Tropic 11
By: Taliyaah Onze
Tags: Science Fiction, Creative Writing, Short Story, Loneliness, Apocalypse

Tropic 11

Jean wasted no tears in the aftermath—she had to save them for herself. Despite her loneliness, Jean had plenty of company. Between hacking at endless trees and the gnats swarming her sweaty skin, boredom didn’t exist during her forest “hike.” It was just one of many she braved in the last two decades of her journey.

Above, the towering branched ceiling of the forest quaked. Sonic booms and screeches broke the leafy ceiling, throwing branches about. Seconds later, an earthquake threw Jean off balance. Silence followed. A warship crash: the usual. Jean brushed mud off her Bermudas and continued to hack away at the new wall of branches in her way.

Adrenaline still shook her bones hours later. With one bold slice of her sword, Jean fell into a rocky clearing from an invisible cliff. Her knees were scraped up but she was fine otherwise. She squinted in the spitting rain, looking for answers.

The melted keel of a warship sat nestled between hills, only two miles away. The keel’s shadow waved to her in the shimmering storm clouds. “Hello?” Her voice wheezed. No response. Without further prompt, Jean nestled into the nooks of the warm metal ribs of the ship. In life, it killed. In death, it became Jean’s shield from lighting. All she worried about now were memories and her rheumatism. Perhaps she did prefer rain, after all…

The villagers forgotten her, she knew. They saw the same ozone storms. They drank from the same acidic waters. They suffered the same deafening crashes of intergalactic warfare. But her face wrinkled during her time away. Her auburn hair was completely grayed. She survived falls, tumbles, poison, and battles. She didn’t mind at all. What killed her slowly, she felt it deep in her soul, was the silence. Who reassured her that this glowing crick at her feet wouldn’t explode any minute now?

Although, she saw enough tragedy in the last year alone. Even a voice of reason couldn’t reassure her anymore. Two decades ago, she set out with a party of fifteen. Only she survived. The navigator, a seasoned explorer before the War Beyond, fell off a cliff about three seasons ago. Not even reason saved anyone in times of chaos.

Jean outlived those who played fate like a clueless mistress. Jean recalled AWOL soldiers and stray vagabonds who brought stories from beyond the stratosphere. Their extinguished voices merged into one. They called her the madwoman. That was their stories—her own was to end this suffering. Unmarked graves became her highway, blooming trees were her north star. Loneliness was her price to pay for the glory.

The next morning, Jean climbed the top of the ship’s skeleton and looked out into the clearing skyline. She immediately spotted a city skyline. She almost forgot what those looked like. Her heart sank. Was this the end she sought to her tale, to be locked up after so many years of freedom? Was this the answer to humanity’s agony? Her quest continued, personal grievances aside.

After a three day rest, Jean approached the city. She refused to leave her refuge until the storm clouds broke. By the last day, she had lived on found berries in the forest and rainwater. Jean didn’t falter, crushing weeds along the overgrown, crumbled asphalt highway for fun. At the abandoned toll booth, Jean slowed. This "mighty" city was also a grave for warships. What were the chances of that?

With hysterical laughter, Jean danced around the abandoned city. Buildings sank into the mud. Most were overturned by the same warship skeletons that dotted the streets. Nothing about this city remained—not a working well, not a statue, not a readable plaque. It’s funny what the Earthlings deemed important. Although her journey was in vain, the truth remained the same.

It took her half a day to get out. By the time she escaped, she crossed an old dam filled with trapped fish—spawning season. She sat on the edge of the city, smoking them over a tiny fire. Jean stared out into the sunset. Maybe her quest had been in vain, but it was certainly too late to turn back. Would she recognize anyone when she went home? Jean set up camp by the fish stream. Jean went to sleep, dreaming instead of the glory she would find. One day. Soon. For them.

The next morning, she pushed onward. New growths lined the crumbling highways. Of course, it meant someone had passed through recently. Aid? An enemy?

No one bothered to stop here. The Universe long grew sick of oil. The sparks above in the sky trailed from crashing ships. Over the last few years, they seemed to have doubled. It was only a matter of time before they poisoned the waters again.

Jean followed the new growths. They lined a highway she realized was the astrobleme of a ship that crashed recently. Jean stopped, climbing over the ship for a view. It had been a few days, and the city was far gone behind her with its accidental fish farm. Up ahead, what wonderful surprises! Another village, more forest. Jean picked up her pace.

The village was ashes. How did she not notice? Were her eyes going too? “Hello?” Jean whistled.

Every village looked the same. Hell, they had the same straw-like rooftops of her village back home. The same circular, wood panels holding up wood walls. Not all had collapsed. She stopped in front of one, stumbling over a freshly dug mound—graves. She mumbled an incoherent apology. Her family’s grave, all six—no. That was a mistake. Jean hadn’t been home for decades.

Jean backed away from the village, escaping the camouflaged graveyard. She threw away the pouch of smoked fish. She didn’t look back.

Realizing she was lost, Jean turned her head. She circled back around, following the old warship back towards the city. There was help there—she only had to look in the right corners for it.