Woman of Earth

I'm moving. Where to, and where from, I cannot say. I am being carried on something hard and flat. A board, perhaps. My side feels like it's splitting open. My clothes are damp and stick to my skin all across my stomach. There are no stars tonight, if it is night. The sky is a uniform shade, a sickly red hue. My eyes adjust to the gloom and I see my captors -- or saviors. They are Machines.

Mechanically they walk, in time with each other. A loud groan escapes me. I am jostled as they go around a corner. My hands flutter to my side, where the bullet still protrudes. The droids halt and place me on the ground. I make an attempt to flee, but find I am secured to the board with two straps, across my legs and my chest. One of the Machines extend its arm towards me. The magnetic claw at the end of its hand activates. It rips the bullet right out of my body. Pieces of my flesh are still attached to it. I scream.

Blood pours out. I can feel it, warm and moist. Taking out the bullet released the dam. It hurts horribly. I just want to die. I don't want to be their captive, their experiment. I feel the prick of a needle again, but I have no power to do anything about it. I succumb to unconsciousness once again.

I am standing. No, not standing, my feet aren't touching to ground. I'm vertical at least. That's different. I can't move anything, can't even feel anything. I'm in a glass container, blurry with frost. It's so cold in here. I bet it's warm out there. I want to be out there. Out there, there are people. Human people. I can see them scurrying around under the angry eyes of Machines. It looks like a laboratory of some sort.

I can feel my breath becoming shallower and my heartbeat slows. My eyelids close.

And I am gone.

I wake up and lift the rusty sheet off of me. It helps keeps the heat in while I sleep. I fold up my three thin blankets and tie them onto the backpack I scavenged from an outdoor supply store. That place was a lucky find. Most of my essentials are from there. Now all that's left of my once pristine hiking boots are the rubber bottoms, held onto my raw and blistered feet with strips of dirty cloth. And even those are growing thinner each day. I tie them on and hunt in my bag for food.

I hear movement from the remains of a car to my left. I quickly pick up my bag and secure it to my back. I take out my knife and brandish it before me. I'm willing to fight -- and kill -- for what I have. The door of the car opens up and and a figure rolls out of it and onto the macadam. I pounce on them while they're down and press the knife against the neck of the man.

He laughs, which turns into a cough. "An old man such as myself does not fear death. You have a lot to learn, young survivor." I don't move. "If you're after my things, go ahead and take them. I'm dying anyway. Please hasten the process. But next time, may I suggest more of a grab-and-run approach? It's quicker and cleaner." I look him in the eye, and know that he is honest. I slowly pull back the knife and stand up. I offer him a hand. He eyes it warily. "Why do you show me kindness?"

"Why did you offer me advice?" My voice is scratchy from lack of use.

He stands with my help. "Touché."

I look him up and down. He's dressed in rags, only slightly worse off than I was, until I raided a JCPenney a few weeks ago. "What's your name, stranger?" I ask.

"Bahh, I don't remember. It's been over 25 years since anyone used it. I am old, and have lost my memory. If you happen to find it, keep it for yourself. It may yield some life lessons for you." He smiles and sits on the hood of the car. He rubs his hands together and looks at them. The back of his left hand has a tattoo on it: an elegant banner with the name 'Marietta' written on it. "I just wish I could remember who she is -- or was. Marietta, Marietta... No idea! Was she my sister? daughter? mother? wife? Maybe I had cruel parents that gave me a girl's name, and I tattooed it on me when I lost my marbles. I don't know!"

"You said you were dying," I prompt.

"Yes I am. And so are you. Every minute everyone is dying. The only difference is I know what I'm dying from."

"And what would that be?"

"No clue."

I debated for a while if I should share my dwindling food supply with him, and in the end kindness won against greediness. We each ate a few small, undercooked sausage links. I witnessed him cough blood multiple times, never trying to hide it from me. It is past midday when we stop talking. There wasn't much to talk about. Neither of us remember our pasts at all. But somehow the stupid small talk and his jokes and tidbits of wisdom stretched for hours.

"Thank you for the sausages," he says, small bag in hand and ready to depart. "For my last meal, it was wonderful. See you on the road."

"The road?" I ask.

"The road goes ever on and on, down from the door where it began..." he begins to sing. I remember the tune from The Lord of the Rings movie. It's funny how you can forget almost your entire life, except for a few pieces of a movie or song that stay in your brain forever.

"See you on the road," I agree. He walks away between rusted skeletons of skyscrapers, singing his tune from a movie about another world, a movie from such a far off and distant time that it feels like fantasy.

A long time after this event, I start to think about this cheerful stranger and his mysterious tattoo.

Dad had a tattoo just like that.