A Fruitless Venture

One of the man’s favorite toys as a child were those View-Masters where you look into the eyepiece and click through 3-D images on a cardboard disc. He found one not too long ago rummaging through the remnants of a thrift store. Disappointingly, there was nothing left of traditional value, but as he made his way back out of the building, the red plastic of the toy caught his eye. Discarded on the ground to collect dust, there must have been countless people before him who passed it over. He stooped down and picked it up. With a silent prayer that the toy still held a disc, he looked through the viewfinder. To his quiet delight, he was treated to a look at New Orleans, the old New Orleans. He chuckled as he remembered a college trip where he got sick on beignets and daiquiris. As he clicked through the disc, he allowed himself to be transported to this tiny world, and for a short while he escaped the current reality that gripped his every thought and action. He lost track of how many times he cycled through the precious paper disc before tearing himself away. He considered taking the View-Master with him but ultimately set it back down in the dust it came from. He hoped it could provide that temporary escape for the next passerby. Perhaps that was what the last person had done for him.

There was no need for a View-Master to transport his mind to snippets of the past today; it was happening reflexively. It was common knowledge and best practice to avoid entering major cities alone, but the man had no choice but to return to the place he once called home. His wandering had led him close enough to the vicinity of the city to be drawn in. Clothes tattered, pockets empty, and stomach rumbling, the man was desperate. Cities were a gamble. With their sheer size, there were still unturned stones to check and corners to rummage. With the lure of provisions also came other treasure-seekers one could rob in the right situation. However, the man knew he was at risk of being robbed himself and coming across someone in the city’s Collective: a much worse fate. So, he carefully slinked along the eerily quiet streets, and as his eyes met certain landmarks, like the chipped and peeling park bench next to his favorite fountain that had long dried up, his mind clicked through the memories that felt worlds away.

Click. “So you’ll just sit here and watch the fountain?” she asked earnestly. “Um, yeah. The fountain, the people around it. It was so easy to get lost in the hustle of everything that sometimes, after I first moved here, I’d almost forget where I was. And when I’d stop here and just take a minute to look around, I felt connected, like this was my own little piece of the city to exist in, if that makes sense,” he answered without turning his gaze from the fountain. They sat on a bench, side by side. A quiet moment passed between them. He felt her lightly touch his hand. “I understand.” The man turned to look at the woman he had asked out on a whim, Sarah. She seemed enamored by the fountain but then turned to meet his gaze and smiled.

It took a few hours of methodical alley and rooftop traversing and some luckless building rummaging along the way, but the man finally made it to his old apartment building. As he walked down the graffitied hall of his floor, he could see the door to his unit was busted down. He stopped short of the door way, unsure it was even worth going inside. But he had a promise to fulfill. The man crossed the threshold and scanned what used to be his living room. There were no longer any signs that this was once his home. Most of the furniture was gone, shattered glass from the busted windows littered the floor, the wallpaper was peeling, and dust covered everything. He approached a picture frame lying face down on the ground. The man picked it up but was met only with the sight of broken glass; the frame was empty.

Click. “Are you sure you have to go to Arizona?” asked Sarah nervously. The man had just come out of their bedroom carrying his duffel bag. Sarah was sitting on the couch, but she rose to meet him. “I have to make sure my parents are situated. Between my dad’s medical equipment and my mom’s reliance on social media for information, I need to get to them before the airports start shutting down.” Sarah nodded in agreement, but the man could tell she was upset. He took her into his arms and she nuzzled her face into his neck. “Everything is going to be alright,” he tried to comfort her. She pulled back slightly and they pressed their foreheads together. He brought his right hand up to lightly brush a tear from her face. “Promise me you’ll stay safe?” he asked. “Only if you promise to come back here,” Sarah responded. The man gave a small smile. “Of course, I promise to be back as soon as I can. I love you.” He pressed his lips to hers, firmly and tenderly. He didn’t know it was the last time he would kiss her. She smiled back at him, “I love you too.”

The man angrily throws the frame to the ground. He felt teased. Teased by the ghost of the photo that wasn’t there. Haunted by the ghost of the life he once enjoyed. It wasn’t fair. After a few moments, the man decides to end his pity party and leave the building when he hears an anguished scream from outside. He sneaks over to a window and peers down to the street. Two men dressed in tactical gear drag a third man by his arms behind them. The two men are wearing black cloth masks that cover their entire head and a white “X” is crudely painted on the front across their face. The Collective. Back when everything went down, the people in large cities who stayed put were met with a chaotic situation: everybody for themselves fending for the supplies that could just be taken by the strongest and most willing person. Well, the strongest and most willing people decided to pool their resources and secure their wellbeing at the expense of the weak. They were ruthless and maintained control of the city by any means necessary. Rumors about these groups in different cities spread and eventually “The Collective” became the general name. This city’s Collective were especially notorious: captured outsiders were never seen again, not even their body. The man shuddered at the thought.

The man watches the Collective members until they disappear down an alley. He decides it’s time to leave town. As he sneaks back towards the edge of the city, the man becomes increasingly angry. He risked his life venturing into the city, dredged up memories, exhausted himself, and had nothing to show for it. He has nowhere to go and nothing to do besides survive and he doesn’t even seem to be good at that. Feeling hopeless, he decides to scope out one last building on the outskirts of the city: an old hotel with exterior corridors. In his fruitless venture he searches the office, housekeeping, and kitchen. He picks a few rooms on each floor but they’re empty too.

On the sixth level he enters one final room. He stands in the dark silently, defeated. He wants to yell out of frustration but stops short when he hears something from outside. “If you think you heard someone, check it out and report back shortly. Over.” A voice on a walkie talkie. Footsteps approaching. The man has no escape, and his mind starts racing. A figure wearing a Collective mask comes into the moonlit view outside the open doorway. They can’t see the man as he crouches in the shadows towards the back of the room, but he can see them; they have a gun. Everything bubbles up at once: the desperation, the anger, the fear, the sadness. This is his chance. Time seems to slow to a crawl as the figure reaches for their flashlight. The man charges forward with everything he has left. The figure is only able to let out a short gasp before they collide and the man sends them up and over the railing. A thud pierces the silence of the night and then the quiet returns, just as quickly as it left. The man freezes in place, nauseous at what he has just done. He blinks back the tears prickling his eyes and peers down at the cement ground below. The figure is sprawled out on the ground, unmoving. The man hastily descends the stairs of the hotel and approaches the still figure. Upon closer observation, he realizes the figure is a woman. Her lifeless eyes stare up towards the sky from behind her black mask. He ignores the knots in his stomach and starts searching her for her possessions. He picked up the gun she dropped and unclips the flashlight from her belt. The woman is also wearing a tactical vest that the man figures he can find some use in having. As he begins undoing the vest, a thin gold chain on her neck catches his eye. Curious, he pulls it and a heart-shaped locket comes untucked from beneath the vest. The man recoils as if the locket burned him and his breath catches in his throat.

Click. “Okay open your eyes.” Sarah follows the instruction, and her face lights up at the sight of the man holding an antique, gold, heart-shaped locket in front of her. “Oh my god, it’s beautiful,” she says as she retrieves it from his hands. “It was my great-grandmother’s, one-of-a-kind etching. I know it’s cliché, but I put a picture of us inside it. Do you know how hard it is to print pictures that small anymore?” Sarah laughs as she opens the locket and admires the photo. With a smile she throws her arms around the man in an embrace. “I love it and I love you, thank you!” The man smiles and responds, “I love you too. Here.” He takes the locket back from Sara and helps fasten the clasps behind her neck. She turns back around to face him. “How do I look?”

The man stares intensely at the locket before him now. He turns on the flashlight to get a better look at it. It has the same etchings. With trembling hands, he reaches back for the locket. He can barely open it. When he does, he’s met with the sight of himself and Sara smiling back at him. The man squeezes his eyes shut as tightly as possible. His face burns hot and there’s a loud ringing in his ears. It takes everything in him to stifle the wail trapped in his throat. Two solitary tears escape his closed eyelids. It feels like years pass. He lets out a long, shaky exhale and opens his eyes. He looks down at the woman’s face, but he cannot bring himself to pull the mask off of her head. Suddenly, as if a switch flips, the man composes himself and buries his feelings deep down inside. He has no choice anymore. A voice crackles over the walkie talkie, “Sector 17 Patrol, do you copy? We’re sending back up to check on you. Over.” The man stands and turns away from the body, ready to make his escape with his new gun and flashlight, but something stops him. He swivels back towards the body and unceremoniously yanks the locket from her neck. He shoves it in his pocket before running away. Who knows, it might be worth something in a trade one day.