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The Last
Countryman
Now my precarious life has become my only fortune. My future depends on the mercy of a dirty, poisonous wind that blows insatiable. My prosperity lies in a shelter among the ruins of a proud empire, now gone except for a few other souls who perhaps cling to an illusion of self-sufficiency. But even an illusion can’t survive the extinction of the last safe havens, refuges of the last luxuries left on this earth before the massive departure. I don’t know where the gentlemen of the final bourgeoisie are hiding now. Last night, the passing of an evening storm of acid rain surprised me as I sat on my dusty marble bench inside the base of the old obelisk, biting on the last piece of what was once--I think--an apple pie. A treasured meal from almost two weeks ago. The sight of my fellow survivor comforted me, as he rushed into my shelter away from the acrid sky, passing through the frame of the old machine that stands just inside the entrance. He came in alone, but I knew he hadn’t always been. For centuries, the destruction of his kind was wished, planned, and attempted by many. But his indomitable order was everywhere. They’ve always been everywhere. They are still everywhere, ubiquitous inhabitants of the shadows. That’s why they were drafted as ears and eyes of the enemy--which enemy? One of the many the old empire never lacked. Eventually, they also became surrogate soldiers, carrying with them one of the many weapons of civilized destruction. And, in the end, they may have become the only victors in a war of losers. The flashes of lightning showed him to the left of the old elevator, seemingly hesitant, but he didn’t remain there long. He approached a piece of piecrust he found in the darkness, where I had dropped it earlier. My eyes, long habituated to the shadows, followed him. Having reached the crumble, he remained immobile for a while. Suddenly, he began to carry it off somewhere under the rubble piled on the corner. I didn’t see him for at least half an hour, maybe more. Unexpectedly, after I’d finished eating my slice of pie, he again showed his miniscule head along with the rest of his shiny cape-wrapped body. He walked farther into my shelter, crawling on the dusty marble floor, heading towards me, but then stopped. He just stood in front of me, with his antennae swaying. A challenge, perhaps? The stand of the final triumph of his kind? Then, he began to shake. His “cape” sprang open, but he didn’t fly. His six thorny extremities began to jerk repeatedly. He turned himself upside down, his legs still jerking, but slower. The seconds went by. Finally, the last vital jolt came from his middle right leg, and there it lay. Still. I smiled. At the foot of the statue of the Great Founder, I still celebrate tonight on behalf of all the beloved countrymen now gone. I had found my comfort in last night’s realization that we were not alone in death. No. We were going to bring with us our miserable victory of consolation.
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