Armageddon
Dark sinister clouds loom over what once felt like a refuge from the daily schemes of the busy ‘keep up with the Jones or do better than the Jones’ world. Now in her late thirties, her facial wrinkles are deep and devoid of moisture. This gives her the appearance of an ailing seventy-year old. Her body stiffens with fear and her breathing stops short of that silence that comes just before death. Slow shallow breaths escape as she listens for contradictory noises. A shallow whisper escapes her lips, “Please God, keep my children safe.”
In the days before Armageddon, laughter was free flowing and happiness was not an illusion. She believed life would never end. Twinges of inner joy are long forgotten: fear is another matter. It is one thing to be anxious about possible terrorist attacks from other countries and another to agonize over the state of affairs in her country. The pit of betrayal throbs deep in her stomach and she clambers out of bed towards the bathroom. She lets out a quiet curse of despair because now it will take more water to clean the vomit than if she made it to the toilette. The current regime decided it was not enough to measure the water used in each family unit, they now require locks on every meter so no one can change the measuring device. That decision was enforced immediately after three workers were shot to death after altering one family’s water meter. It didn’t matter to the regime that the family was almost being eaten alive by hobo spiders that hitched rides into the city with imported fruit for the wealthy business owners. The family is dead now. The children died from infections that occurred from scratching bite infested skin. After the last child slipped into total darkness, the parents opted for suicide. What did anyone expect when there is no water for proper cleansing? Pharmaceutical companies were banned a long time ago. The regime thought it better that the poor and sick died off quickly so not to waste the world water and food supply.
It’s been days since she ate anything. She taught her mind and body not to eat unless there was enough food for all the children. Now that welfare services are completely archaic and all community services stopped more people seize territorial possession over sections of neighborhoods. Each sector is run by the most dominant and tenacious self-elected controller. Patrols pace each alley within the sectors protecting the large green rusted garbage bins that offer little sustenance. The rich feast on provisions from workers sweat and then have them discard the mixed remains amongst the bins, how much will the rich and powerful acquire before they feel any twinge of compassion? They all feast in merriment while the rest starve. Perhaps their conflict is not a moral one.
Children are confiscated as thought they are pieces of farm equipment. They work and die on the farms. The children work fourteen hour days and produce more and more for the wealthy, and still, it is not enough.
The intense heat causes her to heave again as her mind plays with her scent processes and she inhales the disgusting odor of the garbage bins. A wave of franticness hits her and her stomach feels like it’s invaded by a storm of river moths. Tonight they make their move.
The once blue towel is coated with vomit. The stench almost causes her to heave again. She knows she must find more food soon or she will not survive. Tiny little hands wrap around her neck form behind. “Mommy, I’m hungry,” wines the shallow little voice. The little girls champaign colored hair boasts a million curls that used to dance in the sunlight. Limp and mangled curls desperately require a shampoo and a sharp pair of scissors. She looks into her daughter’s face and thinks her profuse blue eyes are far too large for their sallow countenance. “Me too, Mommy,” vibrates another fragile voice above once thundering footsteps now drained of energy. The two miniature angels squiggle free of her arms because food is much more important to them at the moment and angels do not like to be hugged any longer than necessary. They scramble to the table and ask again, “When is Cooshie coming home?” “Soon, babies, soon.” Cooshie was the white stray cat that found its way to their apartment a year ago. There was still some welfare then so they fed the cat and the cat stayed. She will never be able to tell them the truth about Cooshie. A tear falls from her eye as she pulls the last of the dry noodles out of the cupboard. She pours them into the last of the now boiling water on the stove.
“Please, can we have cheese with them this time?” they sigh hoping the answer will be different this time. Silence falls over them as they start shoveling spoonfuls of the over cooked noodles into their little mouths. She watches her starving little chickadees as she drinks the leftover starch water. Nothing is wasted and this will help give her strength to make it through the night.
The rest of the day passes much like any of the other days in the last six months. The children play awhile, ask for food, then re-direct their attention back to playing or take a nap rather than hoping a meal will come soon.
Perpetual gloom falls over the tenement as the room slowly fills with darkness. It is time to wake the children.
She nudges them quietly as she whispers their names. Their sleepy eyes open and they remain quiet just as she taught them. Quickly she dresses them and just as she ties their shoes, she hears the almost silent knock at the door. They walk quietly to the door where a brawny man with a huge smile lifts the small boy into his bulky arms. They all pass silently under sharp slit eyes that pierce the darkness. Those lurking in the shadows of doorways know they are trying to escape the city. Those over thirty-five are useless to the avaricious gluttons and are shot when sighted. She has no concerns about her own life.
Rats gnaw at corpses wrapped in plastic along the pathetic tenaments. The repugnant odor and nauseating fumes of rotting corpses entice the plump rats to come and thrive on human remains. Thousands of rats procreate in the dank underground and chew through cables causing fires where there is still little electricity. Food supplies that are stored in the underground tunnels by vigilantes are quickly eaten or contaminated by the rats unless it is stored in heavy glass. Diseases like dysentery run rampant in the tenements and all outside water is polluted. Bodies are wrapped in plastic and discarded in lane ways. Body trucks do not come often enough to collect the carcasses. On a sweltering day like today, bodies decompose quickly. The stench of death permeates her nostrils. Quickly she swallows the acid that flows upward into her throat.
An abrupt, crushing pain plunges into her back. Gunshots deafen her as she plummets towards the ground. Suddenly, everything moves forward in slow motion, like a feather descending on a soft wind. She lands with a bounce on the merciless laneway. A warm wet sensation flows underneath her as she struggles for a breath of air. Shadows move around her as she forces her eyes back into focus.
Forceful hands seize her bewildered children and heave them heartlessly into the back of a large rusty flatbed truck that asserts its malicious intentions by the dreadful wooden cage it transports. Her eyes embrace her children’s distressed teary eyes as they gaze intently through patchwork wood. Her body fails to move. With determination she commands her spirit to hold her babies in her arms one last time as her vision dims with the blanket of death. As she loses her battle with this unforgiving world, a final appeal scarcely slips through her parched lips, “Please God, keep my children safe.”
Written by: Beverley ©
