"The world ended with a bright white flash. Everything fell silent, no engines, no singing birds and no muttering. Then, the screams erupted."
It has been years since the earth burned to ashes and humanity fled into the last place inhabitable: The S...
The world ended with a bright white flash. Everything fell silent, no engines, no singing birds and no muttering. Then, the screams erupted.
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My mother used to tell me about the surface. About how life was before the bombs, how it was before everything burned down. It has been years since she saw all of this herself but she told me these stories as if she had seen it just yesterday.
"You should have seen the towers Clem. They were tall, taller than any roof of the metro. Some of their tips weren't even visible. Sometimes they pierced the sky and disappeared in the clouds. The Empire State building was so tall you had to stand in the elevator for a whole minute, not just a few seconds. And at the top you could see the whole city beneath your feet."
I don't remember the surface. In fact, I can't even remember it. I mean that I am not able to do so, it's impossible. I was an infant when everything happened. The Russians and the Americans don't seem to have been very friendly to each other in the past. After the president declared war on the Russian government, they sent all they had. They nuked the living hell out of us. And so did we.
Humanity eradicated itself. After New York got hit, all the world started to go crazy. War broke out everywhere. It was everyone against anyone. And we, the common people, suffered the consequences.
Mum used to tell me how it happened. How we were picnicking in the Central Park. Just me, her and dad. She told me that I was happy all the time, even when the sirens came on. Even though everyone screamed and ran to seek shelter, I squealed in delight. I thought it was all a game, thought it was funny. But in reality, these were the last rattling breaths of society like it used to be. Now, there is no society. Everyone is an enemy, the people you meet, the air you breathe, the food you eat. Everything will kill you eventually. The chaos from the nuking remained, living is as unstructured as our retreat was.
My parents did the only reasonable thing there was: They hid in the metro. Since the war seemed really likely for the old government back then, they made a shelter out of the subway systems. Every station got hermetic doors that could seal off survivors from the blast wave and the deadly radiation. Secret stashes of supplies were hidden, weapons, food, protective gear. We found them bit for bit
"The world ended with a bright white flash. Everything fell silent, no engines, no singing birds and no muttering. Then, the screams erupted," mom told me about her last glance of the surface.
She told me about the big orange cloud that appeared out of nowhere, an unstoppable destructive force, ripping apart anything it found. Stone, metal, wood, flesh, the thing didn't care. The only thing that withstood it were the hermetic doors, the doors of our tomb, enclosing us inside the guts of the earth forever. And this tomb took many lives. It ended the stories I heard; it ended the only persons I had left.
Mum is dead. She died when I was ten. Ripped apart by the monstrosities the radiation produced. Years of genetic alteration changed the animals up there. I can assure you, there's no pigeons or even roaches that look like they used to. And dad. I don't know where he is, who he is and why he disappeared. He was there when mum died, he was in the same overrun station. But they never found his body. Nothing remained of him, no flesh, no bones, nothing. As if he had been reduced to smoke. Whether he died or not, no one can tell. But this fact isn't the worst.
The worst thing is that I can't remember his face. I can't remember how he smiled at me when I brought him a picture I painted. I don't remember his voice. I can't recall the way his dark forehead wrinkled when he rebuked me for something. He is like a phantom, invisible but still there. It's like you are grasping for a word and it lies on the tip of your tongue but you can't get it out.
It has been eight years since this happened. But I still see them. My father, kneeling there with the mutilated body of my mother in his arms, yelling at me to run. I did as he wished. I survived while they didn't. But the tears I shed all dried out eventually. This man found and took care of me. His name was Kenny. Still is in fact. He protected me, built me a new life, one that was nothing like the one before.
My name is Clementine Everett, and this is my story.
