Black Labyrinth

Eat S*** and Die

We sat facing one another by the picnic tables that faced the garage. The stacks of crushed cars that surrounded the property made the junkyard a perfect spot to conduct our business. To those outside of our community, this was our home. But It wasn't. It was a cover, a ruse. One that we used to protect those of us who couldn't muster what it took to get their hands dirty. To protect our innocent.

We lived in a large warehouse a few dozen blocks away from the junkyard.

There was a separation between the attitudes that existed inside the junkyard and outside of it. Like a caged beast, the junkyard represented a necessary evil. A means to an end. Or maybe it was just us and the junkyard represented nothing but stacks of cars to hide behind.

As we both sat waiting for the Southern Guards to arrive for their weekly visit, I noticed the expression on Lane's face. His eyes stared forward yet aimless, through the red spots that surrounded his irises, I could see the torture.

I found myself making a comparison in my mind between the man I saw in front of me and the beginning of this transition. A transformation most of us had ignored, or at least in some shape or form had been complicit.

We were happy at first.

This community we built together. A representation of our will to go on. We pooled our resources to survive, to build.

Before the warehouse became our home, it was a distillery.

We were fortunate enough with the people who joined us. We had carpenters and construction workers, even doctors and nurses. Together we tore down the bones of what was previously there, taking its parts and turning it into something new. Something we could call our own.

Problem was, money was limited. Outside of working for the Southerners, there wasn't much else we could do for cash. The world was over, we couldn't rely on charity to survive. And working for the South meant selling our souls.

The civilization that existed before this could not thrive in this new reality.

We opened a door that could never be closed. The weight of it all constantly pushing up against our minds. I feel it still. All it takes is a moment, a choice and you lose yourself to the madness. Or lose the will to live.

With hunger, came a disease. It spread, infecting us one by one. As the money started to run out we started learning how to scavenge and ration our food. Those of us that didn't leave to find employment with the South, starved. Eventually the old houses were either too dangerous to scavenge or had nothing left in them.

We had a name for those who stayed behind and hid away in those abandoned apartments. We called them gouls, hollow shells of their former selves. Haunting the sites of those who departed, attaching themselves to the ruins of the old world. A curse that brought a murderous rage, a twisted disposition.

We all held on, but by a very thin rope. A thin foundation made of nothing but some drywall. It was fragile and pale and couldn't resist the blows that came at it.

Do you know what desperation feels like?

It's being tossed into the ocean and sinking.

Passing by a sunken ship on your way down.

Pockets of air surrounding you as they float up.

It's looking up and seeing the light, knowing there's a surface.

You can still breathe, but through a thin straw that barely reaches the top.

It almost feels like suffocation.