Emily+vignette

BAM! A sharp crack startles me from my slumber. I look around and see the others wide-eyed, as well – I then notice Anthony’s silhouette in the doorway, pistol in hand, confirming everyone’s worst fears.

“Bankers—come to loot our food and vaccines,” he states.

“Is…is he dead?” I ask tentatively. Anthony nods with a victorious expression.

“That’s the third one this month; their food stock must be getting desperately low,” an elderly man comments. We all murmur in agreement, each secretly aware that we were only a few months away from the Banker’s state of starvation. However, in that time we may all be dead from disease, a full-blown attack from the Bankers, or even the reptile escapees from the Memphis zoo, hungry for flesh–either way, unless help came soon, the flood would consume us all.

“Remember, Clark Towerees: Bankers vie for our demise. They are greedy, as demonstrated by the Banker I just eliminated,” Anthony bellows.

I look at the thirty of us remaining. Our professions dictate our ranking, and the doctors are our leaders. A vat in the attic, installed in case the building caught on fire, supplies us with fresh water when Anthony permits it. I look out the window at Memphis; the sun is just peaking over the toxic water, casting a brilliant light across the destroyed city. Tops of buildings are visible, as well as scads of billboards; the perpetual smell of rotting humans and decay is sickening. Anthony clears his throat to initiate “Thought Time,” thus interrupting my pensive. Reluctantly I chant the principles of a Clark Toweree with the others:

//“Bankers are evil, greedy, and vile.// //Clarks are superior in every way.// //Hate the Bankers. Hate the neighbors.// //Together, Clarks will prevail."//

Anthony and his cronies monitor us, and strike those who don’t chant along. When we finish, our daily ration of a pack of Lays potato chips and a small cup of water is distributed. We all stare enviously at the doctors, who sit atop desks gobbling three bags each, a gallon of water at each of their sides. They explain that as our leaders, they must sustain themselves to protect us from the Bankers– this justification doesn’t satisfy my growling stomach.

Carefully, I slip past the occupied guards and exit our quarantine. It doesn’t take me long to locate the ill-fated Banker, who’s trail of blood stains the floor. Although I’d become accustomed to death in the past year, the sight of the young girl coiled on the floor catches me off-guard. A halo of blood circles her gaunt face, and ribs visibly protrude through her shirt; she might be ten or eleven--the age my sister died of disease some months ago. Could a starving young girl really be the face of evil, like Anthony says? I close her eyelids and say a short prayer before tiptoeing back to our headquarters.

When the polar ice caps melted and flooded Memphis a year ago, people fled to the tallest buildings in Memphis: the Clark Tower and the I-Bank building. Our two congregations may be all Memphis has left to tell its history, and our existence is waning due a battle over nonexistent differences. Will history books erase our existence entirely to hide the government’s lack of initiation on global warming? Will an entire civilization of blues and barbeque wash away with the tide? I ponder humanity’s fate as the morning sun pours across a lost empire.