When the World Came Crumbling Down

It was the beginning of what I guessed was October, the fine line of summer blending more into fall. The leaves were changing color and dropping to the ground, but that could have been from the recent and still present drought. What really told me it was fall was the temperature - chilly, but not cold. The air held a promise of early snow, and that made me restless. What would we eat? The question plagued me more than anyone, because I was the unofficial food provider. Sitting in a tree on the edge of the little village, I watched the goings-on with disinterest. I was waiting for Zagna, the teacher that my mother and I had found huddled on the edge of the road, surrounded by her surviving students, half dead from the cold. She was good with kids, was more like a mother to me than my own mother. Everyone felt that way about her, and she them. That was why she was in charge of attendance, rations delivering, housing, and the orphans. Before I left to hunt I had to check out with her. If it was anyone but her checking attendance, I wouldn't do it. It's not like I'm very noticeable. She's the only one who notices when I'm gone these days - and if she doesn't tell my mother, then she's the only one who knows. Everyone knows I hunt, but no one knows when or how – except for Zagna and Sarah, my adoptive big sister. I saw Zagna coming down the trail, followed by kids my age looking like they were wearing those grass suits soldiers wore. Long strings of fresh edible greens hung all over them, covering them so well I wondered how they could see. I guessed they had been harvesting because they could fell the change in the air too. "Zagna, I want to go hunting. Maybe I'll get a deer - I know where one's been eating. I also want to try to fish again." She looked at me, her arms full of greens, and nodded. That’s what I like about her. She never asks questions. Zagna is a relatively short woman, with brown hair and kind green eyes. She usually wore the same rags we had found her in, nearly five years ago. Of course, she had to wash sometime, but she really hated to wear skins. "I'm a sophisticated, educated woman", she would say whenever someone asked."I shouldn't have to wear skins".  No one really had any choice. In a few years, Zagna wouldn't be able to wear her torn and tattered dress anymore - I was surprised it had lasted this long. As I walked to the hollowed out cedar tree I hid my hunting tools in, I did something I usually tried hard not to do. I thought of the past. Of our old house, of my dog, so foolishly loyal. So wonderful. I thought of how I hadn't had much responsibility, all I had to do was feed my dog and go to school. What bliss...   Soon I arrived at the big cedar tree, banishing thoughts of the past as I reached inside and pulled out my handmade bow and my quiver of handmade arrows. I concentrated on the woods as I slipped the shoulder strap of my quiver on and started out, slipping through the dense underbrush silently, barely making a sound even with the new leaves on the forest floor. I listened for anything unusual, and my practiced ear missed nothing. The squirrels rarely ever screamed their harsh warning calls at me anymore, and they only did now because occasionally I would shoot a few. Not as much as I used to though, because nearly half the time they and the arrows would just get stuck in the trees. The birds just ignored me completely, singing their happy tunes. In a short while I reached my destination - a medium sized oak tree in the middle of a small cluster of somewhat smaller oak trees blended with the occasional persimmon tree. It was the perfect spot for deer, especially this time of year when they’re rutting and trying to fatten up for winter. They come here by the dozens, as it isn't far from a stream and it is the best place to eat for miles. I climbed onto a low hanging branch and waited, thinking of myself. Of my blonde hair, flowing unrestrained down my back and to my waist. Of my gray eyes. My straight teeth, and lightly tanned skin. I didn't think I was pretty, since no one really noticed me at all. It was hard to tell - one thing we didn't think was necessary for survival was a mirror, so all I have to go by is water reflections. My name is Heather, but everyone calls me Rin. I once had a friend, Sora, who came from Japan, before it got washed away in the tsunami. She was one of the people in my neighborhood before it burned. And she burned with it. We had played at being samurai’s, and she thought I should have a Japanese name to go with the game. Even after her father caught us and told us to stop playing our game she called me that. Said it sounded better. So now, in memory of her, I use this name. My mother even calls me Rin when she talks to me, which is rare. A doe deer came into my view, munching on acorns and leftover persimmons, unaware of me, interrupting my thoughts. I notched the arrow and pulled back, aiming. I was ready to let go when she looked directly at me, her eyes curious, trusting. I almost didn't let my arrow loose, but, thinking of the starving faces of the little village, I shot and forced myself to watch as she reflexively ran a few yards before dropping to the ground, giving a few last twitches of her legs before going still. I let a single tear slide down my cheek while I hopped down and pulled my arrow out of her eye. A clean, quick death and an undamaged skin. I mechanically began loading her onto my drag cart, a bunch of green branches bunched together and tied. It was a lot easier than hauling her home on my shoulders. I could kill the occasional raider that came here looking to kill and pillage without hesitation, but I couldn't kill a deer without feeling a pang of regret for the life lost. Surely I was crazy. Traumatized by the life I had lived. Sympathetic towards animals but not my own kind - even though the only humans I had killed were merciless raiders looking only to kill and steal, and few at that. Our safe haven was so well hidden, it was a wonder we had even found it, driving aimlessly about, ciphering gas out of abandoned vehicles. It was an old abandoned resort, according to Truman, an elderly man fond of telling stories about the old days, some happy and others somewhat depressing. Like the story of 9/11, how all those people died on the whim of some stupid terrorist. The worst part was knowing what he said was true. Remembering how most of the month of September the entire United States seemed somehow muted, and how they would have TV specials honoring lost firemen and countrymen. When I had gotten to my hidden hollow cedar tree I stored my weapons and went on, wondering if the world would ever pick itself back up again and who would do it. If it could be done. I doubted it would be done in my life time – from what I read, it would take nearly a century for all the ash to clear away from most of what is left of the United States. After Yellowstone’s so called “Sleeping Giant” awakened. Probably a lot longer for humanity to get back to the state of ‘sophistication’ and such. There isn’t even any electricity, and most of the world has either become sea floor or is completely covered in lava which is probably still molten in some places. Not to mention Europe. No one has any idea what happened to that continent, because it either went down after or at the same time America did, meaning we didn’t hear about it before we crumbled. If it didn’t fall, why hasn’t it attempted to save us? We should have known. Hawaii boiled over, Japan washed under...we couldn’t have been far behind, we were actually changing even before all this happened, if the shifting poles and hotter temperatures, longer droughts, and more record breaking wildfires followed by rapidly migrating animals was any clue. I guess maybe we did know, I mean how could we miss something so prominent? Maybe we just didn’t want to believe it. And anyway, if the world did recover, who would lead it? All the government officials had been in Washington D.C. on the same unfortunate day the East Coast joined Japan at the bottom of the sea. The small “resort” was beginning to show through the foliage, and soon Sarah, the designated cook, was walking by my side, having been watching for me. “That’s quite a kill. Do you think I should try that new recipe out of the book John and the crew brought back?” she asked me absentmindedly, as if she didn’t really expect an answer. I wasn’t really in the mood to answer her, and she seemed to sense it. Sarah had been like a big sister to me – looking after me, being there for me. No matter what I did or said, Sarah still hung around me. She was a beautiful girl, I could see that. Bright blue eyes, red hair, she had everything. Except in the fire she and her family had fled from, she had gotten the left side of her face badly burned. But she was still beautiful, and never gave up on me. Sometimes I wondered what she saw in me. When we talked, it wasn’t about the past. She didn’t want to talk about it and I didn’t ask. Everyone here had their secret pains, and we all preferred to keep them to ourselves. “I guess you could. I still like the one with the onions and…what was that other ingredient?” I asked, surprising her.  “I’m not sure what it’s called. Probably lemon pepper. It doesn’t have a label. Maybe I will cook some of it like that, because you did kill it, but I still want to try the recipe with all the vegetables in it.” She took the drag cart despite my half hearted complaints and pulled it the short distance to the cooks’ table, where it would be skinned and gutted, then prepared for the half dozen small cooking pots we had salvaged. John and his crew is the salvaging crew that goes out whenever we need something – blankets, spices, books, gas. We, unlike the raiders, never took from other people. John and his crew only take supplies from abandoned homes and stores. They would be going out soon to look for winter supplies, mostly blankets and dried and canned food, but that was getting scarce. We do this every year – hunt for much needed supplies, that is. Each year it gets harder and harder to find them though, so each year we had to rely more and more on natural resources. This year every person that was able was required to help dig big cellars, carving stairs down into a deep underground hole with dirt walls, propping the ceilings up with freshly cut cedar posts – cedar lasts longer. We dug about four of them, making them all about the size of a small room. According to the newest book on survival John brought back, these holes would help our food stay fresh all winter. A few of the older women had been requesting building materials for a green house. They had thought of a way to grow fresh greens in the middle of winter. A few kids who had been ranchers’ and farmers’ kids had requested milk cows, or maybe a goat. These would be hard to find, but they would also be very helpful for obvious reasons, so John had been planning to go on an extended trip with a select few to try and find these things, overlooked and branded as either normal or unnecessary in the Old World. What I wouldn’t give to taste milk again. Josh, the cook’s assistant, came over then to help Sarah clean and prepare the deer. “Do we need any more water jugs, Josh?” Sarah asked him. “I don’t think we really need any, but it would probably be good to have a few extra. This deer looks like her innards aren’t wormy – I’m sure they will do just fine.” I left them to it, not because I was sickened by the sight of the poor deer’s insides, because if I thought of her as simply food I wouldn’t be, but because I had to go to the stream and fish. I had as good as promised her to get fish – she loved them, and this time of the year they would be filled with caviar, or fish eggs. I would eat them if I had to, but really I’d rather not. Besides, I had set a few traps in the water for crayfish and maybe a few minnows. The minnows weren’t very good to eat, but they were good bait and there was an old aquarium John had found and brought back. The little bitty kids would probably love it, and it would give them a chance to see a little besides the camp. I had reached the hollow cedar tree, and I reached in, grabbing my bow and arrows (just in case I needed them), a big hunting knife, my fish basket, and my other fishing gear. I had fashioned a fishing pole way back when we were new at this whole living simply thing, right after I had found the stream. The ‘stream’ was really more of a river, but it didn’t roar and spray water everywhere. It was calm, flowing gently by, clear water sparkling in the sun. I could see it now; see the plump fish swimming around the bottom of the river, chasing tadpoles and minnows. I went a little faster, thinking of the peace and tranquility the river offered. Soon I was running, desperate for the peace of mind the river usually gives me, my cloths and gear snagging on branches, becoming even more distressed as I ran. Unable to keep the barrage of images from my past away any longer, tears streamed down my face. My sister: my poor baby sister, only three months old when the fires reached our neighborhood. My father tackling my mother to keep her from running in the house to get her as the rapidly burning fire ate our house and lawn. My mother screaming and kicking, crying as she heard my sister stop crying, knowing it was too late for her. Watching as the house collapsed on my baby sister’s ashes. Then later, walking down the charred sidewalk, huddled together with my dog at our side, looking at the stricken faces of friends and neighbors. My best friend’s father on his knees in front of his houses’ ashes, crying and talking in Japanese. When he saw us he stood up and came to us, muttering over and over, “She’s gone…She’s gone…” Then still later as my father went into a grocery store for food and never came back. And then my dog, lying with a knife in his gut, whimpering, beside the dead body of our would-be murderer, and me, holding his head in my lap, crying and murmuring softly until he died. Finally I burst through the trees and fell at my knees on the river bank. It can offer no peace – I’m too far gone. Realizing this, I curled up on my side and whimpered until I fell into a blessed oblivion that was sleep.