A better world 5
A better world 5: those days are all gone
Society has fallen, after a plague killed many anthros. Jack, an anthro Lion, believed he was the only one living in his village. (Not everyone in the village died - however, the survivors all left, most of them seeking to reunite with family far away.) Jack found, and adopted, a stray dog - a feral Bullmastiff named Hunter. Later, Jack discovered that two more anthros were still living in the village - Marcus, a young Rottweiler, and Gunnar, a Pit Bull.
**
Gunnar and I began searching the village just after breakfast. Hunter came with us, of course - he followed me everywhere, and I was glad to have his company. We began with the farmhouses which were spread out along the western edge of the village. We figured that if any anthros were "hiding" somewhere - that is, if they were staying in the village but hadn't yet said hi to us - the farmhouses were a good place to check first. After all, each house was surrounded by a huge, sprawling lawn - and some still had farmland, too. As well, some of those old houses were set far back from the road. All in all, if someone wanted to keep a low profile, and have some privacy, this part of the village would be a great place to stay.
"Personal question?" Gunnar asked me, as we approached the first house.
"Sure," I replied, startled. Gunnar hadn't asked any of those yet.
"Marcus said you were thirty-eight. I'm just curious, because you sure don't look it."
"Well, thanks," I said. "I am indeed thirty-eight. I was born in the spring of 1950."
"I'm not that far behind you," the Pit Bull smiled. "Twenty-eight."
"You look younger," I noted, briefly surveying his face.
We'd arrived at the front door of the old, weathered house. It wasn't locked. We went inside, and we saw that the owners had turned the front room into the dining room, even though it wasn't connected to the kitchen. Four plain chairs were stacked up in a corner. The table, however - massive and thick - was laying on its side. Gunnar knelt down and began lifting that massive, solid beast, trying to set it back up on its four thick legs.
"Need help?" I asked, concerned. The table looked like it'd been carved out of the largest tree ever. How much did it weigh?
Gunnar didn't reply, he just grunted, softly, as he got the table back upright.
I noticed his muscles, rippling under his dark, gray Pit Bull fur. He was wearing a very old and very faded sleeveless tee.
"That's better," he said.
We made short, quick work of searching the house. Each of us took a floor, and then we searched the basement together. There were no signs that anyone had been living there since the owners had fled several months ago. After that, it was on to the next house. And then the next. I tried to focus on the task at hand, which was looking for signs of a squatter (or more than one?). I tried to not feel - or think - too much. There was just something . . . depressing about those empty houses. The anthros who'd been living in them had all left, suddenly, quickly. Some had died. The rest had left the village.
Either way - death or choosing to leave - everyone had left things behind, because they'd had to, because they'd left so quickly. Furniture, of course. And clothes, and televisions, and stereos. Books. Personal items, as well, like souvenirs, photos, knick-knacks, collectibles. All in all, those houses painted a portrait of a life interrupted. A life abandoned. Whatever hopes and dreams the anthros of the village had - either for themselves or for their loved ones - well, they were all gone. Whether they had been living the lives they wanted to, or they had been working towards attaining those lives, the anthros who'd lived here, in these houses, in this village, had had to give up everything. Because the world had changed. Because of the plague.
**
Searching those houses turned out to be easy - but also time consuming, because they were spread so far apart.
In the last house we searched, we stood a moment, looking around a dust-covered living room, tastefully decorated with semi-expensive furniture. There were many family pictures on the walls, which I would not look at. The television set was huge, and bookshelves flanked both sides of it. The books, I noted, ranged from paperback thrillers to leather-bound classics.
"We looked at this house, when it was for sale," Gunnar said. "Um, my wife and I. We looked at this place, once."
It was the first time he'd mentioned a wife, and he looked uncomfortable, as though revealing something personal wasn't easy for him.
"Yeah?"
"It was years ago. This place looks a lot better now," Gunnar said. "It was a mess, back then. Guess whoever bought it fixed it up - and cleaned it up, too."
"Did you find a house?" I asked.
"Nah, we ended up staying in our apartment. This was - us, looking for a house, it happened way back, when we first got married. We had all these dreams, back then." Gunnar said, a bit sharply. A look of anger crossed his face, briefly, then was gone. "You know what happened? The same thing that always happens - reality kicked in. We decided to put off getting a house for a while."
I didn't know what to say. Gunnar seemed tense, either from revisiting his past, or from telling me about his past - I wasn't sure which. We went through a dining room stuffed full of furniture - hutches loaded up with fragile glassware, glass-fronted cabinets full of dinnerware, a big table and many chairs. Next was the kitchen. The appliances were coated in dust.
"My wife died, from the plague," Gunnar said, suddenly. He picked up a random fork, which was simply sitting alone on the kitchen counter. He held up a hand before I could say anything. "We were in the middle of getting a divorce. We didn't - we didn't love each other, not anymore. Of course, I still cared about her." He dropped the dusty fork, wiped his hand on his jeans. "Most days, I don't think about her at all. I don't know if that's good or bad."
"I"m sorry to hear about that." I didn't know what else to say.
"Thanks," Gunnar said, simply.
"I don't know what happened to my ex - if he got the plague or not," I blurted out.
"Oh?" Gunnar raised an eyebrow, curious.
"He moved to San Francisco," I said. "After our breakup. This was last - no, wait - two years ago. We'd drifted apart, I guess. The change happened slowly - we didn't see it until, well, until it was too late. We just got to a point where we both wanted different things in life."
"That sucks," Gunnar said. "What did he want?"
"He had this job - career, really - that he really enjoyed, and they wanted him to transfer to San Fran. And me, well, I wanted what I already had. My life in New York City."
"So what brought you here?"
"Burn out," I said, quietly. "I got burned out, living in the city. Plus my job imploded, and all my friends moved away. Eventually, it was time for me to move away, as well. And my aunt had a house here that I could rent, so . . ."
"And then the plague hit," Gunnar smiled. "Life is funny, huh?"
"Gods, yeah," I returned the smile.
I glanced over at the Pit Bull. He seemed relaxed - all the tension was gone from his posture. His smile of a moment ago had lit up his face, all of it, including his eyes. I didn't see him like that very often.
**
Outside, Hunter ran around the large yard, getting some exercise. Idly, I picked up a stick and tossed it, for him to fetch.
"Before we go, I'm gonna take a whiz on that tree over there," Gunnar said. "One good thing about the apocalypse, right? You can piss anywhere."
As Gunnar relieved himself, I realized we'd had our first real conversation - we'd actually talked about personal things. I thought about his ex, and I fought back a wave of sadness. So many lives lost, so much of our "old" world gone . . .
I thought about _my _ex. Was Nick still alive? Out there on the west coast, with his new friends? I hoped so.
I threw the stick again, and Hunter - that big, feral, friendly Mastiff, chased after it, a look of pure delight in his eyes.
**
When we got back to the pub, Marcus was outside, perched in a plastic lawn chair. As usual, he wore a pair of oversized, baggy shorts - this particular pair was a rioting chaos of blues and purples.
"Dudes! I heard a car," Marcus said, when I was halfway out of the passenger side of Gunnar's old pickup truck.
"Really?" Gunnar said, sounding doubtful.
"Yes, really," Marcus apparently missed the note of doubt in Gunnar's voice. "Just a little while ago. And I know it wasn't this old heap -" He nodded towards the pickup. "This hunk of junk makes a _very _distinctive sound. You know?"
"I know," I said. "Where'd you hear it?"
"It must've been just a couple of blocks away. I ran over there, ran around looking for it like an idiot. I think I yelled out 'hello' a couple of times, too."
"You know what I'm gonna say," Gunnar looked grim. "If there is someone else out there, they might be friendly - but they might not be. We should be careful."
"You sound like my dad," Marcus joked, smiling wickedly.
"I"m cool with that. Besides, if there is someone out there, they might the one - or ones - who took my firewood."
"I didn't think about that," Marcus' smile faded.
"Well," I said, "If they're driving around, I guess they're no longer trying to stay hidden."
"Should we keep searching?" Marcus asked. "I was going to join you for the next round."
"We should," Gunnar nodded, decisively. "After lunch."
"Great, 'cause I'm starving," Marcus said. "I know Hunter's hungry - aren't you, boy?" He patted the big feral's head with affection.
"If you're coming with us, you should put on some shoes," Gunnar noted.
"Yes, dad," Marcus' wicked smile was back.
As we went into the pub, I found myself listening for any sounds that might be traveling through the air. There was nothing, except for the occasional bird. Who else was out there? I wondered.
And why wouldn't they show themselves?