Walking the Ruins

Tales told and untold

When Anna and I return to the camp after washing at the river, it's nearly dark. I light a fire using dry wood, making sure that its smoke is invisible against the evening sky. Then I share dinner with my involuntary guest.

My thoughts return to the villagers. I remember the kids I saw playing ball in the street, lost in their strangely lifeless game.

"The villagers," I ask, "why are they chipped? Why do you take away their feelings?"

"The chips don't take away their feelings," she answers, "they just make these feelings weaker. The Wiki says that the chips make it safe for people to live together, like for a long time. Without a fight, I mean. Only the government isn't chipped. Because it has to lead. It has to make the decisions. Without the chips, the people would have killed each other, or themselves, in all those years in the Reduit. You understand?"

The Reduit? It takes me a moment to remember that this is the name these people use for their bunker. 

"But," I say, "the villagers are not in your bunker, your Reduit, anymore. So why do they still have the chip?"

"President Jan says it's better that way. While the villagers have the chips, they'll share their food with us."

She's saying this as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "Do you think this is right? Using the villagers like this, I mean?"

Anna shrugs. "We help them, in turn. We treat their wounds when they get hurt. We help them when they're sick. And we keep the knowledge. The Wiki. We teach them."

"Have you ever asked them?" I make an effort to stay calm. The injustice of this system pains me. "I mean, have you asked them if they agree? Agree to being chipped?"

She pokes the fire with a twig, her gaze on its flame. "Jan says that the government has to decide these things. Only the government has the knowledge."

 Her face is once more inscrutable.

"And how many are there, in your bunker, in the Reduit?" I asked that question before, in the afternoon, and Anna did not answer it then.

"Twenty-three, I think." She's still stirring the ashes with her twig. Sparks whirl up in the draft of the heat, stirred by her efforts. Fiery motes between us.

"So few?" I have expected them to be more.

"There were more of us, until some years ago. Then there was a cave-in. Part of the Reduit collapsed. Many people were cut off. I was a baby then." She continues to stare into the flames.

"What happened?"

"They tried to dig 'em out." Her face looks somber in the light of the fire. She hits the embers with her stick, and more of the fiery motes take flight. "They were too late. The ones that were closed in... they ran out of air. They died."

She falls silent again. But then she continues. "Life became hard then, they say. Most of the plantations and animal pens were in the collapsed parts of the Reduit. They were destroyed. Or inaccessible. There was not enough food for those who survived. Jan took over at that time. He decided to send all the chipped ones outside. So they could plant crops and raise the animals.

Silently, she watches the flames for a moment longer, then she turns her gaze towards me. "Where do you come from? You and your friends, I mean."

The change of topic startles me. And I don't welcome the question. I've been afraid that she would ask this, sooner or later. I don't want to lie to her. But telling her the truth now? I feel that I am slowly winning her trust. If I tell her our story now, she won't believe me. She'll think I lie, or that I've completely lost it.

"That's a difficult question," I begin, stalling. It's my turn to stare into the fire now. "And a long story. A strange story ... a story that, sometimes, I can't believe myself. No one in his right mind would believe it." I look back at Anna. "And I think you are ... I mean, you're in your right mind. When I tell you this story, you'll believe that I'm crazy. Or ... that I'm lying."

"You know," she answers, "I don't think you're crazy. A little, maybe." I am not sure if she's joking here, her face is neutral. "Or that you are lying. You're different, though. Different from the people I know." Now she smiles.

"Thanks," I return the smile. "But my story ... I won't tell it. Not now. Maybe later." If we ever have the opportunity, I add, in my thoughts. I hope we'll have it.

She nods. "I wouldn't force you to talk ... even if I had a knife. But I would like to hear your story ... when the time is right."

I remember how I tried to threaten her with my knife in the afternoon. I hope she does not see me blushing in the light of the flames.

"Yes," I nod, "when the time is right. Then I'll tell you. And maybe you'll tell me why your president Jan's an asshole."

Anna's eyes probe the night outside. She looks tired.

"Let's sleep now," I say.

"Are we safe here?" she asks.

"I guess. Why?"

"What about the animals?" She eyes the darkness outside.

"I've spent many nights outside," I answer. "Nothing's ever happened." I guess that this is not the moment where I should tell her about my various adventures with local wildlife, such as the bears.

Later, I lie awake, in my sleeping bag. Anna slumbers in the light of the dying embers beside me, under the furs I stole from the villagers. Her slow breathing is a tale of deep sleep. I didn't have the heart to tie her for the night. I like the girl, even if she sometimes seems to think that I'm a savage.

The night through the empty doorway is dark and quiet. A few stars mark the dark sky. I listen to Anna's breathing and enjoy the companionship it implies.

Everything is so peaceful, and slowly I close my eyes.

---

When I wake up, the forest's colors outside are vibrant in the daylight. A patch of blue sky peeks through a gap in the roof. Quietly, since I don't want to wake her, I turn my head for Anna.

Her place is empty.

I get up and go outside. She has left without a trace.