Elvadar



"It sucks being alone."

I never thought I'd ever utter those words. Much less to a small, derelict tortoiseshell kitten playing with the drawstrings of my sweatshirt.

I suppose I do enjoy her company, she has never judged me. Or at least, if she had it's a good thing I am not fluent in kittenese.

I call her Mayflower. Because of all the unwelcomed pests she brings me.

Fleas. Ticks. The occasional hairball.

But what can you expect in an apocalyptic world? It's not like there's an open Petsmart around. I can't just buy flea and tick medication. And there is no cure for hairballs, just my luck. You know I always thought when the apocalypse happened it would be cats ruling the world. Guess Mayflower kinda rules mine. That's alright. I don't mind being a slave to adorableness.

I say "apocalyptic" and you may think I mean something out of a movie. Destroyed, ravaged cities--perhaps overrun by zombies? Pollution and waste everywhere--remains of a society that poisoned their world for greed and profit? War-torn landscapes scorched by nuclear bombs?

No. Everyone up and vanished--and we don't know why.

And by "we" I mean Mayflower and myself. It's not like there's a ton of other people around. For all, I know the mystery has been solved. A significant part of me doubts that though.

As I said, I'm alone and it sucks.

My name is Elieva--which means "Olive" in some old, dead language. Now why my parents couldn't give me a NORMAL name, like--gee, I dunno--OLIVE is beyond me. They just had to be unique, I guess. Know what made it worse? Growing up with a unique name? Middle school. Middle school made it worse.

Kids thought my name sounded like one of the dozens of meds you hear about from commercials.

"Ask your doctor about Elieva"

"Stop taking Elieva and consult your doctor if you have suicidal thoughts or actions."

"Elieva may cause bloating, fatigue, dizziness, or DEATH."

They weren't wrong, but it still got on my last nerve. Hey, they are all gone now and I'm still here so I guess I get the last laugh.

Yay...

Unless maybe the people in my town didn't disappear. Maybe I disappeared and I'm the one who has gone missing and don't even know it--

No, it's too early in the morning for an existential crisis. I'll save that for after lunch.

After people started disappearing, nature began reclaiming itself and it's quite a sight to behold. Like it just quietly started to move into suburbs and then into the innermost part of cities, grass pokes through the sidewalks and water aids in eroding away anything man-made. Although large buildings still stand; ivy now creeping up the sides, taking advantage of the building's height and support. Cars were left to rust where their occupants left them. Automatic streetlights that run on solar power still come on every night but I have to admit, it's creepy being in the city after dark. Coyotes and feral dogs prowl everywhere, and raccoons dig through garbage. Looking for anything edible.

That's where I look for food, I'll admit. Few weeks ago, I dove into a dumpster looking for scraps and came out with a ball of mangled fur. That was Mayflower of course.

I've been on my own for nearly 3 years--since I was twelve. There's no dramatic story here about how I ended up alone: my parent's vanished. And so did the rest of the people in my town.

But that's how it happens. Sometimes only one or two people go missing at opposite ends of the world at a time. Sometimes there would be weeks or months between missings. Then all of a sudden whole families disappear--then towns--soon even the largest of cities turn up empty when the day before, there were millions. It has been going on like this for over a decade. I have no way of knowing how many humans are left.

They stopped reporting that news around three years ago. Maybe because the reality was too grim. Or maybe because all the news anchors went missing as well--I don't really know. Every time I turn on a TV or radio now, it's just static. I remember the last airing of my local news on the numbers before everyone in my town went missing, the estimate was 4o or 50 million left worldwide. But that number could be much lower now. A lot can happen in three years.

The world has grown rather quiet. I never thought I'd miss noise so much.

"You're such a pest," I tell Mayflower as she playfully ranks her tiny claws into my hand. I tuck her into my pocket and start out heading towards Detroit. I have to walk everywhere since I never learned how to drive and most cars have been abandoned so long that they won't start up anyways. All that walking has made my legs strong, but my feet perpetually calloused. I never stray too far from Detroit, though, and I've never been out of state. I've gone as far South as the Toledo Border and as far North as Midland.

I sometimes encounter other people and usually, I steer clear. Many have been driven into insanity (understandable given the situation) and you never know what their intentions could be. I once let my guard down and shared water with a wanderer. It was out of pity and it was stupid. He pulled out a pocket knife and sliced across my face; took the rest of my supplies and fled too. Leaving me with a scar that serves as a permanent reminder to never trust anyone.

I don't always listen to that reminder...

...

I'm no good with directions. You'd think after 3 years of being on my own that I'd attain that skill.

Nope.

I'm ok once I get into the city or on a main stretch of highway, but out in the country, I'm totally lost. Everything looks the same. Just barren grassy fields, the occasional patch of woods, and farmhouses that have grown decrepit in the years their occupants have vanished.

I constantly leave markers to help navigate. Usually, flags of brightly colored cloth tied around trees or telephone poles.

I already had to turn back twice and retrace my steps, Mayflower not making it any easier as she tosses and flails in my pocket.

Everything all looks the same out here. And I hate it.

I finally got back on the right trail. One of these days I hope to find a compass or map on one of my trips.

I don't make my home in the city itself--despite the convenience of it. For the simple reality that that's where all the dangerous people are. I'm sure most of them were nice people before all this began. But now they have been driven into madness. Sometimes I wonder when I'll succumb to the hysteria.

They claimed Detroit as their domain. There are very few of them--very few of anyone around anyways--but they will kill you over a bottle of water or scrap of food and I am not exaggerating. I spend as little time as possible in the city. My mission today is to stock up on new clothes. I already wore through the pair of shoes I scored down in Ann Arbor. And my shirt has holes in it. With winter coming soon I need a new jacket as well. Nights have been getting longer and colder. Although I'm not holding out for a new blanket.

I know where a few of the regular characters bunk down. Their range is usually a few blocks in radius. One old guy patrols his territory constantly from sun up to sun down. He wields a machete and a nasty toothless snarl.

Another one--a woman old enough to be my mom--will verbally threaten from afar but she is mostly harmless. Except for the Smith & Wesson she conceals in her bathrobe, I've only seen it once. When her and another guy--whom would be the equivalent of the neighborhood drunk--were fighting over who owned the firehouse.

Then there's the neighborhood drunk... his name is Scooter and I only know that because he talks to himself frequently in the 3rd person. He usually has a bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand and a grenade in the other. I don't know whether the grenade is real or fake. I stay far away from him just in case it's the former.

I'm fairly certain that I know everyone who frequents the streets of Detroit. But I've never seen anyone with bright purple hair. That would have stood out in my memory.

But there they are, perhaps a couple yards from me. They're wearing an all-black one-piece outfit, with bright yellow, purple, and green stars stitched up the sides. I can't tell immediately if they are a girl or a boy. And that intrigues me further.

I forget about the scar on my face. I'm drawn to them, for some reason. And I can't stop my feet from inching closer to this stranger.

They're tall, perhaps 5'8 or 5'9. Their hair is longer on the left side than the right--where it's partially shaved, with bangs draped over, slightly obscuring their face. They are somehow, almost impossibly and perfectly androgynous.

I crouch down behind a newspaper dispenser, to observe from afar.

They are staring, quite intently, at an old mural painted on one of the brick buildings. As if they are at some grand art gallery--there is one in Detroit, in fact, but it was vandalized many years ago.

Yes. People graffitied penises everywhere. What a shocker. Mankind continues to astound me.

They continue to marvel at the mural. A painting by an unknown, unsigned but quite good in my opinion, depicting a man fixing a muscle car. Fitting for a city where the auto industry thrived.

Murals like this one are the only tell-tale sign of the city's history.

The mystery person abruptly turns in my direction. They know I'm watching...

What should I do?

Introduce myself?

Run away?

Stay paralyzed on the spot, staring like a total idiot?

Bingo we got a winner...

They turn a half circle to face me. Head tilted slightly, very curious. It sends shivers up my spine.

I just can't move. I'm too intrigued by this person. Or perhaps I am afraid and my body refuses to function. I can't tell for sure.

"Have you seen this art?" They ask me, smiling, "it is? Magnificent. Truly." They speak with an intense enthusiasm-- their eyes twinkling with… optimism? As if nothing is wrong with the world?

Their eyes hold a whole universe inside of them, a vortex of electric blue on the outer iris and soft, topaz dancing in the center.

"You're a new face," I say.

Man... that sounded so rude! Why did I say that? Why...

The stranger smiles, not seeming to have taken offense to my rather blunt statement.

"I am Star," they turn back to admire the street art, "strange culture here. Beautiful. But it is strange. You are a native here, aren't you? What is your name, may I ask?"

"My name? It's Eleiva," I say, pausing for a moment. "are you a wanderer?"

"Yes--of sorts. More accurately I am a Nomad."

"Then, I have never seen you around before," I step out from behind the newspaper dispenser, I don't think this person is a threat. But my intuition has never been spot on. My hand brushes up against my scar and I'm once again reminded what can happen if I don't exercise caution.

"No, no, I am just passing through," Star laughs, "I am Nomadic after all. Never staying for very long in any one place."

I can't help but stare at them. They're just so... odd? Or maybe, I'm the odd one. I haven't really been around another person--and a friendly one at that--in three years so maybe to them, I am the odd one? Nevermind that I still have yet to figure out their gender. I'm afraid of offending them by asking. So I guess neutrality it is.

"-troubling times," They huff a soft sigh and turn away, "so much loss. So much mystery..."

I've stayed too long, It will be dark by the time I get back home at this rate. Mayflower has become unrested in my sweatshirt pocket. She wriggles and flails and I can't keep her contained for much longer, I know. And I absolutely need to get supplies which was the whole point of going into Detroit.

"I have to go--" I start to say, when a commotion across the street catches both of our attentions.

It's Scooter. He's brawling with the toothless old man. Sunlight reflects off the machete as it slashes through the air. Never quite hitting its intended target.

The middle-aged woman also gets involved, she runs at them screaming "you damn fools!" and firing warning shots into the air. Even from across the street, the pop of the gun is deafening and gut-wrenching.

I turn back to Star, to tell them to run or get out of here or something. Only Star has already disappeared and I was too entranced in the conflict across the street to notice.

Then I hear the clang of metal against asphalt and I know, instantly, what it is. My intuition may not always be spot on, but I know from the feeling in the bottom of my stomach--that grave sort of feeling you get whenever you just know something bad is about to happen.

I tuck down, shielding the squirming bundle in my pocket as best I can. I can't move out of the way fast enough.

It was a real grenade after all.