Surface
The smoke of holocaust hangs in the air. Miles and miles of concrete urban quasi-crematoriums dot the ruins of humanity’s achievements, and the remnants of our once mighty race have become so very few.
We don’t live here anymore. On the surface, or even in the subterranean caverns we etched out, we don’t live. When I crawl out of the service hatch, in my bundle of rusted AstroTurf plates, their eyes stare at me. I walk across their ashes, and they scorn me. The minutiae of what they used to be is now stuck to the bottom of my work boots like dried gum. Others might mourn this notion; I don’t know if I can feel the same any longer.
The wind is strong, pushing its knots against the structures of the past with caustic anger, but, for whatever reason, their ashen statues never succumb to the push of God. No, they stay behind, even as every day a new tower falls into rubble. They stay behind to mock me with their eyes. They laugh every time I arrive to collect what the others want, they cackle with lunacy. It’s inaudible, but you couldn’t ever mistake what they were saying between the laughs— “You’re not dead, and I am.” It isn’t fair.
I wish to ascend, to meet the lord, to feel his loving, fatherly embrace. I don’t want to stay any longer on this burnt sapling. But I must be careful where I think these thoughts. Below, at home the Caretaker might hear them. He uses his man machine to pluck our thought waves from the air, to police us. It isn’t couth to want to die. So, I can only relieve myself of the burden of non-thought once I am above ground. But the surface world is by no means a release—Their glares make sure of that.
I know who killed them. They didn’t know it when it happened, but they were the lucky ones. Atomic fire is preferable to the alternative. The Messiah tells us stories through the tube all night long, stories of who they are: The Translators. He recounts how they twist and mangle our bodies to make something new. They tear us open and play around with what’s inside, adding and removing what they wish, just to sew us back down the middle like teddy bears. He says They like to use our organs for sex, that it’s their sinful, awful way of pleasure.
I see the pictures he shows us—a white haired man. The caption tells me his name is Harold, and he is always shown to us, every night. Harold has no genitalia, no eyelids, and he’s seeping at the periphery of his surgery scars. Scabs from manic gnawing and clawing criss cross his skin. I don’t wish to be like Harold. So I obey the Allfather, the Messiah, and the Caretaker. I obey them to avoid the Translators. Even then, obedience doesn’t convey trust.
Thoughts come in every so often, ones that talk to me. They talk about a black room, somewhere, with spit shined walls, gleaming so finely. I hear music; Piano. I never know what it’s called, but it stirs me in my chest, in the place where I think they used to say love resided. Is that what Love feels like, then? I should very much like to go there now. So dark. So clean. No rust. No pain. I’d like to go there, yes. The ash ones aren’t there. Staring on, moaning in my ears, dripping away slowly. I hate them. Hate them. Gouge their eyes out. There isn’t any Messiah, Allfather, or Caretaker. No Translators floating behind the cracked towers to peel my skin. No one. Only the piano. It plays itself.
It’s almost time for me to go back, now. The surface has been picked dry today, picked dry of what my people want. I must go back to my little box in the ground, to stay safe from the winds. They’re picking up, whistling through the cracks and creaks, and Messiah says when the wind comes—The Translators come. I’ll sing a ditty while I travel back. My mother taught it to me. Or, who I think was my mother. She had hair like a mother ought to. It was sunflower gold, and when it brushed my nose I smelled joy. Her voice was silk, so I decide it’s the one I’ll hear in my head as I sing:
Fall away
Little baby boy
Fall into sleep
And we’ll see each other again
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
Tomorrow...
