To the Well-Organized Mind

Chapter Five

[Fen]

Books will continue to be one of the most valuable commodities of the past world. They laughed at me when I risked my life to save books, but one day, they'll come to me for answers because of what I have learned in them.

-Will's thoughts, summarized in Jaden's journal

In a past life, I was an artist. Or maybe it should be, in a different world, I am an artist. Either way, it points to the same conclusion: the way the world is now, there is no use for artists. Even were I as gifted as da Vinci, no amount of beautiful painting will convince the sky to rain when there has been a drought for two hundred twenty-nine days.

I also think I'd make an amazing artichoke-stuffed beef tenderloin, but considering there are no cattle left to slaughter, well, I can't be sure. And not to brag, but there isn't a poet you could quote who I wouldn't be able to identify.

So, to clarify, all my skills add up to nothing in the new pecking order. I know nothing about machines or gears or tools that could be manipulated to work now that the power is permanently shut off. Basically, I'm the guy you'd least want with you were you to find yourself, oh, twelve days deep in the Barrens, a pack of ferals hunting you on the outskirts of your vision, and not a scrap of food or water left between your teeth.

I'm that guy that ought to be killed first in a survival movie, but somehow, lingers as a hindrance to the rest to keep the plot more interesting. To this day, I am unable to explain why, no, how Nia kept from slaughtering me to ensure her own survival.

When she came upon me, the only thing missing was the time of death. Everything else was accounted for: my breathing barely moved my chest, my organs were ready to shut down, reality and hallucinations had effectively combined. That others existed around me failed to penetrate my fog of consciousness. So when Nia stumbled across my chest, I could not at first place the sensation.

Her weight startled me from sinking deeper into a restfulness I had until then only been dreaming about. My shallow breaths were hindered just enough to bother me, to pester me until I opened my eyes and found myself staring at my savior.

I just never expected my savior to be as wasted and exhausted as I was.

*

When Nia magically conjures up cooked meat for breakfast, no one is human enough to ask where it came from. Furie opens and closes her mouth, but in the end, she accepts the chunk of meat. Before she takes a tentative bite, however, her eyes flick over everyone present, one by one.

I don't need to count us to know that Nia cooked up our weakest members to sustain us. This is how Nia made it across. This is the cost of wanting to live.

Once, I hadn't been sure I wanted to live. But after I nearly died, I realized how much I still want to live.

Closing my eyes, I raise the flesh to my mouth. More than anything, I hope it will taste revolting, the vilest dish I have ever wasted my taste buds on. But when I chew into it, my saliva glands immediately gush my mouth with liquid, and my eyes sting at the flavor overwhelming my senses. Unable to stop myself, I rip and tear and choke on the meat. Salty tears season the meal, and I have never tasted the like.

Unable to raise my eyes to look at the others, I let the salt overcome my tongue, wishing it would overcome any other flavor, burn holes right through my tongue.

All I can taste is the delicious salty survival.

*

When Nia stumbles, I am the only one who notices. The only one who watches her closely enough to notice. And to be honest, I don't think the others would want to believe Nia is weakening. They will trudge on in denial, stomping atop Nia's corpse before they will ever admit that maybe our savior isn't as rock solid as we believe her to be.