The War For Hope

“I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.” – Albert Einstein

They never officially declared the end of the war; the final barrage of bombs from all sides spoke for themselves. Infrastructure was no more. Stores and farms and many, many species were all wiped out. Weaponry and ammunition grew increasingly scarce, and militaries were quickly running out of warm bodies to fight. Earth’s population dwindled with only a few habitable locations left, and those who did manage to survive wished they hadn’t.

Fern Bailey stared at the carnage before her. Rows of houses and trees reduced to rubble. Below her were the remains of her house, containing the remains of her family: Mom, Dad, her brother Griffon, Mimi. Not a stir. She could not have imagined this was how it would all end. She smelled blood emanating from her person. Glass splinters pierced her skin, but she could not bear looking down to see the damage.

Surveying the damage, the silhouette of her next door neighbor Harold Beauchamp stood over his own wrecked life. He waved to her with both arms above his head as he walked her way.

“Start digging!” He shouted. “We need to find survivors.”

Fern knew this man. A career firefighter and Navy vet, Harold spoke with authority. There was a paternal affect behind his words, however. He scaled the pile of burst drywall and wood and began the search for life at her house. She started the search, but when he reached her, he noticed her leg and commanded her down from the pile.

They waded through wooden frames and burnt furniture, ruins of what used to be her life. The toaster still had those frozen waffles in it. A section of the floral wallpaper from the living room still clung to the drywall in some places. Though covered in ash, she could still make out some of the swirls of the vines. Fern did her best to hold herself together, but broke when she came across a tuft of hair poking out from under a cracked granite countertop. She didn’t have the heart to lift it. Harold told her to look the other way while he checked. He heaved the slab, then instructed Fern to wait at the bottom of the pile. She didn’t have to argue with him.

Fern’s eyes drifted from one scene to the next, scared to settle on any one site. Not at the tomb encasing her family, but also not at the destruction surrounding her. She squinted to see through the haze as two more people emerged from the ashes. Little Sasha and her brother Dimitri, a friend of Fern’s from school. A small win in the grand scheme of things, but a win nonetheless.

Sasha rushed to her, Dimitri following close behind. Fern pulled the small child into her arms. He and Fern would have been in home room together about that time. She wondered if they’d ever see the inside of a classroom again.

“I want my mommy!” Sasha wailed, squeezing Fern evermore tightly. Dimitri could only shake his head. The trauma written on his face told Fern all she needed to know.

Harold marched over to join the trio. He wore the expression of a man who had just seen a ghost – and he very well may have. Fern wanted to ask if he found her parents, if by some miracle her brother was still alive, or if they all passed that it was quick and painless. The red in his eyes exemplified the blue of his irises. There were tracks on his face where tears cleared the dust coating his skin.

“I’m so sorry, Fern.”

No. No. No no no no no. Whatever sliver of hope she held onto shattered before her eyes. Dimitri put a hand on her shoulder. It burned like lemon juice in a fresh cut, but she couldn’t bring herself to tell him to move.

“Your leg,” Dimitri said. Fern finally looked down, and a wave of nausea hit her as she saw the flesh of her leg torn open. Dimitri helped her to the ground, and Harold wrapped a shirt around her thigh as a tourniquet. He dressed the ailment as best he could, then threw together scraps of wood and fabric to create a makeshift crutch for her.

“Try walking on that,” he instructed. She did, and the pain let up.

While the sun was still in the sky, the four of them continued digging through the ruins to find more survivors. Harold and Dimitri took to the top of each decimated structure, and Fern looked through the ground-level remnants for signs of trapped individuals while keeping an eye on Sasha. She shouldn’t have to see this. Nobody should.

They dug out thirteen survivors in all and countless more victims who didn’t make it. Fern couldn’t decide who was luckier – the ones who miraculously survived, or the ones spared the heartbreak of living long enough to see the carnage. Among those saved was a young boy no bigger than Sasha who lost the rest of his family. He couldn’t say a word when they pulled him out of the wreck; he only rocked back and forth and chewed his thumbnail.

The sun was beginning to go down, and the earth ran cold. Dimitri started a fire with the wooden boards from one of the houses. As much as she wanted to, Fern couldn’t sit still long enough to feel the fire’s warmth. She meandered between the decimated structures back to her own home. The vinyl siding was charred, but the greenish blue hue could still be seen through it. In the chaos, she found Griffon’s guitar. It was a red acoustic with a lightning bolt strap, though the strap was singed now. A massive chunk of the guitar’s body was missing, but the strings were still intact. Fern carried it with her back to the bonfire.

She sat down and began strumming. Griffon had shown her a few chords and how to strum, so she did just that. The others looked at Fern in confusion. Surely this was no time for a guitar solo, and they were right to think that, but Fern disagreed. She fingered the strings, every strum coating her fingers in dust. It was out of tune, she could tell, but it didn’t matter.

Sasha was the first one to give in to the music. Her head started bobbing with every downbeat. She closed her eyes and stood up to dance. Her moves were wild and heavily off-tempo, but she smiled. The tears in Dimitri’s eyes dried up seeing his little sister happy, and he couldn’t help but join in. He took her hands and started dancing with her. Harold, too, stood up, but his feet would not move with the music. Sasha began to sing. When she did, the little boy who couldn’t speak joined her song.

Their sweet lilts may not have been words, but they spoke volumes. With only sticks and stones left, they were ready to fight for a new life and for a chance that, maybe, they could build back what was lost when the world decided to destroy itself.