1850-01: A Survivor's Story (Part Ten)
This is part of a series centered on Pavel Tzarkowski’s experiences as a survivor in early Nova Espero entitled “1850-01.” Follow this link to go to the series’ page.
In the foggy, dawn haze of the next morning, Pavel peered over the railing atop the roof of the Mist Cove safehouse. Downstairs, Corny, Lieutenant Suarez, and Frederic slumbered. Knowing the regimentation of the Lieutenant’s routine, he knew that he would wake in a short time. But in this single blessed moment, knowing that miles away his daughter was finally receiving the life-saving care that she so desperately needed, Pavel could enjoy this lonesome reprieve with the solar panels as his only company.
The building ran parallel to the coast, giving him a stunning view of the shoreline. In the past, such a view would have commanded a high premium on the Imperial Capital’s notoriously expensive real estate market. In prior visits, Pavel remembered that the chorus of the crashing waves were joined by the cacophony of shopping pedestrians and local residents, as well as tourists who came here for relief from the heat of the urban core. Whistles from arriving trains alighting passengers at the nearby station would pierce the air, alongside the fluty, gay carnival music from the boardwalk.
Today, the waves sing alone. This place is now just one of the great multitude of such buildings, lying almost entirely vacant as sores on the corpse of a once-great city.
In the days before the War, Pavel had often thought about what he would do in the event of an apocalypse. His realistic answer was usually that he would perish almost immediately – he was a near-sighted history professor, after all. In the context of conversations in the history department lounge, however, this answer was generally seen as being unsatisfactory. Pavel would instead dream of occupying some old mansion owned by some dead baron or titan of industry, protected by its high gates. He and his family would take in the luxury and splendor that could have only been accumulated in the frenzied dash for wealth in those pre-War years. He and Elizabeta would sip from flutes of champagne that cost a month’s wages. Anna and Filip would sleep in sheets with thread counts in the thousands, their heads resting on the plush pillows stuffed with the down of only the finest pure-bred geese. They would make this castle their redoubt, safe from the hordes of radioactive ne’er-do-wells that would inevitably come to upset their created peace.
Unfortunately for the Tzarkowskis, this vision of post-apocalyptic luxury would never come to pass. They mostly made their homes in canvas tents haphazardly arranged in squalid little camps where toilet paper was a rare commodity, much less sheets. Cholera, once the domain of the crude and impoverished slums of the Southern Ward of Hegeliopolis and the vast gray shanties of the urban fringe had become much more democratic and ubiquitous in its reach. A bout with dysentery nearly sent Pavel to an anti-climactic end. When he told Elizabeta that to die of illness was truly the more normal and typical way to die in war, she promptly told him to shut up.
The Tzarkowskis had heard of Nova Espero before but they had assumed it was a sort of mythical place. The feared (but coveted) scavenger convoys were known to be real, and so too were their accompaniment of armed, fatigue-clad guards. When Pavel tried to steal that can of beans, it was an act of desperation that followed so many other acts of desperation. Three months before, he wouldn’t have taken the risk. But seeing his children weep from hunger, and his wife slowly winnowing away did something to the risk assessment part of the history professor’s brain. He didn’t exactly regret what he did – but with a full night’s rest and full stomach, he could now properly realize how profoundly stupid it was to reach for that can.
“Coffee?” Suarez grunted as he approached Pavel.
“Thank you,” Pavel replied, startled. He never quite understood how such a lanky man could be so silent.
“I’ve always liked the view up here,” the lieutenant said. He said it with a finality in his voice. Like that was the start and end of the conversation. Or perhaps that’s just how Pavel perceived it. The lieutenant was typically not one for small talk.
Nevertheless, Pavel replied. “It’s beautiful. The waves look so peaceful, and the water so clear and pristine. It almost makes you think for a minute that things are normal.”
The Lieutenant remained silent.
He and Suarez watched the waves for some time, waiting for the others to wake. As the clock neared seven, the Lieutenant and Pavel started back down the steps. Corny and Frederic were nursing their own mugs of coffee, noticeably straightening when the Lieutenant entered the room.
“Good morning gentlemen,” Suarez said. “Today we will make our final approach to the war ministry building.”
Nearly ten miles outside of Nova Espero stood the massive, colonnaded concrete structure. The object of the mission was to go into that building and retrieve a number of sensitive documents related to supply stockpiles throughout the city.
“It’s doubtful that many of these stockpiles will have survived up to this point,” the Lieutenant conceded. “But even one would have enough resources to last us for months. Ammunition, grenades, rifles –” He paused, taking a beat to look towards Corny.
“And boots.”
“Thank God!” Corny exclaimed, still nursing the blisters on his soles and heels which he had dramatically called “early onset trench foot.”
On the downstairs table, Suarez rolled out a map showing Mist Cove in its entirety. Designed by the local tourism board for use by visitors, highlighted locations included the boardwalk, a number of bakeries and art galleries, and the local jewelers market. Suarez had inked an addition in the northern edge of the map, marking the location of the Imperial War Ministry Records and Communications Centre.
“It’s a large, concrete and steel structure that has very few windows,” he explained. “None of our scouting parties have tried to enter because there was no reason to. There’s a solid chance that it will already be occupied.”
“As with any mission,” he continued, “avoid engagement unless so ordered or is absolutely necessary. Is that understood?”
Pavel and the others quickly nodded in agreement.
“Fantastic – the way over should be mostly cleared out, but keep your eyes peeled for any enemies or survivors.”
The narrow, rectilinear streets of Mist Cove resembled many such highly manufactured places in the old Imperial Capital. Orderly rows of identical cottages and apartment houses clotted each side of the street, many of which were deeply fire scarred or otherwise damaged by the percussion of falling bombs or the simple lack of maintenance for the past three years. No nuclear warheads or thermobaric weapons exploded here, but the distant blasts and firestorms immediately following the War were more than enough to wreak havoc across the district.
Platoon 403 moved through the area, peering into each rubble-filled doorway as they passed. There was very little to scavenge here; these areas had already been picked over once by scouts looking for potential enemies as well as any snatchable “incidentals” they might find on their path. You could tell this place had already been scouted, not scavenged, because of the presence of copper wires and gutters, but the distinct lack of silverware, bottles of alcohol, and wrist watches.
Rounding one corner, the platoon entered a small neighborhood park. Even though the trees had been scorched down to tiny stubs, it was clear that there had been something living here in the recent past. Dead – not carbonized – grass indicated that there had been some sort of biological recovery here. This place was dead as all parks are during the wintertime, not in the strange, otherworldly, and glassy way that areas that were practically melted by the bombs were. Pavel imagined that this place, guarded as it may be by the coal-black husks of atomized trees, would look quite lovely in the springtime. In his softer, more contemplative days, he might see the existence of these places as a fitting monument to the new world – nature and life triumphing amid the chaos and destruction. Now, he felt as though he were looking at a graveyard. Verdant in the springtime and having places to picnic did not detract from the death and sorrows connected to the place.
On the edge of the park was a small shop, its front display case windows smashed in by the blasts, flames, or potentially looters, but the front door was jammed shut. Suarez gave Corny and Pavel the go-ahead, and the two began to strike at the entryway.
“It’s just jammed, not blocked by anything,” Corny grunted as he slammed into the door. Sometimes in desperate moments, people had shoved bookcases or store shelves in front of the doors of their homes and businesses. Rarely ever did such individuals survive the firestorms that followed the bombs and the fleeing crowds.
After a handful of firm strikes, the door finally tumbled open. The roof had very obviously caved in, and the smell of rainsoaked and moldy wood permeated the platoon’s nostrils. There was that strange musk of food long rotted away, a sort of stuffy, suffocating odor. Regardless, even if the perishables had perished, there were plenty of opportunities for plunder. Corny liberated two flasks of good North Hegelion whiskey, and Frederic located some sort of syrup-based rum that he insisted was a treasured whisper from the homeland. Suarez opened a box of cigars, only to toss them to the floor upon discovering their moldy, rotten state.
Pavel, meanwhile, eyed a familiar tin sitting on a collapsing shelf at the store’s edge. Blue with a white diagonal stripe, the aluminum, circular container was the signature trademark of the Uruski Baked Goods and Confections Corporation. Based out of Pavel’s native Zoldhegyek, Uruski products were a common fixture in the cabinet of every grandmother – the gingery pierniki and the crisp churschiki were among Pavel’s favorites.
This particular tin contained sushki, a hard, bagel-like bread ring that was best enjoyed with a cup of tea. As Pavel grabbed the container, his hopes were high – even fresh sushki were as durable as hardtack. He presumed that stale ones would be essentially identical.
The lid popped with a satisfying release of pressure, a slight puff of air spewing forth. Grabbing one of the sushki and taking a bite, he bit down and met a solid, satisfying, almost tooth-shattering crunch.
Home, he thought to himself. Noticing several more tins, he quickly stuffed them into his rucksack.
“Let’s move on,” the Lieutenant said. “We can’t spend all day here.”
Leaving the import store, Platoon 403 headed down another dreary, rubble-strewn side street. The winding paths gradually gave way to a wider street, which then terminated at a taut square. Fronted by the ruins of old cafes and drab office buildings, at the northern edge was a towering structure with a pointed pediment supported by massive columns. On the pediment sat the warped, mangled remains of a metallic crowned condor, the old symbol of the now dead Empire. Below the condor were the words, “W R MINISTRY INF MA ION & C NICATIONS CENT “.
Striding across the square, the platoon suddenly halted at the report of what sounded like a semi-automatic rifle.
“Shit!” Corny exclaimed.
“Get to cover, now!” Suarez ordered.
Diving behind the corner of a collapsing pharmacy, the platoon huddled as Suarez eyed the plaza and strategized, looking to every open window and potential cavity to find the sharpshooter. As he poked his head around the corner, another snap, and a puff of exploded brick and mortar flew in his face.
Quickly brushing it off, Suarez got to work. “Alright, Atwater, you and Boulanger make your way to the bank across the street,” he said, motioning to the rotting stone structure some twenty paces away. “Tzarkowski, you and I will provide covering fire. Understood?”
They all nodded.
Just as they began to rise, a shout erupted from the communications center.
“Name and rank!” said the shout.
Suarez threw out his hand to block Corny and Frederic from moving further. He began to think.
“Name and rank!” the shooters repeated.
After a moment, the Lieutenant raised his hands and emerged from behind the pharmacy.
“Lieutenant Antonio Trujillo, 2nd Imperial Garrison of Hegeliopolis,” he replied.
A slow, menacing silence followed. The Lieutenant remained steady, his arms firmly upright, eyes darting across the building. The air hung heavy.
A rifle barrel slowly peeked from the darkness beyond the columns. As the figure emerged further, the sunlight revealed a gaunt, bewhiskered man covered in threadbare fatigues. From the odor emanating from him, the platoon could tell that he had not bathed in weeks, or perhaps even since before the War. His sinewy arms ended in narrow fingers, wrapped tightly around his weapon. Cautiously approaching the Lieutenant, the man slowly lowered his rifle barrel.
Eyeing Suarez inquisitively, he then slung his rifle back over his shoulder. After doing so, he snapped his heels together at full attention, and brought his closed, bony fist to his chest to perform the Imperial salute.
“Lieutenant Trujillo, my apologies,” the man said.
“No worries, corporal,” Suarez replied, no doubt seeing the rank emblazoned on the man’s stinking jacket.
“I’m just glad to finally have some reinforcements,” the corporal said.