When the World Ends

The River

She can't swim.

We stand at a river, watching the water rushing in front of us, and we need to cross it. But she can't swim.

She says it's not like it matters anymore, anyways. The water may be contaminated from the rain, and then we'd just die instead of drown.

I tell her, Thanks for looking at the bright side of things, Robin.

She laughs before asking, Well, how do we cross it, then? Do you think there's a bridge further down?

I shake my head: No, the earthquakes would've brought it down, if there was.

Maybe not this far south, though, she argues. Maybe there's still one standing. Isn't it our only choice, anyways?

I look at the ground, which is covered in gray, but not as much gray as elsewhere. The river must wash away the ash, I think.

I turn back to her and answer with, I guess you're right.
So we set off down the river, traveling against the flow and hoping to find a way across.

The dangerous part of rivers is that others use them as navigation as well. They're also seen as "watering holes", and those who travel them become prey for those who have lost their humanity.

There are no trees by this river; they're all dead. I see that she was right about it probably being contaminated, and am unnerved by the lack of cover. We're out in the open; we're sitting ducks.

She does not seem afraid, though. She talks to me nonstop, as if realizing my anxiousness and trying to comfort me with words. I appreciate this, and listen to her stories while staying on the lookout for threats. Every once in awhile, I'll ask her a question, to let her know I'm still paying attention. I don't want her to stop. 

That is, until I hear the snap of a twig. She must have heard it, too, because she immediately stops talking. 

Twigs, sticks, and fallen branches have their own little graveyard in this cove of dead trees. It is nearly impossible to walk through the tree area, and then to the river, without stepping on a single one.

Since there was only a single snap, that means that whatever--or whoever, more likely--is there, was trying very hard to sneak up on us. 

However, with there being no coverage here, I can immediately turn towards the sound and locate its cause. And I'm immediately taken aback by what I see.

   Next to a dead tree stands a man, and beside him--the cause of my surprise--are a boy and a dog. She lights up at the sight of the animal--it's been so long since we'd seen a domestic animal. Nearly all dogs and cats are now either feral, or--sadly--food.

   The man is standing stock still, his hand clutching the boy's shoulder so tightly that his knuckles have turned white. When he sees Robin's excitement at seeing the dog, his worry seems to lessen.

   The man and I have an awkward stare-down moment before she asks, Can I pet it?

   The man blinks in surprise.  He looks at the boy, who nods, and replies, Sure. Go ahead, her name's Princess.

   She squeals in excitement and runs up to the dog, who wags her tail. The dog is a German shepherd, with fur that has remained fluffy probably due to the brushing of its owners. I wonder how they found the time and resources to take such good care of Princess.

   As Robin talks to the boy about the dog--both of them petting on and doting over Princess--the man and I talk. He tells me that he tried to approach us quietly to make sure we were alone--he didn't see us as threats, because he still considers us kids. 

   I think to myself that we'd lost the ability to 'just be kids' awhile back, but I don't say anything. The man eventually cuts to the chase--he wants to know if we have any spare supplies. I tell him that we have dog food, as last-resort food, and that I'll gladly give it to him. However, I tell him that I'll have to talk to Robin about any other supplies. He says that that's okay, and I see the surprise and joy in his eyes. I wonder how many others had refused to share with this man, his boy, and his dog.

   I call her over, and she tells the boy good-bye before coming to sit beside me. I explain the situation, and we end up giving the man several bottles of water, a bowl, and several cans of food. He thanks us nonstop, tears in his eyes, and asks if he can do anything in return.
   Can you tell us how to get across the river? she asks before I can speak.

   The man looks confused for a moment, and then he bursts out laughing. He tells us he'll show us to the bridge he was heading to; he was informed awhile back that the bridge in the nearby town still stood.

   She gives me a triumphant look, and we follow the man, his boy, and the dog. We remain with them until after we've crossed the bridge, where we finally split up. He thanks us again, and the boy gives her one final gift: a yoyo.

   The one small item gave her so much joy.

   Now, I think back upon the river, and I smile at the realization of the good she's done. And I realize that it was not just always her, but us, together, that did good.

   The river was where I realized the better person she had made me become.