Prose

“And from the chasm of her throat she uttered the
scream of our mortality, In the vastness of her wet eyes she produced a
flood…”
-        Excerpt from “Mourning Song for Gaia” by
Nascosto Nome
Chapter I
The apartment on
Amsterdam Road was a mess. Crumbling bricks and flaking mortar were all that
stood against the forces of gravity that weighed heavier and heavier on the old
building with each passing day. The rusty squeals of the old iron fire-escape
echoed through the building with every breath of the winter wind, and one could
not help but hear in the sound the aching moans of a creature long overdue for
death. It was but desperation that kept the building on life-support. None of
the tenants saw the apartment as a good thing, but they all saw it as a vital
thing. The decaying corpse of a once lavish home was all that stood between
them and the cold harshness of the outside world. Where the old bones provided
very little heat, what lay beyond offered nothing but cruelty and death. It was
barely anything, but it was all they had.
And for Thomas Fremont,
it was enough. As he hefted his tired legs up each step of the inside
stairwell, he hardly even noticed the dilapidated state of his home. As a
conscript of the city government, he was used to far worse. In his heavy boots
and thick militia jacket, even the chill of the barely-heated hallways was but
a mild annoyance. Besides, he had just finished a fifteen hour shift of
constant manual labor with only three ten minute breaks. The combination of
cold wind and heated flesh was nothing new to him. Indeed, it seemed so natural
after all this time that it did not even register in his mind. To his weary
body, the ghostly hallways offered little but the promise of a short rest. The
bricks whispered to him of safety from the American Republic Movement
protestors. Even the creaking stairs sang to him of peace and solitude away
from the chaotic crowds and screaming masses. It was a simple melody, but it
was one he ached to bathe in. For it would be the only bath he would receive in
this district. Scratching his head, he wondered if it would be possible to get
transferred out of the Dark Quarter and back into a city where there were still
lights and running water. He knew the thought was ridiculous. No government
official would even spare the energy it took to sit and listen to a conscript
from the coast; not with the Triple Threat still a pressing concern. This was
especially true in the Dark Quarter, where government officials were rarer than
cars. So it was no use even hoping for a way out. But even so, he could not
help but imagine what it would be like to go home through a brightly lit city
to an apartment with electric lights and plumbing and heat always available. He
had heard some of the other conscripts speak of such places, out beyond the
Rocky Mountains, where the world was bright and the violence not so brutal. It
always amused Thomas that even in these fanciful stories they never went as far
as to suggest a place where violence did not exist. It was always “less
common”. Of course, having grown up during the Triple Threat, it seemed almost
inane to believe in a world of universal peace.
Finally, Thomas reached
the fifth floor. It was the only floor in the building that was not fully
occupied, and the silence was oppressive even when compared to the other
floors. Due to the weak structure of the apartment, few braved the last flights
up to where the penthouse and suites used to be. Indeed, aside from the
occasional Drifter, Thomas was the only one who called the fifth floor home. It
suited him well, being so alone. He was not what one would call a socialite.
Mostly he kept to himself when not on duty. When the soldier in charge released
him, he would sleep, or read, or occasionally write letters to loved ones that
existed only in his head. The barracks were off-limits to conscripts, and so he
went to this old building to rest. No one ever asked for rent, and he never
offered. When he could avoid the other tenants, he did so. After so many angry
faces during his shifts, he did not want to see anyone. Every eye that looked
into his, every mouth that opened to speak, every twitch of the cheek muscles,
every movement, and every sound reminded him of the protestors he had killed.
And so Thomas retreated
to his room, hiding there in the darkness with a stolen candle and what few
books he had managed to collect from the ruins. In the emptiness of romantic
words he would lose himself to the stories and the prose, the poems and the
essays. Or at least he would try. He had read them all so many times before,
and now it was becoming harder with each passing day to engross himself with
reread pages of stories that meant nothing to him. Often times he would catch
himself staring blankly at the wall, images and sounds from the previous day
running through the backdrop of his mind like the old cinema picture shows.
When he caught himself, he would shake it off quickly, desperately scanning the
pages for something to distract his aching mind from the pain of the memories.
But more often than not there would be no solace in those pages. Not anymore.
And so he would spend the rest of the night huddled under a thin blanket he had
stolen from the corpse of a homeless beggar, writing letters to no one or
trying desperately to clear his mind enough to sleep. The former would often
end with him writing his stream of consciousness onto a tattered page with a
dull pencil that he whittled to a tip every time the graphite broke off. The
pages quickly filled, and he would find himself with nothing to do until the
following day’s foraging. But even the temporary catharsis of his letters was
better than the tossing chaos of attempted sleep.
Tonight, however, there
was a little hope for him. He had been part of a raid on a group of A.R.M.
insurgents camped inside of an old library and had managed to collect a few
books from the wreckage after the firefight. They were mostly non-fiction
history books from before the wars. Not exactly the most gripping of reading
materials, but it was something, and since next to nothing about the pre-war
era was common knowledge he figured he could spend a couple hours learning what
few others knew. And if he could not engross himself in the history texts, he
had also managed to grab a few copies of classic literature, some of the books
dating as far back as the late 19th century. These were mostly
period pieces or fantasies, both of which would be hard to relate to, but easy
to escape in. With the combination of those books he hoped to be able to avoid
any reminders of his existence for at least one night.
And so it was with a
sense of neutral half-hope – the best mood he had been in for a while – that
Thomas let himself into his suite, pulling out a small book of matches that he
had managed to acquire from a black marketer. There were only thirty matches,
but Thomas figured that would mean one month of light without having to beg a
spark off of a neighbor’s heater. Thirty less tired, worn out, animalistic
faces he would have to see. It was a small victory, but it was a victory
nonetheless. Lighting the candle he left next to the door when he was on shift,
he held it up to light his way into the dark room. It was hard to imagine the
five room suite as the lavish home it once was. While a few scraps of opulence
still remained – exempli gratia the
gold-leaf crown molding along the ceiling of the sitting and dining rooms, the
remains of the marble countertops in the kitchen, the mirrors in the bathroom
and bedroom, et cetera – the majority of the room bore the mark of time. The
white paint on the walls was peeling, the maroon carpets were worn to almost
nonexistent piles of flattened threads, and everything wooden had been pulled
apart to fuel fires long before Thomas had moved into the room. The few
upholstered pieces of furniture that were still in the suite were in tatters,
barely usable, having been ripped open for any piece of wood framing. Indeed,
the only real purpose this room still served was as an austere shelter, with
nothing in the way of luxury besides the stack of books that he kept in the
alcove that had been a closet before the door was taken for firewood. It was,
however, a shelter from the cold, so Thomas did not complain.
Dropping his backpack
onto the floor, Thomas crossed into the wreckage that was given the title of
kitchen mostly out of pity. Very little of the room suggested anything other
than abandonment and destruction. The marble countertops were cracked, many
pieces broken off completely. The walls were scarred from the violent removal
of all things wooden. Cabinets, pantry doors, shelves, drawers, wood paneling
under the counter, everything had been removed, by the looks of it in a frenzy
of desperation for warmth. The porcelain sink, which Thomas imagined once
gleamed white in the setting sun through the west-facing window was now brown
with stains, the origin of which he could only guess. The closest thing to a
culinary feel in the room was a box of dried CarbCal rations that the soldiers
handed out to the conscripts once every two months. The food was not very
filling, being little but stale sugar formed into thin wafers that had long
lost any discernable flavor besides nondescript blandness that often left the
eater thirsty after tasting even a small portion. But it was edible, easy to
access, and provided enough energy to survive. Every conscript had to ration it
out for themselves, as the soldiers were usually too lazy and found it easier
to let the slaves take care of themselves. Several conscripts had faced
starvation because they did not ration their supplies out correctly and
devoured the pitifully small amount of food in a matter of weeks instead of
making it last for the full two months.
Thomas himself had
suffered through several days of empty stomachs because he failed to properly
ration his food, but as of yet he had never feared starving. And the temptation
provided a crash course in self-control and foresight. It was not in any way a
pleasant curriculum, but it was consistent. If he gave in to the temptation of
his aching stomach, he would pay for it with the lingering pain of a slow
hungering death. This thought was always in the forefront of his mind whenever
he ventured into the kitchen. Always he knew that he could not appease fully
the aches of hunger, but merely whet his appetite with nutrition enough to last
one more day. Always he knew that when he had swallowed the last morsel of his
ration his stomach would plead pathetically for more; if just a small taste, if
just one small ounce to fill a little of the emptiness in his gut. And always
he knew that he would have to suffer through the onslaught of relentless pleas
for sustenance and walk away, lest he give in to the temptation and find then
that his store of food had been swallowed up in his desperate, ravening feast.
The knowledge weighed him down, and he found it necessary to move with a
hastened step to and from the box. And so it was that each night at eventide he
would rush in, picking up one day’s ration that he had meticulously measured
out and sealed away in pieces of scavenged cellophane, allotting himself but
one of the wrapped gifts of sustenance per day. On this particular day he found
but five days’ worth of provisions remained. It gave him pause, as he racked
his mind for an accurate count of days since the last distribution of rations.
After a moment’s pondering, he was satisfied that the box of rations spoke
truthfully, and that he would not starve waiting for the next box of rations.
This matter now settled
in his mind, he quickly retreated from the kitchen, walking into the master
bedroom. Setting the candle down on a stand he had fashioned from bits of
twisted metal that were all too easy to find out on the streets, Thomas scanned
the room quickly, his nerves ceaselessly on edge in case of attack. Once
assured that the room was empty of any Drifters who might have made a camp in
the shelter of the apartment, Thomas set to work barricading the open doorway.
Pulling his backpack inside with him, he pushed into place the makeshift
portcullis he had created out of the old metal frames of the bed, all that was
left of the luxury once known to the occupants of this place. Across the frame
he had crisscrossed a series of wires, effectively making a sturdy enough door
for his needs. He was not worried about a fight with a Drifter as much as he
was preventing one from killing him in his sleep for the use of the room. Too
many times he had seen a less precautious soul butchered and left for dead for
no other reason than they had a shelter that another lacked. The images of
gutted bodies slit open in every imaginable way still haunted Thomas’
nightmares, and he refused to face a similar fate. And so he kept his gate
secured firmly in the night, with his conscript’s knife nearby and at the
ready. If a Drifter wanted his room, there would be a fierce fight before
Thomas relented. Such was the reality of the Dark Quarter. If there was a
fight, be it between men, women, or children, one would surely die before the
other relented. And it was not uncommon to find both dead from their wounds.
Senseless brutality reigned supreme in a world where mere survival was a
constant battle. Survival of the fittest was the norm, and grief for the fallen
was a weakness few dared to indulge in. For all knew the price of failure in a
culture bred to survive against all odds. No one wished to be the next in the
ever growing pile of corpses burned weekly at the edge of town. All who
breathed knew what the end reward was for kindness and compassion. Thomas himself
had more than once been tasked with disposing of bodies. The fires still felt
warm on his face, the putrid stench still filled his nostrils, the sound of
crackling flesh and burning meat still rang in his ears. They served as a
constant reminder of the consequences of carelessness. Such a reminder does not
leave, and his mind was scarred with the reality of the world he lived in.
And so he closed himself
into his small haven, trying to escape inside his books yet always pulled back
with the lightest of sounds that echoed in the silent apartment. In the dim
light of the burning candle the words melted together, forcing him to squint
against the darkness in order to see each word. Every paragraph was a struggle,
but it was worthwhile for the small amount of precious relief it provided. And
when he had used up his nightly ration of candle he allowed himself, he would
let himself sink into the blackness of the surrounding darkness, lying on the
hard floor under a thin blanket, struggling with the encroaching world until a
fitful sleep took him.