So that was my story.
I will now wrap up these memories and put them inside a bottle. I will then close the bottle tightly, lay it on the water, and let destiny take its course.
If you are reading these pages now, it means I'm not totally forgotten. And neither is Bobbie, Noona, Grog, and the others of our brave group of hopefuls.
If you're reading this, it also means there are people still living somewhere, and the planet is not completely destroyed.
I'm an old man now, about 100 years old, or maybe 50, or 60, I don't know. I'm alone in this little island that's all but sunk now. The last of the coconut trees are already vanished. Only the highest of the cliffs is above water, and I'm sitting on it. I have no boat and no-one's coming for me. They're all gone now, Dot and Bobbie included.
Damn that Bobbie. Went and died before me, a few months, maybe a year ago. I gave him a proper sea burial, Puff Daddy's song and all. Bobbie was not only my best friend, he was also my brother. My big brother. Robert von Beauregard.
Dot was tough and lived surprisingly long. It was chewy and tasted bad, but kept me alive for another week or two. So that goddamn dog-cat thing was good for something after all.
I lived to tell these stories, but my time is up now.
Thank you my dear reader, goodbye, and good luck.
Yours truly,
Maximillian von Beauregard
P.S. Send pineapple :)
YOU ARE READING
The Drowned and the Living
FantasyThe world is flooded. Only somewhere at the highest areas are there safe places for people. They used to be mountain tops, but we call them islands now. Some of them are sanctuaries, some are deadly battlefields. Mixed group of people, mutants, and...
