A World Buried By Lies

01

Apocalypse, I think as I step through the dust, scuffing the toes of my lace-up boots. The dirt is splotched red in places, black in others.

"Apocalypse," I say aloud, testing the word in my mouth, trying to comprehend it, but despite my efforts, the word still seems alien, an uncomfortable stone in my mouth.
It's a word that was used in stories told not so long ago, a word to describe what might happen when the world comes to an end. A word filled with theories and possibilities.

This didn't feel like an apocalypse. This didn't feel like the end of the world. No, this just felt like reality. But I suppose, anything that did happen would feel like reality to those experiencing it, that's what reality is... isn't it? It would never feel like a story when you're in the story.

These thoughts race through my head like they have every day for four years now, occupying my mind and distracting my senses so when a crack sounds from behind a damaged vehicle, it takes me a moment longer than it should to have my gun up and aimed at the sound, my breathing halted.

Completely still, I stay like that for a moment, poised, awaiting the reveal of the sound. It's a rabbit. When it hops swiftly from behind the crushed 1987 jeep, its nose lightly crinkles to sniff the world around it. Like me, it freezes in the presence of another living creature, slowly, its head turning to meet my gaze and its breaths quickening. The pang of sadness hits me as it always does when I see the blood, thick and black, oozing from the creature. Dripping from it's ears, leaking from it's nose, streaming from its eyes. I had lost sympathy for the infected people I kill a long time ago, but killing the animals always brought me hurt. What did they do to deserve this? If only we had lived like they had, followed their simplistic way of life, none of this would have happened.

I'm not stupid enough to use my pistol anymore and besides, I ran out of ammunition about four days back when I shot a miraculously living songbird. Slowly, I reach for one of my tiniest blades, the thin one strapped to the outer side of my boot; one of my favourites. A hunting store jackpot. I carefully take aim, pointing the handle of the knife straight at the animal's furred neck, the sharp edge carefully pinched between my fingers.

Aim.
Set.
Never flinch.
Throw.

Silently, the knife flies through the air, burrowing itself in the animal's neck. A small sound escapes the creature as a burst of opaque blood spurts from its puncture wound. A gurgle, a whine, before it topples over and falls still on the ground. I don't move for a moment, waiting to see if it's still alive, but after an endless minute and still nothing, I approach.

Its dead, that's for sure. Its body suddenly looks smaller and thinner than before, lying lifeless in a pool of its own bubbling black blood. Flashes of bad memories swarm my mind at the gruesome sight, but I swat them away like flies. You left that behind, I remind myself—as if that could do anything to block the violent images from my head—as I slowly extract the knife from the creature's neck. I'm careful as to not let the infected blood on it touch me, holding it an arm's length away from my thin, food-deprived body. Carefully, tentatively, I crouch and drag it through the dirt before slipping it back into its sheath. I note the laziness in the act. Two years ago, I would have used my gloves to pick it up, would have carried it to a water source, would have soaked it until it was spotless. Would have.

What's the point now? There's no reason to be so careful, no reason to try and stay healthy, no reason to live.

My legs wobble as I stand, giving the frail, furred body one last glance before continuing my pointless fret and thought, feel and wander. The Jeep ends up being the first of at least a hundred crushed, dented, and rusted vehicles making up an old junkyard. As I walk by, I glance into the cracked windshields of the cars and trucks. Memories live here. People used to sit in those seats and grip those steering wheels and chat with their comrades in those passenger seats. I can almost hear Mom chuckling at something while twisting the leather wheel. The squeeze in my chest is not unfamiliar to me. I may not have always been the most approachable person when humanity was still functioning, but I didn't necessarily hate people. Didn't. That changed when people broke and burned down my world, taking away my friends. My school teachers and track coaches. Mom.