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Scorched

Life after the Underground Exodus

By Moon LibersatPublished 3 years ago 8 min read
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Scorched
Photo by Adam Wilson on Unsplash

Scorched.

The sirens are loud and relentless tonight. The fires must be dangerously close to the tunnel's entrance. It’s consistently too hot to bear down here, so there’s no way of knowing for sure.

I don't know what is worst, at this point. The scorching sun and everlasting fires above ground, or life down here, in the tunnels. I’m old enough to remember life before, in the Oasis, and the early days of the Underground Exodus. After the last tree burned, the last animal died, and only but a few of us migrated to the tunnels. After all of the satellites and the space stations crashed back onto the Earth, one after the other, burning, just like everything else. I remember the time after then and before now when we could still peak out above ground at night for a glimpse of air that wasn’t quite fresh, but close enough.

There’s no going out now. Except for the fire crew. And they don’t always come back.

Poor kids born underground. Not knowing what a breeze is, what cold water tastes like, what flowers and trees and animals are. Not even what the sky looks like when not set ablaze. But then again, they don’t know any different so maybe it’s easier for them. I don’t know. I have never asked.

Miraculously – or because I was cursed with good genes - I have made it past the average life expectancy of my birth-assigned gender. Put it in simple words, I will no longer be receiving immunization or check-ups, and any life-threatening wound or disease will be left untreated. I will receive the smallest amount of water and rations required for me to survive. I am too old to work but too young to die. And so, I am left in stasis. So it feels.

I light up a cigarette because it’s my last one and really, I’ve passed my expiry date anyway so what’s the point. My eyes water as they do, because of the poor air ventilation system.

The sirens resonate once more, louder than before if that’s even possible. The nights are long and spent with the young and healthy pouring the last bit of saltwater from our last ocean onto the fires.

I stop for a moment like I always do when I think of the oceans, and I remember the whales. It’s a tragedy what happened, and they weren’t the only victims… It was an apocalypse after all. Everyone and everything died. But they were the first ones to go. So big and kind and majestic. I can still hear the sounds of agony that resonated through the entire planet when they all died. I know then for sure, that the kids who don’t know are the lucky ones.

I shake my head, hoping to shake the memory away too. I don’t have any tears left, everyone and everything I knew and loved is long gone, and everyone around here is either too busy trying to survive or too tired to care about bonding.

We keep surviving and making it through the nights and I often wonder why. I decide to get up from my bed- I am yet to leave my bunk today- and to go deeper underground. It’s not allowed per se, but I know my way around- both the rules and the tunnels.

I walk past the returning firefighting teams - whoever made it back anyway- and there is nothing left in their eyes, their faces blackened from the soot, their soul empty. I don’t know why the name firefighters stuck, they’re barely fighting anymore and merely keeping the inevitable at bay.

I keep going, bypassing the elevator and choosing the stairs. Not because I want the exercise – my knees hurt like hell from the constant bending- but because the elevator breaks down regularly. I should know, I used to be maintenance crew.

I put out my smoke before heading down. Not feeling particularly sad or aggravated about the fact that I wouldn’t be able to smoke from now on. I can’t grieve anymore, not even for that.

The stairs creak and the metal is hot and rusty and old. But eventually, my boots hit the ground. Real ground. It’s a natural cave with the last bit of freshwater. We’ve taken so much out over the years that the rocky beach gets bigger as the natural pool dries out. I decide to take my boots off. We’re deep enough under the Earth that the ground isn’t scorching anymore. But not too deep that it starts burning again. I try not to think about that too much. Between the burning above and the burning below, it’s like we’re in some sort of purgatory where either way is hell. The smell is very humid down here but I’ll take it any day over the scorch and the smell of smoke and burning flesh.

I keep walking barefoot until I reach the edge of the pool. The artificial lighting brings a blueish, surreal glow to the water in front of me.

There’s no one around and I ponder and wonder for a second if I should take my clothes off or not. Then I realize I’m an old fart anyway and old farts have earned the privilege of not giving a damn about anything. Not that anyone would care. So I strip down to my underwear and get into the water. It’s almost lukewarm tonight and the distant memory of cold, freshwater hits my brain. It’s been so long. I dip my head under and oil and dirt and sweat pool away from me. It’ll get filtered out by the system, so I’m not spoiling anything for anyone.

I shift in the water to float on my back, closing my eyes to get away from the artificial light. Water is alive, apparently. I don’t know for sure, but I feel calmer down here, connected to something bigger than me and than this hellhole we’re in.

There’s no sound but the falling of droplets down into the pool. It echoes periodically through the entire space. It’s peaceful down here, though my ears still ring from the sirens.

It would be so easy. To quit. Just quit. Stop living. Right now. Drop down to the bottom of this pool and be done with it. What hope is there left for us? What’s the point of living like this. At least this way I don’t die burning. It’s the water that brought life to this Earth and I want the water to take my life back. I just about take the plunge (pun intended) when I feel it burn on my chest. I open my eyes and look at it. It’s heart-shaped and simple zinc and not necessarily my style. But the locket was a gift from my last living parent. I hold it in my palm- the metal still hot to the touch - close to my heart and with my right hand, I find my pulse.

“Never forget” I was told, upon receiving the locket “That this, is your purpose in life”.

“My heart?” I asked then, skeptical and hoping my parent’s last dying word would not be something so cheesy and cliché.

“Your heart”.

Damn. It would be.

“Keep it pumping. We were born to stay alive until we can’t anymore. Keep that blood flowing through your veins, until it won’t, and when it’s too hard and you think you can’t take it anymore, stop everything, feel your pulse. Hear the thump-a-thump. That’s all you have to do. You don’t owe anyone anything, you don’t have to earn it. You were brought into this world; it is your given right to stay. And when you remember that I mean really, really remember that- So much so that you feel it in your bones and soul- Then you’ll see that hope is never far behind and that in fact, it had never left you”.

It’s all simple. So simple. But haven’t we lost everything as a species, trying to make everything so complicated? Maybe simplicity has always been the answer. Live to breathe and pump the blood to your veins.

The memory is so powerful, it almost makes me cry. I didn’t know I could still do it. Though I don’t know if I can hope just yet. I haven’t in years, and it might be a shock to the system. There’s a loud splashing sound behind me, bringing me back to this forsaken present. The water ripples where it came from, further away towards the back of the pool. It’s too deep and I don’t feel like going there to end up drowning or something – not if I didn’t choose it for myself. So I go back to solid grounds reluctantly and when I look again, I see it.

My heart pumps faster and I clutch my locket. I feel the first glimpse of hope rising from deep within and I am afraid it is all for nothing. I crane my neck; the rocks dig in and cut my feet as I stand on the tip of my toes. I need to see it again to confirm what I saw wasn’t a dream or hallucination.

A splash. I see it. It was real.

A fish.

Short Story
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About the Creator

Moon Libersat

I am a 30 year old dreamer. Born and raised in France, I left my hometown for new shores and landed in Canada some 10 years ago. I have traveled the world since and put a bot of all the places I've seen into my art.

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