THE HAND

The air was thick with the acrid scent of burning tires and plastics. The low hung clouds of noxious fumes crawled across broken streets and into the hollow windows of abandoned houses. The cavities and gaping orifices of this dead town silently screaming in a frozen rictus... the empty skulls of what life was. That was before. Before the virus, before the pandemic, before the vaccine, before the political rupture, before the chaos of the riots, before martial law was declared and even before the first of the effects were realized. Then, there was the Noche de Muertas. It was now almost 5 full years since 95% of the world's population had simply not woken that brisk November morning. Those scattered few that had found themselves ran from initial shock to panic to disbelief to hysteria. Some went straight to madness, others went slowly. Those that didn't find death from starvation, malnutrition, simple, mundane medical issues or exposure to the environment, actively sought it out after the first few months. Now, after four and a half years... the only people left were either significantly mad, in severely acute and complex yet functional ways, or they were stubborn. Being able to determine which was which wasn't always easy.

Take, for example, the figure that now drifted through the acrid smoke wisps and into the dark holes of these post-residential tombs. Moving almost silently despite the calf high, combat-style boots and various things it carried it was noticeably adept in its actions, had there been anyone to notice. It moved in intermittent bursts and at different speeds, sometimes a dash from shadow to shadow and at others a steady slink along a wall, progress only able to be noticed if stared directly at. Its outline was broken up by an apparent cloak of various shades and colors, the chaotic pattern and general formlessness made the edges of the figure all but impossible to discern. Hood was pulled up and only a few glimpses of a breather mask and goggles escaped its shadowed cowl. It appeared at the corner of the house that the smoke was emanating from and then slipped almost immediately inside through an oversized front window that had lost most of its glass long ago and the street became still once more.

Inside, the figure had made its way into the basement, following the ever thickening plumes of almost white smoke. It stood before the source of the pollution, a hastily formed pile of electronics. It looked as if a whole office of personal computers had been gathered and dumped here along with all the peripherals and wiring and associated hardware, far more than it seemed likely could have been set up and functioning in that size area. The figure's gaze tracked along the walls and up the stairs and seemed to continue as if the figure could see through walls and across streets along some route. It turned back to the pile and stepped toward it, materializing a long, straight knife in its hand and gingerly poked a few certain spots amongst the smoldering mass. 'Knife' may not be the best term to describe it as it was 16 inches from hilt to tip and four more for the handle. The wooden grip fit comfortably in the figure' hand and the thin, simple crosspiece ending in a round loop on one end belied its origin to anyone with weapon knowledge that might have seen it. It was a bayonet, an extremely long one with a pronounced groove that ran along one edge of its flat side, the other, sharp and dangerous. The figure carefully prodded at the various lumps of what were computer parts, even managing to wrap a few wires around the tip of its blade like molten spaghetti noodles and pulled them and part of the pile up. It was then , as the cables and wires literally dripped down and the tip of the blade began to noticeably turn red that the figure seemed to both feel the heat from the knife in its hand and in general as it became clear this was burning at a much higher temperature than it should be. It jerked its knife from the clump of goop that it had been slowly becoming and wiped the blade on a stack of some sort of fabric stuffed in the corner. It was an absent-minded motion and a bad choice as the stack caught fire almost before the knife contacted it. The natural fibers burned quickly and the synthetics liquefied immediately and clung to the blade in a smear. The figure seemed to be considering this as it left the basement following still billowing stringers of the sick soupy smoke. That's when it heard the noise.

It wasn't much, as noises go, but it was out of place. It was the sound of weight shifting from one area of floor to another, as if someone and been trying to quietly take a step. It had come from the upper floor. The figure had just reached the main floor when it had frozen at the sound. It seemed to change mode, shifting into a different way of moving, a different posture entirely as it slid its blade into its scabbard along the outside of its right leg where the tip, also, was strapped to its leg. With the cloak slung back between its shoulders, the figure was more visible, as were the several items strapped, slung and hung about it from belt and shoulder and even across its lithe but clearly masculine chest. All was cinched, tightened or secured fast, though, as nothing shifted, rattled or made any discernible sound as the figure smoothly moved over a couch to the staircase leading upwards and began to ascend as if it had suddenly become molasses dripping upwards to the second level.

The figure rose from the lit area around the stair and became the darkness that enveloped the second floor. Only an occasional puddle of timid moonlight spilled into the black infinity of the hallway. One on the left, then one from the right and then another from the right at the far end of the hall, and silence pervaded over all. It was so still and quiet just then, it might've been possible to hear the racing thoughts of the figure.

His mind frantically scrambled for possibilities for what might've happened. He had been told this location rather precisely, having double checked against it's Pre- address, number and street, town and state, according to the Pre- map he had been shown on and as well as the one tucked into the pocket on his left shoulder, a collapsible, travel sized one like he preferred. It also coincided with the coordinates that had been included as a precaution. He had checked on the dat-stick he carried in its own special pocket just inside his belt line in front of his right hip bone, so if he was forced to roll on that side , it would avoid being crushed. The dat-stick would indicate the time, temperature, altitude, coordinates, rad levels and barometric pressure, all separated by the press of a single button. These coordinates, this house and this time. The equipment he had seen destroyed downstairs certainly indicated that there had been someone here recently. Someone that had Pre- hardware. They may have had the hardware and even the means to power it all, but they must not have had Access.

Before this world, in the one he had been born into which seemed so far away and almost as if was only a story he had read, in the thriving, pulsating cities that teemed with people and sound and light and life, there was an electric, intangible Net that spread across the world. Caught in that Net was all the information that ever was and if you knew how, you could Access it. Oh, and if you had the power. On Noche de Muerta the world had gone black. Little bits here and there hung on for a while, little pinpoints of light, few and far between, until they were all gone. Later, the smartmen had managed to start the old engines again, get the power flowing. Then they reinforced the walls they had built and hunkered down. Because of what they had achieved a small community had grown around them, which they provided for somewhat but kept behind their walls in what was called the Dome. The makeshift community consisting of around three hundred people that had come from different locations and had somehow gravitated there, somehow had made do by working together and forming a coalition of sorts and called it 'Home'. They had managed to fend off the occasional forays by outlaw packs and roving gangs that had formed across the country, some made up of hardened men that took what they could and moved on, mean and merciless with unknown motives. But, some were truly things of nightmares. What were once human, had become feral and vicious, animals that walked upright and had hidden intelligence gleaming inside their eyes.

He shook the mental images from his mind and his thoughts snapped back to now as he quickly looked inside the first room. It was quiet and still and a few dust motes drifted through the moonlight from the window. It looked as if this room had been used as a storeroom with boxes and totes stacked against the walls and on the bed that sat center in the room. He noticed the layers of dust and how it was unbroken across all surfaces telling him it had been untouched for years. He was no stranger to sights like this as well as those that had been scavenged. He was almost an expert in being able to determine how long one had sat and how recently one had been scavenged. He slipped past the doorway and back into the inky blackness again.

It was the smartmen that had tasked him with coming here, that had given him this location. The smartmen had explained to them all that in order to survive everyone had to work together. That we were all a part of a whole and only if we worked as if we were one entity would we make it. that separate, we were nothing more than little individuals that would easily be swallowed by whatever we encountered. But, together we became a giant made up of many parts, the body of a massive creature that could squash whatever we encountered. It was a very encouraging speech and many of them had taken to the idea and saw each other as extensions of themselves. An eerie sense of camaraderie had formed amongst those at Home, beyond fellowship and into almost a dissolution of personal space and casual familiarity that struck him as invasion of privacy at times. He had spent more time away from Home than most, making excursions to other areas to retrieve things, items the smartmen asked for. Sometimes there were others with him but mostly alone, sometimes for a few weeks at a time. This was another of those times, albeit this was further than he usually traveled. The smartmen had pulled him aside. They had spoken about being one entity. They had referred to themselves as the brains. They had told him how they had Access and therefore eyes that could look out on elsewhere and could see things from afar. They told me that they had seen a man that had what they needed to bring us to life as this total entity, that he had the blood they needed and that he was the heart. They wanted me to come here and bring them back the heart they needed. They called me the hand.

His thoughts were snapped back once again as he looked inside the second room. This one looked slightly lived in. the bed was rumpled and a dresser against one wall had drawers half open and things strewn across the top. Various items lay upon the floor and all the dust had been disturbed. From the way it looked he almost felt like it would smell if he took his breather off and sniffed the air. His rational mind quickly cut in and reminded him of the small volcano of plastics, glass and silicate that was currently erupting only two floors beneath him and that if he were to remove the breather, he would only smell that horrid odor and would likely poison himself as well. He judged the room empty and moved on. He sensed another, unseen room on the opposite side of the hall. As black as the hallway and only sensed because he felt there was no longer a wall on that side. He could also tell that, unlike the other rooms which were 'muffled', this one was 'flat'... whatever that meant. It just felt smooth and cold where the others were stuffed and muted. 'Bathroom' came unbidden across his mind. The realization that it WAS a bathroom and that the thought was correct almost entirely obscured the faint question asking "WHERE that thought came from?' as it lingered a moment. 'It must be sound,' he concluded, 'there's carpet and cloth in the other rooms and only tile, porcelain and or linoleum in there'. He poured his focus into his ears entirely. He could hear breezes and slight knocking sounds but all seemed distant. He almost thought he could hear the melting pile below, but dismissed that as it was two floors below and barely made a sound when he stood next to it except for the occasional pop or snap. He heard a faint buzzing susurrus and considered it might be electricity, then realized that it couldn't be because he was pretty sure any cable or wire that might have been powered were more likely melted in that slag downstairs. Whichever the case, the bathroom was unoccupied, so he moved on.

He considered that this being the last room to check, whatever had made that noise was likely in here. He considered as well that it might have been something inanimate that had slightly shifted, for some reason, and had succumbed to the slow work of gravity at that exact moment and fallen. It may have also been a ghost he sarcastically thought, both seemed as likely. He steadied himself and swung low and smooth into the room, eyes darting everywhere and suddenly snagging as they locked and his breath caught in his throat at what they had locked on.

In front of him was a man kneeling at the side of a bed, upon which lay a little girl. It was such an unexpected sight that he froze for a moment. At that moment, the flowers he had seen adorning the tables around the little girl's bed lost their color and faded and dried into sticks and husks, the ribbon in her hair faded and the locks themselves faded to nothing yet became sharper and more clear at the same time. Clear enough to see that the girl was a desiccated corpse, that she had been dead for a very long time. His eyes crawled across the scene, recoiling as they touched across morbid little indications here and there. They scanned the man, probably the father, and even from the back was able to tell that was also a corpse. He slowly circled the scene at a distance the room allowed amazed and creeped out by the fact that the man's body had frozen in the position it had, that the man had died where he had. He came up against a dresser near the window. He noticed the window was missing and suddenly was thankful he couldn't smell in the breather again. His glance touched upon the dresser and was drawn back to examine it closer. On it was a hand written letter, a pen and a small jar. He glanced back at the morbid scene to see if it was likely to move before carefully slipping the letter from under the pen and began to read.

To ... I DOn't Even KNow--

She has gone. My precious Cora. I am too late. She was my reason to keep on living. To keep on working. She was all I had left since Noche de Muerta and I lost everyone...except her. I would have collapsed right then, but for her. She was the reason I tried, the reason I searched, the reason I lived. Without her, I never would have found what I did, but it is too late. I gave her all I could give. I gave her my heart, my soul. She was my heart.. and now that she is gone, I shall die as well.. My sweet Corazone

The letter trailed off. It had grown increasingly unstable and contorted towards the end. He returned the letter to the dresser and picked up the bottle. It had no top and when he turned it upside down, one small white pill fell out and lay innocently on the letter. He turned and glanced back at the man. 'Had he poisoned himself after writing this note?' he wondered. 'Not a good time to make critical decisions,' he thought to himself, 'not caught in the throes of sorrow like that.' He drew closer to the two, peering clinically at them. Noting certain indicators and conditions, he concluded that these two had been dead almost three or four months. Just before the smartmen had asked him to come. Had they known? They had said that he should have no problem in returning with this man. They had said that they needed this man, that this man was the hea......

The thought stopped midway as his eyes had again snagged on something. Another eerie coincidence that they had alit upon it just as his brain was mentally mouthing the word,'... heart'. It was a small silver heart that still somehow shone and stood out between the faded colors of her dress and the mottled flesh beneath. He reached down and picked up the heart, looking for a way to unlatch it or remove it from her. Either way, if he took it off over her head or moved her to get to the clasp, he was going to have to touch her. Even after mentally readying himself he felt his skin crawl as his fingers crumbled her skin like stiff paper or .... ugh.. a potato chip. He mentally groaned as that thought danced through his mind. Why? His relief was tangible when he finally stood there with the locket and chain in hand. It was then when he heard the sound once more. This time it came from the doorway to the room and when his eyes snapped to the spot, they saw what must have been once a cat, but the current bedraggled fur patched horror that lurched to a stop and fixated its one good eye on him, could hardly been called a cat. It stretched open its mouth in what must have been intended as a hiss but no sound came out, there was only a slight bubbling in the membranes and strings of mucus and ooze that stretched between its upper teeth and lower and slid slowly from its chin. Holding the locket in his left hand, eyes locked on its one, his right hand felt behind himself for the sill of the window and found it exactly where he remembered it being. In a smoothly executed but strangely twisted motion, he suddenly threw himself out the window pivoting his body on the fulcrum of his right elbow, locked firmly above his right hand gripping the sill, body momentarily tucked into a small ball, chin to chest and knees drawn up, expanding only after passing through the empty window space and landing on his right foot, his left hand already finishing securing the locket in a pocket just to the left of his solar plexus. Just below his own heart, he thought. In three quick steps he was across the roof and had stepped onto an upper branch of the tree there, disappeared into the darkness between the branches, dropped from an opposite branch and merged with the long shadow of the garage cast by the dim moon. He needn't have bothered, really. In that same time, the once-cat had taken one wobbly step forward and wavered and fell in a decidedly un cat-like way on its face, where it wheezed and sputtered for a few minutes more, then those ceased as well.

Heading north and head full of questions, the Hand began the return Home... Had there been anyone around to notice, they just might have witnessed the strangest occurrence, what was most definitely a hedge with a mailbox sticking out of it, suddenly stood up straight separating itself from the mailbox and somehow making it seem naked and without its hedge. It rolled its shoulders and briefly stretched its limbs before sharply looking at the compacted wreck of a car that sat along the edge of the street. The wreckage blanched and sheepishly stood as well, though its massive lumpy body hunched anyway. It lumbered over to the first and the two began to follow in the general direction the Hand had gone. Once more the street was covered in silence and stillness, had there been anyone there to notice, but there wasn't.