Short Story: Aftermath
©2017 C. Henry Martens
The morning was cool but warming as I lay the last shovel of dirt over Jason. I carefully tamped it down, as I had the rest, and leaned back to think about how the future was changed. The silence was only accentuated by the sounds of nature surrounding me.
A young man, Jason died suddenly. Perhaps it was the tooth that gave him trouble over the last couple of years, even before the rest died. He had fallen hard a few days ago, and I suppose he could have taken an internal injury without knowing.
My thoughts wandered easily over the possibilities that no longer included Jason's priorities. He had kept me busy, to be sure. So many of the things he considered necessary seemed less so to me.
I left the shovel standing. A marker over his resting place. Perhaps a tribute to his industriousness.
I wondered if he knew...
The house was welcoming as I entered. I think familiarity enveloped me as much without Jason's presence.
§
A bull of too much size surrendered to my bullet, and the herd would be protected from his genetic potentials. The priorities were different now, without any concern for selling pounds of flesh to feed a population. Now I weeded according to future concern for animals surviving without assistance. A death now would prevent many deaths in the years to come, or at least that was the idea.
The fence, an unbroken row of vehicles, plugged the north valley. The south valley was sealed by the same strategy thirty miles away. We had spent a lot of time looking for keys to drive the no-longer-useful conveyances to the area we picked. Now they stood in an ungainly row, nose to tail and wobbly over the uneven ground, and would stay that way until they succumbed to time. That would be a long while, as evidenced by only a few of the tires having lost air so far.
A ranch hand, Jason insisted on blocking off the valley top and bottom. He mentioned security and “raiding hordes” when he first broached the subject, but I suspect he was just a fan of good fences as he also insisted on maintaining livestock.
We took some time figuring out how to make a solid but movable gate across the highway at each end. He seemed to appreciate my suggestion, and an apparatus of cables and mass and physically powered wheels now graced each opening, affording access and egress.
The valley wasn't tight, as the dirt roads into the mountain ranges to either side remained open. But animals are lazy for the most part, and the ones that were not docile would be the ones with bad attitudes, the ones we didn't want.
The approaching hordes never materialized, and the only time we used the gate was the once we traveled to the city north of us. The empty, wind-blown streets proved depressing, and Jason never exhibited any interest in returning. We have all we needed here.
§
The spring garden was just beginning to bear fruit when the two women showed up. They made short work of opening the south gate, and they closed it behind them. That spoke well of them.
A small house with a fireplace accepted them, and soon the hearth was cheerfully aflame and warming. The few surrounding houses yielded some few unopened food containers, and they made themselves comfortable in a temporary fashion, as they expected to move on.
§
Smoke rising and darkening the air alerted me to the possibility of strangers. After years of non-existent vehicular traffic or industry, the atmosphere had cleared and smoke was easy to see.
Feeling no particular urgency, I decided to wait until morning to investigate. I expected a brush fire started by the sun shining through glass or some kind of spark igniting dry grass. There hadn't been any rain for a week, and no lightening even then. Human beings didn't cross my mind.
There was no reason to drive, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to justify starting the truck anyway.
The chestnut gelding nuzzled my hand as I offered him a fresh carrot. He was always the first to approach, and drove the rest away if I let him. A glutton for the treats. His sweet tooth would have worked him to death if I always chose the easiest horse to catch. Instead, I shooed the bully away and enticed the blue roan, and soon he was saddled and we were on our way.
The chill of spring left dew on the grass for a long time before the warming day dried it. I was always interested in how the valley was returning to a natural state. By now, Jason had been dead for over eight years, and he would have been delighted. I missed him, but the horses gave me some comfort. Soon, the roan was warmed up and I urged him into a slow canter to cover ground. Both of us enjoyed the extra speed, and I had to hold the horse in.
As soon as Jason and I knew no one was alive in the vicinity and live media transmissions ceased, he felt we owned the valley. Right away we discussed what to do, and the young ranch hand wanted to return the area to a pristine state. He insisted on bulldozing and burning all but a few structures, and I had no reason to object. We kept one tiny town at the south end of the valley intact for the most part, only cleaning up the refuse of human activity. At the north end, the larger town met its fate in a conflagration during a windy summer evening. We left one neighborhood of tiny homes so we would have somewhere to stay during forays. Inspecting several homes and buildings in the central valley, finally settling on a large, sturdy shop and small house north of center, we moved in and leveled everything else. Everything we had no use for, built by humans, was razed as we discovered them. By the time the two strangers showed up, the natural environment had minimized any sign of humanity, except for those structures we pardoned and the road through the low ground.
Considerate of my horse's health, I shunned the pavement. Open ground through thickets of returning growth swallowed up the miles, and soon, we approached the little town we had saved from annihilation. By now I knew the smoke was coming from a chimney, so I approached with caution.
A worn and dirty vehicle with a crumpled fender and a soft tire occupied the parking area in front of a small cottage. A woman of advanced age sat on the front porch, puffing on some kind of cigarette and scratching beneath her loose blouse. Her hair was clean but astray, her clothes likewise, and she seemed very content to watch the clouds and sip from a cup she held as though keeping her hands warm.
One of the best things about an apocalypse is realizing that time has no meaning. After putting the roan in a standing corral out of sight, there was no reason to be in a hurry. I settled into a hidden nook to watch.
I had few expectations, other than the elderly woman having a companion. A lone person of her age seemed an improbable traveler.
A younger woman stepped from the door, also holding a cup. She looked around with a scowl on her face. After a couple of harsh words and the elderly woman making a gesture to brush them off, the younger traveler reentered the cottage.
I considered contact, but the women being heated put me off. I had no desire to put myself in the middle of an argument.
Soon, the young woman emerged once again. She carried a few things, probably personal items used during their overnight stay. Starting the car, the woman exited the SUV with a small box trailing a thick cord and a smaller cord still attached inside. The soft tire was soon aired up, the woman not bothering to check pressure and judging her task by eye. She thumped the tire with her fist and threw the compressor into the back seat.
The older woman paid little attention to the activity, but when the younger seated herself again and put on her seat belt, the elder got up and ambled to the passenger door and got in. The cigarette she had lit, soon after finishing the first I saw her smoking, flew from the car window as they drove away.
§ I've often considered why I never stepped out of the shadows. I've never seen another human being since. The years have sped by. I monitored the airwaves, listening and looking for signs that humans have rebuilt their race. There has been nothing.
I've run the numbers, too. Statistics are a part of history, even when there are no humans to study them. The numbers of humans once alive. The numbers that died. The rate of recovery for the environment. The new species that have evolved. The stars that have winked out. The speed at which the moon diminished, finally disappearing into the void.
Time is a human construct. So are numbers. But they have proven useful over my existence. Even a synthetic can find value in keeping busy.
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The morning was cool but warming as I lay the last shovel of dirt over Jason. I carefully tamped it down, as I had the rest, and leaned back to think about how the future was changed. The silence was only accentuated by the sounds of nature surrounding me.
A young man, Jason died suddenly. Perhaps it was the tooth that gave him trouble over the last couple of years, even before the rest died. He had fallen hard a few days ago, and I suppose he could have taken an internal injury without knowing.
My thoughts wandered easily over the possibilities that no longer included Jason's priorities. He had kept me busy, to be sure. So many of the things he considered necessary seemed less so to me.
I left the shovel standing. A marker over his resting place. Perhaps a tribute to his industriousness.
I wondered if he knew...
The house was welcoming as I entered. I think familiarity enveloped me as much without Jason's presence.
§
A bull of too much size surrendered to my bullet, and the herd would be protected from his genetic potentials. The priorities were different now, without any concern for selling pounds of flesh to feed a population. Now I weeded according to future concern for animals surviving without assistance. A death now would prevent many deaths in the years to come, or at least that was the idea.
The fence, an unbroken row of vehicles, plugged the north valley. The south valley was sealed by the same strategy thirty miles away. We had spent a lot of time looking for keys to drive the no-longer-useful conveyances to the area we picked. Now they stood in an ungainly row, nose to tail and wobbly over the uneven ground, and would stay that way until they succumbed to time. That would be a long while, as evidenced by only a few of the tires having lost air so far.
A ranch hand, Jason insisted on blocking off the valley top and bottom. He mentioned security and “raiding hordes” when he first broached the subject, but I suspect he was just a fan of good fences as he also insisted on maintaining livestock.
We took some time figuring out how to make a solid but movable gate across the highway at each end. He seemed to appreciate my suggestion, and an apparatus of cables and mass and physically powered wheels now graced each opening, affording access and egress.
The valley wasn't tight, as the dirt roads into the mountain ranges to either side remained open. But animals are lazy for the most part, and the ones that were not docile would be the ones with bad attitudes, the ones we didn't want.
The approaching hordes never materialized, and the only time we used the gate was the once we traveled to the city north of us. The empty, wind-blown streets proved depressing, and Jason never exhibited any interest in returning. We have all we needed here.
§
The spring garden was just beginning to bear fruit when the two women showed up. They made short work of opening the south gate, and they closed it behind them. That spoke well of them.
A small house with a fireplace accepted them, and soon the hearth was cheerfully aflame and warming. The few surrounding houses yielded some few unopened food containers, and they made themselves comfortable in a temporary fashion, as they expected to move on.
§
Smoke rising and darkening the air alerted me to the possibility of strangers. After years of non-existent vehicular traffic or industry, the atmosphere had cleared and smoke was easy to see.
Feeling no particular urgency, I decided to wait until morning to investigate. I expected a brush fire started by the sun shining through glass or some kind of spark igniting dry grass. There hadn't been any rain for a week, and no lightening even then. Human beings didn't cross my mind.
There was no reason to drive, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to justify starting the truck anyway.
The chestnut gelding nuzzled my hand as I offered him a fresh carrot. He was always the first to approach, and drove the rest away if I let him. A glutton for the treats. His sweet tooth would have worked him to death if I always chose the easiest horse to catch. Instead, I shooed the bully away and enticed the blue roan, and soon he was saddled and we were on our way.
The chill of spring left dew on the grass for a long time before the warming day dried it. I was always interested in how the valley was returning to a natural state. By now, Jason had been dead for over eight years, and he would have been delighted. I missed him, but the horses gave me some comfort. Soon, the roan was warmed up and I urged him into a slow canter to cover ground. Both of us enjoyed the extra speed, and I had to hold the horse in.
As soon as Jason and I knew no one was alive in the vicinity and live media transmissions ceased, he felt we owned the valley. Right away we discussed what to do, and the young ranch hand wanted to return the area to a pristine state. He insisted on bulldozing and burning all but a few structures, and I had no reason to object. We kept one tiny town at the south end of the valley intact for the most part, only cleaning up the refuse of human activity. At the north end, the larger town met its fate in a conflagration during a windy summer evening. We left one neighborhood of tiny homes so we would have somewhere to stay during forays. Inspecting several homes and buildings in the central valley, finally settling on a large, sturdy shop and small house north of center, we moved in and leveled everything else. Everything we had no use for, built by humans, was razed as we discovered them. By the time the two strangers showed up, the natural environment had minimized any sign of humanity, except for those structures we pardoned and the road through the low ground.
Considerate of my horse's health, I shunned the pavement. Open ground through thickets of returning growth swallowed up the miles, and soon, we approached the little town we had saved from annihilation. By now I knew the smoke was coming from a chimney, so I approached with caution.
A worn and dirty vehicle with a crumpled fender and a soft tire occupied the parking area in front of a small cottage. A woman of advanced age sat on the front porch, puffing on some kind of cigarette and scratching beneath her loose blouse. Her hair was clean but astray, her clothes likewise, and she seemed very content to watch the clouds and sip from a cup she held as though keeping her hands warm.
One of the best things about an apocalypse is realizing that time has no meaning. After putting the roan in a standing corral out of sight, there was no reason to be in a hurry. I settled into a hidden nook to watch.
I had few expectations, other than the elderly woman having a companion. A lone person of her age seemed an improbable traveler.
A younger woman stepped from the door, also holding a cup. She looked around with a scowl on her face. After a couple of harsh words and the elderly woman making a gesture to brush them off, the younger traveler reentered the cottage.
I considered contact, but the women being heated put me off. I had no desire to put myself in the middle of an argument.
Soon, the young woman emerged once again. She carried a few things, probably personal items used during their overnight stay. Starting the car, the woman exited the SUV with a small box trailing a thick cord and a smaller cord still attached inside. The soft tire was soon aired up, the woman not bothering to check pressure and judging her task by eye. She thumped the tire with her fist and threw the compressor into the back seat.
The older woman paid little attention to the activity, but when the younger seated herself again and put on her seat belt, the elder got up and ambled to the passenger door and got in. The cigarette she had lit, soon after finishing the first I saw her smoking, flew from the car window as they drove away.
§ I've often considered why I never stepped out of the shadows. I've never seen another human being since. The years have sped by. I monitored the airwaves, listening and looking for signs that humans have rebuilt their race. There has been nothing.
I've run the numbers, too. Statistics are a part of history, even when there are no humans to study them. The numbers of humans once alive. The numbers that died. The rate of recovery for the environment. The new species that have evolved. The stars that have winked out. The speed at which the moon diminished, finally disappearing into the void.
Time is a human construct. So are numbers. But they have proven useful over my existence. Even a synthetic can find value in keeping busy.
Click here to receive the Apocalypse Observer Newsletter in your inbox
www.readmota.com
To comment, scroll down and type in your comment. Under Comment As, you can select Anonymous or Name/URL (you don't need to enter a URL). Then hit Publish.
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