Where Do The Unclaimed Go

Iris finished her shift at Gorman’s Metal Manufacturing like every day. She gathered her backpack and canteen from her oxidized locker, just like the rest of her coworkers, and walked toward the exit gate.

A loud buzz announced that the gates were opening, releasing them into the rain.

As she walked out, she could hear her coworkers talking about what they were looking forward to for the rest of the day. Taking a nap. Washing their feet with the water they had collected. Maybe some bread.

With her eyes down and without engaging with anyone, Iris started her way home.

The way home was long. She had to cross the city today. Uncle Tom usually asked her to get something for dinner in the city before getting home. If there was something to trade, dinner would be served.

Luckily for Iris, she had sneaked a crooked dagger that was going to be discarded by the second shift.

The city was dirty. Mud and pebbles on the ground made a crunching noise with every step. It was a very loud place. People shouted for different reasons. Pain. Anger. Negotiating the best trade.

There were also kids roaming around, asking for food or trying to get lucky picking someone’s pocket.

There was no sign of blue in the sky.

The factories, the weather, the contamination had taken that away from humanity.

At least in this part of the world.

Iris went to her usual trader. He recognized her.

She didn’t make too much eye contact.

The canteen and the crooked dagger were placed on the counter. Words didn’t have to be spoken. He knew what she wanted.

He stepped away for a moment while Iris looked around.

Around the corner, a teenage boy was being pulled by a man and a woman into the darkness of the alley.

She noticed this and took a deep breath, locking her jaw.

The screams were obvious.

She could tell the kid was getting beaten. She could hear him, terrified, begging them to stop.

This happened every day.

A sudden bang on the counter brought her eyes back to the trader.

“Three ounces of millet and a canteen with water,” he said.

She grabbed her things, put them quickly into her backpack, and started walking again.

Iris passed the alley and couldn’t help herself.

She looked.

The kid was lying on his stomach in a pool of blood and mud.

He was probably dead.

There was nothing to do.

Walking back home, Iris kept thinking about her life.

Since she was a kid, her life had been the same.

Surviving with her uncle.

Crisis after crisis.

Natural disasters. Raiders and scavengers. Along with the other global situations humanity had been facing for over seventy-five years.

The familiarity of the neighborhood gave her some kind of sense of peace, but it was too complicated.

There were groups that controlled certain areas and attacked others.

The streets were dark. Just a little moonlight would have helped her find her way.

No chirping from crickets. No night birds.

Those sounds hadn’t been heard for years.

Sometimes, the buzzing of flies would be the only thing present while walking down the streets of the neighborhood.

Iris would always notice the old lady across the street, sitting on her porch with a kerosene lamp.

Wrinkled. Sunken eyes. Messy hair. Dirty face. Broken clothes. Long nails.

She would sit there on her porch, tapping the arm of her wooden chair.

Iris opened her home’s gate and closed it right away, looking around.

Just making sure nobody was coming.

The street was quiet.

Just the old lady tapping the wooden chair.

Once inside the house, Iris took off her jacket and boots. She brought her backpack to the kitchen and placed it on the counter with the water canteen.

She leaned against the counter and put her head down, stretching her arms out to the sides.

Her eyes were closed.

Iris was trying to take a moment to process what she had seen back in the alley.

It didn’t matter how normal these things were.

Although one could become desensitized by what became the norm day after day, there was always a small flicker of hope.

Or fear.

The moment was interrupted by her uncle’s coughing.

He was coming downstairs to check what Iris had gotten at the city.

Uncle Tom struggled going up and down the stairs, so her eyes immediately opened when she heard the stomping and the wood cracking beneath his feet.

By the time he reached the bottom, Iris had taken a deep breath and leaned back against the counter, facing the window above the sink.

“What did you find this time? Huh?”

Her uncle’s voice was deep and a little broken.

Iris reached into her backpack and pulled out the bag of millet, dumping it onto the counter.

The continuous coughing got in the way of whatever Uncle Tom wanted to say.

Uncle Tom had been through a lot in his life.

He was raised while the world started to crumble quickly.

The top of his head was balding, showing sunburns and small scars. Some were from falling down a hill in the forest while running for his life. Others were from fights.

His white hair was longer around the sides of his head.

“Silver hair,” he would call it every time someone made a comment about it.

He approached the counter and grabbed the bag of millet.

He got one of the two pots they had and poured some water and the millet into it. Then he placed the pot on a kerosene burner.

Growling and moaning with every movement, he sat down on the stairs.

The house was mostly empty.

There were a couple of chairs and a shelving cabinet full of old books covered in dust.

Iris kept looking through the window at the street.

She could see the old lady by her lamp, still sitting in her chair.

The night was quiet.

The old lady kept tapping the arm of her wooden chair.

Uncle Tom was coughing and gasping for air so hard that it sounded like his lungs wanted to escape his chest.

Iris turned around.

“Are you gonna make it?”

He pulled out an old rag, broken and hanging from the front pocket of his shirt.

“I’ve been in this world for long enough to know there will be a time when the answer to that question will be of your liking.”

He gave her a smirk.

Iris ignored the passive-aggressive comment while glancing around the room.

There were humidity marks on the wallpaper. Some parts were ripped.

The flowers in the design were opaque and almost distorted.

Those empty walls were covered in spring flowers that one day might have reminded someone of joy and warmth.

Living under these conditions didn’t affect Iris.

After all, the house had already been deteriorated since her first memory.

The only thing that had always caused intrigue, or simply bothered her, was a painting of the Last Supper hanging by the staircase.

The shadow created by the dim upstairs light and the staircase rail covered part of the painting.

Almost like Iris wished it would.

They stood there in silence for a while.

“Have you heard the news?” Uncle Tom asked hesitantly.

Iris shook her head.

“Well, it seems like the Yellowjackets have decided to attack the Brocks. They have guns… those are what everyone wants. Holy guns.”

Iris sighed and crossed her arms.

“Nobody has guns, Tom. We all know that. The Greats have all the ammunition and firepower.”

She smacked her lips and shrugged.

“You’re right… you’re right.”

Uncle Tom nodded, a little hesitation showing on his wrinkled face.

“Gorman’s is on Brock’s territory,” he said.

He looked down, then quickly locked eyes with her.

He stood up and approached the burner to check the millet. Then he reached for a spoon on the counter and stirred the grains for a moment.

Iris was a little concerned about this.

She knew what she would have to do if something like that happened.

She decided to pull the chairs closer to the counter and grabbed two bowls from the empty cabinet.

Uncle Tom started serving the food while Iris got distracted again by the painting hanging on the wall. Obscured.

She wondered why he would have this painting hanging there. She had asked this question before.

Food was served, and he sat facing the opposite direction from the painting, not acknowledging her momentary engagement with the piece of ancient art.

Iris sat down with her bowl in front of her.

“Why do you keep that?”

She asked with cynicism.

“Huh?” he muttered.

He turned and looked at the wall.

“That’s just a reminder…”

He mumbled the words while going back for another spoonful of their slurpy meal.

Iris was not satisfied with that answer.

Her conversations with him were inconsistent. Vague about certain things.

This was one of them.

Uncle Tom kept eating, but he noticed she wasn’t.

He knew she wanted something else from that question.

He looked at her with a glimpse of pity in his eyes.

“I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry… whoever believes in me will never be thirsty.”

He took the last bite of his meal, swallowed, and then coughed.

She squeezed her thighs with her hands, up and down, while nodding at his answer.

“I lost my appetite,” she mumbled.

She pushed the bowl toward him and left the room.

⸻

The next morning, Iris was getting ready for her shift.

It was early.

The darkness of the night was slowly lifting.

She scratched her eyes and heard Uncle Tom snoring next door.

She stood up from the mattress on the floor and went to the bathroom.

This room wasn’t better than the others.

Tiles were missing. The sink was dry, just like the toilet.

She sat down and peed.

After she finished, she dumped some water from the bucket next to the toilet.

Rainwater they collected.

She looked at herself in the broken mirror.

Her brown hair reached her shoulders.

Her green and brown eyes looked tired.

Mostly, her expression was flat.

There were so many things she didn’t like about this world.

Or herself.

But one thing she had always been fascinated by was the heterochromia in her left eye.

People would always notice it and compliment her.

“Nothing to feel good about…” Iris would say.

She stood there, looking at herself in the mirror for a moment.

So much had been lived.

So many memories in this house.

Mostly bad.

Iris was twelve when she first killed someone.

⸻

It had been early in the morning when a couple of scavengers invaded the house.

The first one faced Uncle Tom.

The hard thuds against the old wooden floor and the growls woke her up.

Iris silently knelt at the top of the stairs and looked down toward the living room and kitchen.

She was nervous.

She watched Uncle Tom fistfight the two men.

He had control of the situation until the man named Nick pulled out a knife.

Iris saw Uncle Tom back up a couple of steps.

“Not so brave now, huh? Old fuck!”

He shouted and swung the knife, cutting Uncle Tom across the arm.

The other guy was very nervous.

He was hesitant about the whole thing.

“We need to stop this and focus! Let’s try to find their food and leave!”

He was shaking.

At this point, Uncle Tom was on the floor, bleeding from his forearm.

Iris made eye contact with him.

She knew exactly what she needed to do.

Deep down, Uncle Tom didn’t want her to make this decision so early.

There was no other option.

Two young men against one old man was not a fair fight.

Iris ran to her room and grabbed a piece of broken mirror she had kept under her bed.

She wrapped a piece of cloth around one end.

“Who else is here?” Nick yelled at Uncle Tom, acknowledging her presence upstairs.

“There’s nobody else here,” Uncle Tom said.

“Liar!”

Nick shouted and punched Uncle Tom in the face.

Iris hid behind her door.

Silent and still.

She could hear her heart beating while fast, heavy footsteps climbed the stairs.

“There’s nobody there!” Uncle Tom screamed.

“Shut up, old timer… you will just make it worse,” the other man said resentfully.

Nick opened the bathroom door slowly.

Nothing to find.

He walked inside Uncle Tom’s room and scanned it.

Then he decided to go to the next room.

The door was open all the way, and he walked inside without hesitation.

Checking around, he found a Bible on the edge of the window.

He grabbed it and scoffed, smiling.

All of a sudden, he turned around.

His face flattened.

He dropped the Bible.

His hands reached for his stomach.

There, he found a small pair of pale hands penetrating his belly with some sharp object.

He moaned and made eye contact with Iris.

He didn’t know what to do.

He was frozen in pain.

Iris just stared at him, disgust on her face.

His mouth quickly became tinted red with blood.

Then he fell to the floor.

Iris kept the piece of mirror in her hands, completely covered in his blood.

Uncle Tom and the other guy couldn’t ignore the hard sound of someone falling to the floor.

“Nick!?”

The other guy sounded almost like he was crying.

“Why don’t you just leave now, son…?”

Uncle Tom pleaded, some compassion in his voice.

The other guy started approaching the staircase.

He heard the delicate cracking of the steps upstairs.

When he stood in front of the stairs, he saw a twelve-year-old girl with her hands and chest covered in blood, holding a sharp piece of mirror.

He gasped and freaked out.

He started taking steps backward slowly while Iris descended one more step.

Uncle Tom saw her.

He understood.

There were no exceptions for the horrors of this world.

He sighed and looked at the man.

The man turned around, tripping over his own feet as he dragged himself out of the house.

Iris watched him run down the street.

She never saw him again.

⸻

Deep breath.

She explored her arms and legs.

Old, small scars and burn marks were almost everywhere.

“No ticks,” she thought.

She dressed and got ready for the day.

Passing by Uncle Tom’s room, she realized the snoring had stopped.

“Is it time?” she whispered to herself.

Iris decided to approach the bed quietly.

Then a big, rumbling snore sounded from his mouth.

She immediately turned around and left the house.

There was no old lady on the porch across the street.

The identity of this woman was unclear.

Iris remembered her from when she was a kid.

The only thing she knew was that Uncle Tom had told her not to speak to her.

EVER.

She shrugged and shook her backpack as if getting ready for her daily walk.

Then she left.