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With hours to kill, I’m sorting through my potential food sources, and the prospects aren’t good. There’re no edible mushrooms — the season is just about to approach. The blueberries are all gone. Everyone between age five and fifteen, me included, took a bucket, a blueberry comb, and a backpack with provisions into the woods. After two weeks of this, we had stripped naked all blueberry bushes in a radius of ten kilometres around the village. Now the root cellars are filled with jam, sauce, and dried berries — unreachable for me.
The blackberries are just getting ripe, and I might be able to find a few handfuls of sweet fruits. No need to even think about nuts, they’re due in two months. If push comes to shove, I’ll eat dandelions. But…yuck.
My best bets are the rabbit trap and the community orchard. I decide that food really isn’t a problem and open Runner’s book, certain it will bring boredom galore.
The first chapter shows a picture with piles of corpses.
The Great Pandemic was caused by two bacteria, Mycobacterium tuberculosis and Vibrio cholerae, and spread across our planet in several waves, starting in the 1960s.
Factors leading to the Great Pandemic are considered to have been:
(A) Elevated atmospheric temperatures and sea surface water temperatures, and thus better growth conditions for pathogenic bacteria.
(B) Raised seawater levels and heavy rainfalls, causing an elevation of groundwater levels, which resulted in
(C) flooding of at least 63% of all sewer lines worldwide and substantial fluxes of faecal matter into aquifers, rivers, and lakes, contaminating all major drinking water resources.
(D) Frequent long-distance travelling of Western and Central Europeans, North Americans, Australians, and Asians by air, sea, and land, facilitating the spreading of virulence factors and antibiotic resistance genes, and later, significantly accelerating the spreading of disease.
(E) Use of large amounts of antibiotics (in the range of hundreds of thousands of tonnes per year), both for the treatment of disease and for industrial meat production, leading to antibiotics contamination of soils, aquifers, rivers, and lakes, and thus triggering bacterial multidrug-resistance in a great variety of ecosystems.
(F) Spontaneous acquisition of an extremely potent virulence factor in a multidrug-resistant strain of V. cholerae, and
(G) prevalence of various multidrug-resistant strains of M. tuberculosis since the 21st century.
While we cannot ascertain whether the infection with both, tuberculosis and cholera, was the norm, we found evidence for dual bacterial infection in 879 out of the investigated 2176 bone samples. Based on these data and further analyses of bone injuries of various severity (for detailed information, refer to standard works by E.R. McCullough and A.G. Karkarov), a morbidity rate of greater than 40%, with a mortality rate of greater than 80% in the infected population, can be assumed.
And on it goes. I’ve never heard any of these explanations and — despite reading the chapter twice — I merely understand half of them. What the heck is a morbidity rate? Mortality rate is easy — that’s the number of people who died of disease. But if only 80% of the infected people died, why are more than 99.9% of humans gone? I flip to the index, but can’t find anything by Karkarov or McCullough.
The part about the antibiotics reads as absurd. I’ve heard about them and once I even saw one — a few spoonfuls of red powder in a sealed glass flask. It’s one of the most valuable substances to be found in our village. Zula has it locked up in his bedroom, as far as rumour goes. I can’t even imagine hundreds of thousands of tonnes of it. How could people manufacture all this? And what’s industrial meat production? Meat coming out of machines?
I snap the book shut and rub my eyes. The part with the bone injury data nags at me, but I can’t figure out why.
———
The sun sinks into the forest, painting trees with fire. I sit in my oak without paying much attention to the spectacle. My eyes are stuck to the snare. My stomach yowls with emptiness and anticipation. The bunch of dandelion leaves didn’t really help against the hunger. Their taste is still stuck to my tongue and all my words constrict around the white and bitter dandelion milk. I can’t think properly.
A marten sneaks across the clearing, its slender body bow-like and quick. Go away, I urge silently.
Darkness falls. The branch beneath me digs into my butt. I pull my legs up and balance on the balls of my feet. The moon is a thin sliver, providing only a little light.
The crickets begin their song and firebugs dance to the tune. I love the woods. If not for the winter, I wouldn’t understand why people moved away from the forest to live in small rectangular boxes.
A scream cuts through the night. Judging from its direction and pitch, it sounds very much like a rabbit trapped in my snare. I fall from the tree as I scramble down. My legs have fallen asleep.
Half limping, half running, I approach the trap. The rabbit’s white tail is flashing. It’s fighting, kicking and squealing in pain or in panic. I jump, my knife unclasped, and then…
The rabbit shoots across the clearing, gone in an instant.
My vibrating fingers search the spot where the sticks and my snare should be, but can’t find them. The poor animal must still have the string around its neck, probably choking to death slowly. There’s no chance I can find it in the dark. I kneel in the soft grass and groan into my hands.
When I make my way back to my spruce hut, my knees wet and muddy and my hands empty, I decide to never again hunt without proper equipment.
Then I realise I have nothing to start a fire with, not even dry wood. I couldn’t have cooked the meat and I can’t eat it raw; the risk of catching rabbit fever is too high. The animal would have died in vain.
Tired and defeated, I slip into my hut and hug Runner’s book to my chest. With hunger rumbling through my stomach and only a shirt, a pair of pants, and a rain jacket covering my skin, I drift into a fitful sleep.
The burning in the pit of my stomach wakes me at sunrise. I pick dandelion greens and eat three handfuls at once, but I’m still hungry. After a trip to the reservoir for a drink and a visit to the blackberry bushes for a few sour, reddish fruits, I return to my makeshift hut and open Runner’s book. It distracts me from the empty feeling that spreads all through my abdomen, chest, and brain.
The mentioning of bone injuries kept me thinking until I fell asleep. Then came the dreams of piles of bones, all dented, thick blood leaking from them.
I reread the first chapter and can make a little more sense of all the information. If mortality means dead people, morbidity could mean infected people. There’s no alternative explanation that would make more sense. So if 40% were infected and of these, 80% died, then only a third of humanity died because of the pandemic. No other disease is mentioned in the book, at least, none that seems important. Typhus was discussed, as were syphilis and a few others that had caused a number of deaths, but nothing close to ten billion.
I lie back down and gaze up at the ceiling, tracing the injuries my knife has inflicted on each twig and branch. Bone injuries. What else but hard impact can make bone yield?
A shudder runs up my arms. Is it possible we killed each other?
The idea doesn’t make much sense. One person hitting the other, sure. One person murdering another is possible, too. I’ve read about this. Some sickos have their own chapter in our history books because they butchered an entire family, kids included. But murder on a global scale and then…everyone taking part?
Runner’s words niggle at the back of my neck. The council decides how much the citizens are allowed to know; but what about memories? If there were so many people killing other people, Grandfather must have seen it. Why did he never talk about it?
I shake my head and rub my eyes. What crazy thoughts. The book must be wrong.
I creep out of my hut and brush pine needles off my pants. Warm thick liquid leaks from between my legs. Yuck. I hurry my pants off and squat next to a tree. M
y stomach grumbles unhappily. I need more breakfast. And I need this menstruation crap to be over already.
———
The bush doesn’t provide much cover, but it’s all there is. The lawns are shaved; the tree line is far behind me. Nothing but a few small hazels block the view from orchard to forest. I’m crouched down behind the largest of them, twigs and leaves tickling my face. In the dusk, the orchard looks ghostly with the linen fabric draped over each tree for storm protection. I’m surprised they are keeping the trees covered. The last heavy wind and rainfall was yesterday. They must be expecting more of it. Runner’s words are ringing in my ears, ‘I came because of the storm.’ How can he know the weather days in advance?
A rumble issues from my stomach. I thought of stealing eggs from birds’ nests, but all the chicks have hatched already. And I don’t think I’ll ever try raw eggs. I’m probably not hungry enough. My brain feels furry, though, and my knees and fingers are weak.
I’ve been sitting behind that flimsy bush for more than two hours now, waiting for dusk to grow darker and the last workers to leave. I have to make sure I don’t miss anyone. Like couples smooching behind the tool shed, or something.
Bending low, I quickly make my way to the picket fence, push a loose stake aside, and squeeze through the gap. The thought of almost-ripe peaches makes my mouth all watery.
I swallow the flood of saliva, fumble at the knot that keeps the protective linen bound to the tree, unfold it, and stick my upper body beneath the cover. The first peach goes directly into my mouth, as does the second, third, and fourth. They are a bit tough and sour; I need to be careful so as not to mess up my digestion.
I tie the cover closed and visit another tree, and then another, picking only a few fruits each time so my nightly visit won’t raise suspicion in the morning.
With a grin on my face and my rain jacket bulging with fruits, I make my way up the hill.
———
Ugh, half-ripe peaches and unripe pears. Even thinking of them makes my stomach churn. The thought of dandelion is even worse. How did this happen? I’ve been careful with the fruits. After stuffing a handful of them into my mouth, I ate only another five or six, slowly, one at a time. Did the dandelion do something funny to my innards? I’ve never eaten it, let alone in such amounts. Groaning, I roll onto my side, curling up like a baby. My belly hurts. My legs tremble.
A gurgling spasm shoots through my intestines and unbearable pain follows. I jump out of my hut, yank down my pants, and double over, not knowing which way the food wants to leave first. Front or back? There’s no time to dig a pit.
With clammy hands, I wipe vomit off my mouth. Spruce twigs don’t make for good ass wipes, but they’re all there is.
When the morning sun peeks through the trees, flies have already found me and my stink. A bunch of the fat insects are buzzing around my face, drawing malformed ovals of brainless activity. One of them lands on my rain jacket, crawls around, then flies away to find its buddies. I watch them and drift into complete and blissful indifference. Flies do that to me. I’ve always stared at them crawling over the walls of my room, once Father was done punishing me, or when I woke up screaming my brother’s name, screaming for help. But no one ever came, and my brother never answered. In my dreams, Karlsson’s hair is still plastered to his head, his hand still outstretched in an oddly stiff and balled-up way. My own hands grasp and grasp. Splashes of water. A wide-open mouth, flooding. Eyes staring, submerged, gone. And all I do is struggle. All I do is save myself.
It’s my fault my brother is dead. It might sound somewhat melodramatic to say that I have killed him, but it’s true. I did. I’d bugged him for days to take me up to the reservoir and teach me how to swim. And boy did I learn to swim that day. I barely made it to the water’s edge, fled from there to our home, hoping someone could haul him out of the depths and back into pulsating, breathing, warm life.
When my parents stood at the shore, staring out at the cold water, they looked like two old tree trunks with their roots chopped off. They gazed at the still surface and grew smaller with each second ticking by, while the others — Zula, Lampit, Klemens, Alexandre — moved about frantically, sopping wet, exhausted, and then, giving up. Shrugs, sobs, hugs — for grown-ups only.
I should have seen it in the eyes of my parents. But I didn’t. With my five years, I was too stupid.
I sobbed myself to sleep and woke to Father kicking the door down, stinking of alcohol, fire, and smoke. Stinking of despair and metal.
Metal? I was wondering, when he hollered a drunkard’s song of accusation. ‘Why did you go up to the reservoir? You knew you weren’t allowed! Why did you go in the water? You knew he had epilepsy! My son! My son!’
With every why and every you, his fist fell on my face. He sobbed while he did it, and I knew I made him do it. I passed out when he sat on my head, his knife drilling into my back.
When I came to, Zula sat next to me, dark and swollen half-moons under his eyes. My back was bandaged, evidence hidden, mouths sealed. From that day on, all went downhill.
Sometimes I wonder why I feel so old.
I blink into the morning light that falls onto the forest floor in sharp, stabbing angles. If I remain here, unmoving for another half hour, the sun will caress my face. I watch it coming closer, touching the tips of grass blades, ants that carry pupae and dead caterpillars, then my outstretched hand, my arm, and finally, my eyes, cheeks, and lips.
I hum.
The patch of sunlight leaves my face and travels farther. I wonder why I’m here. Maybe I should go home, take up composting, get married to whomever, have five or six babies. Maybe two or three will stay alive and grow up while I turn grey and bent. Like everyone else. Are the others really happy, or are they just pretending to be? I’ve never stopped to ask. How does the compassion thing work, anyway? Am I to show compassion to get some in return? Maybe that’s what I did wrong all these years. I was mostly focussed on saving my own skin. Don’t get punched in the face at school; don’t get your arse whipped at home.
I don’t give a shit about other people’s feelings, so why should anyone care about me?
Anyway.
Time to move.
I disassemble my spruce house and spread the twigs and branches on the soiled ground before I leave. The place reeks. I reek. Hunger isn’t my main problem at the moment.
The reservoir lies quiet and peaceful in the morning glow. I scan the surroundings and, seeing no one, I shed my clothes and jump into the cold water. My calves cramp at once.
I gulp air, sink beneath the surface, take both my feet into my hands and stretch the rock-hard muscles, massage them, stretch them again. Swimming is hard, almost impossible, but eventually I make it back to my clothes. Panting and coughing up water, I flop on the grass.
Cackling, I hold my stomach. Tears well up and roll down my cheeks. In my throat is a clump and I choke on it. I’m ready to commit suicide, but panic when I’m about to drown? What bullshit. What’s wrong with me? No guts?
I rub my snotty face, stand, and start washing my shirt and pants. No jumping into cold water while starving — I’ll keep that in mind. The rain jacket is easy to clean — just a few dunks and it smells like new.
I wring the water from my clothes and wash my body, glad that at least the menstruation thing seems to be coming to an end. With nothing to rub myself dry, I catch as much of the warming sunlight as possible while keeping my ears and eyes pricked for anyone walking up the hill.
In my mind, I turn over my options. My clothes need to dry, but if I leave them here, they could attract unwanted attention, or worse, even — someone might take them. I need to find food, but carrying my clothes under my arm won’t help them get dry. Running around naked in the woods isn’t too cool, either — I’m more visible, I’m colder, and I’m certainly not planning to show my bare skin to anyone.
I decide for a compromise and put my wet shirt on. It can dry in the sun without me having to leave it
behind. Besides, my body heat will speed up the drying process. I might catch a cold, but I don’t care much. My pants and the rain jacket can be hung somewhere else, maybe in a clearing. But first I need to eat. My body feels like an empty husk of bones and skin.
———
I ate twelve blackberries today. Just looking at dandelions makes me woozy; no way I can eat them again. Hunger felt sharp and painful around midday. It’s a dull throbbing now. The cold night is a bigger problem. My pants aren’t dry yet. I’m covered with my rain jacket and atop of that lies a bunch of awkwardly piled-up spruce twigs. The hailstorm keeps blowing through, digging icy fingers into my skin. What a screwed-up summer.
I nod to myself. I’ll solve the food problem tomorrow. I only wish I were a bit fatter. Skin and bones don’t help you stay warm. Fat does.
I’ve never been a good eater. During the winter three years ago, the eating-little habit helped my family survive though. All we had left were wrinkly potatoes that believed spring should have arrived long ago (the potatoes were correct — it was May). The small brown tubers sprouted pale arms in a last attempt to reach sun and warmth where there was none. The beans had grown mould and we had to toss them out in the snow, hoping to attract birds, or even rats we could kill and fry. But nothing came. All preserves had been eaten two weeks prior, as had the hams, beets, nuts, and dried berries. People began hacking open the frozen ground in their search for edible roots, but the starving wild boar had eaten them already and moved on. Hunting parties were sent out and didn’t return. So that’s what we were left with: three potatoes per person per day. We counted the days we had left with something to chew on. It was barely a week.