable formlessness as the wax drips and pools at the base.

  For a long time there were just the three of us, pulled together across miles and miles of emptiness, and surviving—the shattered vestiges of humanity trying to hold itself together; to reassemble itself, perhaps, from primal instinct alone and just three stray scraps of DNA. Brian from Byron was our leader. He was blonde and bronzed, a Greek demigod who had ridden out the cataclysm by surfing a psychotropic drug buoyant enough to float Ayers Rock. Coming down only to find himself high and dry, Brian headed north towards Brisbane, carrying his surfboard like a blanket that no longer could offer him comfort. In rare, unguarded moments he cackled louder than Mother Hubbard.

  The second of our rather exclusive party was the perspicacious Miss Shelly, and even now the remembrance of her makes me tremble with a loquaciousness long bottled. Her hair was like seaweed as one might see it underwater; her skin chalky and weathered but smooth like the shell of her name; and her face—Ah, if only I could have articulated the feelings that Miss Shelly stirred deep within my lumbering frame; but, of course, it wasn’t to be. She and Brian were together, providence now of a garden stripped of seed—the last woman and the last man, or so it seemed, spoken for by genesis and drawn to each other despite the dampening tone of my congenitally mute chaperonage. I do not recall how Miss Shelly came to escape the fate of seven billion, for I swooned when first she spoke and her words brushed past me like a sea breeze on a still day. Often did I determine myself to ask, but as my every effort at communication stood upon plodding stilts, there never arose the opportunity to converse intimately. To Miss Shelly, I fear, I remained throughout those years as dumb and inscrutable as a rock.

  We wandered the streets of Brisbane, the three of us, while bodies rotted all around and the wild dogs drooled and went snarling and sniffling out into the country. For a time we sheltered in the loftiest of penthouses, God by our side and the city stretched out before us, golden yet cold like the palace of King Midas; but even the canned food turned bad eventually and so we eschewed our ivory towers and took once again to the toil of ages. Back we went to the leafy inner suburbs, Lord and Lady Muck and me, down by the river where mangos and pawpaws grew aplenty and the earth lay rich for the farming we should have undertaken from the start. One might think that we had seen it all by that stage—that little, if anything, could widen our eyes or give us pause beyond the pestilence that had struck down our fellow saps; but no, for it was there and then that our lives took another turn, upending one morning as the winter damp set in and the last of the gas bottles hissed to empty. I remember even now how we peered out through the window, squinting at his shadowy form as he limped towards the river’s far bank and dived in, the splashing of his freestyle not unlike a Titan’s sloshing footsteps as he raced to beat the dawning sun. In but moments he emerged, dripping, and made towards our little house. He was short but assured, his knock on the door firm and upright; and so he entered our lives that dark and dreary morning, his collar hanging limp and his thick curls sodden.

  “Gordon,” he said. “George.”—and to this day I still have not ascertained which was his first name and which was his last.

  ***

  “Finally,” the little man continued, glancing at us almost cursorily, it seemed, as he brushed past us and into the kitchen. Once there, he took up a tea towel and began drying his hair. “I had begun to despair of ever finding civilized company, even though I sought with foresight and diligence; foresight, you understand, in that I had made careful study of how the world’s population was educated and distributed; diligence, more out of necessity, perhaps, for our mother’s tongue had become more bastardized even than I had thought...” He paused his drying and eyed our slack-jawed faces. With a small yet somehow magnanimous shrug of one shoulder, he continued: “The purge spread like wildfire and oh! how dry the world had become. Soon nothing remained save charcoal and ashes, and it is through these smoldering embers that I have walked. Repentant? Ha, indeed! Sometimes, my friends, I have looked back with an eye to criticism. It shames me to say that I wallowed for several months in a northern metropolis, the enormity of its emptiness stirring me to a feeling not unlike remorse. Was it a mistake to bring forth the punishment I decreed? Had I erred in pushing that tiny green button? Such desolation have I seen since that day, no wonder that occasionally I receive misgivings from the conscience, or question even my right to have visited God’s last message upon his abomination...” While thus speaking, he crossed to our rainwater tank and filled a small saucer with water. This he put on the floor, then placed beside it a small and rather meek looking tortoise, which he extracted with quite some tenderness from the pocket of his waistcoat. “Upon reflection, of course, I see that I was correct and that my actions were at all times conscionable. The outcome was dire! you might say, but I say in return that the guilty are punished precisely because they are guilty. Why should there be safety in numbers? Why should the debased majority, merely through dint of existence, be allowed to pardon itself; nay! to vote itself innocent? No, my erudite companions. If I feel anything here, in my heart, it is not a survivor’s guilt but rather the sinful, sullied, sordid remembrance of having had to have composed the words, if such they can be called! Ah, those three fateful words—why!” he broke off, peering with gentle suspicion as though only just becoming cognizant of our silence. “Has the cat taken away your tongues?”

  He inclined his head and regarded us as if for the first time, his gaze so piercing, so dominant within its own medium that it seemed nigh impossible to compete with it even through word or action; and so we stood, chins lowered before his scrutiny. His eyes shone upon us with the strength and luster of petrified wood, passing quickly over Brian from Byron, lingering briefly on the perspicacious Miss Shelly, and then pulling his smooth brow into heavy furrows as it tilled my inner depths. “In your case, my colossal friend, I see this to be true. Please accept my apologies.” He lowered his eyes and assumed a humble stance, nudging with one foot at the tortoise. It glanced up at him and then resumed its drinking. “But what was I saying? Ah, yes! Those three small words that led humanity, if such be the correct term, to the brink of extinction. ‘How are you?’—oh, how innocent they seem! But—” he shivered, revolted almost within his own skin, “to say them aloud is one thing, whereas to write down, to text the utterance, is another matter entirely. Five letters—yes, it pains me to admit it: five—a sad and meek capitulation before my opposable thumb, and so the deed was carried out. I have come, my fellow survivors, within one woman of committing what would have been accidental genocide—which I’m sure you will agree is a most preposterous juxtaposition of adjective and noun—but you, my dear, have saved and justified me.” He bowed to Miss Shelly, and then looked up at her, taking her dainty hands in his. “I congratulate you upon your intelligence and on your purity of thoughts and speech; although I must take all three with a pinch of faith, for thus far they are evidenced solely by your existence. You have not uttered a word! No matter. I have a knack for discerning such things, and it is my firm belief that any reticence you display comes from bashfulness, which, you’ll pardon me for saying, is not uncommon in the weaker sex, particularly where strength has been foregone in favor of beauty; and such beauty as yours, my dear, is—”

  I glanced sidewise at Brian from Byron, expecting perhaps that he’d display some measure of jealousy or outrage at such presumption; but Brian was lagging quite some way behind the script, as if somebody inside his head were leaning over to offer him opera glasses and a whispered explanation. Nevertheless, he did interject, blundering into the soliloquy with a vagrant expression of puzzlement and a wandering, waggling thumb. “How are you? H-O-W-R-U?” He shook his head. “What’s wrong about that?”

  George Gordon—for that is how I shall refer to him—shot a look at Brian that would ha
ve sent Medusa herself crumbling into the gravel pit.

  ***

  Looking back, it is difficult to credit the ambivalence with which I viewed George Gordon’s arrival; for even at the time I quite clearly intuited the goings on that his coming foretold. Ours was too small a group to add to or subtract from without disturbing its equilibrium—and George Gordon did both. Yes, he was good with machines; and he knew all about farming and food preservation and cooking. His strength was prodigious for someone of such slight stature, and to this he added stamina and a robust sort of fortitude; yet he was swift and deft also, well versed in medicine and he devoured books as if through himself he could take their seed and spread it over lands far and wide. His knowledge of flora and fauna alone was enough to make him our savior, and yet not for one minute did I feel reverence for him, nor any other emotion or permutation of the senses; merely the dull resignation that stems from knowing that the ending has begun.