You ask, “Are all of the footprints yours?” and can’t help but try to fit your feet into some of the prints.
“You and I are the only people here.”
You note that she didn’t answer the question directly, and you are suddenly very afraid. You slow down and are about to ask if she can bring you back to your room. You do not want to be out in such an expansive, labyrinthine, dead space.
Anne gently pulls you along and says, “If we had more time, I’d take you to where you used to work at the physical plant. The solar array and wind-turbine fields are truly a marvel, a sight to behold. They are for all intents and purposes self-sufficient, thanks to the brilliance of you and the maintenance department, of course. Only one turbine has burned out, and I’ve had to change just two panels of solar cells.”
“Where are we now?”
“We’re still in what most of us simply called the Facility. We’re in one of the outer medical rings. Not much for you to see in here, really. The majority of the bioscience laboratories are nested within the inner rings. We’re going to duck through an exit and be outside soon and then we’ll be home.”
“Home?”
“Yes, home.”
As you walk, the hallway’s smooth walls eventually give way to full floor-to-ceiling windows. The darkened glass is frosted with more dust.
“What is that room, the room we just passed?”
“Another genetics lab.”
“What did you do in those laboratories?”
“I’m sorry but you don’t have the clearance to ask that.” She laughs and you are not sure why. “And I didn’t work in these outer-ring labs.”
“Who did?”
“Other scientists.”
“Where are the other scientists?”
“They left.”
“Why?”
“Because almost everyone was getting sick.”
“The pandemic?”
“Yes.”
“Were people getting sick like I am getting sick?”
“I’m afraid so. I’m very sorry.”
“What will happen to me?”
“You’ll either get better or you won’t. Again, I’m very sorry. In the meantime, we’ll enjoy a special day together.” Anne squeezes your hand and pulls you through the outer ring.
“Are you ready to go outside? This is my favorite part.”
Before you can ask Favorite part of what? Anne punches the horizontal push bar with two hands and the emergency exit door flies open. You’re awash in the sun’s fusion-powered glare and you close your eyes, cover your face with shaking hands. You listen to the wind echoing in the bowls of your ears. The smell of the air and how it feels on your skin, on your lips, and inside your lungs are beyond your abilities of description, and it’s okay because even if you were able, you would not choose to sully this moment fumbling with inadequate words.
Anne slowly pulls you away from the building’s shadow, into the heat of the day. She says, “It’s not the Ocean State, but we’re about a mile from the ocean. Can you smell the salt? It’s very strong today. Don’t you remember the smell of the ocean?”
Despite your terrible congestion, you can smell it. At least, you think you can. You have no olfactory memory associated with the water and waves with which to make a comparison. To your shame (yes, shame, as how could it not be your fault somehow?) you have forgotten the full sensory experience of being near an ocean. To forget is to lose something that was once yours, that was once of yourself. But how could one lose something as expansive as an ocean in a dusty corner of one’s mind? What if, instead, to forget is to open a door to a void; the memory is not retrievable because it is not there, was never there.
There are countless other buildings within the Complex. Their exteriors are looping arcs of steel and glass. You wonder if they were designed to look like ocean waves. You do not ask.
Anne tells you the oval-shaped building across from the Facility was called the Dormitory. You tell her you remember that, but you don’t.
You don’t care about the Dormitory or the sprawl of the Complex. You prefer looking at the leaves on the trees, their branches are giant green hands pulling and clutching at the buildings. You prefer looking at the puffs of clouds floating in the blue sky. When you can do so without tripping, you walk with your eyes closed and your face pointed directly at the sun.
The roads winding through the campus are overrun with weeds and grass poking up through cracked, bleached pavement. You haven’t been walking long but are already out of breath. Anne gives you a bottle of water and encourages you, tells you that you are almost home.
You crest a hill and in the sloping distance, for as far as you can see, are what you assume to be more ruins of medical and research monoliths, but ahead, in the foreground, about one hundred paces away, dotted in the middle of an empty parking lot is a small two-story brown house. Your house.
“We have to start on the fence today.”
Within the rough sea of pavement, the brown house squats on a rectangular plot of grass. The lawn has brown patches but is otherwise well maintained. The crab apple tree in the front yard is not as big as you remember. Anne laments that it probably gets too much sun for it to grow to its full potential.
“This is our house? We lived here?”
“Yes. Well, it’s not our original house. It’s a replica. Not perfect, but, you know”—she pauses and rubs your arm—“nothing is.”
Anne explains that first she pried up and removed the pavement, creating the home’s footprint. It took years, but then she jerry-rigged a foundation with bricks, posts, and pier blocks. “It probably wouldn’t pass an official housing inspection, but the house is standing.”
“You did all this?” you ask.
“I’ve had a lot of time and a lot of help.”
“Where’s all your help now?”
“They’re all gone.”
“Did they get sick too?”
“Yes. But maybe you’ll be the one to get better.”
As good as the sun felt initially, the light and heat are giving you a headache. “Was that why I was in the room for as long as I was?”
“Yes and no. Mostly you were there until you remembered who you are.”
“I forgot almost everything because I was asleep for so long.”
“That’s right.”
You remember so many things now, even with your head pounding and your vision blurring.
“Was I asleep for so long because I and everyone else got sick and you were trying to help me? How come you aren’t sick?”
Anne claps her hands together. “We’ll talk about that in the morning. Will you help me start the fence now? It’s hard to believe, but the fence is the last thing we need to build and then our house will be completed.”
You cough and bend over, and your vision goes momentarily fuzzy at the periphery. You take a few deep breaths before speaking again. You say, “Our replica house, you mean.” You step onto the front lawn. The house looks like the one in your head. You ache with recognition, longing, and something akin to if not happiness, then contentment.
“Same thing.”
“Is it?” You look away from the house and scan the ruins, the surrounding pavement, and the sagging, behemoth exoskeletons of the Complex. “Is the rest of the world like this?”
Anne shrugs and says, “Enough of it is. I’m sure there are other lucky survivors, but nobody comes knocking on our door.”