Ela woke up with a fright. Without thinking, she moved her hands to her big round belly, ensuring it was still there. She wondered what had woken her up. A flash of light filled the room for just a second. The darkness returned, stronger, complete. Propping herself up on her elbows, Ela looked out of the window to her left. A silent lightning storm was raging outside, the noise completely sealed out by the thick glass. The sky flashed again. For a moment she saw rain drops dotting the glass. A heartbeat later she felt it. The pain was slight at first, a nuisance. Then it grew stronger and stronger with each breath, until she was certain it was what had disturbed her sleep–a burning pain in her lower back. It was gone as fast as it came. Relieved, she felt a movement inside her and smiled like she did every time she felt those little kicks from within. But the smile was wiped off her face when the pain returned once more, this time stronger than before. A loud, long moan escaped her lips. Panic overcame her, as she became suddenly aware of what was happening. Tiny cold beads of sweat sprouted on her forehead. How is this possible, she thought. Why so early? The due date was still nearly ten weeks away. Without getting up, she put out her left hand and touched a part of the wall behind the bedside table. A warm yellowish glow filled the room. It was dim at first, then gradually got stronger. She sat up, slowly. The pain returned and almost made her bend double. She told herself to calm down, but could not. Her hands found and pressed a button protruding from the wall, beneath the light switch. After a few moments the room's door slid open with a low swooshing noise, like two pieces of cloth rubbing against each other. A young man walked in–Kari, one of the nursing staff on night duty. Smiling, he asked her if she needed anything. During the past five months she had often called him during the night for a glass of cold water or sometimes just to chat a little when she couldn't sleep. He was a gentle soul and she liked his company. As soon as he saw her face contort under yet another bout of pain, his smile faded and was replaced by worry. He ran to her side. Grabbing his left arm she implored him to call Lor, to hurry up, as the baby was coming. Kari didn't understand straight away. He asked if she might be mistaken. It was still early. Ela assured him she knew what she was saying. She was certain. Again, she asked him to call the doctor, her voice brusque, out of breath. It seemed like ages later when the young nurse reappeared through the door followed by an ageing physician. Lor did not ask any questions. He walked right up to the bed and started feeling Ela's belly with his warm hands, putting pressure in certain areas to ensure the baby's position within the womb. He asked her to lie back down and prop up her legs, so he could examine her better. It took him only a minute, after which he turned on Kari and asked him to go wake up everyone, then head to the delivery room and make it ready, urging him to make haste. The baby was going to be with them soon. Kari left. The old physician looked at the girl and smiled. No need to worry, he told her kindly. Gently, he brushed her hair away from her face, telling her everything was going to be fine. Lor joked, saying this was happening because her baby was fed up inside her and wanted to get out in the light. Had she thought of a name yet? She laughed nervously. No, she had not. She knew it had to happen, only not this early. She had assumed her child would be born when due. When months before they had asked her if she would be willing to help in ensuring the survival of their race, she accepted without hesitation, despite her fears. She knew the day would come when they would ask, had been expecting it from when she was old enough to understand how humans reproduced. They wanted her to be the mother of the new generation of tower people, denizens of a most peculiar future. She was young, and knew it. But the doctors encouraged her and assured her repeatedly that her body was ready to bear her children. And her children were destined to be the future of humanity. Ela was the last girl in the tower, the last glimpse of hope in a world where all hope was lost forever. Harvested by the cruel scythe of nuclear war. This was her moment of truth. Fear welled up inside her, strong and threatening and she knew Lor was seeing it through her eyes. They moved her to another room on the same floor, a colder room, without any windows, full of strange blinking equipment, tools and strong medicinal odours. The pain was now nailing her down to the bed and she cried out shamelessly every time the contractions came. The physician was examining her again and saying something to another doctor. Hold still, he told her. Bear the pain a little longer. It will soon be over. He said this in a low soothing monotone, explaining why he could not give her anything to alleviate the pain. It was too late, and they did not want to risk harming the baby. She would have to give birth the traditional way, as was done in the distant past. Holding her cold hands in his, he told her again to take heart. A woman's body was made to bear children, and the pain was part of the process that helped the birth. Empty words. She was but a girl. And after all, it was she who felt the pain and no one else. Thoughts raced in her head, chiefly among them a question. Why did I ever agree to this? More medical staff came in, wearing masks, surgical gloves and long white robes. They went busily around their tasks, mechanical in their movements, concentrating, silent. She knew each and every one of them, but with their masks covering their mouths and the caps on their heads they seemed like total strangers. Lor told her to do as told, to have faith in them. Everything was going to be all right, he repeated. But Ela's mind was elsewhere, locked up in a world of her own, made of pain and suffering. Nothing else mattered. She felt nothing, was aware of nothing. Nothing but her pain. The people moving around her were like noise. She never heard them urging her to take deep breaths, neither to wait and push only when told. She couldn't take it any longer, could not wait. She felt the need to push with all her might, and push is what she did. She pushed and pushed, trying to drive the pain away. And at last she felt herself being emptied. A sense of loss as something drifted out of her. She heard cries, but they were already distant. She felt light as a feather, moving away, soaring, soaring higher, eyes closing in a peaceful dreamless sleep that engulfed her entirely. Ela, the last girl, the last mother, gave birth to a boy. Just one child. Then it was over. She closed her eyes forever.

The large concrete block he had been trying to dislodge, finally gave way, exposing what lay underneath. It tumbled down the side of the rubble heap upon which he was working. Echoes of the crash resounded all around before gradually dying out. A massive cloud of dust rose up, quickly dispersing in the strong south easterly wind. He straightened up, his chest heaving with the effort, and for a few moments looked around, first to his immediate vicinity, then letting his gaze drift farther away. The height of the mound where he stood gave him a good vantage point. Nothing had changed. No movement could be detected as far as his eyes could see. From the indistinguishable mounds of rubble that were once buildings, to the familiar gleaming tower in the distance and beyond, all was still. Behind his protective mask, dark bird-like eyes moved up to the reddish sky, completely overcast with dust clouds. The sun, permanently hidden by that heavy crimson blanket, would soon go down in the west. Only a couple of hours remained in which to find something of value. His mates, working in pairs on similar mounds in that same zone, had not been luckier than him so far. Bending back to his work, the boy squeezed through the irregular shaped hole exposed by the block. But once more, any hope of finding something was crushed when he realized the way down was blocked by more rubble. He climbed back out immediately, moved to another part of the heap, and started all over again. Rocks and debris tumbled down the heap as he carefully searched for a way in. He made an effort to keep focused on the rocks he removed. If he dislodged one that held other boulders in place he would end up crushed or worse. It wasn't the first time the rubble had caved-in underneath him, as had happened so many times to other scavengers, including long lost friends and relatives. He had been lucky so far, although his body was covered with scars and bruises as a reminder of the ever present peril. He worked as fast as he could, glancing up every now and again to ensure there wasn't any danger. Cold wasn't the only thing that followed darkness in that place. The devil-dogs hunted in packs and the closer it got to sunset the greater the risk of encounter. Removing the mask–a breathing apparatus without which he would end up inhaling only sand and dust–the boy wiped sweat and grime from his brow with the back of his hand. He wore the mask all the time when he was out scavenging. They had plenty of them back at the temple, but he was one of the few who wore them. Others preferred using a common piece of cloth to cover their noses and mouths. The boy replaced the mask and went on working. He had already gone back empty handed the day before, and if he went back today and told the Taàr he hadn't found anything, the old man would burst out in anger and probably beat him to a pulp. He removed a narrow but long piece of concrete, than another. As soon as he touched a stone the length of his arm, a section of loose dirt and rubble collapsed inwardly, revealing a new hole, wide enough for his head to go through. He fished out a little torch light out of a large pouch sewn at the back of his trousers, and switched it on into the hole. At last, he thought. Through the hole he saw a room–a square space, once part of a house that like every other building in that desolate place was swept away in the blink of an eye. Doomsday. That's how those who survived the day referred to the massive atomic strike that changed the Earth forever. He had seen hundreds of similar rooms, most of which led to plentiful loots–things of value to the Taàr's people. Some led to nothing, so he didn't build his hopes up too high. Not just yet. He widened the hole slightly, enough to squeeze through–he was pitifully thin, like others his age. He had just turned fourteen and had been out scavenging the zones since he was six. At first just gathering wood and other fuel for fire, later assisting older boys when looking for food or water. Kids in his clan had to start helping out from an early age. There was no other way. Just two years before he and his brother had been inseparable. They scavenged together until the day Rorik ended up buried alive inside a building that collapsed just as he was coming out with the last load. From that day on, the boy never wanted anyone with him, choosing to work alone. The Taàr disapproved of this, and said so many times, but until now had never taken any action. The rest of the Younglings, as their band called themselves, silently accepted the boy's decision and left him alone most of the time. Rorik had been ten years his senior, a skilled scavenger, never one to take uncalculated risks. Maybe that was the reason why the younger brother could not accept his death. Or maybe it was because he had been the only family he had left–other than their Uncle Sam, but he considered him a stranger more than anyone else. Rorik had been the only living soul who could tell him about his mother and father whenever he felt like hearing stories about them. Both parents died when he was just a year old. He and Rorik had been the only two children to survive out of eight siblings. His brother had often recalled the cruel fate that befell the other six. Three had been still-born, two were born severely malformed and lived only a few months, and another one lived to three years, then got sick and died in a matter of days. Everyday incidents for the people of Tartarys. The toxic radioactive environment made for difficult living conditions. It made for a hard, ruthless life. He thought of his brother as he went down through the hole. In moments like those, Rorik used to take a large breath, hold up two crossed fingers and make a wish. Let's hope we find our share today. He imagined him there, beside him, saying those words in his gruff voice. The boy murmured those words. Maybe it was a way to keep the tradition alive. Or maybe to keep his brother alive. The hint of a smile had appeared on the boy's lips as soon as Rorik's memory welled up inside him. But now the smile wore off as he focused on the new dim surroundings. The room he had lowered himself into had once been a bedroom. Someone, more than seventy years in the past, had lived in that luxury. Someone was lucky enough to have a room for themselves, with a bed and matching furniture now rotting, with a small desk still covered with pencils and pens and three shelves full of books that were now only ash. Everything turned to ash, eventually. The boy could only imagine the room as it had once been. He had never experienced any of that sort. All he knew was hardship and suffering, a life of darkness. And ash. Moving to a corner of the room, he went through an open doorway into a short corridor filled with bits of concrete that had fallen from the ceiling. There was enough space for the boy to crawl through to the end, until he came to a stairs that went down into complete darkness. He projected the small light in front of him and descended carefully, as quiet as a mouse. Now that he had gone below, the noise of the wind had completely subsided and the silence was total. He could hear his breathing through the protective mask, his footsteps on the ash covered tiles, and he thought he could even make out his heart beating fast in his chest. The stairs led down to a floor with two more bedrooms, a bathroom and a large kitchen. He went into the latter, shaking the torch every few minutes to recharge it. The tiny light silently revealed the contents of the room. First to be exposed was the table, where the remains of a human being lay. The person had probably been seated at the table when death walked into that kitchen. The skeleton was still intact from the hips up, with the arms and head resting on the glass surface, while the rest of the body lay in a heap of dust under the table. He had found similar scenes during their scavenges, and he could never understand why some skeletons remained intact while others became dust. Rorik's theory was that it all depended on what the persons ate during their lifetime. The boy walked beside the skeleton and touched the head. He wanted to check if it was in good condition so he could take it to Pat, who collected skulls. But it disintegrated as soon as his fingers touched the yellowed bone. Only the teeth remained, shining in the torchlight. The boy turned his light on the rest of the kitchen. He spotted some utensils still in the sink, hanging cupboards that had long since crashed down, china plates and bowls scattered across the floor, some broken, some intact. He was not interested in these artefacts–they had thousands of similar items in their stores. What he picked up was a small earthenware saucer, decorated with tiny red flowers. This he pocketed before continuing the search for food or drink. Opening one of the bottom cupboard doors, he found dozens of cans of food. The wrapper around the cans was yellowish, crumbling, but the cans looked in good condition. He picked one up, shook it, and with satisfaction heard a slosh inside. He suddenly relaxed, feeling the tension within him dissipate into tiredness. His stomach grumbled with hunger. It pleaded him to open one can and feed himself. He hadn't eaten since the day before. All he had taken since that morning was a glass of water. But he quickly abolished the thought. Vivid memories of what had happened when he once dared open a can of food came rushing back to him–the thousands, if not millions, of roaches and rats that surrounded them when he had not even finished eating the whole can, then the furious devil-dogs that ran after him and his brother, perhaps more because they had heard their screams than because they smelled the food. And after all that mess, the beating they got from Sal. Shuddering at these thoughts, he opened more cupboards and found more canned food, as well as bottled drinks. Sometimes liquids would be too rancid for consumption, but more often than not, they would find acceptable ones. From the same pocket where he kept the torch and other tools, he took out four carefully folded empty canvas sacks and started filling them with cans. He didn't have enough space to carry out all the loot. When the sacks were full enough, he climbed back upstairs with the first two, went back through the corridor, and left the goods in the bedroom. Then he squeezed outside and fished a piece of red cloth from the usual pocket. Looking around, he found a suitable jagged piece of concrete on which to tie the cloth that served as a marker. When he finished tying, he took off the mask, put two fingers in his mouth, and whistled loudly. It was a call old Sal had thought them to communicate over long distances. He repeated the same sound three times–a signal indicating he had found something to take home–then replaced the mask and went back inside. It was good to be out of the wind. He went back down and carried the remaining sacks up. To while away the time, he rummaged through the wardrobe. The clothes inside became dust as soon as he laid fingers on them. At the bottom he found a couple of rotten boxes filled with shoes that had become too hard to be of any use. The first reply came, ending his search. His companions had heard his call and were grouping up to his location. One long whistle meant they were asking him for directions–with the strong wind blowing at all times, it was difficult to determine where a whistle came from. He went back to the hole in the ceiling, stuck out his head, lifted the mask and whistled three more times. After a little while, his friends appeared.

It was almost dark when the boy and his mates finally made it to their abode–a huge construction, built on the crest of a hill, surrounded by the remains of the small town of Tartarys. A town shrouded in silence. Three enormous doors set in an imposing fa?ade barred the way into the building. Many years before, the current Taàr and his less than four hundred followers found shelter in that building and made it their home. Before that time, under previous Taàrs, the clan had roamed the zones like nomads, never settling in the same place for a long time. They would stay just enough to scavenge an area, then move on to the next. The people lived in constant fear of attacks from a rival clan and so chose to keep moving to avoid being easily located. But when Sal became Taàr, he led his people to the town of Tartarys, back to where he was born. He knew the town and the temple, knew that once cleared and cleaned it would make a stronghold for them, with enough space for everyone. He did so partly because of the clan's dwindling numbers–he argued that roaming like they did without ever settling down was causing the decline in their ranks and soon they would become too few to sustain themselves. The other reason was that they needed a central place from where they could organise searches, increase efficiency, store supplies and ensure some kind of future. They needed somewhere to call home. Apart from this, the building was strong and easy to defend against their enemies. Sal had been proven right. Since settling in, the clan had grown to four hundred and fifty people. Men, women and children led by a wrinkled old white-bearded man with one good eye and another he kept covered at all times. At seventy five years of age, Sal was the only living man to remember life before doomsday. When in the mood, he often told tales of better days when that same building was a centre of activity in Tartarys, visited by many who prayed and worshipped long forgotten gods. The gods who had forgotten them. From that place, the Taàr's clan controlled their territory, an area that extended to half the island. The other half belonged to the Baron and his people, feared rivals and enemies of the Taàr's clan. The border between the two territories was marked by the only building in that land to withstand the bombing and its aftermath–a gleaming white tower by day, a blue beacon by night. Reaching up past the clouds, with a perimeter as wide as a whole city, the scavenger clans used it as a landmark. Its proper name was the Nimbus Tower, a remnant of another age. But no one used that name. Everyone called it simply the tower. And every single one of them knew what the tower represented–Sal made sure of that. By the passing of time, its purpose and function became mysterious to the scavengers, almost mythological. A mysterious landmark they had never been able to unlock. According to Sal, the tower belonged to the people responsible for the cruel destiny that befell the world, the remorseless murderers of whole populations, of families, of children and parents, old and young. Those monsters built a tower able to withstand almost anything, then they unleashed doom over the entire world. He drummed this knowledge into every member of his clan. He reminded them of what the tower stood for every single night, forbidding anyone to even go near that building. In recent years, many had seen strange beings near the tower, and after those sightings began, Sal warned his people to steer clear should they ever encounter people from that place. Hide, he used to tell them, hide and do not move until they're gone. Out of Sal's earshot, some had it that the inhabitants of the tower had long since perished. However, others whispered that the sightings were real–someone or other had seen the strange slow moving people themselves. Some said they were tall as giants, some said those wandering through the broken roads and shattered remains of towns and villages were the ghosts of the original tenants of the Nimbus Tower. Still, everyone kept clear of the place. Alex, one of their band, was waiting for them beside two women standing guard on either side of the temple's middle door. The women looked at them sourly as they went in with the loot. No one enjoyed staying outside the doors after the sun had set. As a rule, the doors opened every morning at dawn and closed at twilight. Those who did not return by sundown had to find their own shelter. There were valid reasons for that curfew. Once the devil-dogs caught the scent of humans, they stopped at nothing to sink their teeth in their flesh. Too many lives had been lost to the beasts' night raids. For many, it was difficult to believe that the fearsome dogs were once timid and friendly creatures kept by humans as pets within their homes. The wild creatures now prowled the night, hunting in packs for rat or man alike. When the Younglings saw they wouldn't make it in time, they had sent Alex back to the temple before them to let the women on guard know they were coming. Immediately beyond the magnificent doors lay a roofless area. The roof had caved in long ago. After clearing the rubble, Sal and his people had built a second wall there and fitted it with a metal door. This served as additional protection and also to enclose the inner temple whose roof was still mostly intact, held by two rows of massive limestone pillars. The space inside was cavernous, the ceiling so high that the light of burning candles didn't reach it. The boy spent hours staring at that ceiling, wondering at the skill and knowledge their ancestors must have held in order to build something so colossal. Beyond the pillars, on either side of temple, rows of mattresses had been laid out side by side and made up the sleeping quarters of the clan. Sal was the only one who didn't sleep there. He shared a room at the back of the temple with Kim, his lifelong partner. She was a kind and wise old woman, some years younger than Sal. Loved by everyone in the clan, she took care of things the Taàr didn't have the disposition to handle. The people respected them both, and many were awed by their longevity in an age where very few reached fifty. The wide space in the middle, between the colonnades, held long wooden tables upon which all members of the clan were now seated, eating their only meal of the day. High above them, the roof arced majestically until it reached its highest point. There, through a partly collapsed cupola, light filtered in during the day to wash the interior in a dull red hue. A hush fell over the place as everyone stopped talking while the band of nine boys approached. Seven sacks full of canned food and bottles were dropped to the floor with a metallic thump and the nine moved to join their brethren to eat. But the Taàr's dry voice stopped them dead in their tracks. He wanted to know where they had been and the reason for being late. He asked this gruffly, without ever lifting his face out of the food tin from which he was eating. They remained standing, all of them. To Sal's left, as usual, sat Sam, the boy's uncle, looking at them menacingly. The resemblance to his nephew was remarkable. They shared the same dark complexion, similar small dark eyes and a flat nose with very thin lips. He had a dark beard which the boy did not yet possess, and his head was completely bald, unlike the boy who had long hair that went down to his neckline. Despite this resemblance however, there was little else that uncle and nephew had in common. After Rorik passed away, Sam barely even spoke to the boy. Sal's question was answered by Edgar, oldest among them. He told him that they had found a good place late in the day and it took them some time to get everything out. Sam made a mocking noise with his mouth, but the Taàr ignored him. He continued eating in silence for a while. Everyone else had stopped eating, and the only sound they could hear was his chewing. When he finished, he slowly wiped his mouth to remove the food from his beard and asked Kim to bring out food for the boys. He told her to give them double ration. Talking resumed as the Younglings sat down and Kim got up. She called some helpers, then went towards a room at the back, across the marble floor and through a small green door on the right. Back there they kept a store of scavenged food and drinks. Trays laden with stacked bowls and two cans of food for each one of them were brought out and placed on the table together with nine glasses of water. The boys plunged in, grabbing two cans each, one with mixed vegetables and one with corned beef. They emptied these in their bowls, and started eating immediately. After so many hours working and walking the long distances they were truly famished. Double ration occurred on very rare occasions–Sal allowed it only to reward a good find or an exceptional feat–so they made the most of it. Water was rationed as well. Everyone got three glasses a day, one in the morning, one at midday, and one with dinner. There was no other way to feed everyone. Seventy one years had gone by since the nuclear bombings had erased villages, cities and whole countries. Those who didn't die instantly were killed later by the effects of the radiation from the fallout which poisoned also trees and vegetation, water, crops, birds, fish and cattle and almost every living thing on the planet. Life trudged on in a rotting, decaying limp, while species dwindled and death celebrated the greatest victory. Humans numbered but a few, on a sick planet that was quickly turning into a deserted effigy. Fields had been turned to ash. Nothing would grow in the dead soil. The only food they could live on had to be reaped from cans and tins buried beneath the rubble and remains of houses that fell as if made of paper. Collected rain water was contaminated, and so were fresh springs that soon stopped flowing. Many died after drinking from poisoned sources. Sometimes, they found bottled water, sometimes hidden reservoirs that contained water good enough to drink. They had nothing to test it with but their own mortality. And if it wasn't poisoned water, it was some sickness that took away lives. If not those, then the rabid dogs, that numbered more than the surviving people. While eating, the boy glanced at Sal and Kim. He pondered, not for the first time, what was special about the couple, how they managed to survive for so long in such a cruel environment. Why didn't his parents enjoy the same fate? And Rorik. Why did you leave me alone, thought the boy, still looking at the old couple. Then he felt someone's gaze and his eyes met his uncle's hateful stare. He had grown accustomed to it. It didn't bother him any longer. He turned his head, focused on his food, and ate silently, still wondering about the Taàr and his wife. Sal was five years old the day the bombs fell. He always said he didn't remember much of that day, but what memories he recalled were not happy ones. The few people who survived that dark day in human history raised Sal and other children as best they could. They continued their education, despite the circumstances, and ensured some of the knowledge of their ancestors was passed on through them and their children to the next generations. And Sal did try. Some of the older members of the clan were able to read and write. They had learned things about the world of before. But the younger generation showed no interest in learning. Many argued that reading or writing weren't going to help them find food and survive. Books after all, were not good for eating. Sal never argued back, at least not on that matter. The Taàr was an able storyteller, perhaps aided by the fact that he alone among his people had lived in a past that had long since ceased to exist. And the sad truth was that if it wasn't for the few books and photographs they sometimes encountered during their forays inside the abandoned houses, no one would have believed some of the tales he told. A few times every month, after dark, when everyone had finished eating, Sal would gather people around him in a big circle under the broken dome. There he would sit in a chair, and by the light of a candle or one of those artificial lights they sometimes salvaged from the zones, he would read from one of the books he kept in his room. His voice would echo around the silent building, carrying stories from another world. Other times, instead of reading, he would tell them about what he remembered from the time before doomsday and of the days that followed when most of them had not yet been born. Very few of his tales were happy–they were mostly tragic ones, of great sadness and sorrow that left the listeners heartbroken. There was one tale he liked to repeat often, that of the day he saw the face of death. His descriptions of the people he saw dead or dying, the trees aflame, everything collapsing under a wave of death stirred a heart wrenching grief in those who listened. On that day, some said the Taàr lost his eye, but that was one tale he never told anyone. After doomsday came famine and pestilence, thousands of decomposing bodies of humans and beasts, death under so many forms and disguises. And every time Sal recalled how his parents died within months of each other about a year and half after the bombing, the boy would feel himself suffocating under an immense pain. After all, he was an orphan as well, and although his parents died much later, it was still death attributed to the nuclear attack. He couldn't even remember his mother or father's faces. The people of the old world had taken even that memory from him. Then, at the end of his tale, Sal would silently look those around him in the eye, with a one-eyed stare as hard as Arctic ice that now existed only in photographs and legends. He would reach beneath his shirt to reveal a heavy golden chain that he wore at all times. Raising it high, Sal would show them a little golden cross attached to the chain, upon which the figure of a bleeding man lay nailed. Only suffering could protect them, he would preach, the same pain and suffering worshipped by the people who built the temple hundreds of years in the past. He did not believe in god. No god would have allowed that future to exist. But he did think their ancestors were right to worship suffering. According to Sal, wealth, happiness, global eternal peace, were just illusions, concepts that could never exist without much suffering and sacrifice. And in that suffering they could find themselves, find who they really were. Only with pain life made sense. . .