After Earth (Chapters 1 and 2)

Chapter One - An Unlikely Companion

Every morning I watch as the sun creeps up the horizon’s foggy glow and the moon tiptoes back to sleep. I make sure that I rise early enough in the morning to catch these fleeting moments. Once the sky has settled, I turn and slunk back down the alley toward my flimsy tin shack. I rub my eyes and took a nip of water from my canteen. After pushing the shelf I used as a door out of the way, I set my rifle by the wall and lay down on the worn cotton lump that I call a mattress. The night prior was as dreadfully cold as any other.

I remember the wind rattling the aluminum lining of my shack, keeping me awake and alert. I had to put on a third layer of pants and fourth sweater before I was able to fall back asleep. My dreams once again startled me to bolt up in a sweaty jolt of fear. Perhaps that is why I began rising so early in the morning.

I check my watch and mark my calendar.

My journal helps me take my mind off the horrendous world surrounding me. It has become an escape for me to reminisce and step away from daily concerns. I lean over to a small stack of papers and grab the leather bound book resting on top.With a rather short number two pencil, I begin to write.

October 14, 2064

Yesterday was not very productive. Although I’m fortunate enough to say nothing bad happened, nothing good happened either. The grocery store down the street is dwindling and the deer have caught on to me. I believe they have migrated elsewhere. Food is becoming even more scarce than I had predicted. The weather is just as unpredictable from one day to the next. Just three days ago, I needed no more clothing than a t-shirt and jeans, yet I still sweat my sorry ass off. Yesterday, was near the complete opposite. The pond around the corner froze what little water was left in it. I fear that I am making very little progress. Today, I must leave this alley and search for another place to forage.

The ground begins to rumble with a fury, like thunder coursing through the layers of earth. I grip onto my seat and brace for the worst until the earth settles back into a light mumble.

“Just another earthquake” I tell myself reluctantly.

For the first 28 years of my life, I had never felt an earthquake. Growing up in a small midwestern town, I never had to worry about picture frames falling off the wall from a sudden, rapid vibration of the earth beneath my feet. It wasn’t something I even considered in my everyday life. I assumed from stories or videos that it felt as if the earth was growling at the people stepping all over it. Its own personal communication to the world above it. Like banging on the ceiling of an apartment as a way of telling the tenant above to quiet down. Communication with actions rather than words. When society began to crumble and roll down hill, these quakes became second nature. The first dozen or so rumbles still frightened people until we realized this was earth communicating a constant frustrated moan. We had damaged it for far too long and it was fed up.

Several times a day the earth reminds me of the mistakes we all made with an aggressive shiver. The quakes are never violent enough to cause damage. At this point, they have become redundant and disconcerning. Now, it is as much a part of my day as watching the sun rise.

I begin to gather the essentials for my journey forward. Survival is the best plan I have. All I know is that the area I have been living in has become barren and scarce of any valuable resources. I will continue to move south until I come across a newfound source of food or water. Worn-down, makeshift signs have been scattered along the highway advertising a small community that have erected a home in Charlottesville. It seems like my best option; however, it is quite a walk from Boston which is why I have had to make so many stops along the way.

For the time being, I gather three remaining cans of tuna, half a loaf of wonderbread, a fully-filled, room temperature canteen of water, and my journal. I stuff these items into my bag and grab my rifle as I stride toward the crumbling shelf-door. Unsuspecting of another drastic temperature change, I make sure to clip my jackets and sweaters onto my bag and let them dangle from behind. Today feels like a murky October day, so I leave with boots, jeans, a Boston College sweater, and a knit cap I found in an abandoned home four days ago. I decide to leave this flimsy tin shack for the next traveler to make a home of. There’s no point in wasting my energy to dismantle the rust box. Perhaps this deed will give me good karma.

I have to admit. I barely know how to use this rifle. More than anything I carry it to intimidate any enemy I might cross paths with. Growing up, it was never something I needed, or even remotely wanted to have. I always associated the weapon with violence and a false sense of masculinity. Fortunately, I have never had to use it on another human; however, I have acquired a small amount of practice hunting for food. I don’t enjoy penetrating the bodies of grazing animals. They are trying hard to survive like I am. That being said, it’s a far better option than starvation or eating worms pulled up from the rain.

I’ve spent the past two weeks in this small blue collar town. Well, at least what remains of the town. I believe I’m somewhere in Northern Connecticut, but the nameless town is desolate and doesn’t give off any character. Like many places I’ve traveled through, the roofs are mostly caved in to the crumbling buildings. I’ve spent a lot of time on this main street foraging for supplies. About three blocks up on the left is Clark’s Hardware where I gathered the supplies needed to build my alley shack. There is very little left on the shelves. Most of the tools have been looted by violent packs of survivors with the intent of creating short-range weapons such as nail-covered baseball bats. This is a weapon I only thought I’d ever see in zombie films or Batman comics.

Across the street from Clark’s is the MegaMart. Similarly, most of the shelves are barren, but I’ve been able to stock up on the few canned goods that remained. I used their shopping carts to transfer supplies across town to my secluded alley. Upon arrival, I thought about setting up camp inside the MegaMart, but I figured that more travelers would end up coming through town and the grocery store would be the first place they’d stop. The quiet space of an isolated alley seemed like the safer choice.

As I walk up the street toward the edge of town, I pass a small dive bar with the left side blown out and debris scattered among the torched piles of rock. My goal this morning was to leave immediately and get an early start out of town, but my vices pushed me toward that disheveled saloon. I figured a little whiskey will make the walk more tolerable. I step over the ashen remains of a wall and peer carefully inside. Nothing to see except a few knocked over bar stools and half a wooden bar. I creep inside cautiously, breaking glass beneath my boots with each step. The interior looks like Clint Eastwood bust through and destroyed the bar with his trusty revolver. Behind the bar lie a series of wall-mounted shelves with a group of empty liquor bottles. Above the shelves is a lonely sign is mounted with the quintessential bar expression, “It’s 5 O’clock Somewhere” and a jovial leprechaun giving a thumbs up. The character reminds me of the Lucky Charms leprechaun from my childhood.

I walk around the bar and find a half-empty bottle of gin on the floor among more broken glass. It’s certainly not my first choice, but I no longer live in a world that allows me to be picky. I unscrew the bottle and take a quick swig. It’s been so long since I felt the soothing burn of spirits sliding down the back of my throat and warming my chest like a campfire into my stomach. I grin like the cheerful leprechaun on the wall above me as I embrace the bitter bite that follows. A cough escapes my mouth unexpectedly and my eyes water softly in my flushed face. The nostalgic sensation is abruptly halted by the sound of rocks tumbling close by. I rub my eyes clear and slide the rifle off my shoulder.

With one quick motion, I set down the gin and squat behind the bar giving myself just enough room to peer over the top edge. Another crash of rubble comes from just outside the blown out hole in the wall of the building. Whatever intoxicating plans the gin had with my body are instantly flushed out by the fear encapsulated in beads of sweat skiing down my face. My eyes dart toward the noise outside as an orange fox trots in confidently. I’m slowly overcome with relief as the fox sniffs its surroundings. As I wipe my face and adjust my footing, glass crunches beneath my boot and I see the fox whip its head around to face my hiding place. I duck behind the bar, but can hear the curious animal’s paws coming toward me. As I reach into my pack, the fox peers around the side of the bar and glances at me with a tilt of its head. It lets out a puff of indecisive air. With steady motion I grab hold of a can of tuna and pull it from my pack as the fox and I engage in a staring contest. The animal slowly takes a step forward glancing at the tin I open with a gentle crack. I place my offering on the ground in front of the fox and it takes several more small steps toward the food. To my relief, it accepts the tuna with pleasure and munches furiously. I recognize this as my chance to leave on peaceful terms.

Upon leaving the bar, I step over a dusty sign on the ground between some wooden planks. I swipe away the dust with the toe of my boot to reveal the words “The Lucky Leprechaun”.

“Not so lucky anymore,” I mutter to myself.

Several paces down the street, I notice the patter of paws on the ground behind me. I turn around to find the fox staring up at me with that same tilted stare it gave me behind the bar.

“Shit,” I mumble as I scratch my head. “Sorry, buddy. I can’t help you. I barely have enough food for myself.”

The fox tilts its head the other way and sticks its tongue out with a persistent pant. With a sigh, I turn and walk away from the nameless little town. From the corner of my eye, I see those little orange paws scruff against the ground followed by a cat-like nudge of its snout against my leg. I suppose the decision is out of my hands. The fox does what it wants, however long that lasts. Together we make our way down the quiet road.

Chapter Two - Survival of the Fittest

I feel a hand slide slowly over my shoulder with a careful swiftness that says, “are you awake”? I roll over the silky sheets while wiping the sand from my eyes. My sight adjusts to the glowing light breaking through the window curtains and, for some reason, my first thought is that my body feels like a warm calzone wrapped up in the oven of sheets I call our bed. Her eyes smile back at me with the same vibrance of light that shines through the window.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, chin propped up on a pillow.

I reply with a heavy breath that stretches every limb in my body.

“Glad to hear it. Let’s stay in bed a little longer. These sheets feel like a big bear protecting us from the frigid cold.”

I glance up at the screen in the wall portraying several news stories I can not read. In the top right corner, I can make out the animation of snowfall fluttering slowly down the screen before disappearing into a pixelated world.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” I mumble.

As I reach my arm around her, I notice her skin start to crumble beneath my grasp. Her skin slowly turns to an ashy material that slides around like sand. I watch as her smooth skin slowly transforms into this colorless, flaky residue that begins to float up into the air like snow in reverse. The pleasantness of a comfortable morning is demolished as my heart sinks into my stomach.

“What’s happening?” I spill out dryly.

Her radiant expression transforms like molded clay into one of absolute horror. I frantically try to scoop up the ashy pile forming on the sheets as two soldiers burst down the door to our room. They are wearing thick coats and guns are strapped around their backs. Before I can react, they grab her from our bed and rip away whatever human body remains. I am unable to move. I try to shout but the only sound is the lashing breeze of cold air. My eyes snap open like bungee cords breaking from the weight of a dangerous fall.

I can feel my heartbeat thumping aggressively under the layer of sweat coating my skin. I’m still astonished how my body is able to produce so much sweat under the four layers of sweater and jacket protecting me from the cold. I had to wake up in the middle of the night to put them on as the temperature dropped what feels like 60 degrees. Peeking through the face hole of my mummy sleeping bag, I see the leafless branches swaying in the tree above.

I take a moment to gather myself before reaching into my pack. With the leather book grasped tightly between my gloves, I flip through the pages.

September 12, 2032

It’s those little sideways smirks that first caught my attention. A subtle characteristic, like her lips are unsure which direction they want to curl and how much should be involved in the task. A smirk that emits an affectionate concoction of curiosity and mischief. This look pulled me in like a mime roping in the air.

I feel a gentle nudge on my shoulder. As I roll over, I see the fox looking down at me with a dry snout and dimly lit eyes. I close my journal and return it to my pack. While in there, I rummage around and create a mental checklist of my remaining food. A can and a half of tuna. Check. Six slices of bread. Check. Half a canteen of rain water. It will have to do. Meanwhile, I have this damn fox begging me for breakfast.

I spent most of yesterday trying to shoo the thing away. I should never have fed it in that abandoned pub, but I didn’t know at the time whether it would be hostile or harmless. Now I know that it’s just using me. That part of me knows how frustrating the fox is; yet, a part of me also welcomes the companionship. It’s so quiet all around me and I prefer not to be stuck to the thoughts racing in my head. I feel like I could whistle and the fox would come running to me like an old dog I’ve grown up with. As of this morning, I’ve chosen to accept this furry fellow as my travel buddy. I can’t get myself to name it since that would be too much of a commitment.

My stomach alerts me with an empty growl that pushes inward. I pinch out a quarter tin of tuna and lather it on a slice of bread with my finger before tossing the tin towards the fox. It seems to enjoy the tasteless fish with three quick licks and a smack of the lips.

Looking down at the meager can of tuna remaining, I realize that today is better spent searching for food and water rather than travelling. Frankly, I shouldn’t have waited this long. After packing up my sleeping bag and grabbing the rifle resting on the tree trunk, the fox and I make our way toward a rock face in the distance. My hope is that something edible has found shelter in a cave or under some rocks.

The sun rises and the temperature, once again, chooses to skyrocket, forcing me to stop and shed my layers. By the time I reach the bottom of the rocky slope upward, the ashen clouds floating in the sky begin spitting. I’ve perfected a creative technique to catch the rainwater for drinking. By that, I mean that I hold my canteen out in front of me while I walk hoping for enough drops to land inside and fill up.

One of the few fortunate outcomes of the current world’s indecisive weather patterns is that when it rains, it pours. These rain drops are like some genetically altered mutant created by a cloud-dwelling mad scientist. As a result, it doesn’t take long before my canteen is full and my clothes are drenched. I’ve accepted the loss of this comfort because another heat wave is expected and my clothes can dry under the sweltering sun. Plus, my body is typically so dry that it absorbs the mega rain like a gleeful sponge. My fox friend doesn’t seem to mind either.

I make sure to take my time scaling the rocky hill since it is rather slick. It isn’t very steep, however I can not afford to slip and injure myself. I have very little medical experience and I’m pretty sure the fox is no doctor. Once I reach the top, I take a moment to sit against a mossy boulder and regain my breath. The rain continues to slap down, so I make sure to fill my stomach with all the water it can hold before refilling the canteen. I look over my shoulder to check on the fox and see that it has found a puddle to lap up.

After a few moments, the rain slows to a drizzle and the visibility opens up the desolate landscape. In the distance, to my right, I can make out the grouping of trees I slept under last night. They enjoyed the rain more when they were alive and could produce vegetation. To the left, I see a series of bent metal towers that once held power lines. The towers have been without power for nearly a decade. Now, they are nothing more than piles of jagged metal covered in rust. Several have tumbled over like giant dominos. Between the trees and towers lies the road that guides me South. Before navigating back down that quiet road, I have to find some food. The short climb only made me more hungry.

To be brutally honest, I’m fucking fed up with tuna. About two weeks ago, I scavenged 18 cans from the shelves of the MegaMart back in town. I know I can’t be too picky, but I don’t think I can handle another pinch of mayonnaise-soaked fish. Ideally, there is something lurking on top of this hill that I can kill and cook. I make my way toward an overhang jutting out over the muddy ground hopeful that an animal is resting and unexpectant of my presence. I make sure that my rifle is aimed at anything that might catch me by surprise. My eyes bolt around in their sockets, scanning the area ahead with immense focus. I sidle my way under the overhang and squint to see through the darkness. The only sounds are my nervous breath and the trickle of rainwater dripping into puddles.

“Shit,” I mutter lowering my gun.

Suddenly, I hear a growl close behind me, but when I whip around ready to fight there is nothing to see. I hear the growl again and realize that it is not a fighting growl. It sounds sorrowful and weak. I creep over to where the growl is coming from and find a medium-sized opening in the side of the rock. The fox sniffs at the opening and looks up at me quizzically. My stomach reminds me that I need to face whatever is inside. Another growl, this time louder, makes me think that perhaps the canned tuna wasn’t so bad after all.

Past the opening, is a small cave. Tall enough that I can stand up comfortably, but small enough that I can see that back wall. In the corner, I can see what was growling in the dim light of the cave. I freeze with my rifle aimed and hold my breath. Against the back wall, a bear is curled up on its side looking directly at me, but it doesn’t make a move. I know now that the weak growl I heard was actually a call for help. Upon closer examination, I notice that the black bear has large patches of gray in its fur. It growls at me with more power and energy than before and begins to rise on all four legs. Before I have a moment to think, I pull the trigger and the beast slumps down against the rocky wall.