The Last Mission

In the setting sun of a rusty evening, it was hard to tell the brick-colored mud apart from the remains of corroded iron and dried blood. At the atomic level, it’s all the same anyway. Iron, manganese, molybdenum, carbon. Yesterday, the athletic silhouette of a Viking; today, the eloquently protruding ribbing of a gutted bridge; and after the next Big Bang – fanciful fractals of bioforms, stretched between the 4th and 11th dimensions, sealed with a word that exists in no nomenclature of modern languages. Perhaps there was such a word in Pre-Sumerian, but today he no longer remembered it.

The old-timer trundled along the bumpy road, sputtering and farting exhaust. He patted the dashboard with affection. They suited each other. Both their massive, though angular silhouettes were coated in the magnetic glow of pearly gray.Silver Pearl. A shiver ran through him at that memory. Sudden, unexpected falls of May snow. That was his first thought. But where the fuck would snow come from in August at this latitude, in the era of global warming? Meanwhile, it kept drifting and drifting. On him, on her, on them. White, dusty particles of snow.

“Stop! No further!” he heard a scream through a megaphone, accompanied by a cacophony of stroboscopic searchlights. He stopped and blinked his lights twice. From the darkness emerged the silhouette of Ratty in a filthy isolation suit, a rifle aimed at him. He slowly got out of the car and walked to the trunk. He yanked the lid several times to force the broken mechanism. It creaked, groaned, and gave way. He hauled a dozen barrels onto the ground and rolled them toward Ratty, then held out his hand. The other man feebly tossed him a package.

“Where’s the rest, you prick?!” he yelled as soon as he saw the contents. “No more! No more!” the figure wailed. “Finished... all finished... The North may still have some...” he whimpered. For a moment, he felt like killing him. Smashing that stupid, lying head and watching the bloody pulp soak into the dirty soil. But no. What for? Maybe he even wants it. He knew that fake face and insincere eyes well. You could say they’d even become friends in a way over all those months he’d served Unit TZ78091 as a courier, scavenger, or something of the sort. It was Ratty, after all, who suggested trading when they wouldn’t let him into the underground city. They didn’t let him in because he was contaminated. He, she, those people. They were a threat to those who had a chance to survive. Besides, there was no more room anyway.

Radioactive villagersoccupied an abandoned apartment block. They fell asleep waiting for him in a windowless room, warming themselves by the fire of a brazier. He looked at the boy’s bald little head and his gaunt face. Her hand, covered in non-healing wounds, still held a book. The burning candle, so extravagantly wasted, meant she had been trying to read. Flashes from the times of abundance flickered before his eyes. The intoxicating scent of blooming April trees in the park, her long dark hair coiling like snakes as she danced in a frenzied rave... Days, nights, sounds, colors, tastes, textures, the meowing of cat fur, the depth of red wine...

He gave her an injection, and the child too. The last ones he had for them. It would give them another day or two. Maybe they’d manage to read to the end. He placed a pistol beside her. She would know.

He went to the orphanage. It used to be a local kindergarten. Partially surviving walls were covered with faded, whimsical trees, dwarves, Alice and the Mad Hatter, some princesses, Shrek, and Alibaba. Dust-covered toys and blocks lay scattered on the floor. From amidst this mess, numerous pairs of piercing eyes stared at him. A waiting gaze, mature beyond its years, inhumanly intelligent. He pointed them toward the open door. They had already reached their mature form and were ready for independent life. Much more ready than his wife—dead in a day or two—the mother of one of them. Mutants who no longer resembled humans or even hominids. Children of their time, perfectly adapted to the conditions prevailing on the planet. This was their land now. And the beginning of their civilization. They would conquer the hostile land piece by piece. They would multiply. They would hunt thesurvivorsof theHomo sapiensspecies, still hidden in underground cities. Then they would build their metropolises and invent their own apocalypse.

He clambered onto the worn seat of the old-timer and slammed the door. He turned the key, and the engine gave a friendly growl. It managed to start one more time. He only needed it this one last time. The heater hadn’t worked for ages, so he zipped up his dirty, torn down jacket tighter. He no longer needed to save energy, so he turned ‘The Passenger’ up to full blast on the old tape deck. And so they sped along with Iggy Pop, staring mindlessly at the barren sky. From the times of abundance, he remembered Sunday nights when, with glasses of scotch and wrapped in blankets, they watched every next, eagerly awaited episode ofGOT. He remembered cold-blooded Arya Stark as she recited her list. He had one too. And all the names on it were his own.