Immortality is a Disease

Stories and Tales

Gilbert Beilschmidt was, in all likeliness, Mister Laurinaitis' least favourite student, the simple and truthful reason being that although very bright, he would, for the love of God, never listen in class. Nearly two hundred days of the year, and somehow the boy finds something he had to do in class every single day and that kept him busy for most of the seven hours at school. Of course, his grades never took a major blow, always managing to stay afloat above average, a feat that never quite made sense to Mister Laurinaitis. That didn't matter much to teacher though; he just wished that the boy would sit down and shut up for once in his classes.

Now, Mister Laurinaitis did not know much about Gilbert Beilschmidt – it was a teacher's obligation to remain aloof to his students – but there was one thing he was certain of, and it did nothing to ease his confusion, but Gilbert was fond of stories.

Of course, they weren't your typical stories. For six hours out of seven, the boy was a rowdy, uncontrollable nightmare, but on the last hour of the day, when the class settled down with maps on the board and dates and names scrawled in their notes, Gilbert could be found silent for once, his pale complexion and hair blending well with the rest of the Northern children, but those vivid crimson eyes were staring – at what, Mister Laurinaitis did not know, but he had the idea that it was not in their present day or world. Gilbert Beilschmidt had an intense fondness for stories, and that shone through his boisterous behaviour in the one hour when Mister Laurinaitis spoke tales of Enlightenment and religion, of culture and languages and accomplishments that created their world.

There were more, of course, and Mister Laurinaitis vividly remembered one day with gray skies when Gilbert had been particularly mischievous during Maths – which, shockingly enough, was his most talented facet – and the teacher was forced to keep him into the lunch break for his atrocious behaviour. The boy wouldn't look his way, instead choosing to stare past his shoulder even when he called him.

"Gilbert, look at me."

There was no reaction.

Mister Laurinaitis tried again. "Gilbert, why did you do it?" He was referring to the matches he had smuggled into the schoolroom and had tried to burn words onto a piece of paper, almost setting it – and the rest of the school – on fire.

Once again, he was met with silence, but he waited until- "Mister Laurinaitis," the boy's voice was small, but it was guilty or embarrassed in any way. In fact, he sounded... curious. "Tell me about 2364 again."

That was when Mister Laurinaitis realised with a jolt that Gilbert had not been avoiding his gaze, instead absorbing the stretch of world map taped to the wall in the back of the room. He stole a glance over his shoulder, taking in the misshapen shapes and jagged borderlines, in mottled shades of green, yellow, and blue. But then, no matter how hard he tried, his eyes were drawn towards the very centre of the map, where the earthly colours broke off abruptly into a huge, ugly patch of gray and black.

He turned back to Gilbert to find those crimson eyes tracing the labels beside the dark areas: the 'Dead Sea' adjacent to the 'Dead Land'.

"Tell me why you did that in Maths." Curious as Mister Laurinaitis was of Gilbert's fascination with historical tales, he was determined not to get distracted.

"Tell me about 2364." But the boy was stubborn as well, and his gaze finally shifted to meet his, locking in defiance. There was silence again, one that stretched for much, much longer, and then Mister Laurinaitis felt himself waver, then sigh, and gave into the devil's stare.

"2364?" He flipped his chair around so that he was facing the map as well, honestly not understanding why he was doing this, or why he was even asked to do this in the first place. 2364 was the story that all children knew, the same thing retold in detail over and over again ever since childhood. There was no one in this world who did not know of the failed apocalypse of the year 2364.

Although they say 'failed', Mister Laurinaitis, like many others, believed that it was the exact opposite. According to the Bible, the first time civilisation was wiped smoothly from the surface of the Earth was through water.

The second time, however, the world ended in fire. And humanity did not go down easily. Maybe the world was too big, or maybe it was simply a miscalculation on Nature's part, but on that day when fire fell from the heavens, most of the world remained unscathed.

Most of the world, that was. The first strike hit the alleged 'centre of the world', earth erupting into a tornado of flames, and ever since then, the meteor rain had fallen rapidly and without end for days and months and more, expanding from the eye of the storm until everyone, even those in the far corners of the world, began to fear. Each drop of 'rain' shattered on contact to tear away chunks of earth, overturning and destroying everything, burning more relentlessly than Greek fire, leaving life no more than charred black streaks on the cracking land.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the so-called apocalypse vanished, and the world began to survey the damage of what was thought to be its end.

They were not impressed.

The plummeting blow had been too concentrated in the centre of the map, and true, some nations were damaged, others reduced to half or less of their original sizes, and even more vanished completely, but the rest of the world brushed off the dust, swept up the remainders of the 'apocalypse', laughed it off, and carried on smoothly. The world population took a major dive, and the land torn open by fiery rocks of death was consumed by a desert wasteland, completely inhabitable by all organisms save for bacteria and other hardy microorganisms. There was no food, no water until you hit the ashy, poisonous sea waters lapping at charred beaches that used to be the Eastern half of the Mediterranean Sea: it was the true Gobi Desert, a Dead Land, bordering a Dead Sea.

This was the end of the world; and people were almost disappointed.

But it was only the beginning, for that was the way the world ended: not with a bang, but with the slow grinding of ice against flame.

A decade later, the situation was critical. The Wasteland, more commonly known as the Dead Land, was a desert that gained more land with each passing year; it had become a death zone, its writhing land and fiery plumes sending smoke into the sky, causing a significant rise in global temperature. The two poles melted into green, glaciers vanishing faster than ever; sea levels rose, and it wasn't just islands who found themselves with no or much less land than before. Unsupervised expeditions into the dead lands brought back explosions of varying epidemics that, although not as large-scaled as the Black Death, was crippling nonetheless.

As the years passed, it only got worse. It wasn't just the planet anymore, it was the people: resources were dwindling in spite of the growing population, and once again, the nations flocked towards Africa and China.

That was when the world broke.

"Where are you going?" Mister Laurinaitis broke out of the story when Gilbert slid suddenly off the chair and onto his feet.

"Thanks for the story, Mister Laurinaitis," the pale boy replied quite cheerfully, although his eyes were wide and unseeing. "I'll be going to lunch now."

"Gilbert-," the teacher tried to call him back, not simply because they still had 'business' to discuss, but because there was a strange fracture in him that came with unfinished stories and it never ceased to bother him.

Gilbert gave a small wave over his shoulder, and was gone.

The rest of that day, he did not attend his classes. He refused to enter the classroom. When Mister Laurinaitis called him in, he remained stubborn but consented to remain just outside the open door so that he could listen to the class. The last hour of the day, however, when Mister Laurinaitis checked outside to see if the boy would listen to those favourite tales of his, there was no one there. The backpack and books were gone too, and the boy could not be found anywhere in the school.

Gilbert Beilschmidt had gone home early, not because he was trying to rebel, but because there was something from a recount of hundreds of years ago that shook him to his core. It was that ache of lives gone and mistakes made when your own little world was nearly perfect.

Stories, he discovered, brought him to another world. It fascinated him before, now it frightened him, and there was a kind of immortality in these tales that made them resound and echo and continue on forever. There was no end in life until immortality was uprooted. The stories were wonderful, but immortality terrified him.

He was home early, but his mother did not seem to care. She spent the afternoon mindlessly making dinner, and that day, the dinner table was extra quiet. Neither he nor Ludwig had understood what, but his parents were tense and pale, and for the first time in several years, they spoke in their native tongue. Gilbert and his brother merely listened to words they vaguely knew but had never really encountered.

German was such a nice language, he remembered thinking. Much better than Russian, that was; much softer, with more rounded tones. It was a pity they could not speak it often, and it made sense but was nonetheless baffling to Gilbert's twelve-year-old mind. It was true that the North hated the West, but how did discouraging all 'Western' languages make the North better or stronger? He did not understand.

Gilbert and Ludwig were born in the West and grew up in the North, and he thought both sides were quite nice. He never thought he had to pick a side-

"Gilbert?"

"What is it, Ludwig?" It was the middle of the night.

"I think you would like to see this."

"Show me tomorrow."

"No, bruder, you have to see this. I found it in the trash, and Mama and Papa can't find out."

With a groan the elder flipped out of bed, then flopped back on top of it when Ludwig sat down at the edge with his hands full of a large piece of crumpled paper. He put it down and began to smooth it out, and Gilbert used a flashlight to discover what it was that Ludwig had brought to him. It was the earliest edition of the biweekly newspaper.

Gilbert never thought he had to pick a side.

The world was broken. It had been broken for a long time, but that day, it shattered. Russia had always been the North, but now its allies were part of the North as well. America was the West, and many European countries such as England, France, and Germany had been considered the West as well, but now all those in Europe who were not 'Northern', were now 'Western'. The East was a formidable bunch: China, Japan, Korea, and all those surviving nations from the Middle East and South-East Asia, and they were quite fond of the North. Everyone's end-goal, without doubt, was the South: Africa mainly, but South America wasn't bad too, and Australia and its neighbour New Zealand were quite nice as well.

Gilbert never thought he'd have to pick a side, until he was gripping the newspaper, nearly ripping it, the year was 2850, and the North had declared war on the West.

Δ

He wondered when the war was going to end. They all did. Not one day passed without the question drifting past his mind, and it never ceased to worm its way into their conversations and seep into his dreams.

Eight years. That was how long the borders' been closed. Eight years ago was the last time anyone entered or left the country by their own free will.

Ten years was how long they've stopped speaking the language of their roots; Gilbert barely even remembered how to speak German anymore as reformation and nationalism was thrust into their arms and forbade them from speaking another tongue.

Eleven years was how long they've been fighting. No one even knew what they were fighting for anymore. People killed simply to kill, simply to have something to do, simply to destroy the world a bit more.

It was moments like these that he would remember Mister Laurinaitis' historic tales – 'that was when the world broke' – and laugh. Adults spoke of the world as if it had once been whole, but that was never the case. It had always been broken, had always been in varying stages of fragmentation, and this war- this war was just another stage, where it shattered.

China – their powerful ally in the East – had a saying: "分久必合，合久必分."

Unity came from ages of separation; separation came from ages of unity.

He wondered how much longer of separation the world needed before its unity.

He also wondered if God, by separating the men he had crafted with his own hands with different tongues and conflicting thoughts, had anticipated this fractured world. But it had been nearly five years since the last time Gilbert had stepped into a church, so he had practically forgotten the way of God's thinking.

And he probably never would. Most churches had already been abolished, and the Beilschmidt's did not need another reason for the authorities to arrest them and send them to a concentration camp. Religion was discouraged to the point of discrimination, and foreign immigrants, refugees, and rebels were already being deported by the thousands. He knew that the only reason why they were not part of the group of victims of the government's ideals was because of his grandfather's status in the military. It was also the only reason why Gilbert was able to stay in school, then enrol into the military at the age of eighteen despite having a foreign name.

And it was in the military that he first heard the stories.

Fairytales, more like; it was unlike anything he had ever heard before.

Because for eight years now, the only way out of the North was through the Dead Land, and it had gotten its name for a reason. No one had ever survived a trip through it, and those who dared venture into its expanding borders came back with horrific tales of crackling and boiling and writhing land, and poison air, and the complete barrenness of the place: no life, no water, just hard, unpredictable earth, for miles and miles without end.

That was the truth; that was the way the world had become, confirmed by the drones occasionally sent into the land – although not many of those little machines make it back due to its unbearable heat at day, and deadly coldness at night. Nearly five hundred years since the failed apocalypse, and the world had not healed even fraction, as it had cracked beyond repair: this war between the four corners of the world was more than enough proof; the Dead Land and Sea was only the beginning.

And that is why the tales were so strange, so outlandish. Because how was it possible for people to escape into the West through the Dead Land when even the most durable technology had been vanquished by its harsh environment? It was impossible, needless to say.

But if that was the case, where did all the refugees go? Why was it that on the blacklist, so many people and names did not even seem to exist in the North?

Mysterious, suspicious, but the government checked and rechecked and added to the border security, and still people continued to disappear.

And here, because they were young men with their heads in the clouds and trying to live up their dreams the best they could, a rumour rose between the clinking of bottles and boisterous laughter and loud voices, emerging through the smoke and drunken haze. Gilbert listened, and he laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool, and he had to raise his cup to the soldier – a Chernikov or Volkov or something he couldn't remember with all the alcohol soaking and dripping from his thoughts – because the man had proposed in between gulps of heavy intoxication that "there was a spirit living in the desert, benevolent to people with pure souls and wrathful to those who didn't".

It was one of the only things he had remembered from that night when he woke in the morning with a pounding headache, and he thought it so funny that at breakfast, he had announced that this soldier – a Yuditsky apparently, what the heck – believed that the Dead Land was haunted. He had been awarded with a round of applause and pleased, entertained laughter, and life continued with or without this little joke of a rumour.

But speaking of rumours, Gilbert caught wind of one that made him too curious for his own good.

It was one just as outrageous as the other one, but it was whispered in such hushed and frightened tones that Gilbert could not help but just wonder. They spoke about the Generals and leaders of the military – maybe that was why they were so secretive and reluctant to let Gilbert hear, with his grandfather being one of them and all – and it certainly wasn't anything good.

To be honest though, it wasn't too bad either.

But it was strange, it was frightening, and it sent a sliver of ice cutting down his spine because they talked of monsters who never changed no matter how many centuries passed, and they talked of the taste of a human heart, and Gilbert was fascinated but so unnerved because this was his grandfather they were talking about.

Yes, it was strange that his hair remained blonde and thick even though Gilbert's father was greying already (and Gilbert was born with white hair, he had to point out, just as an attempt to lighten up the mood), and that only the barest wrinkles marred his face despite his age, but it was impossible. Maybe for the General it was true: he was a legend and a myth and this would only be another tale to add to his mysterious persona, but not his grandfather because-

Immortality.

What a strange crime to accuse someone of.

But the way the other soldiers whispered the word, the way they would peek over their shoulders before saying it, the way their nervous laughter tittered instead of boomed and echoed, made it sound like just that.

As if immortality was a disease.

Welcome to the story. This is my first, although technically speaking, I'm not the main writer of the story. Two of my sisters are taking advantage of this account because apparently, I'm wasting it (probably am), while my cousin is their editor. I am in charge of publishing it. But even though they told me they'd be the ones writing this story, for some reason, I was the one to write Chapter One. Hope you like it, and please leave a comment below.