Twelve weeks, an evening and four kidnappings after the fall.

  The way back home was long and uneventful. If someone forced me to describe it, the only way to do so would be to say that it was boring. As we walked down the now lit hallways leading to our building, I finally noticed what felt weird about the entire ordeal.

  “None of these power cables are metal,” I said, catching up to Sparky.

  “Yeah, and?”

  “And you need metal as a conductor to move power.” I was trying not to look at her like she was stupid, but she was making it hard.

  “If you’re transporting electricity from a thousand years ago, sure, but these days we use a type of fiber optic cable to transport the stored energy of Light into the building in question.” She the worn lettering on the cables while explaining that there was a panel in the basement of each building that converted optical power to metallic. “I’m guessing you failed out of school a few times?”

  Of course, it would be some kind of magic bullshit like that. Every time I stepped away from human development for a few hundred years, they revolutionized everything. Who said they could find a new way to transport power without my permission? Stupid humans.

  We eventually found the hidden service entrance we’d used to enter the tunnel system earlier that day. Sparky knew where it was, but she was the only one. If she’d left us behind, there was nothing any of us could’ve done about it. Well, I guess I would’ve found a way out. I always find a way out… eventually.

  When I climbed through the doorway and into the basement, I honestly expected some sort of party, celebration, or even to be treated like royalty, but everyone that greeted us just seemed sad and hopeless.

  “Hey! WWe got the power back, we can… you know… see and stuff.” I said, trying to break the mood at least a little.

  “Yeah, well… I would be a lot more excited if the accountants hadn’t shown up right afterwards,” one survivor said when we climbed back up to the living floors.

  “Was anyone hurt?” I asked seriously.

  “Four people were taken. They found us not long after the lights came on. I threw a few Molotovs at their air-cars, but they managed to get away with our people,” Chuck said, motioning for me to follow him toward the stairwell.

  I was pissed. We shouldn’t have left; we shouldn’t have restored power. It wasn’t that important, and the survivors could have continued living without it. I lived for thousands of years without a single fucking lightbulb. They could too, if they had to.

  It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. We’d fought so hard to build what little we had, and these worthless assholes showed up to take what wasn’t theirs? The human population was already too small to be sustainable. Being forced to watch as someone you know and love got dragged away by murderers would only crush the spirits of those who remained.

  Every. Damned. Time.

  Every time I built something, someone else’s desire for power perverted it. Every time I tried to remain peaceful and away from conflict, someone always dragged me back in. Every time I took to a battlefield, people on both sides died. But not me, never me. I would not let this happen again. I would not let the people I choose to protect be eaten by idiots who were too stupid to grow their own food.

  “We need better fortifications,” I said when the door closed. “The office equipment we’ve piled up around the building is a start, but it’s not protecting us where it counts.”

  “I was going to say something similar. We need to send groups out in search of big chunks of metal to block the windows on the lower floors. If they can find some stone as well, it would be even better. That way, it could act as a barrier to slow down anyone attacking the building.” Chuck replied, all levity gone from his tone.

  He was pissed too.

  Good.

  “Start looking for long pieces of wood and instruct the camp-bound survivors to embed them with nails, barbed wire, fucking shards of glass if we need to. No matter what the answer is, make spiked clubs. We don’t have much in terms of guns, but we can make them bleed for every step they take.” I instructed.

  I was already planning my weapon. I found a three-foot-long stainless-steel dildo in an old nightclub and had kept it for a rainy day. Not that I thought I would ever use the thing, but a massive metal penis would, at the very least, be an icebreaker when humanity started having parties again.

  “Vandre, if we kill these people… we’re no better than them.”

  “Chuck, if we don’t, our people are going to be eaten by a group that resorted to cannibalism after only twelve weeks. They had food in that store. I’d be willing to bet much of it is still there.”

  I had to make the dildo easy to swing. The handling was easy. I could wrap the base in the over-grip tape we found in a sporting goods store a few weeks ago. But more deadly? Maybe I could convince someone to drill holes in it and drive nails at random intervals. I could even call the weapon ‘my Prince Albert.’

  “Fair point. Do we defend, or do we go on the offensive?”

  He was trying to sound brave, but I saw the look in his eyes when he said it. Chuck didn’t want to fight, and he definitely didn’t want to take another human’s life.

  “No, you don’t go on the offensive. I do.” I turned on my heels and walked toward the stairwell, whistling a tune. Most people from this era wouldn’t recognize it. The song was old, but it was incredibly appropriate for the situation. I would storm the barricade, and I would bring back the world I longed to see.

  ~~**~~

  I sat alone in the Tuileries Garden, scratching at my notebook with my quill in infrequent bursts as I tried to make the words flow, but, try as I might, the image in my head could not materialize as words fit for the stage. It didn’t make sense. This wasn’t the first time I’d recorded my thoughts, and it probably wouldn’t be my last.

  In the distance, the unrest of my adopted countrymen grew louder, and the aristocracy did everything it could to ignore their voices. It was hard not to understand why the people were angry. The gulf between rich and poor had grown from a pond into an ocean, and people who’d once fallen into the middle class had become truly poor.

  It was not rare to find me here, sitting on a bench overlooking the gardens of Queen Catherine while I worked at perfecting the art of the written word. In fact, one could almost say it was commonplace for many Parisians to sit here while they turned a blank page or canvas into an artistic masterpiece.

  Strangely, I didn't hear the scratching of quills or the whisper of brush on canvas around me. Instead, a haunting stillness blanketed the garden, broken only by the shouts of people who’d reached their breaking point and were boiling over like a pot left on the stove. I stopped trying to force the words to come when those shouts changed to the crack of gunfire. In my heart, I’d hoped death was avoidable, but it seemed the reaper would have his due.

  I closed my notebook, corked my inkwell, and tried to head home to avoid joining the fight. But I knew I would see bloodshed this day. I knew it the moment I saw the look in the groundskeeper's eyes when he let me out of the gate. The rational part of me wanted to go home, but instead of walking south, I walked north along Rue Montmorter toward the gunfire.

  If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  The street was never this quiet, nor this abandoned. It was as if the gods of old and new had come down and taken away every soul other than me and the groundskeeper. These roads were never silent. These people were never timid. So why was it that I only caught glimpses of people from the corner of my eye as they nervously peeked through drawn curtains?

  It could be because the champion of the poor had fallen to the same illness that was currently ravaging the city. Possibly, they didn’t know where they stood regarding the monarchy and the stability it had provided in the past, or Bonaparte and the sweeping growth he’d brought. Maybe some saw themselves as Republicans who wanted laws for people, not policy for the rich. Sadly, it was impossible to tell where a person truly stood until they did so with a rifle in hand.

  When I reached the corner of Passage Du Saumon, I instinctually turned right and followed the growing sounds of war. No matter how long I’ve lived, the sound of war never truly changed. The implements we humans used to kill each other evolved, but the sound of a soldier dying while his compatriots watched—unable to help—would always remain the same. War was a symphony, and death was but one of the many layers that made it truly awful to behold.

  The near constant crack of gunfire fell silent as I passed barricades made of anything the rebels could find. If I saw even one person guarding the two-meter-tall stacks of refuse, I may have turned and left. Instead, the only movement on Rue du Bont du Monde that day was from a pair of rats fighting over a scrap of moldy bread that had fallen in the street.

  In a heartbeat, everything changed. The barricades at either end of the street ground against the concrete as tables, chairs, even a piano or two fell into place and trapped me between the two armies. Bullets flew, and I scrambled to find cover in the stone archway of a shop and tried to wait out the battle. Projectiles from both sides struck me in the stomach and in the back, but I had to act as though they hadn’t. I didn’t matter to these people, and there was nothing I could do to change the course of history as it formed around me. I was just an immortal, caught in the goings on of an everyday human.

  I honestly believed that the first ten minutes. Then the door of a nearby shop opened, and a young boy no more than ten years old dashed toward the Republican rebels. In his hand was a satchel that jingled like a sack of pennies as he ran. Safety was just four meters away when he fell with a royalist bullet in his back. He’d almost made it. Instead, he would die in the street with the black, spherical symbols of his sacrifice scattered on the cobblestones around him.

  I said earlier that it was impossible to tell where a person stood until they did so with a rifle in their hands, but I was wrong. A person truly shows what they stand for when they do it, knowing they will die. That boy had given his life for the hope that France would one day be for the people instead of the aristocracy. It was only then I realized it was impossible for me to know what I stood for. What would it matter to me if I stepped aside and let tyranny reign? If I waited long enough, the tyrant would die, and I would be free to live as I wished.

  No matter what I did, I realized I could never truly make a sacrifice in the name of freedom, and I wept.

  ~~**~~

  Dinner that night was silent. It wasn’t the first time these people suffered loss, but it was the first time it happened since the fall. Joining this group was supposed to be a new start, the beginning of a life rebuilt. Instead, they had to face the reality that bad people did bad things. Something about that deafening silence reminded me of the stillness in those Parisian streets moments before gunfire ripped through the city. But unlike that time so long ago, we had no revolutionaries, only refugees. Where were the people so set in their convictions that they would rather die than face another day in fear? Were all our warriors already in the stars, fighting for the freedom of people who saw them as little more than faceless drones?

  I understood loss. In fact, I was certain I’d faced that monster more often—and more completely—than anyone else. Yes, it hurt to get knocked down. And yes, it was never fun to watch people get killed while you could do nothing about it. But dammit, I did not spend twelve weeks teaching myself to care just so these people could throw themselves from the proverbial cliff.

  Some were willing to defend their lives and the lives of others, but others seemed willing to roll over and die. Though, I had enormous respect for the grandmother on the fifth floor that spent her free time stuffing rags in vodka bottles while repeatedly muttering to let the swine come.

  I glanced around the room again to gauge the mood and was just as disappointed as I was ten minutes ago. Most people sat in groups of three, scarfing down their soup like someone would take it away at any minute. Someone had even turned the lights low, diminishing the accomplishment of creating power, out of fear.

  It was infuriating. Sure, I’d done my fair share of hiding in my life, but when it really came down to it, I always took another step forward.

  If this were the New York I knew from so long ago, there would be no peace. The Americans of old wouldn’t hide in a building, afraid to take back what was theirs. No, they would fight tooth and nail to reclaim what they’d lost. Then again, the Americans of the past had nothing on the French. Nobody revolts like the French.

  There was a man I respected back then. Someone who fought for freedom, and not this watered down crap they had before the fall. If he could see what humanity had done with his beliefs, he wouldn’t cry… No, he would tear it down brick by brick until he could rebuild it again for the people. A government could not be for the people if the people serving in it have never worked outside the government. It could not allow the lowly to flourish if it rewarded the rich for the work of the poor. New ideas could not be cultivated if the government was ruled by religion instead of science.

  The tree of Liberty must be refreshed from time to time with the blood of patriots and tyrants.

  Thomas wasn’t a perfect man. In many ways, he wasn’t even a good man, but he tried, and that’s what counts.

  Earth was free of tyranny for the first time in a long time now that UHR oversight was gone. But instead of building ourselves up to create a world of peace, liberty, and justice, we cowered inside an office building and waited for another tyrant.

  “What is wrong with you all, huh?” I screamed, hurling my plate across the room. It would be a pain to clean up the broken glass, but at least I had their attention. “Someone just came into YOUR HOUSE. They walked in, took your brother, mother, sister, or father, and walked away. Do you know what’s about to happen to them? They’re about to be eaten. You’re survivors, but you’re not surviving. You’re free from tyranny and the first thing you do is bow down to more tyranny. What is wrong with you?”

  “Just let us die. If you want to leave and live, do it. But let us die.” An old man sitting against the wall said. “If you think we still have any kind of fighting spirit, then you obviously didn’t lose as much as we did in the fall.”

  “What?” I asked, shaking my head at the absurdity of the statement. “You made it through the end of Earth as we know it, through the worst part of human history, and now you just want to lie down and die? You did the hard part already! Stand up and take your life back!”

  “If we made it through the hard part, then why hasn’t anyone come to save us? Why is it so bad out there? If we stand up to the accountants, what’s stopping a new group from forming next week?”

  I’m not ashamed to say that I was beyond words at this point. My rage was so complete that my only good option was to walk away. If I continued to argue, things would have gotten physical, and I wasn’t prepared to take it that far. Laying down to die was not the human way. We’ve survived entirely too many catastrophes for that. It would appall heroes throughout history to see what was going on here, and I wouldn’t blame them. Our race, a people that fought their way out of the mud and into sentience, couldn’t gather enough courage to fight the good fight.

  I guess this is what happens when all your fighters join an off-planet military. You lose anyone that could be bothered to lift a finger, much less a rifle.

  , it was possible to see the bloodstains that would forever stain the carpet, but in the dark you could pretend none of it ever happened. Most people worked to scrub those stains out and forget about the people who’d died in the building because, obviously, cleaning away the stench of death made it magically better. Clearly, the only issue with historic landmarks where death clung to it like a blanket was a lack of cleanliness.

  I raised my hand and stared at a long, jagged scar that crossed my palm. It was from the time before I became immortal and was one of the few physical flaws my body retained. Every time I looked at it, it reminded me of the only true persisting state in life. Solitude.

  I didn’t want to leave the survivors, but someone had to protect what little life remained in this world. While my absence, however short, might leave them in a state of disarray, there was a chance it wouldn’t. They could rise to defend themselves, but I doubted it. All I could do was hope.

  Rolling over, I closed my eyes. This could very well be my last night in a proper bed for quite some time, and I was determined to enjoy every second.

  But sleep never lasted long enough. I woke up a few scant hours later. Most of the survivors were likely asleep, and the ones who weren’t were likely more concerned with themselves than me. I grabbed the nail studded metal shaft from the corner of my room and climbed to the roof of our building. I knew where the Accountants were hiding. I’d been there before.

  Taking a running jump, I flung myself from the roof and basked in the joy of flight. It was never long enough. The feeling just before impact always tricked me into believing I might be free of my curse. One day, maybe. But sadly, not today.

  Pain reverberated through my body, shaking me to my core as bones shattered and skin split. I dropped my head and clenched my teeth, breathing out slowly as I waited for the curse to restore my me. I tried to pretend the damage I received was inconsequential, but that wasn’t true. Just because my body could recover from any injury didn’t mean the injury didn’t occur.

  pulling themselves back into position and snapping into place. They say you never get past the sensation of pain—and to an extent, that was true. At a certain point, the pain of broken bones became so dull it was possible to ignore it completely.

  Tightening my grip on the club, I walked down the street. I was ready for battle. If they wouldn’t fight, then I would solve the problem myself.