The rain and the wind hadn’t stopped since the machines took control; the bright sunlight or a warm breeze seemed like distant memories now. Oelek couldn’t recall the last time he had felt them. His sister, Nilam, never experienced them; she was born during the Way Years. Their parents were gone and long gone. It had been difficult dealing with Nilam on his own with her respiratory disease. But in a way, he was glad Mum and Dad were no longer here. It was not just their ageing and health; it was more their incomprehension and inability to understand how this had come so far unchecked that this was the world they would be passing onto their children, and nobody seemed able to stop the decay. The denial ended up being a poison inside them, Mum first, Dad not too long afterwards. He could only offer his children the last words, “I’m sorry.” 


We lost everything, Oelek thought. Our purpose, our dignity, our humanity, our worries, and our ambitions. We were no longer ourselves. We were becoming more like them—the Nefarious. Nobody cared how and why this came about. It no longer mattered, of course. The empty grey senselessness surrounding them was like being immersed in a sea of liquid despair, slowly sinking deeper each day.


He pulled the sledge closer to him, leveraging the strap over his hurting shoulder muscles, and dragged it through the slush. The ache wouldn’t go away, and the skin was sore and almost crusty from the continuous friction. Nilam would roll and shift her weight, and the strap would pull at him, sometimes cutting the skin and causing bleeding. The last oil was gone, and he could no longer rub some on his shoulder to ease the pain at night wherever they found shelter. He could only use ice to cool down and numb the wound. Nilam coughed and wheezed, spitting out phlegm. Her breathing was getting more and more difficult as the days passed. She was not mentally awake either from the radiation, which fell like static from the flying power stations above, closer now to a vegetative state than conscious and receding more and more into her own depths, her eyes unresponsive to him. She wouldn’t last long; days, weeks, months perhaps. He couldn’t see it reaching that far. He would be alone then. He almost wished he could go, too. Die. It would be almost a relief, the final rest he so wanted.


The music came floating in, as it did on some days. It originated from one of the higher floors of the Landcross building, one of the few left in a more or less decent condition for living, if by decent could be meant simply still standing up. A dim light came from the windows, the glass greasy and cloudy. Someone behind them was playing the piano. It wasn’t a seasoned player, maybe a novice or a child, as they stopped often to correct themselves. Or it could also have been someone with a disability of some sort, something which was quite the norm these days. Oelek would search the containers for whatever morsels he could, and then they would come here to take shelter under the overhang, food or no food. He would listen to the music, wondering if the person played despite the fear or precisely because of it. The music hoped he felt. It hoped and longed for a past that had dissolved or a future it could not see. Whatever the reason, it gave a breath of life to the player and Oelek. He sensed Nilam responded to it, too, as she noticeably became less fidgety under her covers, her breathing slower and in less pain. It was worth coming here if only for that; it was the only relief she found during the day or night. If he were lucky, the light would remain on, and the pianist would play long enough for her to sleep. If not, he would remain huddled close to her, hugging her and feeling her shake and shiver as her spasms continued till the exhaustion overtook him as well and his eyes closed. 


It was not like that before. There was the sun,  fun, and laughs; the wind and rain were just that. Pure, fresh, clean. As if they possessed a divine force that was real and alive—taken for granted. Now, it was different. Devoid of living light, everything was synthetic, cold, and empty. Like the eyes of the people. So many had gone, picked up by the Wellbeing and Health patrols to be supposedly reinstated. But nobody came back; they disappeared, and no questions were asked. 


He saw the rising steam from the heavy furnaces across the river. Burning all day and all night, their continuous low throbbing had become so much part of daily life that you stopped thinking about it and dismissed it simply like white noise in the background. What they burnt there was anyone’s guess; all Oelek knew was that the furnaces had been built before the Nefarious takeover. The whole area enclosing them was off-limits except for the numbered checkpoints lit by floodlights, the only places you would encounter guards. Elsewhere, the walls were thick and high, and one couldn’t climb or see over them. But you would never get so close as the snappers would take care of you first. Triggered by your approach, they’d pop out from the ground, and the curved, swivelling blades would slice your feet cleanly just above the ankle. You were already falling, caught in shock before the pain started. And as you did, the hissing blades would severe whichever parts of your body hit the ground, one after the other. Your screams came out now, but only if you were unlucky to still be alive. Floodgates lining the base of the wall opened immediately, and the pressurised water flushed away your blood and your dismembered body into sliding gutters, dead or alive. It lasted only a few seconds, an eternity for you. The snappers would bury, the gutters shut, and the field would be ready, quiet once more. 


Nilam coughed, and her body shook. He held her close. The music had stopped, the lights gone. It was cold. All he could hear were the drops of condensing water sliding off the overhead steam pipes as they hit the ground, freezing as they did so.