The Promise Land

A lone candle flickered and danced in the damp down draft, while encompassed in darkness a figure sat. It was a strong, yet weathered man covered from head to toe in a tan leathered hide. He was a barge, with broad shoulders and a widened girth. His face was red and round with two beady brown marbles resting below bushy brows deep in their wrinkled folds. His turnip nose caved in with dents, his cheeks were pocky and burnt, and his pursed mouth hid within a grey walrus moustache and an uneven, poorly manicured beard. He had thick stubs for fingers which were bloodied and stained. His nailbeds and teeth were deteriorating- most chipped, cracked and broken, and many missing altogether. His course skin was tinged an olive green with shimmering gold flakes, and it was hardened, much like the leather he wore himself.

The room was an eight by ten-foot area, dingy and tight, but much more spacious than the other catacombs he had seen. There was a copper basin, a small burner, a radio, a turntable, a makeshift bathroom, an ice box that served little to no purpose, a cot that barely rose a foot off the floor and shelves that lined the rest of the walls with cans, reserves, MREs, and other scavenged goods. This desolate, dim hollow was home to him now.

He sat upon the bed, sinking lower to the ground than it had already rested, and then he reached beneath the mattress. The rusted springs creaked and popped as he pulled a cloth bound package from a little alcove. he carefully untied the twine and unfolded the cloth, flicking it gently from side to side. It revealed his modest, but greatest treasures- a black, battered book and a little leather purse. He grabbed the purse and brought it to his dry mouth, kissing it ever so softly and breathing it in like fresh herb, and placed it back in its cloth sheet and then he grasped the book, moved the cloth, and rested the book upon his lap. He reached forward and shifted the candle closer to his bedside and then opened the book, seemingly autonomously. He read:

Revelation 21:4, And God will wipe away all tears from their eyes and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, neither crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the first things are passed…

He slapped the book shut and closed his eyes, breathing deeply and meditating on the words for some time. He then placed the book back in is wrapping and the purse within his duster’s pocket and shoved the package from whence it came. He stood. His scuffed and tattered boots made a loud thud on the ground as he now towered over the small hovel. He brought the candle over to a shelf near the entrance and wrapped a holster around his waist and with one last huff, the light was out. His fingers locked around handles in the abyss and soon he climbed. This was the daily regimen, now. Return, rest, scavenge, repeat. Return, rest, scavenge, repeat. He could not help but reminisce about a sense of normalcy- if normal ever was to begin with.

He reached the top of the vault and carefully balanced his feet up on the bars as he made the final precautions. He slapped on some round, brown goggles and pulled a respirator mask over his nose and mouth and now, although he resembled a cockroach in a trench coat, he was ready to enter the vast sienna. He un-dogged the hatch and began to steer it, over and over until there was a loud clang and then he pushed the door up. There was a large gust of sand and a flood of blinding red light which made him turn away to take a moment and then he finished his ascent through the opening. It was a lonely, lifeless, destitute, and forsaken land, but it was his and he would survive it until he returned to the very grains that now coated his entire body.

As his eyes adjusted, he looked around the dunes. It was a fierce beast, lying in wait for its unsuspecting victims. The old man saw nothing in the treacherous desert, so he stumbled to the left where ruin and rubble lie. There was a bunch of enormous, hazel thistle plants and ragged tumbleweeds that had gathered in front of the stone. Carefully, he placed a palm to the dirt, rubbed below the thistles’ leaves and lifted upward with the back of his hand. In the weeds’ rocky bed there was a sturdy canvas sack and a couple of canteens. He took the items and threw the sack over his shoulder and continued into the washed-out realm.

He walked for miles and miles and miles, his feet grew sore, and his body ached as the crimson sun beat down upon the earth. Time seemed to pass so quickly; he would have to camp soon. To the west was a small quarry and it offered plenty. There was a small nook for a roof, some brush for fire, and he had some rations. Once the fire was stoked and the stars burned, he laid back and removed his respirator. The polluted air stung, but he cared extraordinarily little. He dug around his pocket and pulled out a bag. He tore a piece of jerky off, no bigger than a band aid and placed it on his knee. Alongside it, he placed a couple of crackers and three raisins. He then returned the bag to his pocket, took a canteen from his sack, and poured water into the cap and cleared his throat. With a deep growl, he spoke grace and then he ate, savoring every bite and the little swig.

He had scoured these lands for such a long time, wondering if he was meant to still be here or not. He used to feel like there was purpose. Before the big nuke and that was his daughter, Emily, and then the wars came. He fell into complete darkness and then the world began to perish. It was then, when he had drifted so far and was so isolated that a long-forgotten voice whispered in his ears while he rotted away in the vault. A familiar, tender voice that he remembered from childhood, it was God. God spoke to him of a beautiful world far away from here, but also near. He also spoke of crystal waters, the greenest of pastures, creatures aplenty, crops bountiful, friends and family dancing, laughing, and singing… Perhaps, he spoke to him, or perhaps it was delusion, but it was his faith, nevertheless. It was his faith that pushed him to survive. His faith is what forced him to find others and to help them and just like that, purpose had returned.

He searched far and wide and found little to no one at first. Most of the people he did find were thugs or rapscallions or barely even human at all. In the first days, he mostly observed and gathered his resources. Much like a vulture, he picked at what was left on the bones. Turning over every stone for anything they may have missed. Later, he began to search for who he could save, leading them to safety if they were able, finding them abandoned vaults or setting up networks with those who were still hidden and secure. There were many however that he only partook in sharing their final moments, doing well and sure that they were not alone when they passed. He prayed that they took a small comfort having him beside them.

Now, as he sat more crooked and haggard than ever, he knew the end was neigh. The radiation had taken its toll. The poisons had seeped deeper into his veins, age had gotten the best of him, and he was tired, so tired. He pulled the purse from his pocket, kissing it again and pulling the string. From the pouch, he pulled a solid gold twisted rope chain and upon it dangled a heart-shaped locket. He could feel his eyes welling up before he even opened the casing. He watched it dance in the light of the fire and with a rusty click, he opened it.

There was young girl with a braid woven on each side of her shoulders, tied with pretty bows. Her eyes glistened a sterling blue, her smile was like a cherub’s and her little floral dress was neatly pressed. On the other side, she stood with her mother. These two pictures had been taken before Emily had contracted a virus. The virus quickly attacked her nervous system, weakening her, paralyzing her from the waist down and soon completely debilitating her. She was bed ridden suffering fevers and fits, turning gaunt and white as if all life were being sucked out of her. He had prayed for her recovery, pleaded for his life to be taken in her stead, but there was no reply- no recovery.

“It’s not your fault, Daddy.”

Emily squeaked from her bed, breaking the silence that had filled the room. He lunged forward in his chair and tried to force a quick grin, but with little to no avail. She looked like she was attached to some sort of octopus, with wires and tubes stuck about her body. It wasn’t natural, it wasn’t his playful little girl- it was cruel and unfair.

“Sometimes, people get sick and sometimes… Well, this time, it’s me.”

She said breathily like a fish out of water.

“You’ll get better,”

He reassured her, patting her knee. He took a hard swallow and looked back down at the hospital floor. He knew the truth.

“Daddy?”

He quickly straightened his posture and focused his gaze on Emily, who had rested her head to the side, staring out the window.

“Yeah kiddo?”

“I’m meant to do this.”

“Meant to do what, hon?”

“I’m meant to die, daddy.”

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. “

“It’s not.”

“I’m not scared, daddy. Neither should you.”

Emily looked over from the window and smiled, her eyes barely open.

“You should get some rest, sweetheart.”

He pulled the blanket further up her chest and gently tucked in her sides, but she quickly stirred and loosened them again, sitting straight up and flopping her hands in her lap.

“I had a dream the other night. There was a glowing, white light- brighter than the sun. It came and jumped around my room and then sat on my bed. It was singing me the song, ya know Mom’s song, I thought it was kinda funny so I tried to roll over and then it grabbed my hand and do you know what it said?”

“What did it say?”

Emily laid back again, her eyes growing heavy.

“It said, don’t be afraid, for God chose you. It said He picked me so I could help hundreds on hundreds and told me to tell you, He picked you too…and…Everything will be okay...”

She yawned, her eyes shut, and her breath slowed and as quickly as she had come into this world, she was gone. The monitor alarmed, the graph was a straight line, and her smiling face was still.

His heart broke that day, but it was true. Emily’s illness and death had been researched, logged, examined, and thoroughly and successfully trialed. No one else would have to suffer as she did from the illness, but then came the bloodthirsty, the greedy, the power hungry and the nuke was dropped, and the earth was wrought with ruin. Serves us right, he thought. He closed his eyes and allowed a smile to cross his bushy mustache. He tightened his coat, holding the pendant to his heart, he knew- He would not make it back this time. This was the last time in the wastelands and now it was time to go. There it was the light…

“Hello Sweetheart.”