Ardor

Five: Heavy Breaths, Filled With Life

I don't want to say that I'm dying of thirst--because that would be insensitive--but I am. "Um, Kobe, do you think we could stop or something? I'm gonna pass out if I don't eat or drink something," I say sheepishly. He stops suddenly, like the thought of meeting the basic needs of life had never crossed his mind. Running a hand through his thick mop of dark hair he absentmindedly says, "Oh, right. Yeah. Sorry." I don't think twice about the awkwardness.

Kobe and Rhys; there is no we. Harris and Croft, together by circumstantial need, not want. Together for fear of death alone. We get it, but there's not connection. Now I know why I was never friends with the guy. There's him--tall, muscular, strikingly attractive, charismatic, actually affected by his family's death--and there's me--tall, skinny, leanly muscular, regular-looking, slightly withdrawn, numb but not devastated by his family dying. Compared to Kobe I look and feel like a horrible person.

I find the building that looks to be the easiest to access: a squat, bland, one-story thing that was probably a movie shop, judging by the DVDs scattered over the multicolored carpet. I wave Kobe over and sit down in a debris-filled beanbag chair, setting my backpack on the floor between my knees and unzipping the main pocket. I fill my stomach with beef jerky, barbecue potato chips, and a few sips of blue Gatorade. Kobe eats from his own bag a protein bar and a couple chugs of water. We rest for exactly five minutes (my phone doesn't work but it can still tell time, obviously)before Kobe stands and tosses his backpack over his shoulders. I stay sitting in the beanbag, enjoying my body's current lack of motion. "Okay, before I follow you anywhere, where are you even planning going?" I ask. He rubs his forehead like a parent exhausted from arguing, leaving a smear of grime to the layers already caked on his face.

"I guess you want a straight answer, huh?"

I nod. He makes his way to the beanbag opposite me and sinks into its comfy but battered embrace. "You gonna tell me what's going on up there? I'm a little out of practice as far as mind reading goes," I say, trying to prod him into conversation. "Look, I don't even know where I'm going, just away from there." There being our childhood neighborhood, now almost totally leveled from the earthquake. "Okay, buddy. Look, I know where you're mind is going, but this is really freaking stupid. You can't just walk to nowhere. We should have like, a plan of something," I say, trying to keep my voice comforting. Kobe sits back and stares at me with a weird look on his face. "You sound like you've planned for this or something," he observes.

"No such luck, my friend. I just watch the news."

He shoots into a standing position. "They knew and nobody thought to warn us?" I take in a deep breath.

"Ah, no. Not exactly. Seismologists all over the world said there was a possibility of a mass earthquake, similar to Pangea if you paid attention in history and science, but they thought it wouldn't be for another thirty years or so. Nobody was too worried, nor were they too eager to send the entire population into mass hysteria."

Kobe falls back into his chair. "Yeah, well it would've been nice to know."

I feel bad for the guy, I really do. But him leading us around on a wild goose chase isn't helping anyone. I'm not turning back, but there has to be another alternative. We sit in silence, each of us in our respected seats. "I think we should stay here for awhile," I say.  He just nods, staring off with his arms crossed over his chest. I fidget uncomfortably, the awkwardness painfully obvious with every heavy breath we take. As difficult it is, they are heavy breaths, filled with life. So who am I to complain?

After about a half an hour I get up and start sifting through the movies. From the looks of it this shop was some sort of dirty Asian film dealer. Some of the stuff I come upon is too nasty to even peak my interest. The store is relatively small, so it doesn't take me long to snoop my way through most of it. Kobe is still sitting in his beanbag chair, trying in vain to get his phone to work. Still. The back room is the last one I have to inspect, and since I don't have anything better to do I decide to check it out. 

Instantly the tang of blood coats my mouth and my nose. I really don't feel like throwing up the lunch I just ate, so I back out of the room, nostrils pinched between my fingers, mouth clenched tight against the smell. "Kobe, I think someone's back here," I say, raising my voice. "What?" "Well, someone's body," I add. I hear the sounds of his movements as he rushes over, giving me a nervous glance. I shake my head. 

"I couldn't do it. The smell..."

Kobe wrinkles his nose, pulling his top lip away from his teeth and into a grimace. "I don't want to look at it," he protests. "Well neither do I!" He runs his hand down his face, which smears his now-grimy complexion even more. "Okay, on the count of three we both open it," he says. My stomach clenches at the thought, but I nod obediently. 

"One....two....three!" 

Kobe thrusts the door inward. It moves only a few inches before stopping with a thunk, as if it's caught on something beyond our line of sight. I gag a little and press my lips together. Kobe looks just as disgusted as I feel. He closes his eyes and slams his body against the door, which gives way, but not before a sickening crunch cuts into the almost-silent air. I flinch, my whole body struggling against the urge to regurgitate my recently consumed food. 

Kobe enters first, with me following moments behind him. I almost run into his stock-still form. "I think I'm gonna barf. That's fricking disgusting," he says numbly. I softly push him farther into the room so I can see what he's talking about. As soon as I do, I wish I hadn't. A middle-aged Asian man lies on the floor, head at a horrifically unnatural angle (apparently that's what was blocking the door), the lower half of his body completely invisible under a huge portion of the roof, which must have caved in. Already flies are covering his body, attracted to the blood like bees to honey.

"I'm going to go now," I say, backing out of the room. Kobe follows suit, neither of us bothering to try and hide our disgust. I shudder when we are back in the main section of the store. "Dude, I think we should leave. There's no way to get him out of here and the smell's just going to get worse," Kobe suggests. Obviously that's definitely not what I'm thinking sitting here on the floor, shoving my unloaded belongings back into my bag. "Done," I say, standing. He gives me an uncomfortable, tight-lipped smile and grabs his own backpack. 

I feel shaken as we walk out of the movie store. Nervous, like the dead man's ghost is somehow going to follow us. I shiver again, but this time from the cold as I'm exposed to the wintry chill of the outside world. There are more people milling around now, looking dazed and haunted and haggard. A few lucky families cling to each other, careful to keep everyone close. The majority of the people I see are huddled in huge groups seeking comfort. But there are a few lonely people I spot, never mingling in groups bigger than two or three. 

They look spooked and a little shaken, but mostly unfazed. 

They are the smart, the strong, the logical, the unfeeling.

They are the ones who are gathering, preparing.

They will be the ones to survive. 

They look like me.             

We broken people, we will survive.

_____________________________

I don't think this is the apocalypse anymore so much as a refresh button: you might not get back on the exact same page you were on before, but you might find something better. But then again, you might not.  

Society could rebuild itself. It could refresh, reset. It might not, but it could. 

In the past we humans have been pretty quick to learn from our mistakes. Let's hope this is one of those instances, or we are all totally, massively screwed. 

Does God like to screw us over on purpose? I don't think so, but I also think that things like this are just something that has to happen. Nobody knows for sure why until about a hundred years later, when we look back and say, "Oh, yeah, I guess we kind of did deserve that. Thanks Big Guy." 

Sometimes the slate gets wiped clean, but sometimes streaks and smears still tarnish the surface until you spray on a little cleaning solution. 

I hear it can take awhile; those marks are quite stubborn.