From Endings to Beginnings
Sunset used to be Martin’s favorite time of day.
Martin massages his forehead while slowly working his way down the figures in the spreadsheet. The numbers are large and speak of many complex problems with his project. While his team is making considerable progress, they are still well behind their goals, and Martin sees no immediate way to make his operation more efficient or effective. Being behind doesn’t bother Martin. Early in his engineering career, he learned how easy it is to go from on-time and under-budget to over-runs and years behind schedule. What is daunting is the last analysis by the statisticians. If their numbers are correct, it might possibly take the better part of a century to bring the situation under complete control. Faced with the projection of his team completing their work in 64.5 years, Martin’s head throbs.
He drops his pencil and pushes himself back from his desk. A single task light hangs by chains from the ceiling, centered neatly between two small skylights reinforced with security bars. His desk is an institutional green door balanced on a pair of sawhorses and adorned with a solar calculator, a frozen orange juice container full of pens and chewed pencils, and an unruly stack of papers. The shipping container serves as both his home and office.
On one wall, an old Coors poster of scantily clad models smiling dazzlingly at Martin from a world that no longer exists. On the other, beige paint covered haphazardly with graffiti. Martin spends the moments before he falls asleep reading the various scrawls and scratchings. Bible verses, truck stop bathroom wisdom, prayers, and the occasional cartoon face or lewd drawing spread like cancer across the metal. But, Martin always focuses on the names. Names and sometimes dates of those who sought shelter and safety in this tiny metal space. Martin has no way of knowing whether any of those names are alive or among the infected; he knows only that they were here and existed.
A dirty mattress with Scooby-Doo sheets, set on a scavenged slab of plywood perched on cinder blocks, is pushed against the far end of the container. Next to the bed, a plastic milk crate holds all of Martin’s few possessions, a gold locket on a tangled chain, an iPod, toothbrush, compass, canteen, a pistol with two spare clips, and a handful of shotgun shells. On the other side of the bed, three old car batteries connected to solar cells on the container’s roof provide the electricity Martin uses. The front door of the container swings on two large hinges allowing Martin to open the front of his house when the weather is nice. It also allows him to safely seal his domicile. He traded a deck of cards and two paperbacks for a set of Christmas lights and strung those around the container’s ceiling. In addition to adding color, the LEDs allow Martin to sleep while maintaining enough light to see if he is awakened. He doesn’t trust anything that goes bump in the night.
Running his fingers through his receding brown hair, Martin tries to focus. He would give anything for some Tylenol, but pain relievers are only available to the injured and the sick. So, for a run-of-the-mill headache, Martin is on his own. As is his habit, he checks to make sure his front door is latched, lays his shotgun next to the bed, and takes off his boots. It is a little chilly, so Martin unfolds the heavy green curtains that serve as a quilt and settles in for the night. He pulls the switch string, and the work light winks out, leaving only the dim, multicolored spheres. Mercifully, the pain of the headache erases any opportunities for nightmares, and Martin sleeps.
Just before dawn, Martin wakes and pulls on a sweater and his well-worn blue plastic windbreaker. Stuffing his pockets with his personal items, he snatches a ratty hand towel hanging from a small screw and opens the speak-easy hatch on the door. Satisfied that all is well, Martin unlocks his house, descends the ladders to street level, and steps out into the pre-dawn darkness heading for the brightly lit latrines.
As Martin crosses the compound, he grouses at himself for being so paranoid. The colony’s permanent perimeter is now some 100 miles across. Though he currently resides with his team over a half-mile inside the safe area, old habits die hard. Martin is unable to give up his daily practice of checking the surroundings and walking around fully armed. The gravel road to the latrines runs between walls of containers stacked three high on either side. The bottom rows of containers are used for storage, and each subsequent row is set back a few feet to create a landing. A rain barrel stands on each platform, and the topmost containers have solar panels.
From above, the complex looks like a bizarre Aztec pyramid. It cost the colony a great deal of diesel fuel to build, but it is safe, effective, and efficient housing. Martin’s sector of the colony is jokingly called Frontierland as it is the closest point to the expansion zone and the first point of entry. His team and others in the district still live a camp-style existence with central latrines, shared dining facilities, and regular armed patrols. Colonists living inside the hard perimeter have resumed more traditional living arrangements. In the Core, kids can play in the parks, markets provide access to the colony’s fresh produce, and small shops sell both scavenged and newly-produced goods. Several schools and a hospital have been established. Surprisingly, an arts building has been constructed and become very popular. Plays, dance, music, poetry, sculpture, and painting have gained a new significance in the post-apocalyptic world.
Martin nods to the two guards performing the policeman’s saunter patrolling the nearly deserted street. He ducks into the latrine, greeting the regular early birds, goes directly to the trough and relieves himself before moving to the plastic tubs serving as sinks. Shaving is done on hot water days, so Martin contents himself with washing his face and hands. He pulls his worn toothbrush with its splayed bristles out of his pocket and brushes his teeth, imagining that he can taste the tiniest hint of mint. It has been more than a year since he has used actual toothpaste. Martin spits, wipes his face, and wraps the wet toothbrush in his towel, and stuffs both items in the inner pocket of his windbreaker. Feeling refreshed, he wanders towards the Zombie Cafe to get some breakfast.
The mess tent is long and white, with vinyl drop sides and arch-shaped plastic windows. This was a fancy catering tent used by the wealthy to hold garden parties and formal outdoor events but now it contains crudely constructed picnic tables, and a cacophony of mismatched seating spread haphazardly around the interior. A buffet is arranged along one wall. A gap in another wall serves as a door leading to the containers used as kitchens. The time between moves is steadily increasing, so the quality of the food in the mess is growing increasingly more robust. Carts from the main colony bring fresh vegetables, scavenging crews drop-off canned and other goods, and rolling chicken coops supply fresh eggs and chicken meat. On special occasions, there is sugar though Martin has by necessity finally beaten his sweet tooth and can now only tolerate the most minuscule amounts.
Other than a thermos of lukewarm “coffee” and a basket of oranges, the buffet is empty. Broad daylight is the best and safest time to work, so the mess tent will not start serving breakfast until well after sunrise. Martin selects an orange and pumps coffee into his favorite oversized mug, the one that proclaims, “you don’t have to be crazy to work here, but it helps!” While not technically his mug, there is almost no one else around at this time of the morning, so he seldom needs to choose another. He takes a seat by one of the tent poles, leaning back in a white plastic lawn chair peeling his orange. Martin gently tosses the pieces of the peel on the table, pulls the orange into sections, and then grabs a quick swig of what is obviously ancient coffee. He shakes his head resignedly and then pops an orange slice into his mouth to rid it of the foul coffee taste.
Rummaging in his jacket pocket, Martin fishes out the gold locket and absently mindedly begins twisting the chain between his thumb and forefinger, making the heart-shaped locket spin back and forth. There was a time when his morning routine would have consisted of a workout, shower, and a hurried breakfast while reading the newspaper and scanning emails before shooting off to the job site. Days were a blur of mostly purposeless activity in service of achieving.
Sunset used to be Martin’s favorite time of day. The time when he would review his daily accomplishments and congratulate or castigate himself as he toasted the end of another day. He lost his affection for it during the pandemic as sunset signaled the start of long nights of fear and angst, the time when hopelessness set in and despair ran rampant. Sunrises became his reward for surviving the darkness, for persevering. The obliteration of his old life forced Martin to shift his focus from endings to beginnings.
His mornings are more monastic these days. He sits quietly, feeling the miniature chain links traveling the length of his index finger as he patiently waits to catch the first rays of the sun. The chain has become a rosary of sorts, calming and focusing his mind, reminding him to be hopeful. Those first rays of light chase away the demons in his head and subdue the ones that now walk the earth. Martin and his team will use the daylight to their advantage, herding the slow-moving undead together like cattle and driving them over the edge of the quarry, protecting the colony and ending the suffering of the infected.
This story was originally published in Vocal as part of a short story contest.
