This year’s winter is even hotter than the last. The cherry trees have limbs that reach out across the streets like skeletons, and their blooms have spewed everywhere; some of it is rotting brown in the gutters. In another world, another era, this would’ve been beautiful. But between the sheet-white skies, the fog that hangs above the ground like a curtain, and the crumbling, crumbling wasteland, there’s nothing left to admire.

A girl steps over a fallen log, snapped clean in half by its own rotted base. Behind her, an apparition—no, its hooves leave prints in the debris, so it is very much real—hobbles along. Its body is large, but malnourished. The first three rows of its ribs protrude through its chest like a tightly wrapped drum. But what’s curious is its head: it appears to be of a ram, but both horns have spiralled into its eyes, leaving it blind. Despite this, it still wanders along the streets with all the dexterity of an abled-man, if not better. Whenever the girl stops, the ram-demon stops. Whenever the girl bends to search the ground, the ram-demon acknowledges her.

Finally, the girl—with petal mush tucked between her nails like dirt—shoots back up and holds something towards the sky like a supplicant. A low hum, then a growl, emanates from the ram.

“What is that?” it asks. “What did you stop us for?”

“Bottle cap,” she answers. Between her fingers is a blood-red cola cap, ridged at the sides and dull from rust. When the ram doesn’t respond, she repeats: “Bottle cap.”

A pause. Then it says, “I have seen many, many more as we passed through the city. Why did you choose to pick this one?”

“What?” The girl stands there, slack-jawed. “You saw more? Why didn’t you point them out?”

“I thought you saw them as well.”

“No, argh!” She shoves the cap into her knapsack. “If you see them, point them out. We could use ‘em.”

“For what, might I ask?”

The girl falls as silent as snow. “For trading. If we see anyone. They might want bottle-caps.”

“Why would they want bottle-caps?”

She kicks at a pebble, sending it tumbling through the gutter, where it rolls to a stop in front of the beat-down frame of an old bike. “Forget it. You’re right—why would they want bottle-caps or gold or coins when they could trade for food? Or water. That’s smart.”

Flanking the duo by both sides are the skeletons of several matchbox houses, their wooden innards exposed and dark. The girl feels dumb, ashamed—constricted.

She thought she’d enjoy the apocalypse, the total freedom of a society without its inhabitants. But the streets are empty, and the trees haven’t stopped blooming since last year. It’s not that the Earth has stopped turning; it’s that everything has come to a slow halt, like moving your arm in a dream. The ground still spits grass, and the deer still graze, but there’s no one left to enjoy it.

She watches a brown hare nibble at the sides of a curb, where a weed sprouts from a dark crack between two slabs. Suddenly the ram says, “Look!” and the hare bounces away into the overgrowth.

“What now?” the girl asks, gritting her teeth.

“Under that pile—a bottle-cap.”

He is pointing at a mound of petals, where there is no bottle-cap in sight. The girl has to fish through the mound for several seconds before she can retrieve the cap.

“How’d you even see it?” the girl says.

“I did not see it, I sensed it. This material has a unique scent.”

“Huh. What does it smell like?”

“Not smell. Sense. But it is tangy, and rough. Like that time you chewed on bark.”

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“I did not chew on bark. That was cambium, and if you fry it up right—”

“I suppose you didn’t “fry it up right.””

“—it’s supposed to taste woody, but edible. It’s packed with minerals, vitamins, all you need to keep the human body fighting fit!” She glances at the ram’s malnourished body and adds, “You could use some nutrients yourself.”

“I am a demon. My sustenance stems from your wellbeing, not from nutrients. And if my liege is choosing to only subsist on tree bark…”

“Whatever. You can sense metals? That’s awesome!”

The ram’s chest rises, then falls—a sigh. Then it lifts a bony hand, its fingers bent like sticks at the joints. The petals shudder, and two bottle-caps float into the air, suspended by nothing at all.

The girl rolls her eyes. “Wow. You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?”

The ram moves the bottle-caps into her knapsack. “Yes. Now could we move on? We’ve got places to be.”

“Yeah, yeah. Alright.”

—

The night is not any colder than the day. The girl keeps a torch turned on as she organises her loot for the day; a box of cereal with the corner mushed in, a can of beans, a handful of dandelion leaves chopped at the stem. She strikes a match and sets a pot on the resulting campfire. The beans are gently fried—the leaves are sauteed until deep green and slick.

“If we keep this up, the cereal should last us a week,” says the girl between bites. The dandelions are fibrous and bitter, but leave a pleasant aftertaste at the back of her throat. “And I’ll only have to forage every second day or so.”

“I must warn you to exercise caution. Every mushroom you’ve picked has had adverse effects on your body, and though our pact prevents you from dying, it does not alleviate you from succumbing to the resulting sickness.”

“What do you mean? This is the best time for experimentation!” The girl fondly recalls the texture of a pock-marked red cap she’d had the pleasure of tasting the other day, which had left her immobile for two days. “I’ve always wanted to try foraging, and now I can without dying to something dumb like poison!”

The silence that follows is accentuated by the sound of teeth clinking against a spoon. Only when her bowl is empty does the ram say, “How many times since the Fall have you observed the moon?”

The girl thinks, then supplies, “Like, looked at it? I don’t know. It’s always been there, I’ve never counted or noticed how often I look at it.”

“You look at the moon very often. Almost every night.”

A hot wind blows down the street, and the flames flutter. “Oh, I didn’t notice. Often, then.”

“The moon has always been there, has it not?”

“Since dinosaurs.” She stops, thinks, then adds, “Dinosaurs are—”

“I am aware of what dinosaurs are. Our kind have always known. We have lived on this Earth for as long as you; for every breath you take we have taken a thousand more.”

“Is this a lecture?” The girl puts down her spoon and bowl, suddenly dejected at the thought of a demon lecturing her like a mother would.

“The Cataclysm has existed for far, far longer than you could ever comprehend. You are a speck of dust in a vacuum, an atom floating in miles and miles of nothing. But the Cataclysm is not a mountain, or a celestial body, not even a speck. It is that vacuum.”

“I’m telling you, buddy, there’s nothing like that on Earth. Look around you. It’s all gone.”

“And I am telling you to cross the ocean. If it is not here, then it is elsewhere—simple.”

“No, not simple.” The girl stands, fists clenched. “You’re telling some kid, me, to just—just cross an ocean? Like I can just walk all over it? I can’t do that. I don’t even know how to use a boat.”

“...I forget what you are, sometimes,” the ram admits.

“Yeah. You’d better remember it.” The girl folds her arms and rests her head upon the knapsack.

Another gust of wind—this time, a faded chip packet tumbles over the road like a lost ghost.

The girl asks, “But couldn’t I just walk across the ocean floor?”

“Perhaps, but…” The ram shakes its head. “The pressure would crush your body. It would take a miracle to put your body back together again, and demons… are not in the business of working miracles.”

“Hm. Now you’re thinking like a human.”

“Am I? I’m not familiar with your kind.”

“Likewise.”

“There is far too much to cover. You would be better off taking me to the Cataclysm and absorbing the trove of information there.”

“You’re not even going to try?” The girl gives the ram a sidelong glance.

“No.”

“Aw, come on! You’re telling me there’s an entire trove of uncovered demon lore and you’re just not going to tell any of it? Aren’t you even slightly proud of your history? Where’s your pride, your ego?”

The ram goes deathly still, like a carved statue. For a moment, the girl thinks that its bones have solidified, and that she is alone again. But then it asks, “Are you proud of your history? All this wreckage?” It beckons at the broken suburbia, the trees that have decayed like corpses in the sun. “I suppose not. We are alike, in that way.”

The girl shrugs. “I dunno. I didn’t cause the Fall.”

“You had your hand in it. Even termites can fell trees.”

“The wars just happened around me. It would’ve gone on, with or without me.”

“It is still your history. Are you not ashamed of it?”

“Nope.” The girl takes out her bottle and splashes it over the fire, killing it instantly. “It’s not my history.”

“You are ignorant.”

“No.” A grin. “I’m Jackie.”

“...Pardon?”

The girl—Jackie—blows hair out of her face. “I’m Jackie. It’s a joke. You said I was something, and I said my name, ‘cause I’m Jackie.”

“...You are ignorant.”

She shuts her eyes and lies against the asphalt. The air is hot, almost sweltering, so there is no need for cover. With a yawn she asks, “Okay, so I’m ignorant. What are you, then?”

“Demons live solitary lives. We have no need for names.”

“Names aren’t just for other people. Come on, surely you’ve got something.”

The night has gone quiet, and the moon glares through the smog like a beacon in the wasteland. Fatigue washes upon Jackie, and her breath slows to a steady beat. Though she does not know what tomorrow will bring, she looks forward to the sunrise, the first breath of sunlight in the morning as she always does. It might be all she has left.

Finally, the demon says, “Ignorance. My name is Ignorance.”