Eden, Dawn

by Archer Swift

  ***

  In despairing silence, every one of the last human beings in the universe now stood on the dusty ground of the empty arena. Dead silence. A dreadful, haunting stillness.

  It only then dawned on me that besides the arena itself, I was the object of most people’s attention. I shifted on my feet feeling awkward as my cheeks grew warm. Perhaps they thought I knew something that would help them, or maybe they felt guilty for having bayed for an innocent man’s blood.

  I tried to occupy myself with surveying the arena one more time, hoping beyond hope that I could find something that might give us a chance of survival. Surrounded by my kind and kin, I found the last residue of my instinct to live. I don’t want to die today. Not like this. I guess I should have been looking for Gellica, but the dread of running into the Mzees or Judd or even Ruzzell riveted me to my spot. How would they react? How would I react? It was all too much to worry about given our frightful quandary.

  I had just started counting the number of Zikalic warriors now standing watch over us, some thirty or forty strides from where we clustered in the dirt, when I heard Sarah’s voice call out: “Please sit down everybody! Please can you sit down? Yes, right where you are … Sit!”

  I plopped down on my backside, propped my arms on my legs, dropped my head between my knees and rubbed the rugged scar on my face. My mind was spinning, trying to figure out how we could stand up against Xakanic, or appeal to the Zikalic masses, or escape before the horror show even began. How do you move three-hundred-plus, exhausted, hungry, terrified people without being seen? I fought off the crippling feelings of despair, and only vaguely heard Sarah’s voice in the background of my thoughts.

  “…I know we are all scared, tired and thirsty … I know things look absolutely dismal at this point, but we do have to find the courage to redeem ourselves. I’m not talking about surviving this arena, for I’m not sure that’s going to happen…”—Sarah’s tone remained even, her courage unflinching—“...I am talking about reclaiming our own humanity; about making right the criminal wrong we are all guilty of.

  “To my undying shame, to our undying shame,” she continued, a tremor in her timbre, “we let Dylain talk us into insurrection and worst of all, to accuse and…” Her voice now broke; something I’d never heard before. I stole a glance her way; she touched her hand to her chin to manage the quiver of her lips. “And for some to demand the execution of an innocent man … an immensely brave man, a young man who Scott dearly loved like his own s-s-son … s-s-sorry; I’m so sorry, Rist … s-sorry—”

  Before Sarah uncharacteristically burst into raking sobs and bitter weeping, I felt hot, tingling tears streak down my own face and plop to the ground where they turned the dirt into mud. Flushed, I tried to blink the tears away and buried my head down between my legs, hoping her apology would end quickly; loathing any attention directed my way. At her mention of Scott’s name, and how he felt about me; I felt my tears break into a gusher, and I fought to restrain the heaving of my chest.

  Oh, God … God of my father, give me strength.

  Overcome by the crazy-intensity of the moment, compounded by our knife-edge predicament, many around me were blubbering, too.