An isolated community faces the end of the world
For the purposes of Literotica, this story has been placed in Science Fiction & Fantasy because I don't know where else it should go. The erotic content is fairly mild. If this category is inappropriate, I'll ask the Literotica editors about other options. As it is, this is very much a traditional science fiction story with a hint of romance. All of the characters are way over 18 years old.
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"Remember the Wasting Syndrome?" old She-Geezer said, flipping through a yellowed gossip magazine. The faces of two young movie stars happily mugged from the faded cover, both long since dead.
"Just another media circus. Never was bad as they said," Lenny-the-Junior complained, the wheeze in his voice growing worse.
"Was a cure ever found? Or did they just die sooner?" Melinda asked, looking up from the knitting in her lap.
"No, they didn't die sooner!" Daniel-the- Centenarian said, so angry he started to choke. "Wasn't our fault. It wasn't!"
"Calm down, Danny, you know stress isn't good for you," Melinda softly urged, getting up from her favorite rocking chair to help him take a breath from his respirator. "It's just that I was reading this article the other day in that old copy of Celebrity Crisis, and it said WS was never a real epidemic. Not like Covid or the Pig Flu."
"Won't be insulted. Won't," Daniel-the-Centenarian said, rolling his wheelchair off the patio and down the overgrown path toward the brook.
"Danny's so touchy today," Melinda said. "I swear I can't talk to him about anything anymore. Gettin' bad as Glum-Gus."
"Danny's first mate died of WS, Mindy," Aged-Jason said, remembering what many others could only read about. "Shickton had it, too. Thought he was going to die. Some say that's why he did it. Why he created The Defect to prevent human reproduction. It was his way of getting revenge against all mankind."
"Damn ass bragged 'bout it!" Mean-Fred butted in. "Bragged 'bout blottin' out all the future generations. I'm glad they shot 'em."
"Didn't they use lethal injection back then?" Melinda said.
"No! They shot 'em! Shot 'is damn head off!" Mean-Fred argued.
"They administered lethal injection. I remember watching it on World Net," Aged-Jason said.
"Well, they shoulda shot 'em!" Mean-Fred said. "Shoulda shot 'is damn head off!"
Mean-Fred slowly stepped off the porch of the crumbling retirement home, careful not to break his hip, and followed Daniel-the-Centenarian down the beaten path toward the brook. The sky was blue, the weather warm, and none of the old folks cared to waste such a fine day. Even Aged-Jason considered getting out of his rocker.
"Feel like giving an old gentleman a hand, sweetie?" Aged-Jason asked. Melinda smiled and helped him up, guiding him to the ramp.
"Why don't you come along? Everyone's goin' down to the creek today. Might even go skinny-dipping," he said with a sly wink.
"You lecher," Melinda laughed. "Run naked for all I care. I have chores to do."
Aged-Jason hobbled down the ramp using his ivory cane for support, strolling through the green April garden. Spring had arrived, and the multitude of wildflowers that had overtaken the rose beds were bursting with color. It was such a day as the old ones wished for, causing Melinda to wonder if there would be more talk of Compact, like after Christmas. The radio had announced another one, this time at the Jackson Plantation to the south of them, and Melinda knew it was bound to cause debate. Not that she could blame the elders. At eighty-nine years old, she was the youngest and healthiest of their little community. She was yet to experience the morbid bitterness of the others.
Stepping into the cool interior of their ramshackle colonial mansion, Melinda wondered where to start. The kitchen was a mess, as always after breakfast, and the hall needed dusting, but she thought it might be good to do laundry. Mean-Fred had managed to fix the water pump, and the solar collector had stored enough energy to run a load of bedding. Fresh linens would be such a treat!
The mansion was nearly empty now, only Sass-Sally left sitting in the parlor, asleep. She was so far progressed in senility that there was no point in waking her. The cranky old woman would only complain, and most unpleasantly at that. Sometimes Melinda missed not having a female other than She-Geezer to speak with, though she did enjoy the flattery of her male companions. Their colony had shrunk rapidly during the last decade, from a bustling fifty to a bare eleven. And several of those were nearly incapacitated. Melinda longed for those days of dances and parties. Even the deathwatches once held more significance.
Wish the phone still worked, Melinda thought as she passed the disconnected instrument in the breezy hallway. I could call another colony. Maybe even Atlanta! Must be a few women somewhere willing to adopt a new home, and Large Oaks is, after all, the finest in all South Carolina! Not that the Carolinas had many left with the Raleigh Colony migrating to Tampa summer before last.
Doesn't matter, though, she decided. Phone hasn't worked in years. Not since the last satellite lost orbit.
Melinda stopped to gaze in the hall mirror, fixing her finely brushed gray hair that still retained an occasional auburn wisp. Not bad, she thought. Always the youngest, always the prettiest!
She defied protocol by walking up the stairs to the second floor instead of taking the lift. The landing was bright and airy, the windows left open. With Tea-Leaf Thompson and Old-Ma Hilliard having passed away during the winter, there were no enfeebled residents left upstairs, and Melinda was planning to take over Old-Ma's bedroom for a sewing room, anticipating the beautiful view of the north meadow where thriving herds of deer and elk often grazed. Melinda didn't mourn for Old-Ma--the cranky spinster had taken too long to die--but she did miss Tea-Leaf, whose tales of feminist protest marches were more exciting than the forgotten sports legends of the men.
Melinda passed the stairway leading to the third floor. No one had lived up there since the elevator stopped working and spare parts had proven hard to find. Not that anyone would risk climbing up the shaft even if a new rotor did turn up. Besides, they no longer needed the extra space.
Melinda briefly wondered what condition the attic was in. Many years before, when privacy was more prized, she had often walked up the narrow circular stair and dwelled in the dark attic recesses, probing through storage chests and smoking a forbidden cigarette. There was no need for such subterfuge now, but Melinda missed her little sojourns, nevertheless.
Because it was such a nice day, a selfish day, Melinda pulled her own sheets and pillow slips first and put the bedding into the dumbwaiter for the drop to the basement, then went through the other rooms on the second floor. She even pulled a few towels from the bathrooms, just in case there was enough surplus electricity for an extra load.
Once the laundry was started, Melinda poked through the pantry freezer for the evening meal. Unlike many of the aging appliances, the old walk-in refrigerator was too simple and too well built to fail them, just as the 100-year warranty had promised. Restocked from the Charleston reserves a year before, it still contained enough food to supply the residents through summer--longer if their numbers continued to dwindle. Melinda selected a pair of plump chickens and a package of greens, thinking that if she and Lincoln-the-Gardener were industrious, they could grow enough spring vegetables to last through fall. And maybe Lenny-the-Junior could shoot another deer, like he had the previous year. Fresh meat would be such a reward!
Then, quite unexpectedly, Melinda heard a loud noise buzzing above the compound. She smiled and dropped everything, running to the window in time to see a small single-engine aircraft circle the plantation before gliding down for a landing on the state highway. By the time Melinda walked up the cracked cement driveway to the road, Lenny-the-Junior and Aged-Jason had already reached the broad green meadow where the ancient Piper Cub had come to a halt.
She-Geezer and Lincoln-the-Gardener joined Melinda in a slow race across the grass field just as the airplane's lone occupant was disembarking. Only a few months older than Melinda, the slim, silver-haired pilot grinned with delight when he saw her approaching.
"Mindy!" he called out, rushing to embrace her.
"Peter! I'm so glad to see you!" Melinda said with a hug. "My lord, you're looking good."
"Hello, Young-Peter. Glad to have you back," Aged-Jason said.
"What's the news from Orlando?" She-Geezer asked. "How come AM-1210 doesn't broadcast anymore? Did you bring sweets?"
"Hold on there, Geez," Young-Peter smiled, taking a box of chocolates from his flight jacket. "All for you. It's all right, isn't it, Mindy?"
"A little late to ask now," Melinda laughed, nodding as She-Geezer seized the box and retreated.
"Business or pleasure?" Lenny-the-Junior asked. Unannounced visits usually meant bad news. A new closure. Another Compact. Few dared travel for pleasure anymore.
"Came to see my girl," Young-Peter said, pulling Melinda closer, but they noticed the hesitancy in his response.
"Give the youngster time to catch his breath," Aged-Jason said. "You can stay the night, can't you?" Nearing his ninetieth birthday, Young-Peter was hardly a youngster, but he still moved with a vigor that left many envious.
"Wouldn't miss it for the world," Young-Peter said, glancing sideways at Melinda.
Melinda changed the dinner menu from chicken to ham that evening, bouncing around the kitchen as the residents bombarded Young-Peter with questions. Yes, there had been several more closures. No, there had been no recent Compacts. None that had been reported. But even living in the North American capital didn't give Young-Peter all the answers his eager audience wanted, for long-distance communications were close to nonexistent. And there were occasional bits of information that the pilot-messengers declined to share, even among themselves.
"Fabulous meal, Mindy. But it worries me, you carrying so much responsibility by yourself," Young-Peter said, helping with the dishes.
"She-Geezer helps sometimes, though she complains," Melinda said. "And Lenny-the-Junior's still pretty spry. Does some hunting for us, you know. We're gettin' along just fine."
Melinda knew what Young-Peter was hinting at. Their colony was small now. Not exceptionally small, except by the standards of Orlando and Tampa, but few colonies with less than fifteen residents lasted very long.
"You have something to tell us, don't you?" Melinda asked.
"Yes," he answered.
"Required closure?"
"Not required. Requested. Charleston's closing."
Melinda glanced up in surprise, then back down at the dishes, saying nothing at first. Without Charleston, they had no supply depot north of Orlando. No friends for two hundred miles.
"There are many who won't leave," Melinda finally said.
"That's why I came," Young-Peter said, taking her hand. "There's no reason for you ... that is ... Did I mention Kid-Jake died?"
"Little Jake? No, I hadn't heard," Melinda said.
Melinda closed the dishwasher, set the timer, and walked out on the rear porch into the cool spring evening. There was a rustle in the woods nearby as a doe and her fawn retreated into the thick brush. An owl hooted.
"I remember when Frank and I first settled here," Melinda said. "Twenty-five years ago, when the last Pennsylvania colony closed. Frank passed away a few years later. Kid-Jake came up and visited all that summer. Now he's gone, poor soul. Just about all of us from the Final Batch have passed on."
"Come on, don't get like that," Young-Peter said, stroking her hair. "There are still lots of people our age. Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands, if you count Asia."
"Or maybe none. Maybe there's no one left in Asia at all. Or Africa. Or Europe. How many people were there in the world when we were born? Eight billion?"
