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The Rain Washes Away

Published : Saturday, 14 September, 2024 at 12:00 AM  Count : 2129
J L Travers
I am Sixteen.

That is not my age. I'm older, I think. 

Sixteen.
 
It's not my real name. It doesn't feel right. There's a vague connection there, but no truth to it, no emotion. It was given to me by Captain, although he forgets. Can't remember my actual name. But I need one, it's important. Names and words make things real.

Must stop rambling. Got to write down every fact I know, while I still can. Here's what I can recall with certainty:
Rank: Cavalry Scout. 

Squad: Wyverns. 

CO: Captain.

The War: started 4 August 2055. 

Don't know today's date, or my date of birth.

No one does. 

I've been affected by the rain. Not badly, but still. I can tell. It's damaged me.

Writing this journal to remember what I've done, what I've seen. Captain needs intel on our surroundings, the enemy, supplies. I trust him. Have to, or I'd already be gone. 

Cavalry scout, the most important job in our squad: find supplies, observe the enemy, navigate the squad to safety. Captain said he was a lead scout once, now I'm his center. You don't know how proud that makes me feel.

Forgive my handwriting, shaking right now. It's hunger, or fatigue. Perhaps both. Or because I'm afraid. Will persevere and write all I know in this exercise book because of the rain.

It washes people away.

At dawn, when the wind stopped blowing strong, and the storm eased, Captain handed me a jar of beeswax and said we lost three yesterday: Eleven, Twenty-Three, and Thirty-Two. Can only picture them with masks and hoods on. Rarely saw them mask-less. Don't remember their faces, seeing them smile. The boys got caught in the downpour, Captain said. Must have neglected their seals. Now we're down to five.

Remember: shake off all rain; check your mask; wax your seals; keep your head dry.
 
Or you'll be gone from the inside.  

Found this pencil and exercise book way beyond base camp. 

I don't believe in miracles. Finding them dry was fate. 

Writing while under some old ash trees, shielded from the rain.

The ruins are three thousand and four-hundred steps from base camp. Head due North over the hill, along the road turned to stuff, beyond the line of trees and a thousand steps past the wooden posts. That's the farthest I've traveled. Farthest I can remember. 

Note: Update the map at base camp when you return. If you've already added the ruins then…Ask Captain. 
The ruins are like all the roads, cars, streetlights. Anything manufactured or synthetic has turned to stuff, melted without heat, faded to gray. How so? Captain said bombs break things down, but not nature. Not people, not at first. That happened later. Not sure when exactly.

Weeks ago, Captain got angry about "friendly fire" and "nanomachines." "They target infrastructure," he said wild-eyed, "comms and defenses." Yesterday I asked him what that all meant. He stared back blankly, confused. 

Only building timbers and broken panes of glass remain intact in the ruins. Everything else is stuff. Detritus. I think that's the word. Why hasn't the wood rotted away with all this rain? How long would it take? How could I tell? 

Trees, birds, leather shoes, cotton: natural materials remain. I guess glass is natural too. All plastics, concrete, and metals have turned into solid pools of gray stuff. It's like wax to touch, but not like the beeswax I use to seal my overalls: it's real hard. Even small pieces are heavy. 

Five ruined buildings in total. The middle one's a big rectangle. Probably an office. No enemy sighted. No usable shelter. No place to wash, stretch out, breathe. 

In the ruins I slipped on a mound of stuff, dropped my hand ax, and kicked through a husk that spat wood fibers at my mask. I checked my seals and face mask immediately. No damage. My heart was hammering. When the dust cloud died down, there was the cardboard box with "Wyvern High School" on the side. I wrapped it in waxed cloth from my canvas rucksack straightaway and retreated to the trees.

Inside were girls' clothes aged eleven-yellow dresses, green jerseys with various numbers on them-and a faint smell of detergent which filled my mask when I grabbed them. It made me dream of lying on white sheets, being clean, comfortable, mask-less. The scent has gone now, lost on the breeze. Beneath the clothes were the exercise book and pencil. Surprised I can write at all. Used to just tap words on small screens. 

Am good at surviving though, what Captain taught me, skills I learnt from an Edinburgh Duke. I've got a liter of boiled stream water in a stoppered glass decanter and four chocolate biscuits. That'll last two days, enough to return to base camp. 
The rain's pouring again. I barely notice the sound now, like when I lived near winged machines that went up into the blue.
Have reapplied beeswax to my overalls, checked my mask, keeping my head dry. But my skin feels slimy. I'm staring at tree trunks, dry soil smell filling my nose, wishing I could bathe then scratch my whole body on that coarse bark. My bowels feel heavy, but I can't face the effort, or risk. Toilet can wait till morning.  

Must protect this journal, my knowledge, for Captain. Find more boxes. Navigate us to safety. One drop of rain, and it could become stuff. 

The War. Bombs. It's odd: I cannot remember ever seeing the enemy.  

The jerseys. I had one once, same color, bigger size, number sixteen. Captain said I was his best center, good dribbler, solid on free-throws and could get a scholarship, go pro. I try to recall more, but the past is blurry, like my eyes when I first wake up. 

Damn. Left my wood-chopping thing behind. 
Must go back.

Stay dry 
if not
the rain
washes
a w a


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