The Reminiscent

“Another day, another dollar.” That’s what we used to say back when the dollar still meant something. All we have now is just another day, and everyday is as gloomy as the last. I get up when the sun rises and lay down when the sun falls. It’s ironic how we used to complain about the 9-5 workday when jobs, mortgages, car payments all mattered, but now I find myself living in the past that I only heard about in the books of our history classes. They told us something like this would happen. They said it would happen eventually and that we were “overdue” for one. Well—our faithful star, that ball of glowing, pulsating plasma finally did it. The scientists called it a “Type J” solar flare and the article I was reading at the bus station thirteen years ago, right before the lights went out, said such an event would send us back to the Stone Age. It’s funny to me how we can be so cynical about a world shattering event that “might” happen, but once it does all hell breaks loose.

All of our money was digital, and the governments of the world stopped using precious metals to bolster their country’s worth and, to my amazement, actually put those resources to better use in scientific equipment, quantum computers, and who knows what else. Now we need those precious metals as a means of currency, and it gets bloody sometimes at the market. There are entire tribes of people who burn the old electronics and dismantle car parts to find whatever small quantities of gold, silver, platinum or palladium might be there. The Event didn’t send us back to the Stone Age, but it did set us back. The Amish are actually the richest groups around now. We laughed at their stickler ways of holding on to old technology, but here we are paying them for their overpriced goods and not a smile anywhere on our faces. My only gratitude is that the Amish don’t lord it over us. They neither seem too greedy nor too bigoted and they have freely accepted many into their folds to learn the old ways to rebuild our society, the catch however is, you can never leave their communes and if you do you may never return.

Maybe my best choice should have been joining them: working hard all day, having a wife and kids, a roof over our heads (that I built myself) and Sunday prayer; but I realized a certain freedom when the world ended. I could live wherever I wanted (as long as I strayed away from the bandits and gangs) and my schedule was my own. It wasn’t long before I found an old bank I felt safe staying in, and I used one of the upstairs offices as my apartment. Occasionally I’d be forced awake with the sounds of scavengers trying to find bullion, but I snickered to myself and went back to sleep because they stopped using banks for that sort of thing ages ago.

One particularly dreary day I was feeling quite depressed about my life. I had no one in my life. Those first couple of years, when everything shutdown, were violent ones; honestly, I don’t know how I even made it out alive. I guess the Amish were right, “Miracles do happen”. How ironic it is that I’ve survived all this time and now all I want to do is jump from the top of this building. My mother always told me that when I felt down that meant I spent too much time sitting in one place and I was leaving an indentation. Funny how moms think—and how they always seem to be right. I’ll never understand that.

After spending the morning gathering my scavenging supplies and sharpening my machete I headed to the south-side of town where most of the farming land was. The old Farmer’s Market was a bustling hive of humans wondering from stall to stall inspecting fruits, vegetables and the occasional animal as if they were inspecting diamonds in a jewelry store; just thirteen years ago these very people were ordering their groceries on some app and some other person would bring a cart to their car and load it for them.

After having my fill of people and tirelessly bargaining down prices on food I began heading back to my apartment to put my groceries away. I ran across certain streets so I could avoid being out in the open for too long and in some cases I had to hide. Funny how irony reminds us how hours ago I was willing to jump off a building and now with a bit of adrenaline pumping I’m doing all I can to make sure that little heart of mine is still beating. This particular brand of gang liked to take baseball bats to windows and throw firecrackers at people. They weren’t particularly dangerous, but occasionally when they felt threatened by a rival gang they would lash out at the general populace and people would be found hanging from streetlights. I preferred to err on the side of caution when dealing with gangs in general, and after they moved on I sped on my way to get back to my hole.

As I was approaching the bank I noticed a blond haired women sneaking from car to car. When she saw me, she ran into the bank to hide. I smiled again at life’s irony and decided to walk nonchalantly into the bank. As I entered I was startled by the influx of debris she was heaving at me and I cried out to her to stop and asked her why she was throwing things at me. I held my hands up, groceries and all, and looked at her cock-eyed. She was holding one of those little planks of wood banks would use to chain the pens. I told her I lived here, and I wasn’t trying to hurt her. She slowly moved out from behind the counter, while still holding the pen holder in her hand, and asked me if I had seen him? I asked about who she was talking about and she briefly described a man in a duster with a pair of dogs. I asked her why he was after her and she said she didn’t want to talk about it. “You’re safe here,” I told her. “Here, (guiding her to have a seat) my name is Brian; what is your name?” She walked slowly to the dusty, dry rotted armchairs and took a seat, “My name is Lindsey.” She asked me what I was doing here, and I repeated that I lived here, upstairs more specifically. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?” “I’m from across the river” she told me. We talked until nightfall and when we both realized it was too dark for her to wonder out I invited her to stay. “There are plenty of offices upstairs. I have a preferred corner, but all we have to do is just remove a few cobwebs here and there and you should be right at home.” She followed me upstairs and I wanted to give her a space that she could feel comfortable, but she told me she wanted to be close to me if that was ok. I told her I was ok with that, but the offices weren’t very big so she wouldn’t have a lot of privacy. She told me she wanted to thank me for my kindness and approached slowly while keeping her eyes on mine. She bit her lower lip and I blushed. I hadn’t been with anyone for so long I forgot how potent these emotions were, and they seemed amplified by not having them for so long. The passion was intoxicating and palpable and when she was on top I noticed the silver heart-shaped locket bouncing off her chest, glistening with the sweat of her body. When we finally laid down with each other and my arm was around her waist I asked her quietly about the locket. She stiffened a little and I tried to comfort her, but she sat up and held the blanket over her chest as if to hide it from my sight. I held my hand out to her and told her I was only curious, “you told me about your family up north, I was just wondering if you had a picture of someone who was special to you.” Her shoulders lowered and she glanced toward her feet and then her hands lowered the blanket and opened the latch of the locket and inside was a picture of an older couple, “They were my grandparents. My parents were in a car accident when the event occurred, and I was with my grandparents at the time helping on our farm. We waited weeks, but when they never returned we set out on our horses in the direction they should have been going. After 4 days of travelling along the road we saw their car…”, she tried holding the tears back but when I moved towards her and wrapped my arms around her she began to unleash the torrent of dammed up tears. Her words were impossible to understand but I knew she needed this, so I just held her, softly repeating: “It’ll be ok, let it all out—I’m here and I’m not letting you go.”

“How cute, the bitch found herself a man.” I thought I was in a dream, however I soon found myself ripped from that idea when the dog barked and startled me from my sleep. I looked around quickly and found Lindsey hunkering further in the corner of the office trying to get as far away from the man in the duster as she could. “Look, all I want is that locket,” the man said in a baritone gravely voice. “There doesn’t have to be bloodshed here, I know that locket has a lot of sentimental value to you little missy, but that locket is worth a lot of money in this world and if you aren’t going to use it for your survival it might as well go to someone it can. Think of it this way, you can pay for your life with it.” The man seemed devoid of all emotion. Everything was simply a matter of pragmatism, and in a rational light, he was right, but this locket was more than sentimental value, it was the only she had left of her past, of her family. I was slowly reaching for my machete when both dogs growled and locked their eyes as if hungry for the flesh of my arm. “You can try if you want, but I guarantee you won’t survive, and your death with be very painful.” The apathy in the man’s voice was haunting. I locked eyes with the man and just as I was about to lunge for the blade I heard Lindsey’s voice scream, “STOP!” then, in a whimpering, sob-infested, emotionally choked voice she said, “Fine, have it. Brian, it’s not worth your life. May I make one request mister?” “What would that be little miss?” “Can I at least remove the picture inside of my family?” “The silver is all I want; you can have the picture.” “Fine, here, now please leave us.” The man took the locket while still maintaining eye contact with me and made his way down the stairs. We heard the dogs start to bark angrily and I was afraid the man was going to release the hounds on us, so I went to block the door. I was relieved when the commotion outside was that of one of the gangs on a death march. The violence didn’t last long because the alley was soon filled with baritone laughter and just as quickly drowned out by the cackling of an automatic weapon. Everything was silence.