No One of Consequence
Sylvester’s hand slid carefully through the rubble. His fingers gently traced the edges, corners, and surfaces of all they touched. They tried in vain to paint a tactile picture for his brain to piece together. But it was too dark to see and blood had swallowed Sylvester’s eyes days ago.
Nothing felt familiar.
Everything around him was shattered.
Sylvester reached further, stretching his arm and shoulder and back to lengthen his reach. Immediate and fiery pain in his chest and ribs retracted his arm for him. Uncontrolled coughing burned further. Until Sylvester’s muscles all slackened in uniform defeat.
Sylvester spit blood and tried to calm his ragged breathing.
Nothing helped.
Everything in him seemed shattered.
The great beam that pinned Sylvester down didn’t feel so heavy now. His feet didn’t feel so cold. In fact, Sylvester couldn’t feel them at all. Even the burning throughout his body had begun to melt away, replaced by a blossoming numbness.
Sylvester knew what was coming. He was bleeding out slowly. He was starving. He was dying.
He had no regrets, though. Not with his life. He just wished Margaret was there. He didn’t want to die alone.
Where is she? Did she survive? Or was she one of the many victims in the contest of the gods?
Fatigue dulled Sylvester’s thoughts as sleep threatened to take control.
A sound interrupted the descent into oblivion. It was distant and soft at first. But it grew louder and closer in steady succession.
Horror gnawed at Sylvester’s stomach like the rats he feared were coming. Wilmington was that way.
Soon the noise became too loud to be animal.
It’s a person! Margaret, maybe? A rescue party? Is the battle finished? Am I saved?
Sylvester opened his mouth to shout. Pain denied him. Coughing and choking came out instead. Sylvester turned his head to spit up the blood that had pooled in the back of his throat, fighting all the while the terror of asphyxiating on his own life juices.
The human sounds came closer. Sylvester’s coughs and fits had succeeded where his attempt to talk had failed. His pain had been heard.
“Hello? Is somebody there?”
The voice was quiet. Hesitant.
With the surge of adrenaline’s fire, Sylvester reached his hand up and pushed against the broken boards and drywall and insulation that covered him. Dust and dirt and pulverized plaster rained down. Sounds on the other side confirmed that someone was digging him out.
Oh, praise God!
Sylvester’s arid tears leaked through the cracks of the dried blood that covered his face, only to be absorbed by the filth that had settled atop every still surface. The ruddy driblets formed tiny pearls of dross that clung to Sylvester’s pallid cheeks, hidden in plain sight amidst the backdrop of Sylvester’s dark skin.
The sounds grew louder now, right above him.
“Oh, God!”
It was the stranger’s voice. Close now. Filled with shock. And fear.
Sylvester reached his hand out to feel, hoping to touch human skin once more before he died. Only empty air answered back.
“How long have you been here?”
Sylvester’s hand shot out again, rebelling against the pain and grasping desperately in the direction of the faceless, formless voice. His hand gripped cloth, and beyond that, flesh—alive and warm, even through the weave of fabric.
Sylvester wept some more.
“Hold on there, friend. Hold on. I won’t go anywhere. But I don’t think I can get you out from under there. Even if I had my strength.”
The voice was sincere, but wary. And tired.
“Can you talk? Can you see? Oh my, you are in a bad way, aren’t you?”
Sylvester felt a dry hand touch his own in tender reassurance.
“Don’t worry. I’ll stay with you to the end. It won’t be long now, will it?”
Sylvester shook his head.
It won’t be long at all . . .
“Well, sad to say, friend, I’m not too far behind you. Not if I don’t find some clean water or food. You don’t have any, do you?”
Sylvester used his hand to feebly point in the direction of what he thought was his kitchen. He then grabbed again for comforting companionship. The stranger took hold quickly. Mercifully.
“What? Where were you pointing? Oh, was this your home? You must not know. It’s just rubble now. All of Wilmington has been leveled. Well into the suburbs. Never in its history has it been so battered. Not through storm or tornado. Not through fire or riot. Not through recession or depression. There is little left. And fewer left alive to see it.”
Sylvester heard the man shift nearby and felt his body move and then sink.
He’s sitting.
“I don’t mind staying a bit. I’m tired of searching anyway. There’s nothing to find. Everything and everyone is either scorched or soaked or both. Only the vermin and the dogs have food to eat and water to drink—they don’t mind dining on sewage.”
The man gently patted Sylvester’s hand, as if to pass the time.
“You were quite close to the action. Did you see it? Did you see them?”
Sylvester shook his head, no. He had not witnessed anything but the warning on the news. A brief statement by a terrified anchorwoman and then everything went black.
Sylvester tried to think. Tried to remember. He had been making dinner. Margaret was to come home soon and he preferred to be sitting and ready so they could eat right away. That night he had made fajitas—Margaret’s favorite. Sylvester didn’t know why he had made them. It wasn’t a special occasion. They weren’t in a fight. He guessed he had gotten the idea at work earlier that day. He had been cleaning out the offices at the Hercules building and one of the attorneys was eating fajitas. They made him think of Margaret.
“Wouldn’t she be tickled to see them fajitas?” he thought. And then he pictured her eyes after a long day at the clinic. He thought maybe he’d get lucky afterwards . . . if her day wasn’t too stressful . . . and if she wasn’t too tired.
But it didn’t happen. None of it. Sylvester never finished making dinner. Margaret never came home.
The stranger’s voice dragged Sylvester back to the present.
“I saw it, you know. The beginning. I saw them. The battle. The destruction. The victory. I had a front row seat. Not by choice, mind you. And I didn’t see everything. Flashes as they passed. But enough! I would have fled with the rest. But I got stuck. Don’t know how I survived. I’m not sure it’s for the best. But here I am. Alive to tell the tale.”
Sylvester pulled weakly—but anxiously—at the man’s hand.
“You want me to tell you?”
Sylvester nodded.
Silence means death approaching. Sound means I’m still alive. A human voice means I’m not alone.
The stranger shared his tale.
“I saw the man before the chaos. Before hell spilled into Wilmington. He was at Rodney Square. Normal looking guy. White guy with blond hair wearing khakis and a sweater. He had a lanyard around his neck. Some kind of ID inside it. He was a little overweight. Soft. Like he worked a desk job, right? I remember because he was sitting on the bench, watching everybody. But you could tell in his face that he was angry. Disgusted. By all of us.
“He was the first thing I saw when the bus driver yelled at me to wake up. I had fallen asleep on the way to the clinic. I apologized—as I always do—and started getting off. But I ran right back after the white guy stood up and started yelling. I didn’t quite hear what he was angry about. We’re all a glut on some system or other. We’re leeches. We’re a disease. You know, the usual.
“It wasn’t what he said that made me run. The person next to him exploded. Right there! Some young thug. Red mist followed by pink rain. Gone!
“Everybody freaked out. And there were a lot of people. It was the morning rush. They were screaming and pushing and running. One by one they exploded. Pop! Pop! Pop! A sizzle and a pop! That’s right. Sizzle. Pop!
“It didn’t end there, though. Someone had a gun. Maybe it was a cop. Maybe not. I don’t know. There was still a crowd. Many of them. People bunched in pockets and trying to flee. Climbing over each other to escape. But I heard the gunfire. Must have been a whole clip. The god didn’t go down. Didn’t even flinch. He turned and raised his hand. He stepped toward one of those pockets. And flash! Everyone exploded. Everything exploded. The people. The benches. The trees. The pavement. Powder and sludge sprayed over everything.
“My bus driver decided he had had enough and tried to drive away. But the god was still angry. At everyone. At everything. So he started blowing it all up! Cars. Buses. Statues. Buildings. Everyone inside them. Everyone near them. Pedestrians. Cops. Men. Women. White people. Black people. Dogs. Pigeons. Everything.
“My bus went quickly. I don’t know how I survived. I guess I had gone to the back. There was a yell. Then a pop. Then everything spun. I got knocked and rocked and thrown. Next thing I knew I was out in the open, my leg stuck under the bus’s engine. My head was fuzzy and I hurt real bad.
“But I was there for it. I watched it.
“The cops couldn’t do nothing. No matter how many cops. No matter how many guns. No matter how many bullets. They tried driving cars into him. They tried throwing grenades at him. He destroyed them all. And then he moved to the buildings, blowing them apart one chunk at a time. But taking his time, you know? Like he enjoyed tearing it all down. Bit by bit. First the old courthouse. Then the library. Then the DuPont building. Then Wilmington Trust. He’d raise his hand. There’s be a sizzle. Then a burst. And then nothing but dust and rubble sprayed everywhere. No one bothered him. There was no one left.
“Until the army arrived. It was probably an hour later. Maybe more. I don’t know. But they had the same luck as the cops. Only difference was they took longer to die. There were more of them. For hours they kept coming. Kept fighting. And he kept killing them. Popping them. Sizzling them. It was horrible. All those young men and women. All those children. Gone in one flash after another.
“Then the god went right back to destroying the city. One building after another. One piece at a time. In a circle around him. Real organized like.
“That’s when he found me. He had circled around. Destroyed everything. I can only assume he was about to start another circle. But he walked back to the center of everything. Where it started. Maybe to take a look at his handiwork? Maybe just to find survivors? I don’t know. But he found me.
“I wasn’t the only straggler he found, either. He had found others before me. He had popped them all. He did it real slow. And with a smile. He put his hand out. There’d be a slow sizzle. Then the people’s heads would start to swell. Their faces would start to bubble. Then distort. Like he was filling them with helium. You know, like when you overfill a balloon? Same thing. Until they’re heads just popped. It was awful. Their screams as it happened. Then the pop and the spray. Then the silence.
“I was terrified. I wanted to run. But I was stuck. I couldn’t move . . . except to piss myself.
“He saw it happen. He watched me do it. And laughed. It was cruel. He was having such a good time. Then his arm came out at me. I heard the sizzle. I felt the pain.
“But I didn’t die. I didn’t pop. I was saved.”
The stranger paused a moment. Sylvester didn’t know why. But Sylvester knew that the numbness that had begun in his feet had spread up his legs. And Sylvester knew that a fog had formed in his head, pushing his thoughts further away and confining the stranger’s voice to a tin can. Thankfully, Sylvester could still hear the stranger as he continued his tale, even if the sounds were miles away.
“Because that’s when he arrived. As if in a pillar of fire, he came from the sky and landed right between me and the lesser god. I don’t know what he looked like. I was looking at his back. But I could see he had a coarse dark beard and wore a heavy burgundy mantle. Real Old Testament stuff. Aside from that, he seemed normal. Normal height and weight. Wore blue jeans and leather boots. I do remember his hands. Worn hands. Strong hands.
“Then he spoke. Like his voice lived in the ocean.
“He spoke the lesser god’s name. Charles, he said. Like he knew him. But the lesser god didn’t answer. He only seethed.
“Charles, he said again. You’ve destroyed enough. You’ve killed enough. Your fight is now with me. Let’s take this elsewhere. Away from the innocent.
“There are no innocent, the lesser god hissed. All have been judged. All must die.
“The mantled man answered back. You can fight against me, but you won’t prevail. Their power is with me. You will not survive the conflict.
“The lesser god roared. Lifting both hands in the air, he belched thunder and vomited lightning. All the world was on fire. Too bright to see and too hot to survive. Yet I did. I don’t know how.
“When my eyes could see again, both men were gone. But their battle raged on. I could see it from a distance. Bursts of light and fire raining from the sky. Shifting from one point in the distance to another. Growing with each volley. Until the entire city was gone.
The stranger stopped talking now. Sylvester could hear his heavy breaths, Could hear the tears streaming down the stranger’s face.
He must have lost someone too . . .
Sylvester squeezed his hand warmly. But weakly. The numbness had crept near his chest.
The stranger sniffled and adjusted.
“Well, I got unstuck. It wasn’t easy. But I did it. It took me a full day and a night. A day and a night terrified that the lesser god would return. A day and a night of fighting off scavengers and rats. A day and a night soiling my own pants. But I got out. And went searching for food and water.”
The stranger paused. His voice got even quieter. Barely a whisper.
“There’s nothing out there. Nothing that isn’t swimming in sewage, anyway. I found a pot. Burnt and battered. Put some dirty water in it. But that’s it. If I could find some fire I could boil the water. But even that’s been denied me.”
The stranger sighed. His hand went slack. Somehow, Sylvester could feel the formless body sink in despair. And with that, the first touch of coldness licked at Sylvester’s heart. The fog in his mind grew heavier than sin. A thick yearning for sleep invaded Sylvester’s soul.
A sharp squeeze of his hand and a hoarse whisper brought Sylvester back from the brink. But just barely.
Thick and dulled, Sylvester’s mind struggled to make out the stilted sounds, though he recognized the cold horror in the stranger’s voice. As minutes passed, the garbled syllables found meaning in Sylvester’s ears. Comprehension returned. In increments. Slowly.
“Someone’s coming. Right at us. No scavenger. Too confident.”
From the diminutive tugs on his hand, Sylvester sensed the stranger crouching low, wary of being seen. Minutes passed. The stranger said little. But the huddled pair couldn’t hide forever. The stranger’s voice cried out in fear.
“Who are you?! Identify yourself!”
A strong voice answered, rich and powerful. Like the rolling of deep waters.
“Do not fear. I am here to help.”
The stranger sucked in breath. Lightning pangs of anxiety coursed through Sylvester’s remaining nerves.
“It’s you. The man in the mantle. What’re you doing here?”
The other voice answered. It was very close now.
“Who is this with you? What has happened?”
“I don’t know. I found him like this. I’m staying with him ‘til he dies.”
“That is kind of you. But he need not die. Not today.”
The stranger’s hand left Sylvester’s—life’s anchor slipping into the void. Alone. Lost in the dark. Sylvester clawed for his friend. For anything that would connect him to the world. To life.
A strong hand grasped his own. Warm and sure.
“It is okay, friend. I am here.”
That voice!
Fear’s cold grip melted from Sylvester’s heart. He held tight to the hand. Clinging. Determined to never let go . . . not until death took him home.
But death did not follow. Strange sounds did. And sensations. First the sound of scraping and creaking nearby. Then the sound of crashing in the distance. Then the feeling of a first, full breath. Then the sensation of freedom, newly found.
“Friend, bring that water over here, please.”
“Of course.”
Short footfalls shuffled nearby. Then a gasp.
“It’s boiling! It’s clean!”
The stranger’s voice rang with awe until it petered into reverent silence.
“Watch now. But give him room.”
Hot dollops of water dropped onto Sylvester’s face. Then chest. Then stomach. Each measured amount splashing surprise. Then peace. Then refreshing. Bit by bit, the fog began to clear in Sylvester’s mind. And bit by bit, the feeling returned in Sylvester’s body. From his chest to his limbs and out to his fingers and toes. Life restored.
“Open your eyes.”
The voice was a whisper. So soft Sylvester wondered if it was only in his imagination. But he obeyed.
Light! Blessed light!
It was neither harsh nor painful—like waking late from a hard sleep. It was easy and normal—like the preceding day and night had been no more than a blink. The day had dawned. The sun was kissing apocalypse.
Then Sylvester saw him. The man in the mantle. Just a glimpse. For just a moment. The dark beard. The comely clothes. But mostly the eyes. A flash of warm chocolate brown. Then they were gone.
“Who are you?” the stranger called out as the mantled man walked away.
“Look to your pot,” he replied.
The stranger looked.
“It’s full!” he cried.
“Who are you?” the stranger yelled again to the quickly receding form.
“No one of consequence . . .”
The voice was a reverberating whisper on the wind.
“No one of consequence . . .”
Then he was gone.
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