M. Banner - Desolation

Tonight, Stepha was doing what all in his tribe loved. He was telling stories about the old world, the Time Before. He and his wife, Dar, were the oldest in the tribe and had many stories to tell. Dar was sitting next to their two sons and one daughter, and her grandchild, Gord, was attentively sitting in her lap. All the tribe loved Stepha’s stories about the Time Before when objects smaller than your hand spoke to you and you spoke back; where you would climb into a moving cave that took you to faraway places; when the people of the broken monuments ruled the earth; and when all of this went away, when the great gods of the sky took everything from the people.

Stepha thought about this time before the Event, when people would assemble at drive-ins or movie theatres and watch a movie staring up at a screen, waiting for it to entertain them. He missed those times, but he also didn’t. Back then people assembled, but not in community. No one knew anyone else staring at the screen, necessarily, and they never discussed the story with the others, only noisily talked on their phones, and texted their friends, or Facebooked their experience instead. The movies themselves didn’t provide much mental engagement either, leaving nothing to the viewer’s imagination. Now, without the electronics of old, or even many books from the old way, people relied on oral stories, where their imaginations would soar into the winds, and the story was discussed with everyone in the community. He relished these times as much as his tribe did.

When everyone was quiet, he spoke. “A time long ago”—he started each story this way—“I was called Stephen and my wife was called Darla. During that time, I operated a giant bird, which I could control and fly through the sky, faster than the birds of the sky you see today.” He then shot his arms out like wings and made engine sounds, turning his body from side to side. They loved this part. “Back then, we traveled great distances in these flying containers, flying over many tribes to get to other tribes we had never been to before. Then the gods of the sky took all of that away.” He paused and looked at the children. They stared at him with rapt expectation, knowing this story, but almost unable to wait for him to tell it. The eyes of his audience reflected the aurora light above, making it feel like there were a hundred or so pairs of soft green fireflies, flying in formation, their lights flickering with each blink.

“Grandpa, tell us about Grandma and the wars,” Gord said, barely able to contain himself. He could hear about his grandma and grandpa over and over, without ever getting bored.

When Gord awoke, he was assailed by the acrid smell of death, decay, and defecation. It was worse than the stench from the waste pond outside his family’s cave on even the hottest of days. His nostrils burned and his eyes watered, but he didn’t dare blink the tears away. Instead relying on his other senses, he listened carefully, unmoving so as to not draw attention to himself. Behind him were the rhythmic sounds of someone sawing through something both solid and soft and a heavy man’s foot-falls on the metal floor; each step caused the heated surface beneath him to shudder. His arms were still tightly bound at his wrists, and his legs were numb from the bindings digging into his ankles.

The footsteps dragged something heavy and dropped it directly in front of him. Therrrump .

The ground shook, and so did his insides. The smells that made his stomach turn somersaults worsened, becoming more pungent. He knew he shouldn’t look, but he had to confirm with his eyes what all his senses were telling him. He slowly ushered them open, but one held, abated by swelling and his own dried blood. Now his vision suffered the same gut-churning assault. It was a dead woman, her slack mouth wide open and her eyes devoid of all life. Her face was a mask permanently locked in a silent scream of terror and pain. She was naked, broken, certainly abused in ways he didn’t want his mind to entertain, and she had been discarded right in front of him, like useless trash.

The sawing stopped. “No, get that one: the clothed one next to the female. It’s fresher, less soiled,” said a scratchy, almost squeaky voice from behind him.

Gord kept still, feeling a chill, even though it was very hot.

“One day or two days, what’s the difference?” answered another voice right behind him, beefier but gentler. “Ohhh, you mean the one brought in today by Snort and that other bad man I don’t like.”

“That’s the one, Moby.”

Gord felt this Moby grab his feet and drag him sideways across the floor. He had to think quickly. His one eye scanned this odd rounded room with bodies everywhere and small holes in the walls filling the inside with dirty light. His chance, coming up, was a sharp piece of metal stuck up at an angle from the floor. He waited as he was pulled closer, controlling his breathing. When Moby dragged him around some other bodies and toward the side of the structure, Gord pretended to be slightly jarred and let his bound hands be pulled by the floor past his head. Reaching out, he thrust the bundle of twine around his wrists on top of the sharp piece of metal, careful not to cut his hands or wrists, and pushed down with all his might, all the while still pretending to be unconscious.

He felt a great tug from his legs to his arms, and his motion stopped. Gord’s ankles slipped from Moby’s grasp and his lower half hit the metal ground beneath him, causing a deep thud and clanging that reverberated all around. Gord was now face down, his arms over his head. While Moby re-focused on his feet, Gord made a quiet swipe with his bindings at the cutting edge before placing his now-loosened bundle back at the starting point of the jagged metal strut. He waited for Moby to do the rest of the work.

Moby breathed a frustrated sigh and grabbed Gord’s feet again, this time vigorously yanking and pulling at him. With each tug, the binding loosened further, and more of it was slashed by the sharp edge of the metal. Gord felt the big man wrap his arms around his legs and put all his weight into the task. Then his bindings fell away, and the force of Moby’s pull caused both men to become momentarily airborne. Moby let loose as he fell, like the great trees of the dead forest, pitching slowly at first and then faster until his massive frame crashed.

“Gods dammit, watch out,” demanded the scratchy voice. “Moby?”

Gord forced both eyes open now. With his hands free, he quietly unbound his ankles and then stood on unsteady legs, feeling somewhat weak, but free. The scratchy-voiced man, his back to Gord, was leaning over Moby, who seemed to have knocked himself out. Beside them was a work table with knives and saws and one large thigh bone of a man. Blood coated everything. A tub beside the table contained the freshly cut-up pieces of human flesh and bone. I would have been next !

Gord grabbed an ax, sticky with blood, and stalked over to the scratchy man. There was little time for the man to look surprised, and none for him to raise an alarm. Gord swung with all his might.

Turning to run, ax still glued to his hand, Gord took a moment to search. At the end of this long cylindrical room, by the open entrance, was a pile of bags, clothes, and other discarded belongings. Near the top he found his satchel. After a hasty look inside for his book, he threw the strap around him and sprinted out of the opening.

Looking back as he attempted to put some distance between himself and his captors, he took in the strange edifice. It was round and long, like a massive tree trunk lying on the ground, maybe only four arm-lengths high. It had a smooth, faded, white skin with blue and red colorings on it: letters that read “American.”