Across the Valley

Before the collapse, I was an artist.

Without really knowing, I’d been preparing for this. Not by prepping bunkers. Not as an internet crier. Instead, I made pieces. Some were made for people. Fewer of whom by collaborative productions of our labors, or intimacy and vulnerability, have fragments as well. This includes from those who were cast out of my circle, and I from theirs. Yet, even those pieces inspired gratitude for the tragedy, and laughter.

I never thought those parts from memory would ever become bittersweet.

Now, there is no one left to make art for, or with. Only combat with self until I get home. Every day the memories fade. I need to see them. They may not be there anymore.

I can only hope that they are across the valley.

The former occupants of these vehicles were moving out of the cities. As the northern hemisphere declined in temperature, most were evacuating south.

What ever life remains, I‘d rather not know them.

Decades ago, I traversed this path as a personal pilgrimage to my homelands. It was a test of will and reason for I to continue living.

At the time, I failed commitments to earn degrees on a full ride scholarship for lacking heart and discipline. I failed to secure family and friends at sustaining our lives'. The apartment was infested by parasites, and genocide became the standard operating procedure. The military disqualified me from enlisting. A close cousin murdered another cousin. The killer could have been different if I had not held back at showing more light. Regrets and guilt continued after the lockdowns. A friend passed on peacefully.

I had taken them all for granted.

Meanwhile, I had to continue holding space for strangers at ceremonial plant medicine retreats. Sometimes, during exorcisms. The depths of toxins, poison, demons, and such entities upon their souls were contended with and processed for nights on end every month. Their many stories’ still echo…

A boy became a grown sociopath that destroyed his loving family from the inside out by stealing and committing unspeakable perversions upon them.

A girl became a martyr to free herself from the pain of living with a demon.

A man could only numb the emotions, but could not forget the memories, and his wife and children left him.

A woman abandoned by parents and a husband while raising two children alone while they all were unknowingly dying from contaminated well water.

A child was unheard and felt no remorse when its family burned away.

Another played with malicious entities and got its relatives souls stolen.

A teen would awaken without having slept and clean needle marks on their arms during varying days. The same had seen a grey head peaking over the roof, and times before had witnessed levitating saucers.

…and are no further than our own shadows.

The parts exchanged can be energetically mutual. Combined with my pieces, I had contaminated the river between our worlds. My heart was not with helping people who would not heal their selves. They wanted others to heal for them. I felt that any further work on my part would cause further damage.

I was glutinous for power and lustful for control, to selfishly fulfill the void; despite having all the energy I could ever need.

The plant medicine dug deep to show the beast of I staring back from the abyss. The choice was either submit to dying for a moment or fight to stay alive. Covered in the smoky ink-like ectoplasm from generations of trauma in my bones, I fought to stay awake. A new perspective of what I am emerged. Thus, in reflection, us all. We were in a dystopia before knowing it.

"Don't move..." they said from the dark.

"click" said the revolver behind my head in the daylight.

"I am sorry. Please, I'll offer you what I have if you let me walk away,” from the doorway.

"The whole pack. You will step forward an..."

Silence erupted from an explosion by my temple. The momentum from my left foot stepping backwards allowed a 270° body spin counter-clockwise. The gun’s left side rolled along my skull until I faced the pistol.

My left hand pushed up the barrel with a twisting grip out of their fingers.

Simultaneously, my right hand parried downward at their wrists and whipped up along their arms with a chop to their throat.

As they were collapsing, a glint in my left peripheral prompted crouching from the oncoming bowie knife wielder striking down with their right hand. Our metal ends met at the moment my right fist impacted their diaphragm.

As they wormed, a line of air dust shifted closely parallel to my eyes and I leapt back towards a window on my left. A shooter with a hunting rifle now aimed towards the window.

I leapt forward as I threw the knife backwards through the window. The decoy allowed a dash towards the doorway to execute a head-shot. I saw no one else coming.

With one round remaining, I cleared the house. The two at the door were drooling blood and still. My left middle finger was gone and not bleeding as much as it should. I wrapped it out of comfort.

I stopped by them and asked, "Do you want to live, or die?" The usual question to hostile survivors.

They had been sobbing. Their cellular transition was worse than mine. The skin was turning dense and rubber-like. None of us really wanted our lives' to turn out this way. We tried our best at survival. Leaving them here to become semi-immortal is a hell in of it self. The longer we live, the harder it is to actually die. I feel for them too.

These skills were meditated out of video games, martial arts classes, hiking, and stories from survivors of humanity's catastrophes committed upon each other. Yet, here we are, continuing the cycle to validate our reasons for living and dying.

"I don't want to be a zombie!!" it screamed while holding their wrist. The other waved a hand side-to-side as "no, not me either."

"click"

"WAIT WAIT Wait wait wait!!" it pleaded as I rose the gun.

It crawled closer to the mute one, and they held each other with all their might. They seemed to have been dear friends; lovers perhaps.

With aching eyes, I said, "I am sorry. This will all be over quickly."

A plethora of memories ignited of the times I would shoot photos of friends, family, and scenery. Setting up the best angle and executing the shot with their essence of joy and despair; of laughter and tears. Every varying piece made me appreciate their journey, and its been a privilege to capture moments with them. Beauty and tragedies.

These people were not so different from them, or me.

The angle to free them both said, "cli-!!!!!"

The recently painted walls with abstract textural pieces was always uncanny.

Not that I got used to this. I just became further incapable of physically throwing up. So dry heaving continued after every such encounter until I could breathe relatively normal. The tears ran dry, and my eyes often ached.

The serum seemed to have worked better than expected at preserving life. Ever since the waves of pandemics, tension spurred treatments to achieve prolonged lives with stronger immune systems and slower aging.

Due to emergencies for wellness and money, long term testing results were not publicized.

Years later, adverse symptoms appeared with those injected with the serums. Many were dying of various reasons, such as organ failures, skin deterioration, muscle failures, bending bones, etc. Lost limbs had less feeling but would seal quicker and heal slowly with less pain. Although these were of the worst effects, death was rare. People rioted out of fear. It was already hard enough to eat and work while most of humanity's constructs were collapsing.

The injected peoples’ appetite decreased while their frames and physical abilities remained similar to a decade before. The longer we were alive, the more we remained the same, and felt less; remembering lesser, and living longer. With the lack of reason to sustain each other, the economy collapsed, and people would hide or wander.

I heard that refugees went inside the Earth. Regardless of my beliefs, I hope that they all are better off from the Exodus. The rest of us were not chosen or decided to remain here.

I just want to go home.

28 miles left, and no signs of life. The alluring evergreens of the valley were ashes and stone. Our sacred lake was dry, and the ancient entrance at the bed must have been destroyed after the people evacuated. I had not intended going there anyways.

The house is near.

Across the foot of the distant mesa lies an image atop the valley hill. It frames a piece of who we were as we collapsed.

Their eyes were enticing to find solace from turmoil within. Without words they said they were seeking me. Inside our mental tornados, we held each other beyond the crash. The freedom of our shared desire to develop passion became soil for our child to grow.

Although unintentionally planted, it existed before we had the resources to sustain each other. Disease and infections were of us from the damage of our bad decisions. These curses would have been marked upon our child.

We were excited to bring it here, with us.

We were devastated by aborting it, from us.

That was the first human life I took away.

The aching inside has gotten worse. The outside is colder, and numb. Pieces of the body broke away countless miles ago. The bag and supplies are gone. What's left are basic memories to home. The mesa face finally manifested.

I hope they are in a better place. Soon, I will be as well.

The image across the valley was our first with the three of us. They shot the picture, and I crafted the locket for us.

Eventually, it was sent back home in a package without a letter.

I did not have the heart to get rid of it.

The hill is in view!

Its silver curves reflected two hearts, and us on the right. On the left, inscribed, is the name we wanted for our child: "HOPE".

This old street had houses along it. Only sunken and rotted foundations remain.

Maybe the crates are still intact.

I only remember the feelings! I need to see them!

Buried many times over, this heart was.

Uncovered and revealed, by light of hope, they had.

There it is!!

My insides are burning brighter from the exertion.

The vision is fading. Parts are shutting down.

I NEED TO SEE THEM AGAIN!!!

The casing of the box was rotting, and the silver was tarnished black.

The image was only pieces lightly stuck to the right side, and the left had to be scraped away.

That was all I had left.

I know that now.

I would never see them again.

Home is no longer here.

There is no where else to go.

As they watched it laying curled with cupped hands inside the crater, a muffled "hey" through the suit's speaker reached it.

Its eye's creaked towards them.

"Do you want to live, or die."

Its eye's aimed back toward the palms.

"This one is so far gone, finishing it now would be a favor."

From a sigh they expressed "Sure… I agree. This anomaly is the only living being in the dead zone."

"A storm is coming. We need to leave.”

"...One more shot, and we go.”

It looked at them with the pistol drawn.

Its face showed gratitude. Its eye-lids closed.

The brain and heart were vaporized.

The hands were inspected.

"'Hope'. Its not so different from why we search the surface to understand our past of centuries ago. Like kindling to our fire, these pieces from the heart inspired us to thrive."

"Let's go home."