Afterland (13 page)

“Wait, so you’re saying we can’t deactivate digital bombs?” I ask.

“Well...yes. We still haven’t figured out how to do it without the code.”

“So in the case of a digital bomb, you just run and hide?”

“Yes.”

“Well. That’s...encouraging.”

Mike snorts. “They’re bombs. They’re not supposed to be encouraging. They’re supposed to kill you. If that’s encouraging to you, then you have a serious problem.”

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Emily begins to teach me how to use swords and knives properly. I get a small dagger to keep at my belt. We train with wooden practice swords in the Field of Hope. We start with simple offense and defense drills; one of us attempts to strike the other on the head, the shoulder, and the stomach. The other is supposed to block it. Then we switch. This is supposed to help me work on my form. After Emily deems my form acceptable, we begin practice fights. Emily always wins, of course.

This also gives me something new to practice with Nathan. We alternate our practice sessions: one night is dedicated to the crossbow, the next to sword fighting. I don’t remember ever making that decision. Somehow, it just happened. After Nathan’s visit to the lookout post, we’ve been spending more time together, always training, always shooting, always fighting. But I find myself able to laugh full-heartedly and to actually enjoy minutes of my life before I remember that we’re still in a fight for survival.

This night was a crossbow night. Nathan and I walk back from a day of training in the Field of the Fallen together, both of our supporting arms aching. With the everyday practice sessions, I have become more adept at shooting. I have even developed the beginning of the instinct that everyone keeps telling me I need. I can hit at least near the painted target almost every time.

“Nathan, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What do you want, more than anything else?”

He answers immediately.

“Freedom. We’ve been slaves to the CGB, and to the Eruption, and most of all, to our own fears for so long now. It’s time we take our lives back. You get what I mean?” I nod. “What about you?”

“Um…” I frown. Maybe I should have thought about it before asking. “I have no idea, to be honest. I suppose I never really thought about it.”

“Really? Why not?”

“I’m not sure. I should have given it at least
some
thought, I guess, but I suppose I never really...expected anything that I wanted to be a possibility. Not in Hopetown. So I decided not to raise my hopes and disappoint myself. I didn’t want to have an empty goal to be passionate about. I was always afraid of that.”

“It doesn’t have to be empty now.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“Think about it. It’s an important part of your personality.”

“What? My ultimate goal?”

“Yes. It can say volumes about you.”

I consider that.

“You’re right. It’s just...What if I don’t fulfil it? What I do with it says volumes about me too. What I mean to say is that what I don’t accomplish means just as much as what I do. I mean, what if I die knowing I broke the biggest promise I ever made to myself?”

“Then fulfill it. It’s as simple as that.”

“Simple,” I scoff. “Not in this world.”

“See what I mean, Molly? You’re a slave to your own doubts. You have to free yourself from that. You have to open yourself up to the possibility of a happy ending for yourself.”

“Well, I...Maybe you’re right, but...”

“But what?”

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Like what?”

“Let’s start with, what if I don’t deserve a happy ending? Don’t tell me that I do.”

“First of all, you do.”

I roll my eyes good naturedly.

“And second?”

“Second of all, even if you’re ‘undeserving’ now, you still have the rest of your life to fix that.”

“All right, let’s assume that all of us deserve happy endings in the end. There are still so many things that could go wrong. For example, everyone’s happy ending is different. At some point they’re going to have to start interfering with each other. My point is, it seems that there have to be a limited number of happy endings to prevent an implosion of sorts. That’s what happened with the Blast, I think. Everyone got their happy ending and it was too much for the Earth too handle. I think all our happy ends have already been given to the generations before us.”

“Do you believe in God?”

“No.”

“Then why are you worried someone limiting the possible number of happy endings?”

“Let me rephrase it: What if they’ve all been taken by the generations before us?”

“The past can’t take away from the future.”

“No? What did the Eruption do, then?”

Nathan remains silent for a minute before answering.

“You’re right,” he concedes finally. “But if they can destroy, then why can’t we be the generation that creates?”

I frown. I don’t have an answer to that. I’m sure that there is an one, otherwise we wouldn’t still be stuck in this miserable post-blast world. Right? But I can’t think of anything. Why, indeed, can’t we all just get up and fix it? Even if everyone did a small deed, we would be the most powerful force on Earth. We can overthrow the CGB easily. We can earn back our futures. But instead...what? All that power and potential just lies around, dormant, wasted? Why? Because of fear?

Maybe Nathan is right: we are slaves to our own fear. So the answer to all our struggles is simply that the Blasters were less afraid of change than we are?

“I don’t know,” I admit. “You win, I guess.” Nathan smiles smugly. I sense a challenge in his mischievous expression to continue the argument.

“You know what?” I say. “No. I change my mind. I have more questions. We, as a generation, can fix all this. I can accept that. But what about each individual? What if I, as an individual, fail? ”

“Your own personal happy ending? I’m glad you asked. You’re still alive. You’re already halfway there. Your entire life consists of second chances and the opportunities to fulfill them. The entire purpose of your existence is to take those opportunities, Tell me again why you can’t achieve a happy ending?

“All right, but what if I miss my chances? What if I waste my life on...something else?”

“That’s a choice. That you can control.”

“What if I choose wrong?”

“You’re assuming that you’re predisposed to chose wrong, when in fact, it’s exactly the opposite. Nobody does anything if it isn’t beneficial to them in some way. All of us are naturally wired to achieve happiness.”

“That makes sense,” I frown. “But then why are some people not happy in the end?”

“Well, for one, they might have just not recognized it. A lot of people get it and simply don’t see it, and by the time they realized that they missed it, they’ve already let it slip through their fingers. Some people are too blinded, by hate, fear, whatever it may be, that they can’t see all of the opportunities they’re rejecting. I never promised everyone a happy ending. What I
am
saying is that everyone has the chance to reach it, and in the end, it’s only you, yourself, that is standing in your way.”

CHAPTER 7

              Nathan and I walk back to the camp the next day, our feet moving in unison. I’ve settled into the new rhythm of life completely now and it seems that Nathan has adjusted with me. It’s funny how we form rhythms, even if there is no place for them, I ponder. Despite how much we like to think of ourselves as spontaneous, millions of years of evolution have taught us to seek out patterns. We’ve learned that predictability is good. And perhaps it is. But even if it’s not, our minds can’t help but seek things that they understand. So with rhythms we shall remain, no matter how complicated they may get.

              “I thought about my ultimate goal,” I say.

              “Good. What is it?”

              “I want to make a difference, in whatever way I can. I to be...enough. I want I want to die knowing that I did right. I don’t want to let my life pass by me and die regretting all the chances I didn’t take.” Nathan nods slowly.

              “That’s a good goal,” he says. Then he adds, “You think about death a lot, don’t you?” I laugh.

              “I suppose I do.”

              “Why?”

              “Oh. Um...Why not?”

“There is no reason
not
to, I was just  wondering. I tend to avoid the thought of death, actually,” he admits.

“Oh. Well, I guess it’s because I see things in terms of death. I don’t believe in an afterlife or reincarnation or things of that sort, so death is the ultimate end, and I think that when I die, I’ll understand a lot more in the few minutes before my death than I have in my whole life before that. The end is the...the singularity that we all strive to. I think that that makes the road that we take there equally as important as the singularity itself.” I pause and then add quietly, “Besides that, when I envision myself dying, I envision myself now. Not an old lady. I’ve always done it that way. Death hasn’t really ever been an abstract concept to me, because, well, because I guess I always thought of myself as dying. The dying me has grown along with me. She’s always been an important part of my personality. One that I made a vow to, to never betray it. And it’s a real part of me. Part of me is always...
ending.
So I guess I do things so that the ending part of me will be proud.”

              “Very well spoken.”

              “Thank you.” We continue walking, our footsteps quietly beating a rhythm on the ground.

              “To be honest,” I say quietly, “I never even expected to make it to seventeen. Every year, I thought that I would die, and when it never happened, I always assumed that it was just a delay. That’s why I think about death a lot. Because it’s not something far away, it’s a real and current possibility. And because the concept of death on its own doesn’t scare me. What does scare me, terrify me, in fact, is the possibility that my death will be meaningless. If I die now, what will I be able to say about my life? Nothing much, and that scares me.”

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I finish reading
Les Miserables
on the one-month anniversary of my arrival to the Rebellion. I routinely build the morning fire for Big Sal and sit down on a log to finish reading. As I flip to the last page and read the last words, Nicholas sits down next to me. He gestures to the book. As with all his actions, the movement is quiet and subdued.

“Is it good?” His voice is soft and filled with sadness. This is one of the few times I’ve heard him speak. I nod in response.

“How does it end?” He asks.

“Well,” I say, “Those who survive are happy, but they only survive by luck. Most of them don’t make it.”

“That’s not how it works in real life. In real life, we suffer or we die.”

“Maybe those who died just weren’t meant to survive,” Mike’s voice says from my left. I didn’t notice him sit down.

“Not meant to survive?” I frown. Mike nods.

“Who decides that?” Nicholas asks quietly.

“The author, of course. The author has that right.”

“The author is heartless, apparently.” I say scornfully.

“Is he? You say he gave the characters who survived happy endings. I’d say that’s the action of a working heart. And who knows? Maybe he even wept for his dead characters once or twice.”

“Maybe, but what difference does that make?” I object. Mike laughs a little. His laughter is cold and humorless.

“None at all. But that’s not the point. The characters are part of him, aren’t they? He’s mourning the parts of himself that he killed off to prove a point. It does the living part of him some good. It’s only meant to reassure him that he’s still alive and capable of emotion. Besides, the characters are only figments of his imagination. What difference does it make in the eyes of the characters if he mourns them or not? Absolutely none. The truth is, he probably is heartless. All writers are heartless people. They write to fill a void. That’s all writing is. A filling. Nothing more.”

“Nothing more?” Nicholas says, a dash of quiet anger invading his voice. “How can you say that? Writing can change history, and yet you call it a filling?”

“Fill enough voids, and the power of your words spreads,” Mike shrugs. “Turns out, a lot of people have voids to fill.” His voice softens. “You, of all people should understand that.” Nicholas turns his eyes away and remains silent.

“Anyway, you know what we haven’t done in a while?” Mike says, changing the subject deftly. “A do-nothing day.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“It’s exactly what it sounds like. We do nothing. All training is cancelled and everyone is allowed to forget about their duties and we just relax for the day. Things like that. It’s basically our official on-the-go Rebellion holiday. Anyway, I think we all deserve a break from this. It’s been a busy month.”

“Has it?”

“Teaching you things is quite an ordeal,” he smirks.

He stands up to project the announcement.

“Everyone, your training is cancelled today. We’re having a do-nothing day. I’ll take over the lookout post for both shifts.” 

Everyone begins to murmur their enthusiasm.

“Be sure to be back for lunch, everybody!” Big Sal shouts. Everyone begins to scramble and I decide that I’ll find a good place to paint. I haven’t painted since I joined the Rebellion and I miss creating art.

I slip quietly off of the log to my tent, put on my snowshoes, sling my pack over my shoulder, and head into the woods. The terrain is much more familiar now. I don’t feel lost like the first days, when the woods all seemed the same to me.

It’s a warm day, at least by post-Blast standards. The sun is shining and the sky is clear. There is a light breeze blowing from the East that gently tickles the back of my neck. I walk through the woods for approximately half an hour before settling down in front of a large sheet of ice that was probably once a small marsh. The melting snow carves a small stream in the ice and the water gently gurgles as it rushes downhill. I smile. Little streams such as these have always meant Spring to me. I’ve always loved the change that they represented: solid to liquid, cold to warm, old to new.

I pat down a patch of snow, pull out my paints, and sit down. I melt some snow into the small water container and begin to paint. The forest around me gets painted first. With every stroke of my brush, I appreciate its natural beauty more and more. I paint the details of the bark, attempting to capture its rough texture with different shades of brown. I paint the snow, mottled with shadows and reflections.

When I just began to paint, many years ago, I thought that snow was completely white; I could never paint it right. Now, I know that it is a collection of different shades; it is those colors that give it dimension. Besides,
white
in itself is a very relative term. There are a million shades of it, all falling under the same name. The same white sheet of paper darkens and yellows with age, but we still call it white.

The concept of total whiteness has always fascinated me, just as total blackness has. White, as an independent color, is really useless on its own. It is the color of emptiness, a color of something that has yet to change. It is the easiest color to ignore. My mother once told me that space in a composition that isn’t occupied by anything is called negative space. So I suppose that makes white a negative color. Whatever that could mean.

And black is exactly the opposite. It is the most positive color. It is the strongest and most demanding color. It is the color of a statement, a demand to be acknowledged. It is the color of outlines and picking up broken pieces. And it’s also the color of mystery, of darkness. It is the color of complete vulnerability and trusting enough to give yourself up to the unknown. It is the color of a different type of change. While white represents a change that hasn’t yet happened, black represents one that already has, but that we haven’t accepted. How interesting that it also represents death. Maybe what the color black is trying to tell us is that with every ending there is always a new beginning.