I failed to post anything yesterday, so this is double duty, even though it’s short. I’m continuing my little post-apocalypse, inspired by Dorian Lynskey’s Everything Must Go. I’m feeling really crunched for time this week, but maybe that’s the best condition in which to write about the end of time.
The previous sections of this story are here:
There is a big, broken sign outside of the warehouse. It fell from its intended location at some point during the turmoil and now sits broken in front of what was once the main entrance to this building. It is made of wood. It is enormous. It is heavy.
It lies face-down on the shattered asphalt of what was once a parking lot. When the first small group of survivors, myself included, came upon this giant, rectangular shelter and decided it was as good a place to hunker down as any other, we attempted to flip the sign over. It seemed important to know what this place was in its previous iteration. The heft of the thing proved too great. We could not reveal the text of the identity-marker.
Inside, of course, hints of the building’s purpose emerged, followed by confirmation in the form of letterheads and various plaques and paperweights expressing corporate appreciation. But the big sign, the external notification of the warehouse’s identity, remains obscured, broken, no longer signifying anything, just present. I was tempted to propose naming our little community after the building’s previous moniker, but the logos and acronyms, the job titles and anniversary signs on desks, felt too small to adapt to our group. Our collective remained nameless.
Our initial group included Evelyn—a former teacher I met while rummaging through dumpsters in an alley in town—Jeremy and Fred—a father and his 12 year-old son who had constructed a lean-to next the highway out of town, and Haley—a 20-something woman whom I was shocked had survived so long.
Haley wasn’t stupid. She was just disinterested. She hadn’t processed the changed reality, so she always appeared to be in a state of confusion. Shock, I suppose.
I am evaluating Haley, now, just as I did with Walter. I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t do that. I need to record the facts, just the facts. For history.
You don’t exist, though, Reader, so I am struggling to understand my obligations. I will try to do better.