This Apocalyptic World Is Cassidy's Fault

Movement passes by in flashes. Pain throbs in my veins, ridiculing my body. Something soft is thrown over me. I fade in and out of consciousness, getting glimpses of the landscape. Crumbling ziggurats are partially collapsed with bricks spilling down the sides. Ancient cuneiform tablets are strewn about, their wisdom lost. The streets of Baghdad are lined with buildings damaged by earthquakes and tsunamis amongst collapsed souks and mosques. Abandoned tanks and military vehicles rust in the desert. Tattered fatigues caught on jagged metal edges flutter in the wind. Decaying pipelines, refineries, and derricks have been left to corrode in the sands, leaking lakes of oil. Scavengers pick at grotesque remains. The ruins of Babylon, once a sprawling metropolis, are now broken mud-brick walls and debris nearly swallowed by drifting sand dunes. Collapsed homes and shops lie in forgotten villages, household items and toys strewn among the rubble. Makeshift roadblocks and barbed wire obstruct broken highways as faded hints of militia control. Desolate checkpoint towers loom. Grounded fighter jets and helicopters rest eternally in the desert, sandstorms erasing their military sheen. Endless mass graves and burial mounds are only marked by scorched earth and circling vultures, lives reduced to landscape.

Then, the land echoing with history and pain, beauty and darkness drifting among the windswept ruins, changes. It’s slow and subtle, but it is change nonetheless.

Sand dunes slowly encroach on the roads and buildings of cities of partially collapsed skyscrapers. Shattered glass and steel remnants litter the streets. Abandoned mosques and palaces, once grand and ornate, are now eroded and stripped of many decorations. Intricate geometric patterns linger on remaining archways and minarets. Sand-buried highways and overpasses lead out into vast desert, only dots of rusting cars and trucks visible. Grounded aeroplanes and helicopters have been reduced to metallic skeletons in the sand surrounding decaying airports. Remnants of oil facilities, pipelines, storage tanks, and rigs have ruptured and corroded, pools of black oil seeping into the dunes. Cracked swimming pools and water parks are now empty basins accumulating windblown sand. Dirt coats once-colourful slides and fountains. Traces of oasis greenery in the form of date palms, cattails, and acacia trees persist near ancient wells, the foliage providing specks of living green amongst the desolation. There are faded roadside billboards in Arabic, some tipped over and half-buried in creeping dunes. Their slogans are unreadable. Stray camels, jackals, and falcons wander quietly amongst the ruins, returning to reclaim their native land.

Familiar muffled voices echo in my ears, blotting in and out of focus. Someone groans, complaining about how heavy I am. I hear faint snapping as fabric tightens a little around my chest. Muerte brushes against my legs as my bare feet drag in the sand. I groan slightly and try to speak. What comes out is the most hoarse guttural noise of exhausted pain I’ve ever made - the sound of a beast.

“Cass? ¡Dios mío, Cass! ¿Qué? ¡¿Qué estás tratando de decir?! Where’s- Adri, where’s your water?”

“Miguel, relájate. Give her a minute. Hang on, let’s set her down.”

My body gently digs into soft pale brown sand. The warmth travels from my back onto my face and torso. Something solid and hard supports my slouching body. I wince as I struggle to open my eyes again. Something presses to my lips. Cold liquid slides down my throat. I choke a little and cough on it, my eyes briefly snapping open. My head spins as I face the blue midday sky. Two figures stand over me, gradually coming into focus. The one crouching down to me has bright blue eyes and black wavy hair. The other one is blocking the sun with his head of curly dark brown hair, his dark brown eyes appraising me. We all have the same nose. I look between them. Their faces are rounder than mine and their eyebrows are still somehow neater too. I stare and realise in disbelief. I’m hallucinating, I’m dead- They’re dead! These are their ghosts. Santa mierda, de ninguna manera.

“¿Hermanitos?” I whisper.

Adrien smiles and Miguel waves a little. My eyes well up with tears again. “Hola, Cass-” one of them starts to say.

They don’t get to finish because I immediately pull them both into a hug. I try to crush them with how hard I hug, hoping that the pressure will be enough to convey how much I’ve missed them so I don’t have try and do it with words. I’m so happy to see them. I’m so happy to be alive. I’m going to be sick. I’m going to die. I can’t believe this is really happening. Neither of them moves, either too stunned by my sudden out-of-character action or incapable of movement from how tightly I’m grappling them.

“Argh! Y…you hug people now?” Miguel wheezes, awkwardly patting my bicep with his one free hand.

“No. This is the one hug you’re both getting from me for the rest of the year,” I say, my face wet with relieved tears. “I don’t care if it’s Christmas or your birthday or something else, this is the only one.”

After a moment, I smirk. Then I swivel them about so I can trap the two of their heads in the crook of my elbows between my biceps and forearms. Just like when we were kids! They groan and wriggle, trying their best to escape the casual headlocks they’ve been put in. Just to really annoy them, I try to wipe my tear stains on their skin.

“Ew! Argh, gross- Why’s your face wet?” Miguel cries.

I chuckle, allowing him to push my arms away as I let go. My eyes wander around and my eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Where the hell have you dragged me to?”

“Saudi Arabia,” Adrien answers with a polite smile. “Uh, well, what’s left of it, I should say.”

“Okay,” I grunt, forcing myself to stand, a shoulder against the wall that my back was leaning on, so I can properly take in my surroundings.

A makeshift city of tents is set up around the crumbling ruins of a mosque, its fallen minaret and collapsed domes providing shelter from the harsh desert sun. Mismatched tents and lean-tos are made from shredded fabric, plastic sheeting, and weighted down by bricks and debris. Bedouin-style tents stand alongside military surplus shelters. Guard towers watch over the camp perimeter, with searchlights powered by scavenged solar panels that are rigged together to generate power, connected by streams of salvaged electrical cables and wires. Armed lookouts keep watch for raider vehicles kicking up dust in the distance. Communal cooking pits lined with stones and metal grates sizzle with lizards, rodents, and vultures hunted for sustenance. An oasis pond provides fresh water, its edges trampled into mud. Children splash while women filter and purify the brown liquid, straining it through cloth. A makeshift mechanics garage houses a scratched-up flatbed truck to go on essential scavenging runs to unwalkable ruins. Scrap metal is piled up for repairs. Inside a crumbling school, tutors teach young children math with sticks drawing geometry in the dust. Elders pass down cultural traditions. Around flickering campfires that will light at night, musicians play traditional instruments to keep their culture alive with song and poetry under the endless desert stars.

Like Adrien and Miguel, the people here are dressed in layered robes, hijabs, and shemagh headscarves to protect from the harsh desert sun and sandstorms. The fabric is patched together, worn, and repeatedly repaired. Scarves, robes, and sashes are dyed in earthy tones of ochre, umber, and crimson via home-brewed natural pigments that later fade. Leather and canvas boots wrapped in cloth are common footwear, along with old flip-flops and sandals foraged from the ruins. Nomadic jewellery crafted from scavenged metals, plastics, bones, stones, and machine parts adorns wrists, fingers, ears, and necklines. The survivors here have skin that has leathered and darkened from the constant exposure to the sun and wind. Younger children’s faces are shaded by hoods and turbans and caps. Hair is cropped short or covered for men. Women have long plaits, braids, or buns wrapped in cloth. Some people have shaved heads due to heat. Elders have crow’s feet etched deeply at the corners. Their bodies are slim and muscular from the physical rigour of survival. Their calloused hands have been hardened by work. Some folks appear quite dusty and unkempt. Water is for drinking, not wasting; hygiene is a challenge. An air of grit, fatigue, and hardship fills the camp. Yet their eyes still gleam with defiant hope. Their eyes are also rimmed dark with elegant kohl around their eyes, like my brothers. I have to admit, eyeliner looks good on them.

As I stand against the light desert winds, I finally notice what was thrown over me. It’s a hooded knee-length cloak made of light brown linen with muted off-white accents, leather and canvas pouches, and a tan brown layer of loose woven mesh on top around the shoulders. The hood is lightly lined with the same tan brown. Matching stitching and sturdy leather ties too. Red and orange bògòlanfini cloth is stitched along the inner collar and the trim of the cloak. There are three wood toggles near the top and slits along the sides for my arms, making it really more like a poncho than a traditional cloak. Although, my brothers look to used sturdy ties and overlapping fabric to sort of patch in the sides, keeping as much sand and debris from entering. They’ve also wrapped sturdy fibre cloth around my forearms and calves, likely for protection when braving the ruins because they wear the same stuff. “Uh…why’d you give me a poncho?”

“We had too.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yes. Yes, in fact, we did.”

Miguel smirks slightly. “You were butt-ass naked when we found you, Cass.” He leans in closer on his tiptoes to whisper, “Nadie necesita o quiere ver tu trasero expuesto mientras te trajimos aquí. No queríamos que asustaras a los niños.” I lightly glare at his smirking face. He steps back with a mockingly bow. “You’re welcome.”

“…Gracias,” I mutter.

“You love me,” he smiles.

“No, I don’t, fuck off. Adri, you’re my only brother because you now also don’t have some horrendous attempt at a beard.”

“Wha- Hey!” Miguel exclaims and Adrien snorts, his face clean-shaven because he finds having a beard too much of a sensory issue that overpowers the joy he gets out of it.

“Gross. Can’t believe I wiped my face on that…”

“Aw, I love you too, Cass,” Adrien jokingly coos, very hesitantly putting an arm around me. “However, I do not love the fact that you stink. You look and smell like you haven’t had a shower for three months. Again.”

I shrug slightly. “Yeah, that’ll be the stench of burning bodies, Adri.”

He freezes for a second, then removes his arm and steps back a little. I smirk a little. But since I do genuinely reek of sweat and death and charred flesh, I follow my younger brothers to the nearest place where I can wash. It’s technically Adrien’s house but we go to Miguel’s instead, which is a little longer of a walk. Adrien doesn’t say exactly why we can’t go to his place but, based on his expression, I’d wager it’s something to do with just managing to get the kids to calm down finally. Fair enough; my presence would definitely rile them back up again and it is getting late. A family reunion can wait until, if not tomorrow, then at least later.

Miguel’s tent is no different to any of the other tents in appearance. The ceiling is patched and sagging in areas, letting in hot sunlight, and the fabric walls flap and breathe in the desert wind. The ground is covered in fraying mismatched rugs and blankets layered over the harsh sand and rocks to make a softer floor. Second-hand cushions and pillows line the walls for seating and sleeping. Some are decorated with Otomi-style embroidery, a little worn and faded. Shelves crafted from scavenged wood, metal, and plastic crates hold precious survival supplies: rationed food tins, jugs of filtered water, cooking pots, utensils. Handmade lanterns fuelled by salvaged oil likely provide a dim flickering light at night. Candles are rare treasures. An incense burner with fragrant herbs helps mask the stench of sweat, refuse, and cookfires that permeate the camp. Signs of daily life persist despite the in the form of cooking pots, mending baskets, and reading books. Miguel’s own personal possessions, however, consist of exactly one family photo and five different journals. He also seems to have been gifted a few religious texts and a prayer mat, and the triplets’ toys made from bottle cap skittles, wire cars, and rag dolls have been left here. He has far more decorative items scavenged from the ruins in the form of strings of old beads, coloured glass bottles, and painted pottery shards that add a bit of vibrancy.

The bathroom is one of the only rooms that’s physically separated by the clothing and fabric scraps that hang from cords stretched across the space, partitioned by curtains for privacy. The other is the bedroom. I guess, if you can call the space a bath “room”. I appreciate that it’s been sectioned off from the main living space by curtains and a tattered blanket though. The floor is covered in absorbent sandy dirt that can be swept out to dispose of waste. Polished metal fragments serve as basic mirrors for grooming. A basic makeshift toilet made from a plastic bucket is lined with a spare tire inner tube that can be sealed and removed once full. Adrien’s bathroom apparently has moulded plastic flooring that’s been scavenged from ruined buildings and a toilet crafted out of salvaged car seats with a pit dug underneath, but no plumbing so waste has to be manually removed. I’m guess his space is a little different because of his and Maria’s kids. Honestly, I’ve shit and pissed in worse spaces. 

For cleansing, there are jugs and basins of filtered water that are used sparingly. Reusable rags and torn fabric strips serve as towels. Soap, either scavenged or crafted from animal fat and crushed desert plants, is a rarity. Sand and ash are much more common abrasives for scrubbing skin. For washing clothes, laundry is done by hand in basins, scrubbed on washboards and hung up to dry in the arid air. The lanterns provide some light, but often it is dim. Windows are cut into the tent for ventilation and light. The space is cramped. Odours are difficult to avoid. But comforts like drapes, rugs and incense make it feel like home. The bathroom is simple and crude but vital for maintaining health and dignity amidst the apocalyptic hardship. I hum as I use my Commando dagger and an old razor to redo my pixiecut.

“Got your new clothes, Cass,” Adrien announces as he walks back in.

“Gracias,” I call as I dry off. “Hey, have you guys missed me while I’ve been gone? Like, did you wonder if I was dead?”

“Honestly? No.”

“No, not really.”

“¿Qué? ¿En serio?” I ask with a half-grin.

“…Ehh,” Adrien shrugs after a moment of silence. “Based on your track record, we both thought it's a given you’d survive the literal apocalypse.”

“Huh. I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not,” I say, moving the curtain slightly so I can stick my arm out and make grabby hands.

“I mean, it’s definitely not an insult,” Adrien replies, dumping a handful of cloth into my grip. “You can keep the poncho, by the way.”

I smirk a little to myself, the towel now loosely draped over my hair, as I shove my new clothes on. “How’d you guys find me?”

“The giant blast of light that looked like a nuclear explosion on the horizon was a pretty good indicator,” Miguel answers. “Which was then followed by a shockwave so intense that it was literally audible.”

“And, y’know…” Adrien glances down and briefly purses his lips at the German Shepherd lying on the floor. “Your service dog, Muerte.”