The Last Optimist

The Man stepped into the ransacked store. Glass shards crunched beneath his worn boots. Like in most places he searched, the windows were all broken. He smelled the air. It was dry. No sickly sweet smell of death, or the distinct stench of animal droppings greeted him. He smiled, reaching into his back pocket and producing a worn leather journal. He drew the pencil safely tucked in its spine.

"Vacant store," He wrote.

He rummaged through old bins, laughing at the backs of old movie covers. Sometimes he could close his eyes and watch the movie in his head. His cracked fingers would touch the movie cases longingly. His stomach rumbled. It had been three days since he last ate.

Starting at the back of the store, he carefully picked through piles of trash looking for anything of use. The cold breeze causes him to shiver. The store had been looted many times before, but it didn't matter. He always checked anyway. Maybe someone left something behind. There was always a chance.

The Man's fingers touched something sticky underneath a tall shelf. At first, he recoils from the feeling, terrified at what he may have just touched with his bare skin. He spent a few moments collecting his courage before reaching in with his hand once more. He gripped the sticky object and pulled it out into the light. He was delighted at what he found.

"Adhesive tape," He wrote.

He sat down and administered the tape onto his tattered boots, making sure to flex his toes to test the quality of the job. The cold air would no longer bite his exposed feet through his hole ridden wool socks. He stood up, sticking the rest of the tape into his bag. He wandered out of the store and onto the open street.

Rusted cars littered the broken highway as far as the eye could see. The horizon was grey with thick clouds choking out the sun. The barren landscape showed little promise for anything other than the roaches, which often plagued The Man during frigid nights. Nevertheless, he continued his journey. During his march, his disheveled reflection was shown to him through shattered windows. He did not recognize it.

A particular vehicle caught his eye. Old, rusted, and sitting partially in a ditch, it was an old minivan that was waiting for owners who would never return. He opened the passenger door, pulling it to the side with some effort. A small car seat is in the very back row, the pictures of butterflies long faded. His eyes locked with it for a few moments before he tore his gaze away.

As he sat in the seat, giving his feet some very welcomed rest, something poked into his pants. He reached under and grabbed, pulling out a piece of jewelry. A small heart shaped locket. His fingers travel to the top of the locket to open it and peer inside, but he stops. Instead, he bunches it up, and puts it in his pocket. He searches the rest of the van, finding nothing else of use. His heart drops with disappointment. Crows circled overhead, mocking him. He looked up to watch them fly, seemingly waiting for him to drop dead. They would be disappointed. For tonight, at least.

Dusk had fallen. The Man would need shelter before blackness swallowed his surroundings, bringing on the chill that would make his bones ache and flesh turn sour. He opened the rear door of the van and sat in the trunk, making sure to leave it partially opened so a fire could be created in the dirt. He watched the sun slowly set as he started a pitiful fire.

The Man fed the fire, basking in its orange warmth. He wished he could pick up the campfire and place it next to him in the van. Instead, he settled on placing round stones by the licking flames, warming them up, then putting them in his sleeping bag by his feet. Before sleep overtook him, he opened his journal and drew his pencil.

"A warm fire, and a surprise," He wrote. He closed the book and slept, cradling the heart shaped locket.

The next morning The Man awoke with shivers. He stretched his aching muscles and looked at his hurting feet. No blisters today. They were both completely calloused. He put on his boots, rubbing his thumb along the fresh tape that sealed them. He smiled, before gathering his things and continuing on his way.

The Man looked into the distance as he marched. The grey landscape stared back. His stomach rumbling had stopped completely, meaning he had even less time to find something to eat. It was when the pain went away that he began to worry. He searched the rusted metal husks of old cars as he passed them. Finally, he found what he was looking for. Food. Well, dog food in a can, but it was edible. He crafted a small fire and started cooking the can, letting the smell waft over him. He opened his journal.

"A meal," He wrote. He ate, savoring every bite.

The next morning the highway began to tip upward. The march became harder. Sweat appeared on his forehead and soaked his worn clothes. He pushed until his legs burned and his breathing became heavy. The incline did not give up, and neither did he. He pushed to the top, now able to see the highway continue until it blended into the grey horizon. With tired eyes he stared into the distance, realizing his march was far from being over.

A dirt trail catches his attention. Although it was aged, he felt the need to walk it. His boots questioned being off asphalt and concrete, pressing into the soft earth with relief. The path went up a short hill, stopping at a clearing overlooking the countryside. The man was weary from his climb, weak with the amount of energy he exerted. He carefully stepped towards the view, blinking hard with disbelief.

A distant oasis in the wasteland. Energetic trees danced with lush grass from a gentle wind. A flowing river with clear blue water connected to a large lake. A single ray of yellow sun reaches down, causing the water to sparkle like a polished gem.

The Man drank in the colors, staring in awe of nature's beauty. Tears rolled down his dirty face. He collapsed to his knees, unable to turn away at the spectacle he was afraid only existed in his memories. With shaking hands, he reaches to his journal, his page now marked by the heart shaped locket.

"Life," He wrote.