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Chapter 0: The Fool

As usual, I was the first one to wake up. I had to piss, but the need wasn’t urgent, so I lingered in bed for a moment. The night air had turned warm, so I’d slept on top of the sleeping bag rather than in it. As I lay there, putting off (for a moment) getting up and going for a piss, I looked at the web of cracks that ran along the ceiling like lines on a map.

And then Rex sat up and yawned. He, too, had slept on top of his sleeping bag. Sitting with his legs sprawled casually, he lifted his arms and stretched. He noticed I was awake.

“Hey,” he said. “Sleep okay?”

“Yeah. You?”

“No dreams, at least, none that I remember.”

Rex stood up, yawning again. The front of his underwear tented out a bit, a sign of early morning tumescence.

“Want to be first in the bathroom?” he asked. “Or should I go for it?”

“Go for it,” I replied, sitting up.

Rex went into the bathroom, leaving the door open. Neither of us ever closed the door. I stood and gathered up my sleeping bag.

I looked around the room - the door was still locked, I could tell, and the filing cabinet we’d pushed in front of it was still there. This was becoming habit - every morning, it seemed, I looked around to make sure things were as they should be. I didn’t even think about it. I just did it.

The sound of Rex urinating bounced off the bathroom tiles, then it made its way into the one-room office where we were taking shelter. I listened, as the sound flowed then ebbed. Eventually, I heard the last few drops splash down.

I went into the bathroom, where Rex was using bottled water to brush his teeth and splash water on his face. I pissed into the toilet, which was still full of Rex’s urine. This, too, was now habit. We flushed as few times as possible. When I was done, I used the bucket full of rainwater to flush the toilet. Rex was still standing in front of the sink, only now he was running a damp towel over his fur.

Rex was twenty-two, a year older than me. He was a tallish, slender Great Dane. I can tell you he was my first anthro friend, and I suppose I should explain that.

As it happens, the explanation is easy.

I grew up in the North.

The small town I’d grown up in had been humans only. Not officially, of course - the town, like most of the others in the North, had “accepted” the laws of the New Reform. Thus, the town, like most of the others in the North, “welcomed” anthros into its midst.

Not that any anthros ever visited. Nor did any anthros move there.

Why should they?

I’ve just noticed that I wrote the town instead of my town - well, that makes sense. First of all, I was raised by progressive and independent parents who taught me to question things. Second of all, I fled when I was sixteen.

I grew up there, but after I fled I did not look back. Was it ever really my town? I never believed in the things the town’s ruling elite believed in.

And now you may be wondering why - if I left home at sixteen - I didn’t have any anthro friends until I was twenty-one. A fair question. I did meet anthros, of course, in the army. In training camp, when I was sixteen, my commanding officer was an elderly Fox looking forward to retirement, and there were (of course) anthros of various kinds in my company.

But . . . I was eventually assigned to a humans-only unit. Humans only, because it had been tasked with infiltrating groups affiliated with the Insurgency. Obviously, the worst of the Insurgents would attack (or even kill) anthros on sight. The work I did with that unit was hard, and troubling, and took up all my time. I missed out on a lot of the crazy things that were happening in the world.

And then . . . after - shit - how much detail should I go into?

I will say this. My work with that unit, infiltrating Insurgents, ended when I was critically injured. There. That is sufficiently vague. I spent nearly a year recovering at a high school turned into a military hospital. I met many folks there, humans and anthros alike, and I suppose some of those folks were almost friends. But we were, all of us, learning to live with both physical and emotional trauma. Trying to heal ourselves, some of us formed quick and easy friendships - because those friendship, that contact with others, helped with the healing process.

Others, at the hospital, like myself, found it easier to heal alone. I talked to folks, of course. There were folks - humans and anthros - whom I talked to everyday. Folks I hung out with, watched movies with, shared army stories with.

But were any of the folks I met there truly friends?

I suppose I should also say this. I hadn’t just been injured. I’d also been taken captive - very briefly, I should point out. For less than a week, actually. The experience made me want to push folks away. At the hospital, like I said, there were indeed folks I talked to each and every day. But, to do so, I had to fight against a new and powerful need to push folks away.

Rex gathered up his sleeping bag.

“We still have some coffee, in the thermos,” I pointed out. “And a bit of ice in the cooler.” I reached for the two cups we had.

“Nice,” Rex nodded. Then he smiled. “Never thought I’d be drinking cold coffee - with ice in it, even. And liking it! Cold coffee is like breaking the rules, or - I don’t know - going against the will of the gods. But here we are.”

“Life has taken a strange turn, into strange territory.”

“Don’t I know it,” Rex said with an amused smile.

“I grew up with hot coffee in the winter, and cold coffee in the summer, actually. Did I ever tell you that?”

“That’s not natural,” Rex laughed, making a joke.

I handed him a cup, and we sat down in the only two chairs we had.

The office where we’d taken shelter was a bit on the small side, but it was comfortable. There was a kitchen in one corner, and the bathroom was spacious. The office was just one big room, plus the bathroom, with one window and one door. When we’d found it, all the furniture was gone, except for the two chairs and the one filing cabinet.

At night, we would keep the window covered with a sheet, so no one could see the light of our candle. After we blew out the candle, however, as we got ready for bed, we’d take the sheet down, so the cool air could come in.

“So what are we doing today?” I asked.

“I’d love to take a shower. Do we need to go find more food?”

“We have enough for - let’s see -” I looked at the bags we’d set on the floor. “Two more days, I’d say.”

“Any oranges left?”

“Just a few apples.” I handed one to Rex, and I took one for myself.

Rex paused between bites to sniff his armpits. He made a comic and exaggerated expression.

“Yeah,” he said. “I should really take a shower.”

“We could try the clinic on Jasmine street,” I suggested. “There’s a chance no one’s gone in there yet, because it’s so hidden, and the generator is probably still working.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“Sometimes I get those.”

Rex tossed the core of the apple towards the box we were using for trash. The core bounced off the edge and rolled across the floor.

“Gods damn it,” Rex said, amused and laughing.

He stood and stretched again, and went looking for the apple core.

As for me, I glanced out the window at the fallen city, the fallen world. The day was bright and somewhat warm. I’d been in good shape, mentally, for nearly two months. Meeting Rex had helped with that.

I wasn’t brimming with confidence, or anything like that, and I certainly wasn’t optimistic about the future.

But I was looking forward to the day ahead, as I sat there, finishing my coffee and looking out the window. After what I’d been through recently, that was all I needed.