Book Shrine

The horn blows, shattering the air around the unexpected hero. The Hundred Companions waft from thin air, summoned by an ancient oath, pushing the invaders into the deep seas.

I close the book with a stupid grin of excitement on my face. I find it always so hard to finish a story, even when I know there’s going to be a follow-up book. Or there used to be. I haven’t been able to find the next entry on this saga, which makes reading the last pages even more exhilarating and painful.

Bear in mind I have not seen another human soul in more than two years. Okay, I’m lying. I did spot a group of scavengers a few months ago, but they carried guns and were banging on a door as if they had a personal vendetta against it. I was not going to introduce myself and hope they would be interested in a healthy and pleasant chat. 

Oh, the point I was trying to make. I rarely see other people around so the characters I read about are the closest I can get to good old human interaction. Don’t get me wrong, I was always a lone wolf, more comfortable left alone with my own thoughts and with my nose buried between printed pages. That was before. Before it all happened. No need for me to remind you. 

I can finish this book later. I have other stories waiting for me. But first, I need to fulfill my ritual. Some would say rituals are what has kept me sane for this long. I don’t know about that. I only know I like this. I feel like it’s the least I can do. I’m sure one day something will change. Someone will pick one up.

It’s a particularly warm day. Year after year the temperature keeps rising ever so slightly. It’s not as bad as right after the collapse, but it has definitely not improved either. But there’s no point dwelling in the past.

I make it to the end of the path, right where a mass of rubble and fallen trees block the way. It is a bit more complicated to walk through the thick forest, but it also ensures no vehicle will reach the house. Or at least that’s my hope. 

When I reach the road, I turn right as always. Lost as I usually am in my own thoughts, thinking about what the ending of the book could be, I nearly stumble upon the rusty metal sign of the bus stop. It keeps crumbling by the day, but the hard glass walls and ceiling still hold. That’s all I need.

I kneel down next to what once was a bright red plastic seat, where teenagers leaned on, eyes fixed on their tiny glowing screens; old ladies glanced at the end of the road, grabbing onto their thin wooden canes; and whatever else other flashy people used to do while waiting for their bus.

It is now a shrine. A Book Shrine. I built it myself some time ago. I have never been a handy person, but I am proud of my work. Not all my books are here. It’s the end of the world and I have been wandering the wasteland for nearly a decade, so yeah, I have accumulated -more like raided, but it’s not like anyone is going to claim them- hundreds of tomes.

I tend to display my favorite ones here. They change depending on my mood and new acquisitions. 

Something catches my eye. Something missing. Could it be? Am I losing my mind? Or… no. I am right. There’s a book missing! Did someone take it? I don’t know if I am impressed, proud, scared, or maybe a mix of the three. I instinctively look around, as if whoever has snatched my precious book could still be around, lurking by the bushes on the other side of the road, hiding under the thick shadowy mantle of the forest. Nothing. 

 I turn around dramatically to check the visible void on my book collection. I don’t need more than a mere second to realize which one is missing. The Stand, my favorite book by the one and only Stephen King. No other piece of literature could leave such a thick and noticeable empty space on my row of yellow dusty tomes. And I got the hardcover, so it is an item to behold. It could even be used as a weapon did the situation arise. 

Another detail instantly shuts my gaping mouth. A small strip of paper neatly rolled. I haven’t felt this rush in months, maybe years. The tingling on my fingers when I’m about to finish a book does not even compare. A note. Someone has left a note for me.

I grab it, hands shaking as if I was a teenager receiving his a love letter from a crush. I pull slowly, afraid to rip it and lose my first encounter with another sentient homo sapiens in a long time. It is a short text. Two full sentences. And a T.

Maybe not the most encouraging read for the time we live in, but I want to see if we nailed this whole apocalypse situation. Thanks for the book, by the way. T.

I am quivering. And smiling. T is funny, even though after years of isolation and wandering an empty dead world, rotten planks falling from the ceiling is a full comedy show for me. 

I walk back home, holding the note tight to my old ragged jacket. I run, more like it. I have to leave a reply, just in case the stranger comes back. Why would he? Or she? T…

I don’t want to spoil the book for you, T. Let’s say we did a good job of extinguishing the human race. I think Stephen King knew… Was he a time traveler maybe? Trying to warn us? T (as well).

I place the note in the same big empty hole, making sure a small edge of the paper is clipped under a book. I don’t want the wind to get rid of my one and only social interaction. I notice a wide grin on my face. My cheeks hurt. I think I have been smiling all morning. Silly.

The days pass and my note keeps waiting by the bus stop for something that might never come. Two, four days, a week. I don’t smile anymore. After eight long and painful days of me dragging my feet across the forest, I see it. The same neatly rolled paper. T’s handwriting is round and stylized, something surprising given the fact that it’s been more than a decade since the end of the modern world. Why would anyone remember how to properly write? Well, T does.

Sorry, T2. I didn’t know this was going to be a note exchange. My heart sinks when I read those painful words. And I going to be ghosted by the only other human being on the planet? But I’m cool with it. I like this. I am already halfway with the book. It’s big. Like the biggest book I’ve read so far kinda big. T.

He wants to keep talking! Writing. Noting? So I reply.

I guess we are pen pals now! It is a massive book! But definitely worth every single word. Do you also collect books? That’s cool. T2. 

I like this whole T2 thing. The only two people left in the world and we have the same initials…

We keep leaving tiny notes day after day. I make my short walk to the bus station every morning, the same wide beaming grin on my face. I spend the rest of the day thinking about whatever nonsensical and adorable thing my pen pal has written. I find it even hard to concentrate while reading, something I rarely experience. 

You see, the world is a very quiet place now. Yes, there are wild animals, but they mostly stay away from the small house I have claimed for myself. There are no cars, planes, music, or other people chatting. I long for the voice of another human, a laugh, the noise of someone in the next room tapping on the floor, shifting on the sofa. I’d give up all my stash of canned peaches to hear another person sneezing, snoring, or coughing, all those things once I deemed loud or annoying. I’d love to hear T’s voice.

With all of that in mind and a knot on my stomach, I leave another note. Short. To the point, but charged with my deepest emotions. Well, maybe not that much, but it’s all I dare to write.

I feel like I know you, like we have been friends forever. T2.

He replies the next day.

I feel the same! And I have to say you have a very good taste in books. I’m about to finish this one, but I have had some setbacks here. Things breaking and stuff. I will try to give it back in a few days. T.

He feels the same? What does that even mean? And he will return the book? What will happen then? Will the take another one? Will he walk away and keep on with his journey? I am about to melt my own brain with so many questions. I remove the cap on my pen.

No worries, you can take your time. Maybe we can meet then. There, I said it. I wrote it. Is it too soon? It’s not like I can just let this one get away and wait for the next surviving traveler to come by and grab one of my books. For real. In person. Not only in notes. Also, I consider you more than a friend. T2.

The next morning I walk with wary feet, like a defenseless rabbit under the vicious and hungry gaze of a fox. Do foxes eat rabbits? I guess. Well, in this example my feelings are the rabbit, and the possibility of T not answering is the sharp-toothed fox. Or lion. Or tiger. You get the point. But he does answer. Oh, how much I love the way T rolls those small white paper notes.

I feel the same. He has said that before. Have I been too pushy? Maybe I don’t know how to socialize anymore. Hey, it’s been a decade! I might have lost practice… But more than a friend? You have not seen me. What if I’m an ogre? Or a serial killer? T

I can’t figure out if that is the answer I expected or not, but it is an answer nonetheless. And I’m wearing my beaming smile again. I write back, allowing myself to dump all my feelings on the dark ink, knowing that this could mean a sweeping victory or a soul-shattering defeat. 

I don’t need to know everything, and I can always learn it over time, next to you. Holding your hand, if that is okay. I haven’t held hands in ages. PS. You can’t be a serial killer if I’m the only person for you to kill, sorry. T2. I try to draw a silly smiley face. Not sure if I succeeded.

I apparently did succeed, for the next day there’s another note. No defeat. But also no victory. He seems evasive. I don’t blame him. I look around. The road is quiet, only a deer in the distance, his eyes fixed on me. I wave and the deer starts marching right and left, evading rusty cars that populate the concrete like mushrooms after a rainy day. I usually ignore all the destruction left behind by a dead civilization that though it had everything under control. Today I decide to focus on the details, even though I know they will haunt me in my dreams at night.

There are dried up sinewy corpses covered in dirty ragged drapes that where once stylish colorful clothes. Glass and metal shards litter the floor, hiding among ever-growing lush flora that keeps claiming a world that was their home ages before we homo sapiens sapiens -one too many sapiens for our lack of judgment and respect- decided to take over everything. Discarded and lost items decorate the ruined skeleton of human civilization: plastic toys covered in vibrant green moss; crumbling leather purses and synthetic backpacks open like a bloated rotting corpse, showing its forgotten contents to the world…

I shake my head before I end up crying. This is the reason I stopped noticing the details a long time ago. There is no point, no real need. I look down and realize the note has a dark stain. A single tear diluting the ink. Damn it! I cried again. I sniff loudly and read the note again. 

That is cute. Dunno how holdable my hands are. They are rough and dirty most of the time. Perks of no running water and lack of decent soap. T.

A few more drops fall on dry ground while I write an answer. My pen has been acting up lately. I have way more in a box back home, but hopefully, I don’t need to start a new one. Hopefully, I can talk to T without the need to wait an entire day. 

More like perks of the end of the world. Or the beginning of a new one, depends on how you want to see it. And I think it’s cute that you keep avoiding my way too forward suggestion of meeting. T2. Another smiley face. This time I nail it.

A loud cracking noise wakes me up. My heart skips a beat. More like twenty, if I’m being honest. It’s already bright outside, an amber light coating the wall opposite to the bed. I jump and walk downstairs to see what’s going on, baseball bat in hand. Perfect. A great way to start my day…

It’s been pretty windy for the past two days, and I have already seen one of the threes next to the house bouncing back and forth. Well, today the tree decided it was time to lay down for a nap, and it chose the outer wall of my kitchen to do so.

I spend all morning trying to secure as much as I can in the kitchen before I push the tree trunk out of the way. It’s not as bad as it seems. Just a few bricks and wooden planks that need some rearranging and replacing. The scare I had that morning with all the loud banging and abrupt wake-up alarm shy in comparison to my evening panic. It’s late, the sun has long started its descent. I have never before missed the morning note exchange. This is a debacle. The end of the world. I snort at the thought of that. How silly. I’m sure it will be fine. I still run all the way to the bus stop. Not quite, not all the way. I stop on my tracks when I see it.

A figure. Tall, in an over-sized green puffy jacket. Tight jeans that do not hide a nice firm lower half of the body, all ending in a pair of thick leather boots. The only thing I see is a back and lots of clothes. 

My inner survivor is telling me -yelling- to run away and never come back.

“Oh, hello,” I say, slapping the inner survivor in the face with my shy whisper. 

The figure turns around, and a pair of glistening sapphire eyes stare directly at me. A smile lifts those plump lips, revealing a mesmerizing set of white teeth. Toothpaste is the kind of thing that never seems to expire, so even after this many years, I have a nice varied collection to choose from. 

“Hello, T,” my not-pen-pal-anymore replies, deep voice threatening to shatter my already dizzy head. “I finished the book.” A hand wrapped in a dark glove with a hole at the tip of the index finger waves the colossal weight of The Stand.

“What did you think of it?” Why am I even asking this? “Did you like it?”

“Yeah.” A bit too long. I would have rather read a shorter book so we could have met earlier.” Is that another smile? Yes, it is. And do I hear flirting? I can feel my cheeks tensing as well, and I am sure my grinning face looks just creepy and dumb, but I don’t care.

The other glove-covered hand -no holes this time- lifts closer towards me. “Wanna help me pick up my next book?”

I am speechless. My heart is beating like never before. Not that I remember, at least. I grab that hand, feeling the warmth even through the black woolen glove. I glance up, clashing with those ice-blue but somehow smoldering eyes. I see kindness. 

I nod. That is all the answer I can give. “You can call me Tyler, by the way. T and T2 can get confusing.” He says while he follows me towards my Book Shrine. 

“I am Thomas,” for once my voice comes out strong as if it has finally woken up after a long slumber. No more talking to myself, no more endless evening reading until the sun sets behind the lifeless mountainous horizon. 

We can both stop living vicariously through the stories of long-gone poets and writers, of characters made out of ideas and ink. We can write our own story. Together. The last two men on Earth. That is a good title. Maybe not as suggestive and to-the-point as The Stand, but I am no Stephen King. I am just a survivor finally holding hands.