The Aftermath
Created | Updated Jan 28, 2002
The early morning sun shone through the small, cracked windows, casting its pale light on a tiny, cramped room. Slowly and unevenly, the fragile rays illuminated the fraying carpet, the dusty armchairs, and a bed, on which an ageing figure lay in a fitful sleep, disturbed by his dreams of better times.
Outside, the street was deserted, the surrounding buildings silent. The great, glass-fronted shopping precinct, once bustling with the citizens of a sprawling metropolis, was completely devoid of all life, save perhaps a few insects, with only the fading advertisements remaining to tell the tales of past glories. Gone also were the street traders, who had once filled the city with their joyful clamours.
The roads themselves, once the life-blood of the city, were silent; not a car disturbed their rest: shrubs had taken root instead, contrasting strangely with the traffic signs, still tall and erect, remembering a forgotten age. The great clock above the town hall whirred into life; its ancient iron bell tolling the hour as it had done with unceasing regularity since its construction.
Inside his room, the man stirred, his slumber disturbed by the solemn clanging of the bell. Shivering - for the day was cold, despite the sun - he clambered out of bed. He did not bother to dress; such customs belonged to the days of his youth, when there were people about who cared how one was presented in public. He hobbled over to a large stack of tins, on which the labels were still faintly visible. These he had collected in the days immediately following the invasion, when he realised that he was the only survivor.
He opened the tin and greedily guzzled the contents, longing as he did so for the taste of real meat. His present diet was barely enough to keep him alive; he hoped that the winter would be mild, for he felt unable to survive the fierce cold on such an inadequate diet.
After finishing his small breakfast, he pulled on a tattered overcoat, his only protection from the cold, and descended from his room into the deserted street. He took a left turn, and wandered down to the park, now sadly neglected.
Here, the river still ran; if he closed his eyes, he could still remember how his children used to paddle; how their cries of joy would mingle with those of the other children. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered how all this had ended when the first of the invaders arrived, with their terrible destructive weapon.
He shook himself free from his memories; there was much to do, and the days were growing shorter. In the centre of the park was a small field, which he had laboriously cleared and ploughed with just a hoe. The field was divided into quarters; he was using his very limited knowledge of agriculture to develop a rotation system. He tended his crops, pulling up weeds that threatened to destroy them and undo all his work.
For six hours he toiled, not daring to stop, for winter was drawing ever closer, and without food he would surely starve.
In the evening, he retired from his labours and left the park. He took a different route homewards, wanting to enjoy the daylight for as long as possible. He stopped outside the old government buildings, and stood to admire their ornate brickwork. He thought of the countless laws that had been passed in that building. Before the arrival of the Invaders, he had despised his government, considering their laws ridiculous. Now, he longed for something to remind him of his life before the Invasion, and wept as he realised he could never recover that life.
His thoughts were disturbed by a roll of thunder; he increased his pace to almost a run, desperate to reach home before the rain started. He had neither the time nor the facilities to fight a cold - it would develop into pneumonia and eventually he would die.
The thought of death appealed to him; it would be very easy to give up the fight and abandon himself to the fate that was inevitable anyway. He though of how easy it would be to end his misery with one careful stroke of a razor blade on his emaciated wrist, and of how he could then finally escape the invaders, who had inflicted nothing but unspeakable misery.
He put these thought out of his mind, unwilling to give up after putting so much effort into staying alive. He could see the storm clouds approaching, and ran, desperate to avoid a soaking. He reached home just in time, and climbed into bed, pulling the ragged covers over himself. As he lay, he could see the building opposite through the window. He stared hard, trying to remember something of its inhabitants. Even as he watched, the rain distorted his view, blurring the edges, making the whole situation dream-like. He lay for some time, watching the image, until the mesmerising repetition of the raindrops sent him slowly into a long and fitful sleep, disturbed by his dreams of better times.
Outside, the street was deserted, the surrounding buildings silent. The great, glass-fronted shopping precinct, once bustling with the citizens of a sprawling metropolis, was completely devoid of all life, save perhaps a few insects, with only the fading advertisements remaining to tell the tales of past glories. Gone also were the street traders, who had once filled the city with their joyful clamours.
The roads themselves, once the life-blood of the city, were silent; not a car disturbed their rest: shrubs had taken root instead, contrasting strangely with the traffic signs, still tall and erect, remembering a forgotten age. The great clock above the town hall whirred into life; its ancient iron bell tolling the hour as it had done with unceasing regularity since its construction.
Inside his room, the man stirred, his slumber disturbed by the solemn clanging of the bell. Shivering - for the day was cold, despite the sun - he clambered out of bed. He did not bother to dress; such customs belonged to the days of his youth, when there were people about who cared how one was presented in public. He hobbled over to a large stack of tins, on which the labels were still faintly visible. These he had collected in the days immediately following the invasion, when he realised that he was the only survivor.
He opened the tin and greedily guzzled the contents, longing as he did so for the taste of real meat. His present diet was barely enough to keep him alive; he hoped that the winter would be mild, for he felt unable to survive the fierce cold on such an inadequate diet.
After finishing his small breakfast, he pulled on a tattered overcoat, his only protection from the cold, and descended from his room into the deserted street. He took a left turn, and wandered down to the park, now sadly neglected.
Here, the river still ran; if he closed his eyes, he could still remember how his children used to paddle; how their cries of joy would mingle with those of the other children. His eyes filled with tears as he remembered how all this had ended when the first of the invaders arrived, with their terrible destructive weapon.
He shook himself free from his memories; there was much to do, and the days were growing shorter. In the centre of the park was a small field, which he had laboriously cleared and ploughed with just a hoe. The field was divided into quarters; he was using his very limited knowledge of agriculture to develop a rotation system. He tended his crops, pulling up weeds that threatened to destroy them and undo all his work.
For six hours he toiled, not daring to stop, for winter was drawing ever closer, and without food he would surely starve.
In the evening, he retired from his labours and left the park. He took a different route homewards, wanting to enjoy the daylight for as long as possible. He stopped outside the old government buildings, and stood to admire their ornate brickwork. He thought of the countless laws that had been passed in that building. Before the arrival of the Invaders, he had despised his government, considering their laws ridiculous. Now, he longed for something to remind him of his life before the Invasion, and wept as he realised he could never recover that life.
His thoughts were disturbed by a roll of thunder; he increased his pace to almost a run, desperate to reach home before the rain started. He had neither the time nor the facilities to fight a cold - it would develop into pneumonia and eventually he would die.
The thought of death appealed to him; it would be very easy to give up the fight and abandon himself to the fate that was inevitable anyway. He though of how easy it would be to end his misery with one careful stroke of a razor blade on his emaciated wrist, and of how he could then finally escape the invaders, who had inflicted nothing but unspeakable misery.
He put these thought out of his mind, unwilling to give up after putting so much effort into staying alive. He could see the storm clouds approaching, and ran, desperate to avoid a soaking. He reached home just in time, and climbed into bed, pulling the ragged covers over himself. As he lay, he could see the building opposite through the window. He stared hard, trying to remember something of its inhabitants. Even as he watched, the rain distorted his view, blurring the edges, making the whole situation dream-like. He lay for some time, watching the image, until the mesmerising repetition of the raindrops sent him slowly into a long and fitful sleep, disturbed by his dreams of better times.
