Alone

Why is it so dry? My skin feels like it’s going to peel off my body as I open my eyes. Even that takes effort. The town I’ve lived most of my life in is decimated. The buildings are barely recognizable as they perch as sharp triangles jutting out of the earth. It’s a dust bowl, and the sun beats down in unforgiving rays. I look around for any of my disgusting fellow men, but all I see are a few mangled, emaciated corpses scattered throughout this barren wasteland. I’m finally free, and it feels good. I’ve always hated social obligations, but now—now, it feels right.

I wander through what used to be the square, what used to be filled with disgusting excuses of people, with children. I shudder as I remember the chaos. The uncontrollable chaos that filled my every sense, that I had to tolerate. By some magical stroke of luck, it is gone. And I am left alive to appreciate it. Sure, surviving will be no small task, but at least that’s somewhat controllable. Ten years in the military should help with that.

I pace around for a minute, making a plan of action. The silent echo of my footsteps is my music. Every step shakes my body, sending a shock to my bones. It occurs to me that I have some bruises, that I don’t even know how this massacre happened. But I don’t care to know, and I reap its reward. People are a means to an end anyways. That, I regret. There are no manipulatable tools.

Manipulate for what? I think. Nature, in all its perfection, is indifferent to the artificially social games people play. Why couldn’t humans just be the way nature intended? A vicious survival instinct is all we really needed. This place, I realize, is beautiful. There are a million ways for the weak to perish. The dry sun sucks the moisture out of bodies, each blasted piece of rubble is like a minefield, and the once sturdy wall fixtures now dangle precariously, waiting for the opportunity to fall on some unsuspecting traveler. Whoever, or whatever, remains is the quintessential human—strong, capable, and independent. And I stand here, and those scum rot, I think. Is the universe complimenting my strength?

No matter, I need to get going. The square is open. Standing here, I am a target for any hunters, human or not. I head to the general store to grab supplies for my journey. To where? Maybe I’ll just wander aimlessly in this new land. The general store isn’t far from the square. The windows are broken, as if some projectile hit them. So maybe there are other people. I climb through the closest one. The roof is caved in, destroying half the store. Luckily, it’s mostly useless products—toiletries, paper towels, power tools. I head to the side of the store that matters. I grab a sturdy backpack off a hook, as well as a couple spare shirts and a jacket. But, when I get to the water, it looks ransacked. Whatever happened, there seemed to be some panic. Wait, there weren't any empty bottles in the streets. Looters, I realize. So this place isn’t as deserted as I think. I grab the few remaining bottles and some canned food, and head out. I’m going to need somewhere to spend my nights, I realize. There’s a bigger town twenty miles north, I recall, so I set out in that direction.

Walking has become my favorite pastime over the years because it lets me clear my thoughts. Whenever I get overwhelmed by those, I think about the feeling of walking, of one leg strutting in front of the other, and that repeated, easy pattern. Almost like a ghost, gliding across the surface of the earth sometimes. That’s how effortlessly elegant it feels. And when I’m satisfied with the kinesthetic feeling, I observe nature. Even this desert is beautiful. It’s a battleground that does not reward the weak.

Speaking of the weak, I pass the mauled bodies of some unfortunate people. They died with a look of fear etched on their faces. Such weak scum, I think. That look of fear has to be earned. These people have never fought for their lives, never seen a man and the look on his face the split second before he realizes he’ll never breathe again. Besides, death is a beautiful sleep. Fearing such a wonderful gift of nature is blasphemous to the universe.

The very bodies are a display of weakness. Thin, scraped excuses of the perfection that is a human. It’s a good riddance, the death of this rabble. They drag the human race down, to anybody or anything watching. Maybe this apocalypse was a test to weed out these idiots. The universe itself was getting fed up with these lousy, incompetent wastes of space. I have yet to pass a truly fit person lying dead with that stupidly scared look.

Suddenly, the hair on my arm pricks up. I stop for a second and listen. Footsteps, I think. I quickly turn around, before I catch myself. I’m not excited to see other people. The wasteland continues for miles, and not a single person is there. The heat is getting to me, I think ruefully. I’ll need a place to rest. I find a taller shrub on the side of the road and lean there for a couple minutes. The silence is starting to unnerve me. How can things be this silent? I continue on, my footsteps turning into repetitive, dulling thuds. The shock hurts now. So I focus on my arms, the loose swinging, the rhythmic matching of the legs. But most importantly, it is painless. The shock only goes up so far.

As the sun sets, I reach the outskirts of the city. The pain from walking has gone away somewhat, and it’s again the elegant strut that drives me forward, step by step. I look up, and I see something that makes my heart flutter. No, it makes my soul heavy. There is a person, sitting by himself on a bench. He is of the same, emaciated breed as the countless bodies I passed on my way here, but he is different. He is moving. But, as I walk closer, I start to realize that he is not moving. He’s bent over, in an awkward balance of weight, hunched over and…dead.

Another weak lowlife, I think, a bit more hesitantly this time. The perfect, quiet isolation strikes a nerve. Why is it so…dull? The human relationships I thought I dreaded might’ve been the only thing keeping me going. The bodies themselves that I passed earlier, I start to feel pity. I pity those unfortunate souls that died with that fear, with that level of pitiful fight. The emaciation, the starvation, it was a desperate flail of survival from people too ignorant, too weak to know and do better.

“Hello?”

The voice rings through the park. I spin around, without a care for my precious dignity. The first voice I’ve heard the entire day. I crane my neck, searching desperately for the source of the voice.

“Who’s there?” I ask in an almost pleading voice. “Who’s there?”

I start running, to simultaneously find the singular voice and to escape my lonely solitude. I race through the streets. I feel my arms pumping, no longer in that elegant swing. My feet are thudding in a crazed, desperate cadence. My heartbeat hurts. The voice starts again, but, this time, there are more of them.

“Is anyone there?”

“Please help me!”

“Can someone help me?”

“I need someone here.”

“It’s getting lonely.”

I’m spiraling. I run faster and faster, screaming between every drawn, ragged breath, “Shut up! Stop talking!” But it’s useless. The voices continue.

“Are there other people?”

“Can you come here?”

“I miss you.”

“Where did you go?”

“I’m feeling lonely.”

“I need you now.”

I slide to a stop. It’s a new body, but this one is different from the rest. It’s a girl, and she’s…smiling. That gratitude-filled smile, full of appreciation for the life she lived, and nature’s beautiful sleep, strikes me as odd. But it unlocks some dormant part of my mind. A tear rolls down my cheek, and the voices stop. This body, it’s so beautiful. Each emaciated limb is perfectly symmetrical, each scratch is a valiant battle scar. I realize now, so was every body I passed on my way here, and so is every body I will pass. The only things missing from them are the beautiful souls that once roamed this world, that the universe cruelly, prematurely snatched away.