“We have arrived in London,” spoke
the plane, in a calm, toneless woman's voice. Burns rubbed his eyes,
sluggishly rising out of his bed.
“Time?” asked the scientist,
rubbing his eyes.
“December 31, 2099, 4:07 AM,
Greenwich Mean Time,” answered the plane. Burns lightly slapped
himself in the face, still trying to wake up. Shit. He'd asked for
just the time. Didn't need the date. Didn't need a reminder he was
out in the field on New Year's Eve. He should be used to it by now.
He'd been doing this every day of the year for longer than he could
remember. Still, the holidays were never easy. Not that they were
any easier for the outside world, of course, but it wasn't their job
to remember. They didn't have to know that there was a time, not too
long ago, when these were days of joy.
Burns staggered over to the nearby
sink, splashing water onto his face. He cupped his hands beneath the
faucet, taking a drink. Maybe he didn't have to do the usual load of
work today. Maybe he could just gather a few books, enough to say
he'd done something, then get back to Urumqi. He could gather double
tomorrow to make up for it. Not like there'd be anything else for him
to do.
Burns stepped out of the plane, the
dry air of England hitting him in full force. To his left was a pit.
In the days of old, Burns was told, the hole was home to a canal,
spreading rich, flowing water throughout the city. No more water to
be found here, he thought. And this was the lucky part of London.
Dilapidated buildings towered over him from each side. He looked up
at one of them, imagined what kind of sights were lurking from
within. Who knows how many survivors were sleeping near Burns,
blissfully unaware of his presence.
Above him was the night sky, stars
twinkling overhead. Burns had learned long ago to go out at night
whenever he could help it. Working in the dark wasn't easy, but
working at day was even worse. Day means the Sun beating down on him.
Day means packing extra provisions just to be sure an old man like
him won't collapse from the heat. Day means survivors are awake,
pleading to Burns with children in hand to take them with him, and
every time he'd have to look them straight in the eye and say no. But
worst of all, day means a clear view of what the outside world had
become.
In the distance was a great building,
its bricks dilapidated by the passage of time, yet majestic all the
same. In front was Isaac Newton, clad in bronze, still peering over
his diagrams, still standing sentinel after all these years,
oblivious to the color fading from his skin. Burns waved to the
statue, his only company at the library. It was sort of comforting,
knowing it was still standing. He wondered how long it would be
before the corrosion finally did it in.
Burns stepped into the building,
scanning the shelves for books worth collecting. A Bible caught his
eye, King James. Burns shook his head. You've got Bibles to spare, he
told himself. First book you put in the collection. Skip it. Leave
room for something else. The scientist kept wandering through the
halls, occasionally stopping to grab any title that got his
attention. The Communist Manifesto. A Study in Scarlet. On the
Revolutons of Heavenly Spheres. Before too long, Burns was struggling
to hold onto the stack. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see a
peculiar book sitting by itself, a neglected paperback collecting
dust. With an odd hesitance, he set his collection down, rubbing at
the book's spine for a glimpse at the title. “Vampires from the
Deep,” it read. Biting his lip, Burns pulled it from the shelf, and
began to read.
“Ocean vampires,” snorted the
hunter. “The most nefarious of them all. Can't plunge a stake too
well when you're underwater.” Burns shut the book, shaking his
head in laughter. Awful stuff. Truly awful. He stared down at the
book again, then placed it with the others in his pile. This was the
work of a human being, probably long dead now. Someone decided to
pour his effort into this, and for that it was worth more than gold
to Burns. The scientist picked up the books, briefly struggling under
their weight, then headed out of the library.
Burns returned to the outside world.
The sky was getting lighter. Wouldn't be long before the horrible Sun
returned. He had better be gone before then. Burns walked past the
statue of Newton, pausing to take one last look at it. There was a
pigeon perched on the statue, its head darting left and right. Burns
set the books down on the ground, taking a moment to admire the bird.
It had been a long time since he last saw an actual animal, besides
the insects, of course. Wait a minute, he thought. A bird. There
isn't one of those in the dictionary yet, is there? Burns hastily
rummaged through his pockets, pulling out his phone. The scientist
snapped a picture, mere moments before the pigeon flew off. Maybe
he'd add that tonight, if there was time.
He lifted his books again, making his
way toward the plane. A huge white jet, all for him and his work.
Travel was a necessity for what he was doing, but Burns always hated
having to look at the thing. It seemed wasteful, a big jet like that
soaring across the world just for one person. Of course, with what
the world had come to, he supposed it didn't make much difference.
Once the plane was in the air, Burns
decided he had best prepare something to eat. Entering the kitchen,
he approached the tank of mealworms, still blindly crawling through
the terrarium, blissfully unaware of how far they were from nature.
Maybe making a stew would be nice today, he thought. After a while,
he was staring down at a bowl of peculiar brown broth, mealworms and
shrivelled potatoes floating through it. He eagerly swallowed down
his first spoonful, then stared again at the tank, paying close
attention to all the writhing insects inside. Burns couldn't stand
it. Elsewhere, people were being forced to eat the awful synthetic
stuff. Others were fighting just to have a taste of that. And here he
was, lucky enough to eat real, honest-to-God meat, every single day.
He was spoiled, he really was. He couldn't stand that kind of guilt.
Hours passed. Burns paced, he napped,
he thumbed through the books he'd gathered. This was probably the
hardest part of the job, all the waiting. Even in a plane like this,
you couldn't cross half the world easily. Burns shook his head, tried
not think of all the distance he was travelling. It was easy to
forget it, spending so much time locked up in the plane and the
collection, but it really was a big world. So big, yet so fragile,
bested and felled by the bugs living on her skin.
Eventually, the plane landed. Burns
stepped out, looking up at the mountains of Xinjiang. Above him, the
sky was pitch black. Night to night. Funny how that works out. In the
distance was home, a great steel cube in the middle of the wasteland.
Books in hand, Burns stepped inside. As soon as he was through the
door, he was greeted by an unconquerable row of books, everything
Burns had been able to find worth saving. Homer and Darwin.
Shakespeare and Locke. Dante and Nietzsche. Jesus, Muhammad, Krishna,
Confucius, and Zoroaster, all peas in a pod, while Cervantes and Ovid
stood guard. Every great mind that had picked up a pen in the last
five thousand years was nestled in here somewhere. Them, and the
author of “Vampires from the Deep.” Burns searched for any free
space left on the shelves, placing the newest books wherever he
could, then made his way deeper into the building, off to more
pressing matters.
Burns ventured down the corridors,
past the Mona Lisa and Venus de Milo. It wasn't an easy haul, but
he'd managed to get most of the Louvre before the flooding got to it.
Hell of a month that was. Further down, to the photographs. Images of
the Pyramids, the Great Wall, the Statue of Liberty, and anything
else he couldn't hope to fit. Pictures of steam engines and
airplanes, printers and firearms. Pictures of war, in all its horror,
children screaming, bodies on the ground, coupled with pictures of
triumph. The soldiers returning home. Hillary on Mt. Everest.
Armstrong on the Moon. Past all the spectacles, until Burns came to
his destination. In the midst of all the splendor, his living
quarters were rather plain. A bed, a bathroom, a kitchen with a tank
of crickets next to it, and of course, the computer. Burns sat down
and uploaded his photo. Soon the pigeon was on the screen, still
staring back at Burns with those uncomfortably wide eyes.
“Bird,” typed Burns next to the picture. “Oiseau. Pájaro.
Птица. 鳥.
पक्षी.
Πουλί.
Avis.” Another entry in the dictionary.
Maybe by the time he was dead, the book would be something
presentable. Something whoever found the crypt would be able to put
to good use. What if he left out a word, he wondered? What if he died
forgetting to add something important? That word would die with him.
The future would be stuck without it, forced to make do with
fragments of all the treasures he'd left behind. The idea tore Burns
up. He shook his head, forcing all the horrible thoughts out of his
head. He'd just have to make sure he didn't forget any words. That's
why he keeps going. If the project was complete, he'd have scrambled
to find the nearest bullet to put in his head. But there was still
work to be done, always work, and for that, he'd need to stay strong,
trudge on.
Burns looked down
at the clock at the bottom of the screen. Eleven fifty-seven, it
read. Midnight was scarce minutes away. Soon he'd be looking at a new
year, new century, yet the world would change little. No more than it
already had, at least. He took a deep breath, rubbed his temples,
tried to focus away from the heat that permeated the chamber. Time to
carry on the New Year's tradition. He brought up the video. Had to
watch it every year since it happened, remind himself of what he's
doing.
The dictionary
vanished from the screen. In its place was the sight of a great round
chamber, its walls lined with the blurred sight of suited figures. In
the center, being looked down on by the whole world, was Burns. A
much younger man, still with a smooth face and color in his hair,
sweating buckets as he awaited judgment.
“Your proposal
is...an interesting one, Dr. Burns,” said a gruff man's voice
off-screen, clearing his throat. “But why should it be funded? You
still can't seem to answer that. With all the pressing matters at
hand, shouldn't all our efforts be focused on the future?” The
young man took a deep breath, while the old man watching did the same
in unison.
“This is about
the future, sir,” said Burns, somehow managing a smile amidst the
pressure. “I'm thinking far into the future. After we're gone.”
“You're saying
that like we will be gone,” interrupted the voice.
“I don't want it
to be true any more than you do, sir, but I don't have high hopes for
us. At the rate things are going, we'll be dead before too long. But
the good Earth will survive, scarred but far from defeated. Maybe one
day, it'll have healed enough for it to allow animals with reason to
walk on its surface again. And if that day comes, I want them to know
about us.”
“You want them to
have records, you mean.”
“We made
mistakes, lots of them, and we'll suffer the consequences for it. But
we did good things too. We created machines, built cities, told
stories, painted pictures. We crossed oceans, scaled mountains, even
stepped off-world. We studied our surroundings, learned how to think,
how to love. We may have to die, but I don't see why our memories
should go with us.”
“So your
motivation for all of this is...” The young Burns sniffled a
little, fighting to stay composed.
“I want to do
this so whoever inherits this planet will know all we've done. I want
our achievements to be remembered. For the sake of old times.”
Burns paused the video. That was all he needed to see. He looked down
at the clock. Twelve oh-two. Fuck. It was already too late to do what
he should've, but it was best he try and go through with it all the
same. He walked over to the fridge and pulled out the last of his
treasures, Muscadine from a vineyard now underwater. Burns poured
himself a glass and hoisted it into the air, a toast with all his
dead companions.
“Should
auld acquaintance be forgot, and never brought to mind? Should auld
acquaintance be forgot, and auld lang syne?”