Their Insides Torn V: Relics (© Bryan Way) This contribution is part of a series:- 1. Their Insides Torn (15-Nov-2000) 2. Their Insides Torn II: End of Serenity (23-Jul-2002) 3. Their Insides Torn III: Philosophy (8-Oct-2003) 4. Their Insides Torn IV: Hindsight (30-Jan-2004) 5. Their Insides Torn V: Relics (27-Mar-2011)
| The final entry of a series following one man's quest to physically and mentally survive in the world of the undead. |
Page 1 My eyes open.
Before the crowd outside the window forced me back into consciousness, I was
having a dream about my home in the woods. It wasn’t dissimilar from the dreams
I used to have about school, my parents, or the first days of the outbreak, the
only exception being that the latter were almost entirely nightmares. I’ve come to
appreciate the tokens of memory well beyond their service as conversational
fodder and their status as elemental building blocks in the infinite
subdivisions that comprise a human being. Religion used to have some convinced
being alive was a gift and that a life lived in deference to God was noble
while others find simple survival a far more telling and satisfying triumph of
human fortitude. I know far more people who believe the latter these days. In another age,
my life and memory would be no more important than the next idiot walking the
street; by surviving this long, I’ve earned the distinction of being one of the
few remaining that is able to remember life before the outbreak. For example, I
still remember that the average life expectancy for white males at the time of
the outbreak was 74.9. At 47 and a half, I’m the oldest person I’ve met
personally since our pilot, Mr. Rubinstein, died fifteen years ago at 57. The noise outside
finally gets loud enough for me to hobble out of bed, and, with my senses
returned, I can make it out more clearly; shuffling feet, bodies scraping
together, and a low rumble of indistinguishable murmurs. I open the balcony
window and yawn as I look out over the stumbling masses of kids just one story
below, none younger than 13 and none older than 25, the oldest marking a
quarter century of repopulation efforts.
My son and daughter are likely among them. This still astonishes me; if
it hadn’t been for Alfred’s efforts, I’d have only
been released from Durham prison in England
seven years ago, if at all. Now I’m in the United States and I have children. The gathering
horde must mean it’s Sunday. In our previous culture,
Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest. A misguided sense of irony first drove
us to save our largest gatherings with the surrounding Virginians for Sunday,
though with all the work we strove to do in the beginning, it hardly distinguished
itself from any other day. Now, civil debate drives us out of our homes on
Sunday afternoons. I get dressed,
grab my backpack, pick up the crowbar I’ve been using as my walking stick, and
head into my living room; the katana that had long been my sidearm has been
irreparably broken for more than ten years. Like a proper hermit, I’ve
accumulated stacks and stacks of books and papers throughout the living room;
at the moment, not one is covered with the fireproof blankets I generally use
to protect them from my clumsiness with a candle. Also, like a proper hermit, I
must struggle to find the stack of paper I was intending to bring with me,
hidden here amongst the volumes of personal reminisces and library books… ah,
there. I open the front
door and cross the hall, rapping my knuckles on my neighbor’s door. It opens
quickly to reveal Jen running her fingers through her long, damp hair. "Time already?" I
nod. "You want to go
together?" "Sure… one moment." I lean my body
in the door frame to watch while she bends down to pick up her jeans. Jen
avoided my initial advances and recanted her original position on the matter,
trying her hand at Langley until he revealed his homosexuality. While I spent months trying to find
suitable short term mates, she became intensely withdrawn and found it
difficult to relate to anyone with whom we came in contact; an attempted rape will
do that. When we began discussing repopulation with the Virginians, I posited
that she and I would be a good match, since we were friendly with each other
and shared similar values. I argued that we’d need a generation of liberal
Northerners to have a voice in our society. Eventually I wore her down; my
children are also hers. "Ready?" She
says finally, tearing me away from my thoughts. As a reflex, I glance at the
two brackets on her teeth that form the last remaining elements of her old
braces. I smile and nod again, leading her toward the hallway. [ Continue to page 2 ] |