Every sermon began the exact same way, but the preacher’s words still made me smile.
“From salted earth do the strongest plants grow. From the vilest of circumstances are heroes spawned. Make no mistake, we are all heroes, every one of us, for even as darkness closes in and our endeavors crumble to ash, it is His name on our lips. It is His love we keep safe within our hearts, and it is for His mercy we beg when all is lost. Only through the fires of vindication may the soul be cleansed, and with Him as our shepherd, we will set this world ablaze with the fury of our devotion.”
An amen rippled through the congregation and I stopped listening. He was an amazing speaker, no doubt professionally trained, but there was always something about his voice that sent a shiver down my spine.
I watched him closely as he paced back and forth behind his ramshackle pulpit. Flowing beard streaked with silver, piercing eyes that seemed to never blink, scalp gleaming with an elaborate crucifix tattoo, faded robes that did little to disguise his barrel chest, a looming nose made crooked by a history of violent breaks—he was every inch the avenging angel sent to resurrect the decomposing corpse of the city we called home.
Three years... Three years of gospel, of zealotry, of death. It’s been three years since Father Gregory emerged from the coiling dust, barely able to stand, carrying nothing but an ancient tome and a rusted revolver loaded with a single round. He’d asked us for a cup of water and a place to lay his head for the night. He claimed he’d been ousted by his previous flock for preaching the rightful word of God.
I, like many of us, voted to send him on his way. Captain Strevko had felt otherwise. I looked at the faces surrounding me, all of them staring at the preacher with rapt attention, mouths open as they silently recited hymns. That’s how it always went ... I was jealous of their blind adoration, the way they could place all of their faith on the shoulders of another and walk away smiling, unburdened by troubles they knew were being dealt with by a higher power. I've always been cursed with skepticism, just like I've always been cursed with good luck. Father Gregory’s sermon droned on at the back of my mind as I gazed absently out the room’s only porthole.
The sky was scarred by lines of gory red radiating from the east, though the sun itself hid behind the peaks of crumbling apartment buildings and offices with broken elevators. Normally, I found the narrow halls of the Ascension a comforting burrow in which I could hide from the outside world. I was consoled by the fact that solid steel surrounded me on all sides, that trained gunmen were constantly on alert should trouble happen to arise. But not today.
The ache had begun more than a week ago; and as always, I resisted. Daily chores were completed, conversations were conducted with smiles and restrained laughter, meals were devoured with a hunger bred of necessity, and all the while, the numbing throb continued to pulse against the base of my skull. I began to long for the open sky. I began to almost miss the ever-present sense of danger which accompanies entering an unexplored building. And so, when it became nearly too much to bear, I volunteered my squad for the next patrol.
Father Gregory explicitly banned weapons from entering the cargo hold he’d converted into a chapel, but seeing as I would soon be risking my life for the survival of the whole, I was allowed to bring all of my gear with me to the morning service. Military-grade boots were laced tight around my feet, the grey edges of thermal socks invisible beneath the mottled black camouflage of my fatigues. A belt weighed heavily on the points of my hips, serrated combat knife on one side and the bulky form of an M1911 on the other. The pistol had a low ammo capacity and barked louder than an emergency siren, but the memory of my father handing me the weapon on my tenth birthday was enough to outweigh any number of shortcomings.
The crumpled mass of my pack leaned against my leg, nearly empty except for a dented canteen, recently filled, and a hand-drawn, dangerously inaccurate map. Hopefully it would be bursting with treasures when we returned. A black parka was stretched taut over my kevlar vest, the hood thrown back until caution became more important than impressing pretty girls.
Those close by snuck disapproving glares in my direction as I checked over the final, and most important, aspects of my gear. I reevaluated the seal of the gasmask that hung from my neck on a rubber cord and, once satisfied it would properly filter any pollutants serious enough to cause me harm, brushed my fingers against the gun lying across my lap. The M4 Carbine had been officially mine since the day I pulled it from a bandit’s cooling grasp. A flashlight was duct taped to the firearm’s side rail, the iron sights had been professionally aligned the previous evening, and each spring, bolt, and pin had been patiently oiled by my own hands. It was a good weapon, but I was not as proficient with it as I would have liked. A shortage of ammunition had been a constant thorn in the side of our group since the beginning, and as such, my gun’s only available rounds were neatly stacked within its clip.
Father Gregory ended his diatribe with a thunderous rant against the dangers of complacency and led his congregation in a final prayer for guidance before leaving the chapel amid a chorus of applause. Husbands rose stiffly to their feet before helping wives up from the repurposed bus stop bench pews. Children yawned and stretched, rubbing their shriveled stomachs in the hope that they would soon be fed and allowed to go play on the main deck. They left in small groups to begin their various duties, small talk bleeding from between their lips like politeness still mattered. And then they were gone. All of them. I was alone with the smoldering candles and moats of glistening dust that swirled beneath the porthole. I loved silence. I closed my eyes took a deep breath, allowing the stale air to lay across my tongue before sucking it into my lungs. Several blissful minutes passed before the clang of heavy footsteps against the deck shattered my reverie. The steps halted less than a yard away and I knew without opening my eyes who it was.
“Silas, Kroffman says we need to leave before the chickens wake the horses.”
“What does that even mean?” I asked.
Buckles jangled as the newcomer shrugged. “I have no idea. I guess that’s the kind of crazy thing you get to say when you’re old and senile.” I nodded and stood with a groan. “Here, I thought you might need this.” A hand extended into my field of view, wrapped around the handle of a battered mug. I took the drink and watched a plume of steam coil into the air.
“Thanks, Pavel,” I said, rewarding his kindness with a nod. Pavel was the son of Captain Strevko, the leader of our group since its formation and the temperamental voice of reason in times of distress. Though three years younger than me, Pavel had already earned a reputation as a skillful forager. He wore the uneven stubble of youth with pride and it always seemed as though his thick glasses would slide off the tip of his nose. Pavel was not a handsome boy, but his open demeanor and, as we joked, matronly nature made it hard not to enjoy his company. We were nearly identical in our survival gear, though Pavel refused to travel into the wastes without his trusty American flag bandana wrapped tight around his arm. He also happened to be my best friend. I nudged past him towards the door and only turned when the confused chirp of his voice rang out,
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“Where are you going?”
I slurped at the contents of my mug and called back, “I have to go say goodbye to Micah before we leave.” Pavel nodded and disappeared through a different doorway.
I traversed the labyrinthine series of corridors and stairways with practiced ease and took another sip, wincing at both the bitter taste and the scalding temperature. I imagined that coffee must have once been an integral part of daily life, needed by those who worked the morning hours or had problems sleeping. Now we only have packages of the instant variety. When I was young, we were allowed half a cube of sugar to sweeten our drink, but even then, only on the most important holidays. Sugar itself was but a distant memory.
Deciding that speed was of far greater importance than comfort, I gulped down the remainder of my cup—ignored the flare of agony that rippled down my throat—and increased my pace. The cargo ship was truly massive, allowing every occupant to settle down wherever they saw fit. Under such lenient housing policies, I had laid claim to a relatively small room toward the stern, far away from the bustle of daily life. I imagined the seclusion was beginning to take a toll on Micah’s popularity, but the room was a selfish indulgence I refused to give up. I eased the hatch open as quietly as the ungreased hinges would allow and carefully stepped inside
He lay across the cot we shared, chest slowly going up and down. I lifted my hole-ridden blanket from the floor and tucked it around him. Trails of saliva dripped down his tiny thumb from where it was stuck between his tiny teeth. He was much too old for such a babyish practice, but I refused to force my brother to grow up faster than he saw fit.
How soundly he slept, utterly devoid of his usual whimpering and spastic movements. We'd both inherited tortuous nightmares from our father, and though I was able to suffer mine in stoic silence, Micah had yet to master the cruel ministrations of his own imagination. But not today, today he was at peace. I couldn’t bring myself to wake him up so instead I lifted a curl of honey blonde hair and brushed my lips against his forehead. Turning to leave, I noticed something on my desk.
Amid the usual clutter of crumpled sketches and sentimental treasures sat a waterlogged photograph. Its well-thumbed edges were worn and slightly burnt on one side, a set of deep creases clearly showing where it had been folded hundreds of times before. It was not a good photograph, taken by ancient equipment and improperly developed. A man sat at the center, his sallow face torn open into a smile, his eyes wide and almost manic. A chubby baby sat on the man’s knee. Garbed in bright red footsy pajamas that were several sizes too large, the infant reached gleefully toward something held by the photographer. A sultry teenager stood behind his elder’s shoulder, eyes pointed defiantly to the ground, hands stuffed deep within his pockets.
My head snapped back to glare at my brother, sudden rage igniting in my chest. I ordered every damnable memory of that man burned! Assuming I’d already left, Micah must have carefully laid out the picture after some accident, hoping to save it from a watery grave. My hand reached for the innocent reminder of a life better left forgotten—and then I stopped. I chose to forget. I chose to move forward, but that was not his choice, and it was not one I could make for him. My brother had enough reasons to despise me. Leaving the picture where it was, I left the room as quietly as I’d entered.
The sting of salty air greeted me as I emerged onto the main deck of the Ascension; one hand lifted to keep the sunlight from my eyes. Pavel waved me over to where he stood next to our squad leader. The teenager seemed nervous, giddy even. Herbert Kroffman, on the other hand, struck an impressive figure even at his advanced age—still trapped in his haggard police uniform, curly beard, dusky hide creased with a web of premature wrinkles. A camouflaged hunting rifle hung easily over his shoulder, an old friend that he was rarely seen without. Kroffman turned to glare at me as I jogged over.
“You’re late,” he snarled in his signature baritone.
I smiled at him and replied, “You have my sincerest apologies, Sir. I promise if we find something soft enough for your dentures to handle, I’ll save it just for you.” Pavel turned away and coughed to hide the laughter that threatened to erupt from his throat. Kroffman blinked slowly and added a long breath to let me know I was trying his patience already. He reached into his pack and removed a pair of military rations. The lettering on their faces that explained what delicious foods could be found inside was almost completely worn away. I swallowed a mouthful of bile at the mere sight of the “meals.”
He handed them to Pavel and I and said, “It’s not much, but it’ll keep you from complaining the whole damn trip. Connelly, let me see the map.” I swung my own pack off of my shoulder, let the ration fall into its depths with an incredibly unappetizing thud, and removed the folded square of paper. He took it and spun his finger in a circle. Pavel sighed and turned around, allowing the squad leader to smooth the map out across his back.
“Now,” Kroffman began, “we’ll follow the river to the west for about half a day. We’ve already hit every building along the water at least a dozen times so they aren’t even worth bothering with.” He moved his finger onto Pavel’s shoulder blade and circled a clump of crayon rectangles. “We’ll find somewhere to hunker down for the night in this little retail district.” His finger swept to the edge of the map and continued off of Pavel’s back completely. “After that, who knows. We’ve never had to venture out that far, so things might get a bit hairy. But, there’s also the potential for some fresh loot. The possible reward seems worth the risk to the Good Captain now that we’ve had to start mixing rust in with the sausage so it at least looks the right color.”
Pavel spun on his heel, eyes bursting with concern, and shrieked, “What did you just say?” Kroffman folded up the map and handed it back to me before swinging his rifle onto his shoulder.
“We’re burning daylight, gentlemen. I want to see a steady pace out there; you’ve both gotten fat since I last saw you.”
I raised my hand and, without waiting for permission, asked, “Excuse me, Sir, but in what universe are any of us considered fat?”
Kroffman looked me over and said, “Connelly, you’re touting more flab than both my ex-wives combined. There’s no way a girl has even glanced at you since the last time I dragged your lazy ass out on patrol.” I tapped my fingers against my protruding ribs and shrugged. “And if getting laid isn’t enough incentive to put some hustle into it,” he added, “whoever whines first about a water break is going to find my boot so far up his ass he’ll be able to floss with my shoelaces.” And with that, he strode towards the gangplank. Pavel gave me a concerned look as he nestled his MP5 across his chest and readjusted the straps of his pack.
“I still want to know what they’ve been doing to my sausages,” he grumbled.
I slapped my friend on the shoulder and said, “Don’t worry your pretty little head about it. Besides, being a vegetarian is supposed to be healthier for you anyway.” We followed Kroffman off the main deck of the Ascension, waved goodbye to the sentries on duty, and disappeared into the tangled jungle of concrete and glass.