Their Worm Shall Not Die

Sweat poured down Anja’s face and blinded her. She was following a passel of scroungers making their way along the riverbank. Or stumbling behind and attempting to not lose sight of the slowest in their ranks. Evidently, they were familiar with this makeshift path through the river brush, easily scooting over dead limbs and dodging precarious vines. She limped along, wiping away sweat and slapping away mosquitoes, while nearly being taken out by every obstacle.

Her throat screamed for water, smoke tickling the back of her mouth and the insides of her nostrils. Move ahead, move forward, don’t stop--her mind chanted in rhythm with each step. The humid air pushed down on her, oppressing any sense of progress.

She was relieved to see a clearing edging out of the woods with several tents dotting the open spaces between trees. The scroungers she was following dispersed. Some mosied about the tents, slapping backs and shaking hands with the occupants. Others continued along the path, onwards toward the next settlement of scroungers.

She threw herself down under a small tree. She gasped for breath, resting her body against the trunk. She contemplated stripping a layer of soaked clothes, but thought better of it as she studied the clearing more carefully.

A body rested not ten feet away from Anja. It was bloated, no doubt had been baked by the Sun for at least a day. A gray beard surrounded by red face, his corpulent body clothed in brown and tan rags. He was an older man scrounger, she surmised. A younger scrounger man had a shovel in hand, working inside a shallow grave. Every square inch of his bare arms were covered in tattoos. He was whistling, seemingly unaffected by the heat and beating Sun, as his shovel plunged down into the pit.

Noticing her stare, the grave digger gave her a curt nod and answered her unspoken question.

“Died a couple of days ago. The heat finally got ‘em. Of course, it comes for us all, in some way or another.” His eyes roved over her appearance. Of course, he must see the ash darkening her clothes, the soot circling her face. “You come from Darbyville?”

The man gave a nod to the smoke curling above the treeline. Even these three days later, it was billowing high into the atmosphere. It drifted in thick clouds along the line of the river, undoubtedly pushed downwind towards the bay.

Anja nodded. “Yes. Before that, Tent City.”

The man gave a low whistle. “You haven’t had much luck in these parts, have you?” Anja met his gaze and did not flinch. If she had learned anything from Cecelia’s Metropolitan Copy, it was to ball her fists and resist the urge to tug at her sleeve.

The man pulled himself out of the hole, and not easily worked to lower the dead man into the trench. Anja examined the tree above her. A wispy netting stretched above her head; a family of tent worms had occupied the tree and made it their home.

“Do you know,” the man said to Anja, as he shoveled dirt onto the body now safely nestled into the ground, “that that tree once was a pear tree? But they say it hasn’t had fruit these last forty years. Not since the Great Collapse. ”

“Hmmmm,” Anja said, fighting the urge to rest her eyes. She dared not close them, for the images that would pop up to remind her of the last several days.

The man, now completed his task, stood up and rubbed the dirt from his hands. “Unfortunately, this poor tree will soon be cut down and thrown into the fire. Will happen to us all in some way or another.” He cocked his head, side-eyed Anja.

“But first, I want to say a few words in honor of our friend Rod. Rod, I never knew your last name, but you never stole from my tent or kept any boys or gutted any cops, so you were all right in my book.” He folded his hands and closed his eyes in reverence. “Non fui, fui, non sum, non curo.”

Anja gave a double take, studying the man closer. No wonder not a patch of inkless skin on his arms. Feeling her eyes on him, his mouth spread into a wry smile, and he gave Anja a wink.

“And how do you honor the dead?” He said. His eyes were playful, as he turned to Anja and added, “How would you like to remember Rod?”

“Me? I didn’t know this man.”

“True. But it’s only you and I here at his funeral.” He clasped his hands expectantly.

She sat back on her heels and considered this and contemplated all those she wished she could have given a eulogy for. How she wished that when their bodies were found, or they were sent off to be incinerated, that perhaps kind strangers might have spoken a few words in their memories, for she couldn’t.

One of the wandering boys--for they seemed to live in all of these scrounger enclaves--was hovering in the treeline. So she called him over, digging down for her last five-note sollares, forgotten in the bottom folds of her pant’s pocket.

“Do you sing for fee?” She asked, waving the note at him. He solemnly nodded, so she passed it to him. “Here, sing a song in honor of the dead man.”

The boy’s eyes widened as he turned the five-note over in his hands. “This is too much--this is five songs’ worth.”

The line of Anja’s mouth went grim as she considered this. At last she said, “Good. I need five songs’ worth. Now, if only I can scrounge up a few dozen more sollares, then I will have you sing a song for each of my dead.”

Unfazed by her declaration, the boy paused to gather his song in his head, before opening his mouth to sing a folk tune about fishing and hoboing as a scrounger. It sounded like a nice life--not so different from playing in the creek and having campfires as children at the Cooperative. Anja rested back on her heels. She shut her eyes and soaked in the song.