THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty-two

There are undeniable risks. Perhaps I will fail, be captured by Section Twenty-one, or will be killed in the impending battle between the Corporation and the Low City. All those possibilities seem inconsequential now. Those other fates seem so small compared with the prospect of losing her. If that qualifies as that relic called love then so be it! Perhaps I am following a fool’s dream. What is the alternative? A man fails to dare his dreams is a heretic to his own ideology.

I am not so eager to say goodbye to the young woman. Something in her face causes me to believe she would feel the same. A face reflects the sins of a life, and hers was innocent and pure. There is a simple wisdom that, even now, lingers.

Rising slowly I glance up at the sea wall and the city stretching along the coast. I look down upon the girl then reach down to cover her face. There are easily hundreds dead nearby and scattered along the shoreline. Many thousands more are sure to follow, but it is her face that becomes the symbol of this tragedy. A quiet mournful moan escapes my lips. I turn and start for the archives.

The city is deathly still. The battle in the sewers seems to have abated or paused, but there is a tension to the air. The shadows are dramatic, swathing the street in deep angular shadows, where the air is much colder. A Sentinel on the corner is dark, which is a strange thing. Slipping from doorway to doorway along empty streets, scurrying across channels of daylight I find every Sentinel dark. Two Section Twenty-one transports roar past. I hide in a doorway until they are gone, and make my way quickly to the flat and Desiree.

The door to my flat is wide open. The white sheet from the bed lies at the door, and I know instantly. Inside a chair is overturned in the center of the room. Her shoes remain neatly beside the door. On the table is a small slip of paper. It only confirms what I already know.

MANDATE FOR RECLAMATION
DESIREE 664212
REPORT IMMEDIATELY

I am certain she did not report voluntarily. Section Twenty-one came for her immediately as a means of getting at me. She struggled, which tells me waited and hoped I would return. The question is how long ago they took her. Whether it was minutes or hours ago is impossible to say.

I fall against the window, certain I will die without her. The glass cools my forehead. Misty white clouds sweep low over the turquoise sea. In gaps and moments I can see the ruins, seeming more distant than ever. From the corner of my eye I spy a flash of orange near the Reclamation Center. A boiling mushroom cloud of smoke rises into the air. Raging fires throw their wildly dancing light across the broad brick face of the Reclamation Center. Farther up the coast Corporation airships dart madly, pouring rockets and death upon the refugees fleeing the Low City.