A better world part 2
Part 2
The village had lost a few hundred of her anthros when the plague had hit. An awful number of fatalities, true, but the death toll had been higher in most other places. We'd been lucky, if you want to call it that. "Lucky" seems like an odd word to use, I admit.
There had only been a few thousand anthros living in the village - surely, not more than 4,000. I had, at one point, known the exact number, but it's been gone from my memory for a while now.
I had . . . turned into something of a recluse, living here in this village - before the plague hit. There'd only been maybe a handful of anthros I'd talked to, socialized with, on a semi-regular basis. And that was not _because I'd been the only anthro Lion living in a village whose population had been maybe eighty percent anthro Canine (of various kinds). You and I both know that some of the old prejudice still existed - at least, it _did exist before the plague. In some ways, the world's come together since the sickness fell upon us like a bad cloud. Anyway, some of that old prejudice did exist - even in this "advanced" day and age - but not in very many places. A few small towns, here and there, in the most remote parts of the country.
This village wasn't like that. I don't think it ever had even a trace of the old prejudice. I'm not saying it was a utopia, not at all. No place is perfect. No anthros are perfect, for that matter. Just like pretty much any village, or town, or city, this particular village had its share of problems. Issues. Concerns.
Anyway, I had left behind the bright lights of the big city, where I'd lived for years. I chose this small, quiet village, a place where I could (mostly) be alone, because my aunt owned a house here. She was living out in California and she agreed to rent the house to me. An entire house! I'd been living in smallish apartments for years. I had no idea what I was going to do with all that space, but I was eager to find out. On the phone, she told me the village was - in her words - lovely. She was right. At first, it was a bit jarring - finding myself in a village that was - like I said - maybe eighty percent Canine. I'd been in a city where one could find every single species of anthro - and no species had any kind of majority. However, I got over that silliness pretty quickly.
Of course, all of that was before the plague.
And here's what's funny. After the plague passed, all the survivors left. Not all at once, no. The exodus had taken place gradually, over the course of maybe a month or two.
I'd chosen to stay.
Here. Alone. I guess I really became a recluse, huh? One Lion, living alone in this little village. Some anthros left because they had family in other parts of the country. Some left because the government was setting up camps/shelters for survivors - they promised food, and safety, electricity, running water.
I didn't miss them, not a one. I'm terrified to admit that, because what does that say about me? And yet here I am, writing it down.
Maybe if I'd gotten to know them better . . . maybe if I'd been able to blend in to this village . . . I had started to think of this village as my village, and maybe if the anthros living here had became _my _anthros, well - then maybe I wouldn't be able to write so casually about a few hundred villagers dying. Probably, I wouldn't be able to use the word "lucky" in that opening paragraph. Maybe, probably, perhaps, I'd look at one death as one too many.
**
But so many did die - all over the world. The plague killed hundreds of thousands of anthros, all over the world. And so the world fell. Would it be reborn? I had no idea. Probably, no one did. Here, in this country, the government was holding on, more or less. There were those camp/shelters, for one thing. But I hadn't heard any news in months. In fact, there'd been no news. All the newspapers had shut down. The television stations were no longer broadcasting.
By staying here in this village, I'd surrendered any possible news that might appear, any possible developments, good or bad.
**
Anyway, I wasn't totally alone. I'd made a friend, sort of.
I noticed a feral Bullmastiff hanging around outside the house, and I started feeding him. He'd been someone's pet, before the world fell. I could tell, because he had a collar with a tag - his name, it turned out, was Hunter. He was incredibly shy at first - very, very shy. I couldn't help but wonder if he'd been abused in some way.
(Or if, perhaps, he'd been traumatized by the events of the plague. His owner was gone - either they died, or they left. Either way, this feral dog had been left behind.)
At first, Hunter wouldn't eat in front of me, I had to go back in the house before he'd devour the food I gave him. At first, too, I couldn't approach him, much less pet him. That's how shy he was. I fed him every day for weeks, and eventually he warmed up to me. Eventually, I could sit down and watch him, while he ate. Eventually, he allowed me to pet him, scratch his ears, tell him he was a good boy.
It was kind of nice, having someone to talk to. Of course, he was a feral dog - obviously, he had no idea what I was saying. Not that it mattered. He'd look up at me, wag his tail. By that point, it'd been weeks and weeks since the villagers had left. I'd had no one to talk to - though, I probably did talk out loud, to myself, from time to time. Who knows?
**
When the villagers left, they warned me about the power shutting off. But, hey, I knew it would happen eventually - it just made sense. With no one working at the power station, with no one keeping an eye on, and maintaining, the power grid, well, I knew it was just a matter of time. The only exact figure I heard was "ten days." The middle-aged Rottweiler who had actually worked at the power station told me that the electricity would shut off after exactly ten days.
He was wrong.. It lasted weeks - probably two months, or so. Of course, I had been losing track of the days, so who knows.
I _think _the electricity shut off in late July, but, by that point - like I said . . . the days had been "lost track of." When I say late July, take that with a grain of salt.
**
It was turning out to be a very warm day. Sitting on the porch, I patted Hunter's shoulder and rubbed the fur on his back.
"Don't know what I'm going to do now," I said, looking at the dog. "With no power, I can't run the fans anymore, and we still have August to get through. Maybe we should sleep outside, out on the lawn?"
Hunter wagged his tail. Being a feral dog, not an anthro, he probably felt that sleeping outdoors was a great idea.
"C'mon," I said, standing up. "Let's go into town, and get some batteries. I can do without fans, if I have to, but I refuse to live without music."
And so we strolled into town, feral Bullmastiff following an anthro Lion. I was wearing cut-off jean shorts and old flip-flops, as well as a faded tank top. I'd pulled my mane back, held it back with a dirty rubber band. I felt like I was sweating more than I used to. Did that happen as one got older? Was that a thing? I hoped not.
We walked past the general store, which still had goods in the large display window. The coffee shop, with its tables out front. The pharmacy, with its two small benches parked on the sidewalk. Once, anthros had gathered here - they'd sat at those tables, and on those benches, and they'd talked with each other, or they'd watched the people walking by. Now, all was silent and empty. The once-vibrant air was still and quiet.
We walked past the diner, which in the old days was always full. Now, it sat empty and forlorn. The windows looked dusty.
We walked past the park, and I noticed that the flowers were starting to creep past their borders. No longer held in check, nature was going to take over, I believed. It was going to erase the planned-out and controlled order which anthros had imposed on the park - it was going to (someday, perhaps someday soon) knock over the fences, cover the sidewalks, drop seeds for trees and plants wherever the wind took them.
Anyway . . . I was pretty sure I'd seen a lot of batteries at the hardware store, in the stockroom. I was right. Without electricity, I was going to need batteries for both my cassette players - the large "boom box" as well as the small, personal player with headphones.
I hadn't planned out any sort of future for myself - and for the dog, as well, as I'd more or less adopted him. I hadn't thought about it, though I should have. I hadn't thought about the coming winter - hadn't yet freaked out, worried about it. I hadn't even begun to wonder if we'd have enough food.
Music? Music I worried about, thought about. Music, I needed batteries for. My priorities may have been, um, a bit off . . . but I'm not going to castigate myself for that. Music's always been important to me. I had a lot of albums, and a ton of cassettes. Mostly, I had rock music from the late '60s and the first half of the '70s. That's the stuff I grew up listening to. I also like some punk stuff, and a lot of New Wave. I've never been into classical. Disco, I never cared much for. In the late 1970s, as we all know, disco ruled the radio, or so it seemed. Every bar I went into, in the city, played disco. And yet - eh - I was never into it.
Is it just me, or does it seem odd that the late '70s was ten years ago? Times flies, they say. Not that it matters, now. The world has fallen, and it feels like all of us got a lot older, in a hurry. Or am I the only one who feels that way?
**
We left the hardware store, Hunter and I.
Shocked, I stopped, still, in my tracks. I nearly dropped the batteries. I hadn't seen another anthro in months - and yet - and yet - there he was, across the street, whoever he was. A young Rottweiler, wearing a pair of baggy gym shorts and loose sneakers - and nothing else. He stood in front of the real estate office, his back to me - and he was spraypainting something on the display window. Whatever the graffiti was meant to be, it was quickly turning into a nonsense blur of lines.
He must've sensed our presence, because he suddenly spun around. He looked just as shocked as I was, seeing another anthro there, staring at him.
Amused, Hunter cocked his head and looked from me to the young Rottweiler. He didn't bark or growl.
I fumbled for words to say, and the Rottweiler fumbled with his can of spraypaint. It fell from his hand, hit the sidewalk and rolled. The sound shattered the stillness of the empty air.
**