There were people everywhere you looked. So many of them – you wouldn’t believe how many. And all full to stinking of life and sin. Boundaries were murky, borders were crossed willy-nilly, the abundance of riches and luck so overflowing that parsing it out was a fool’s game.
Even the dead seemed not quite so dead. People died, and they were hidden away from the eyes of man – enclosed in boxes or burned to subtle ash, kept present in the form of photographs on mantelpieces, home videos that denied death, counteracted it. Technology a contraindication of death. To swim in radiant pools of life, death made abstract and commercial. A notion of the mind, Moses recalls. A pretty little idea spawned in goddamn kid dreams.
But now the dead are everywhere as the living were before – and now can be observed all the fleshly moods of death, the tearing skin, the bluish hue of rot, the muddy eyes, the crustiness of dried sputum, the salty white of chancre and peel, the acrid, biting smell of organic decay. Now, even though the dead walk as the living do, the lines are clearer between death and life. You may know little, you may know next to goddamn nothing, but at least now you can see what you are and what you are most definitely not. Moses is intimate with death – he lives in its company every day, and what he knows is that death ain’t a floating up to cloudy heaven, no angel wings and toiletpaper-soft robes and dulcet harp-playing. No, instead it’s a slow crawl of atrophied muscle and the vestigial instincts of our most piss-poor appetites. That’s the face of death.
But still and all – now there is meaning in the goodness of things. Now does order signify, because now it matters. Now you can see with clear vision the difference between good and bad, between life and death, between should and shouldn’t. And there are forces, ambling armies on the earth, that are there to take a bite out of your soul at your electing to transgress.
And it’s true – the right has never been more beautiful, has never been bolder in the colour of sunrises over the blasted plains.
Moses was blind to it before, but now he runs his palms along the underbellies of the aeroplanes, like an honest supplicant to the altar of righteous ingenuity. People didn’t use to be able to fly, and so they built wings. And now those wings are clipped, people gone to ground – but the artifacts of majesty remain, all the more beautiful for their inutile splendour.
Now there is much to appreciate in the perfectly curved surfaces of human architecture. And so he wishes he were an artist or a craftsman – someone to build things and name them names.
What’re you doin? Abraham asks.
Nothin, Moses says, startled. Come on. Let’s collect what there is to collect.
*
At the end of one runway is an overturned plane, its fuselage bent and cracked in the middle. There are bodies, long ago dried up, but they have been taken care of. Every one of them has a gunshot wound in the skull. They hunch over, some still buckled in, even though they and their clothes have become indistinguishable from the upholstery upon which they sit.
A breeze blows through the massive metal straw, and Moses can see the filaments of hair on these dead skulls whipping to and fro like blades of summer grass.
Bleak pastoral.
But the broken plane has been picked through before. Abraham finds some packets of ibuprofen in one of the seat-back pockets and a set of dried-up watercolour paints in the pink backpack of one of the little girl corpses.
What’re you gonna do with those? Moses asks.
I don’t know. Maybe take up paintin. Maybe it’s an artist’s eye I got.
You mean the one eye that ain’t beat shut from your debauchery?
But Abraham remains unfazed.
That’s the one, he says.
Emerging again from the fuselage onto the tarmac, Abraham runs a hand over his scruffy chin and considers the massive terminal in the near distance.
I bet there are some treasures to be found in there, he says. All shut up tight away from prying hands other than ours.
Moses too looks at the terminal.
Look at all those windows, he says.
So? his brother asks.
We’re off the grid here. You notice any lights last night?
No.
Me neither.
Moses knows that where the population is dense enough to be strategic, there are people barricaded in power stations, keeping segments of the power grid alive. There are even a few who have managed to recapture and run refineries. Corpus Christi is one Moses has seen with his own eyes. Gas and electric. Infrastructure. Humanity clawing back some of what was taken from it.
But between those oases of civilization, there are vast wastelands of dark – and it is in these places that the settlers have reverted to primal frontier living.
If you were gonna take up residence in this area, Moses continues, wouldn’t you want to do it in a stronghold that’s got unbreakable glass walls and all the light you need?
Oh, Abraham responds. You think there’s people in there? People who don’t care for the scavenging likes of us?
What do you think, little brother? You feelin watched?
Always, Abraham says. But usually by you. Anyway, if it ain’t been co-opted, that makes it prime co-opting for us.
So they find a way in, bashing in one of the maintenance doors and climbing their way up an unlit concrete stair until they come through a door and into the terminal building proper. Inside, there are very few signs of disturbance – almost as if the place were shut up and made relic before the chaos of the dead had a chance to crumble it.
The light coming through the tinted panes of glass all around is dimmed to a faint blue that’s almost like sweetness, and over everything is a thin coating of dust, the settling of the air itself as though time makes all things – even breath – palpable and falling.
They pass a number of gates until they arrive in an open area that Moses recognizes as what used to be a food court. Above is a mezzanine level, but both escalators leading up to the balcony are barricaded with heavy chairs, tables, vending machines, barbed wire and other debris.
What’s all that for? Abraham wonders.
Don’t know, Moses replies. Ain’t no other signs of skirmish. Could be this was a last stand. But if it was, then where’s the bodies?
Et up?
You ever seen a slug eat someone so clean and mannerly they leave no trace? They ain’t the napkin-usin type.
So what’s all this then? Abraham asks again.
This time he’s answered not by his brother, but by a megaphone voice from the balcony above.
I’ll tell you what it is, the screeching voice says. It’s a couple of addlepates tryin to elbow in on what’s mine.