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-----It was a misnomer- Civilization.
There was nothing civil about Destiny City anymore. Nor most cities on the planet. The only communities that enjoyed some measure of autonomy were the rural sort, where the population of people was probably outnumbered by the livestock by exponents. The wisdom of such places often lay in the near xenophobic, ‘Amurikuh’ survivalists who’d been convinced that the creeping corruption of the regular Government was out to get them like Big Brother. The new governments, new politicians and new life set up by the Negaverse was just more icing on the cake. Those people were already prepared, had already written the manuals and dug their off-grid bunkers.
And Quenton had already lived among them, learned much of their trade. If nothing else, he was good at learning. When super markets or greenbacks were meaningless and out of reach, he hadn’t starved. Proper identification of the right plants, not much sought since colonial days, kept him alive and full of vitamins and minerals without taxing the already overdrawn community supply. A copy each of the SAS Survival Handbook and the U.S. Army Survival Manual graced his backslung pack for reference of what he hadn’t memorized of edible wilds. With the forest of the Appalachians, and the plains around Destiny City well traversed, he had some common go tos. Wild asparagus for vitamin C, thiamine, potassium and vitamin B6, Reedmace, clover, Chicory root as a substitute for coffee or flower snacks, and all the dandelions he’d ever imagined in Van Gogh feverdream.
The road ways the other towns and states, to the rest of the world had their own bounty as well. He always carried two ceramic knives, one in boot and one on bicep. They did the job of harvesting, as they did now, making quick dressing of day-old deer. There were always so many deer in the Appalachians. Enough that they may as well be listed as a natural predator for cars. The exposed meat and viscera was ruined by bacteria already, but the deeper would be a fine source of protein cooked well done for people or as it was for Mauvians. It was maybe twenty pounds good meat. He could keep two, one for Faust and one for himself, and the rest turned over to the community. Stretched out in a stew or chili.
The blood reflected the streetlight with mirror sheen on he macadam. He could see a too-thin reflection, cheekbones jutted from what amounted to malnourishment. Anorexia. It was a spectre that shadowed his own now, though he still retained a minimal of healthy weight. Shadows were enough.
It was worse when it was small game. "Not dinner, but practice."
This is not often, but always dinner.
He that digs himself from graves, And stands upright at the portals to the city.
Even when her sorrows almost were forgot- But not mine. I will not forget.
I do not seek Lḗthē. Or comfort.
He put the render meats into a plastic grocery bag, wiped knife and hands clean with the rough grasses on the road side. Stone soup, stew of so many tales and many hands. Stone soured. Stone slept. Not yet.
“what has you stopping on ze side of ze street to watch a stranger sealing away dead soldiers?”
“You do.”
Gravel voice and graveled words in disuse said to the uncaring road.
You haven’t changed. You begged more shackles put on you instead of staying the course of fire. You sealed away bodies then and you do it now trading raccoons for senshi and possum for knights. You traded your curiosity away for fetters.
But worst of all I miss your questions and answers.
There are neither anymore.
“-Titus, we can begin zere.”
“Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones;
Who, though they cannot answer my distress...”
Voice could give no more.
