THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty_one

I am momentarily alone among the dead and dying. What became of the Rebel Leader is only a guess. As the battle erupted she was spirited away by several bodyguards. Perhaps she lies among the scattered dead. If true I can only imagine if that will stop the attack against the Reclamation Center. Perhaps it will only interrupt the attack, or maybe her followers will continue the work in her name. Who can say?

The moment feels tentative. This chance at freedom feels fleeting, I can feel it constricting rapidly to trap me. But I have this moment, and I will be damned that I will have it taken from me.

I am decided. I have decided, as I pick my way through the sewers back towards the beach, John Brown and the others. I will escape the city and find some way to reach the ruins. I want no part of this war and no part of the Corporation. Comes a time when a body must decide for itself, for its own good and for its need. I am decided, and freedom is the course I have decided upon.

There is fighting on the beach as well. It comes sudden and shocking, with screams and cries filling those rare gaps in the shooting. The sounds hold a different character than the battle behind me. It feels crueler and malicious. It feels like a crime. I wait until the shooting has ended before continuing.

When I reach the sewer’s end I pause, still keeping to the shadows. The bite of spent gunpowder fills the air, and stings at my eyes and throat. The troops have moved off. Smoke still hangs in ghastly gray shrouds. It scatters the blood red sunset into lazily drifting shafts that fall upon countless dead scattered and heaped upon the beach. Hardly the scene of a battle, this was murder, pure and simple.

Doubtless this was revenge for the commander and his troops, whose bodies would brazenly have been laid out in the archive as a message to others. And so Section Twenty-one and the Corporation decided on a punishing course, but this carnage only predicts retribution from the Low City; the next link in an endless chain. Such is the path when vengeance masquerading as justice becomes the final motivation.

The dead are not even scattered, as if they had attempted some defense, or failing that, an escape. The bodies are piled near posts or where parents had fallen on children in a vain attempt at protection. Skulls are blasted open, faces shot away, limbs shattered, and bodies torn open. The stink of ripped innards fills the air already. Other victims were trapped at the shoreline before being cut down.

I run to the water’s edge, climbing over rocks and several bodies to reach the old row boat I had seen earlier. A young woman lies in the boat. Her lovely light brown face is turned skyward, as if she has merely fallen back in gentle repose to ponder the heavens. Her auburn eyes are open, but dull and lifeless. One arm is outstretched towards the bow of the boat. The other lies across her forehead. Long straight black hair is splayed in all directions. The poor woman’s feet dangle over the side of the boat, hovering just above the sand. One crude rubber sandal is missing. A bullet has pierced her body just above the left breast. There is little blood, but for a smudge across her cheek.

Strange, I think, gently lifting her into my arms, that lifeless as she is I still find a connection to her. Lifeless as she is I am alternately mournful, curious and afraid. I might easily believe she is used up, that death is nothing more than a sudden cessation of a vast and incredibly complex electro-chemical equation. As I carry her up the beach I am haunted that there must be something more. It becomes a matter beyond science and mere logic. Whether that portends something outside this world or is a product of my ego I cannot say for sure. In that gap I find room and cause for speculation and (dare I resurrect an ancient word) faith. Logic of course, tells me otherwise, but the simple fact that I treat her body with such gentleness challenges that notion completely.

There is something in her face that reminds me of Desiree. I place her gently upon the soft sand in a sheltered part of the beach. Here she is protected on all sides by rocks, and separated from the brutality beyond. It seems fitting given the peace upon her face.

Wetting my thumb, I smudge away the dried blood upon her cheek. Near the boat I find a crumpled cloak. It covers a bundle of food and a jug of tea. I place them in the boat and carry the cloak back to the girl’s body.

I wrap her carefully, as if she had laid down for a nap. Her face is left exposed, at least for now. With both hands cupped I cover the ends with sand and stones to secure the blanket in place. With that I close her eyes and sit back, looking out across the sea now stilled in a lessening wind. At that, engulfed in silence, thoughts rise like a storm.

I sigh deeply. It is at once a cleansing and sorrowful breath. And my thoughts return to Desiree. It occurs to me that a man alone upon the sea has infinite directions, but no true purpose. Desiree, I decide gives me purpose, will the ruins offer only direction. These things I want are all too feeble without her. Want without purpose is merely desire, and desire can never quench the soul. At the end of all these thoughts I come to a resolution, and that is to convince Desiree to come with me.