From the Ashes

“I still believe in love,”

The face shield of my gas mask was covered in scratches, rendered almost useless from the ash, when I found that abandoned convenience store. The thin man had been inside, hacking whatever dry phlegm he could clear from his lungs into a “Let It Burn” t-shirt he seemed to have found in the store.

“Oh, the irony,” he said with a sheepish grin on his face when I noted his napkin choice.

His face held a spark of optimism that I hadn’t experienced in almost a year. What was there to smile about? The world had gone mad; everything we knew and had built our lives around was gone. Anything that brought us happiness and a sense of belonging was forever tainted, if not completely eliminated.

The thin man himself was not long for this world. He had open sores from radiation and every breath required a considerable amount of strength that he was in short supply of. I decided the least I could do was be with him when he passed, in the way I hadn’t been able to with my father. There wasn’t much of a hurry to get back east, where the air was slightly better, for the time being anyway.

We talked for about an hour, longer than I thought his condition capable of. We spoke about life ‘before’ and happier things. But then, I mentioned my failed attempts to locate my family after their multiple relocation and evacuation efforts.

The thin man sympathized. He told me his family had perished "too". He used that word, ‘too’, pointing out something unsaid that I’d avoided fervently until that point, though I suppose my efforts to return to the northeast indicated I'd already given in. It unleashed a torrent of pent-up emotions that I hadn’t realized had reached such an intensity. As I cried, the thin man pointed out how my preoccupation with finding them had necessitated the stalwart posturing.

He told me a story which, ended when he uttered his last words, about believing in love, despite the destruction around us. I knew then that I would continue his errand that prematurely ended at the Delmar Quick Stop. He’d passed on to me that momentary spark of optimism along with the small package.

It was a little over a year ago, that the cascade began. An engineered variant of the Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease had contaminated the water supply in certain areas of the country. No one discovered the new infection for some time because at first it just caused mild, intermittent confusion. As it continued to mutate in the brain, the disease led to the loss of impulse control. Eventual death wasn’t estimated to occur until years after the initial infection.

The investigation into the Human Mad Cow variant seemed to suggest that members of a popular organization had intercepted a virus being made into a bioweapon. Their purpose was to purposely destroy large segments of the US population who worked against their extreme agenda.

But the disease spread worldwide in a matter of months and even those who subscribed to the 'Burner's' belief system had the disease. (Nicknamed so after their enigmatic leader infamously told the world on a popular news program to “Let it all burn!” in response to the fires that had been set by Mad Cow individuals in large cities.) It was also sometimes hard to differentiate between the Burners who were infected or just spreading vitriol normally.

Burner disease, as it was affectionately dubbed, caused people all over the globe to randomly commit violence, destroy property, and give in to their worst impulses. It was only a matter of time before nuclear warheads started flying. There was more civil unrest, more destruction, more murder, and soon it was every man for himself.

Government lost control everywhere. Anarchy reigned and society quickly collapsed. The small populace left with normal brain function fought for survival, literally, every day.

I thought about Megan Thomanson on television that day, her face scrunched up in hatred for her fellow countrymen who didn’t share her admiration for martial law. “Let it burn!” she screamed directly into the camera with a laugh. “Let it all burrrrnnn! The cities, those people, they’re not ‘our’ people. Who the hell cares?”

As I made my way across the scorched fields and towns of what had once been my beautiful country, I thought about the minions who had followed her and how or why they had gotten sucked up into such obviously ridiculous and hateful mindset. They'd been so easily manipulated. They hadn't needed a virus to do the things the poisoned had no control over.

As my Geiger counter steered me through endless detours, I was filled with sorrow for the endless succession of empty, obliterated homes and cities. The entire country had been transformed into a cremation oven. The destruction to our spirit was even worse.

I hated how quickly it had become an instinct to reach for my firearm whenever I ran into another human. Every corner I turned made me long for the way life had been not that long before. I cried thinking how bleak the future looked.

But then I thought of Margaret and David. Their love had, apparently, survived even after the death of one of them. I too began holding onto that wisp of the past that had transcended the current state of humanity.

The clear, Lucite box held a beautiful heart-shaped locket with an intricate design. The letter, in an unsealed envelope, held the words:

“Margaret,

“I hope this finds you well. Know that this disease has tried to kill us but love will prevail. Our connection will triumph over the hatred of the day. We will live on. I await the day that your soul joins mine in the great beyond.

“In love and honor,

Jeffrey”

I make no apologies for reading it, and I did it again and again. It made it smile, it made me cry, it gave me hope, for some reason. I don’t know why. It made no difference to the state of the world or any of us still in it. The love affair of Margaret and Jeffrey changed nothing.

Perhaps I was reading into it too much, but I wanted to believe it would somehow. The desire for one to go on without the other could provide solace and hope for the future. I wanted to have the same wish that Jeffrey did, that the memory of our lost loved ones would help us find answers to our insurmountable problems.

Margaret’s address was noted to be in Pennsylvania. When I reached what I thought was the correct location I found nothing but a block of concrete the size of a small garage. Whatever structure had been there previously had been obliterated. I could find no entrance, no door.

I went there knowing this was a distinct possibility but when I finally reached it I wasn’t ready for another cavalcade of emotion. Margaret was gone too?

She would never get to wear the beautiful locket. It was almost too much to bear after weeks of loneliness and despair traversing the apocalyptic desolation.

Bringing the locket had given me purpose and now that purpose was also gone.

Suddenly I heard a clanking sound. Strangely enough, one side of the concrete square opened up and a man dressed in a military uniform and carrying much stronger firepower than I had, greeted me.

“Who sent you?” he asked.

I had no idea how to respond. I just told him the truth. I explained about my long journey and meeting the thin man and how I felt obligated to complete his mission.

“It’s addressed to Margaret?” He asked. “Margaret Dwyer?”

I shrugged and indicated the envelope. The man looked at me, gave a few minutes of consideration, and told me he’d make sure Margaret got it. Then he prepared to go down a set of dark stairs that I could barely see behind the concrete wall.

“WAIT!” I screamed. “I’ve come all this way! Can’t I please meet Margaret? If she’s alive, can I talk to Margaret? Please!”

He just looked at me with suspicion and closed the door behind him. How would I know if she ever got her gift?

********

I finally found my way to Vermont where the air was cleaner and society seemed to be trying to regain some semblance. It surprised me to see how resilient we were, those of us who were left, and how determined society had been for some normalcy and organization.

Not long after, I settled into the small community where I would participate in creating a new town, a new government, and a new way of life. There was finally a way to legitimately have optimism for the future. Our basest human desires also revolve around helping and creating.

One day I told the story of my heart-shaped locket delivery to a friend I had made. He was part of the community’s leadership and was very interested in my escapade.

“You’re the one who found Margaret’s bunker?” he asked, incredulous.

“You’ve heard of this Margaret?” How could he know about Margaret?

“Margaret Dwyer is an alias of Megan Thomanson. It’s her mother’s maiden name. She used it when she wanted anonymity. We received word last week that Megan’s underground bunker was infiltrated. A locket containing a concentrated gas was unleashed, killing her.”

I learned that one of her former lovers had sent it, after all. Jeffery Rollings was an executive at a pharmaceutical company. He was outraged when he discovered that Megan had used his connections and contacts to kill people.

For a while, I too felt betrayed. My mission of love was actually the fulfillment of vengeance.

After considering it at length, I have now chosen to believe that Jeffery’s gift was an altruistic one. I thought he was probably desperate to stop Margaret/Megan, feeling it the only way he saw for the world to move on. I want to believe that he sent the locket not out of hatred but for the love of humanity at large. The locket was a gift not to Margaret, but for the survivors.

As I look around at the growing community here, I know that I still believe in love. Love drove me to survive and gave me the strength to go on when it seemed futile. I believe that a small amount of good can, eventually, undo the horror wrought by a large group driven by fear. I know in my heart that love can override anything that hatred can create.

I will always believe in love.