A re-write.
Now dedicated to my sister, who passed away the night of July 29, 2017.
She had a lot of love… but no one to share it with.
Self-preservation is something we all know, no matter who or what we are. Whether it is a virus… or a person. You know what it is.
Some use it relentlessly, killing off those that aren't beneficial to them by the hundreds. Or, thousands. Millions if you're capable.
Others are conservative: willing to help those that are willing to be helped.
All of us have felt it; we're all programed with it, but don't know how to use it until we have need for it. It's something engraved in all of us with so much detail that it's quite hard to believe it's instinct. It can manifest itself out of the most ludicrous of situations, and die out in times that it is needed. For a small percentage of the people, it is alive all the time. When they wake up, and when they sleep. They call themselves rational. They prepare—albeit too much. But everyone calls them paranoid.
Those are the people that, ironically, suffer and shrivel in times of need. They overthink the situation. They overlook the simple cues.
Most other people are simple: only acting on impulse when their lives are threatened. Unlocking their need to survive when their lives stop living, and everything stops being handed to them on a silver platter.
Yet those people don't exactly prosper in emergencies. They survive. And… will eventually die at the hand of an ailment or a creature bred for death.
Then there's, in society's eyes, the runts—the silent ones, the people that, by the standards of others should know nothing about surviving. Yet they don't, not at all, because they see the truth of things. They have seen, felt, and lived true pain—true fear.
And that pays off in this unusual circumstance.
Very few people question what lives beyond the forest. Mainly because few people actually question at all, considering what the virus did. Many people aren't people, and many pokémon… aren't pokémon. And that's what mainly lives beyond the forest… if you're wondering: pokémon. But not the pokémon you know.
The ground squelched in spite of the lack of rainfall for the past few days, as heavy paws heeled into the grassless soil. The air was thick with humidity, almost to the point where you could filter-feed water from the air. Split logs of similar sizes and colors wound up with twine were tucked between this woman's arm and her ribs. It was an average temperature, for that area: 39 degrees. Not too cold, by the woman's rationale. Of course, she did have fur. She was a lucario, after all. On her other arm, or rather, her shoulder, there was a sling that led to a shotgun. There wasn't an uninfected biologic she hasn't encountered so far with the local pokémon. She even found some that weren't native to this area. And… by 'found'… she meant 'killed.' The violence has grown on her for the past few years. It's gotten to the point where it became a normal chore to wash the blood from her fur and her guns. She never liked it… and it actually scared her how normal this became. The lucario feared for her sanity.
She stepped onto paved road and tossed the bundle of logs into the back of a pickup parked by the edge. The lucario walked around and opened the driver door, pulling out a bottle of bleach. She stepped into the truck and poured some on the ground, capping the bottle and tossing it in the backseat. She put her shotgun in the passenger and started it up. The woman swung the door shut and drove off to a nearby town.
She stopped in front of a warehouse, which was surrounded with old cars and crates, filled with non-edible supplies that wouldn't fit inside the warehouse. The car rumbled to a stop and she got out and unloaded the wood. She took out a long key and unlocked the main door, laying the wood on the inside. She went back to get her shotgun and tossed it onto a couch inside the warehouse, walking in and shutting the door.
Inside… was much. She had a couch, a water heater, a wood stove, a bed, a desk, a large drawing table, a coffee table, and many, many boxes full of food and water. She figured that the food would last her another 60 years, 80 if she rationed. Though she knew she might not live to finish the boxes, it was nice to have enough to eat and drink. But then again, it would be scary to see these shelves empty one day.
She loaded the stove with the wood and lit it, closing the iron door and setting a pot on the grill. She turned on a fume hood that was bolted above the stove and poured water into the pot.
Once it boiled, she put a brick of noodles in it and let it sit until it was soft.
She poured the noodles and water into a bowl, ripped open a packet and mixed in seasoning.
She sat, or rather plopped onto the couch and sipped the ramen, marveling at the warmth of the broth. The warmth made her feel… warm inside. Obviously. But along with the physical warmth, came the emotional warmth. The kind of warm, fuzzy feeling you get in a hug. She loved that warmth. She remembered when she still got that warmth…
"Come, come, Ezra! It's on T.V!" Ezra's master shouted from the kitchen. "Quickly!"
"Yeah!" Ezra shouted, stumbling down the stairs. She turned a corner and ran into the living room. Her master caught her and lifted her up, holding her so that she could see the T.V. better. A new episode for a cartoon was airing, and they were both very excited about it. It was the season finale, and the two watched intently. She sat Ezra down on the couch, plopping down with her. She cuddled her up in her arms as they watched, both of them feeling drowsy after fifteen minutes, even though it was only lunchtime. They almost fell asleep, if it weren't for the loud end-credits music playing. The show was over.
"Wow… I was tired…" her master muttered while sitting up.
"It's 'cause you were holding me!" she said as she jumped off of the couch. "Can I play with Lucy now? Please?" She folded her ears down and smiled.
"Yes, yes you can." She went to a bookcase and picked off a pokéball belt, letting an eevee out. The pokémon's ears perked and ran over to Ezra, jumping and landing on her tan, spikeless chest. She hugged it and started to roll around, laughing as she did. She loved to play with that eevee…
But that was years ago, many, many years ago. Now she was 29, going on 30. The lucario had better things to be concerned with than an eevee that was most likely dead by now.
The truth hurt sometimes.
She set her now empty bowl on the coffee table and went to her drawing table. She pulled out a tube and slid out a roll of paper, unrolling it on the table. There showed a hand-drawn map of the town and the woods she got the firewood from. The lucario took tacks and nailed the map to the table. Ezra got out a pencil and began to sketch part of the road she drove on today. The woods where she got the firewood would soon be overrun by snow, so she had to stock up this week. Ezra set down her pencil and grabbed a bucket of water, dousing out the wood stove.
Ezra walked out of the warehouse, got in the car, and drove to the woods.
When she got there, she grabbed her shotgun and slipped it onto her shoulder, walking away from the truck and into the woods. She got to the chopping stump, and set down her shotgun. Ezra reached for her axe….
And it wasn't there.
She's been through this before. A disfigured servine decided to screw with her a few months ago. That ended with a rotting carcass just yards from where she stood. And a new leather bag.
She grabbed thin air, confused. She darted for her shotgun and cocked it, swinging around in circles trying to look for who took the axe. Her breathing was heavy but slow, heartbeat slow but steady, eyes silent but watching….
She heard crunching of leaves and spun to the left. The combination of the running—nearly boring—streak of mutilated monsters and her twitchy finger was enough for a shot to ring out.
All Ezra could see was a pale figure fall down….
Ezra lowered the tip of the shotgun, opening her other eye so that she could see. Her heart almost stopped when she saw what she shot.
A lot can go through a person's mind when they're faced with a life-or-death situation. The most simplest that they can put it—life and death. But not with this particular pokémon, no. She thought of where to put this pokémon once it was dead. Well, there were two problems:
It wasn't a pokémon.
And it wasn't dead.
In fact, it was a human.
As far as she knew, the virus killed nearly all of the human population, and transformed most of the pokémon into mindless creatures that would play with your innards as if it was beach sand.
Her face showed a shocked expression as she dropped the shotgun on the ground and ran toward the man.
He was moderately tall, about the size of the average doorway. The man sported a heavy leather trench coat and shaggy brown locks, and, oddly, no facial hair.
She looked over him, trying to find where she hit him.
"My God!" he seethed through his teeth. She looked at him with contempt and kept searching. She found where she hit him: his left arm. Her hand moved over his arm and he started screaming in pain. She drew back her hand slowly with tense, and shot started coming out. Lead balls coated in blood popped out of his arm and fell to the ground. He screamed to the high heavens, not really knowing why it hurt so much. It was like getting shot again—but backwards. When it was done, he looked to the ground to see seven pellets of shot. "Th… that was in me?" he said. She nodded, grabbed her shotgun, and ran to the truck. "Hey! Where are you going?" he yelled at her, holding his arm. He winced and stood up, but quickly fell to the ground. Ezra ran back with a roll of cloth, and held the man still. "G-give me that I can—" She looked into his eyes with a burning rage. He abruptly stuttered and swallowed a ball of saliva. She looked back to his arm and wrapped the cloth around it, tying it off when there was no more. Ezra patted the wound, got up, and left. She stopped for a moment and waved her hand.
The man slowly got up, gripping his arm. He made it to his feet and began to walk slowly.
"Wha-where are you going?" She stopped, sighed, and put her fists in the air, as if turning a wheel. He furrowed his brow and scoffed. "You can drive?" She nodded. "How?" She shook her head and walked to the road, while he followed behind.
When they got to the truck, she started it and drove off.
"Where are you taking me? Why?" The lucario looked at him and slammed onto the dashboard with her fist. He flinched, and flinched again when the glove box fell open two seconds later. She whipped her head to the box, and he took out a paper from it. There was a crude drawing of a house: a box and a triangle that was badly doodled. "A house? Home?" She twisted her arm as if to say "so-so," and put her hand back on the wheel.
They got to the warehouse and went inside, Ezra pointing to the couch. He sat down and leaned back.
"Wh-why are you doing this? And why can't you speak? Not with aura, at least? Isn't that what lucario are supposed to do?" She scowled at empty air and looked around the room for a pencil and paper, clicking her tongue. She got a piece of printer paper out of the drawing table and a pen. She put it on the coffee table and kneeled in front of it. Then she began to write.
1. You first human I see for many years.
2. Birth defect. Can not sense aura or use aura. But brain is biger. I smart than most lucario. I guess the defected gene that made me not sense aura made me immune to virus.
"Hold on…" He licked his lips and sat up. "You have thumbs?"
Birth. Defect.
"Oh… right. But why did you take me in?" She rolled her eyes and gestured to number 1. "Dude, I know. But… why?" She flipped the paper over and wrote:
I hurt you. You need help. Beta will hurt you if you are hurt.
"What the heck is a beta?" he asked. She scoffed, or at least made the motion to, and wrote faster.
Infecert pokémon.
"Infected pokémon? I haven't seen one in a while. How did the virus pop up anyway?" She got up and screamed, or at least tried to. She plopped down and wrote even faster.
Watch tape.
Ezra got up and pulled out an old VCR and plugged it in. She got a box television and placed it by the VCR and connected the two, plugging the television in to the outlet. She got an old tape and pushed it into the VCR. The set whirred to life, and the tape played. The time stamp showed it was recorded September 2, 1999. A logo for a channel flicked onto the screen for a few seconds, and then a documentary started to play.
"—oday," a female announcer said. "Scientists have discovered a new strain of pokérus, one that is many, many times more efficient at making pokémon stronger. Dr. Bright will explain." She waved off towards a man in a lab coat.
"Hello, my name is Dr. Bright, and this vial you see here," he held up a glass beaker. "Is the birth of a new generation of pokémon, a generation that isn't plagued with the burden of slow-growing." He put the vial on a rack and pulled out a pokéball. He let out a rattata and got out a syringe. "This rattata will be our 41st test subject today, and it will also be out 41st successful integration!" he said confidently. He shaved off a bit of hair from the rattata and wiped the area with a light-brown liquid. He pushed the needle in and injected the rattata with the experimental pokérus.
He emptied it and set it on the table, putting a bandage on the injection site.
"Number 41 everybody!" The lab cheered on, and resumed their work.
"The serum is created via—"
Ezra turned the television off and looked at the man.
"Some experiment? What does that have to do with anything?" She face palmed and pulled out the tape. She got another that had a different colored casing and put it in, pressing play. The time stamp said it was recorded October 17th, 1999. The screen buzzed for a second and a news report began to play.
"—ing news. A brand of pokémon supplements created by the International Pokémon Research Committee, IPRC, has gone horribly wrong. Thousands upon thousands of pokémon have been exposed to this growth supplement, causing body parts to grow at an unpredictable rate. This results in death from malnutrition, as the growth needs nutrients to proceed. Some pokémon, however survive this and become unusually aggressive and hostile. An international curfew has been placed; all legal children must be in their homes half an hour before sundown. Failure to obey the curfew will result in an occupational hazard, and, if caught, will result in house arrest. It is unknown if this supplement can go cross-species into humans, and as of now all persons in contact with infected pokémon have been placed in quarantine. Dr. Bright, the creator of this supplement, is on trial for negligent pokéslaughter.
"In other news, a woman has committed statutory ra—"
Ezra flicked off the television and looked at the man. He sat there with a gawk, and a confused expression.
"Oh… kay… that was informative. How did you record this on time?" She picked up a new piece of paper.
Psychic friend. Tell when it happen. I record show and news report, ask psychic why, did not tell me. I know why now.
She cringed.
You wonder I did not talk?
"Um… no, actually. I'm wondering why you're not making any voices, or growls, or anything. It's… kind of unsettling." She flattened her ears and lifted her chin. Ezra lifted some fur on her neck, showing a scar. "Your vocal chords are gone?" She shook her head.
Nerve cut. No connect. No talk, no bark. No voice noises. Surgery accident.
She looked up at him and lifted one ear.
"Oh, lord. I'm sorry about that. I-I wish I could've helped you. I can—" She slammed on the table making him flinch. She scribbled down words fast.
No. I hurt you. I have help you. Least, I help you first.
She put the pen down and got up, getting another roll of cloth.
"Why do you have so many of those?" he asked. She put the roll down and scribbled an answer down.
I no have wear clothes.
"Well save some for me. This is the only set I have." She nodded and unwrapped his arm. The bleeding had stopped, and now she had to disinfect it. She grabbed a vial of colloidal silver and took out a dropper, dripping silver onto his wound. He took in a breath, but she put a hand onto his chest. She capped the silver and scribbled on a new sheet of paper.
Silver kill bacteria, germs. Shocks bacteria. By electricity.
She put down the pen and wrapped his arm with a new cloth. She heard a loud beeping coming from outside, and she went out and into the truck. The sun was about to set, and it was time to close up the warehouse.
Inside was a watch she never wore, but she still needed it. She silenced the watch and took out a bottle of bleach. She shut the door and sprayed some on the handles and outside. She walked back into the warehouse, squirting the liquid onto the ground wherever she walked.
When she got inside, she shut the door and capped the bleach, setting it by the stove. She jogged over to the other side of the room and pulled a lever. A large steel door slammed shut from overhead, making the man flinch. She opened up a panned by the door and flicked a switch. A screen on the panel showed various locations of the warehouse, such as the exits and the roof. She saw that everything was normal and twisted a key.
A generator at the other side of the warehouse shut off, and the room's lights went off for a few seconds, only a red blinking light on the panel turned on. There were a few beeps and the lights went back on, running on battery power. She swung the panel shut and pulled out a plastic bag of 'just-add-water' food. She tossed it over to the man, who caught it with his good arm. He looked the bag over.
"This all you got?" he asked. She shook her head and pointed to the huge rack of boxes. "No, I meant, like… variety. All you have is beef stew?" She widened her eyes and opened her mouth, as if to say 'oh.' She walked over to the rack and pulled out a few bags. She laid them on the couch for him to see. There was ramen, spaghetti, potato and cheese soup, tortellini, mac and cheese with bacon, and tomato soup. He groaned while he thought, and grabbed the mac and cheese with bacon. She swiped up the rest of the bags and put them back into a box, then put a pot of water on the wood stove. She lit the stove and sat down, waiting for the water to boil. She grabbed a bag from the rack and grabbed his, putting them by the stove.
"As I was saying earlier, buddy," he began. "I can help you." He grabbed a box with his free arm put of his satchel that was tucked under his jacket and laid it on the table. He opened it and pulled out a few things: a thick silver disk with wires hanging out of it, an oval piece of plastic, and a bag of cream-colored powder. "I think I can get your voice back. M-my assistant was a gardevoir, er—I should start at the beginning. I majored in linguistics and technology. I was going to be an E.T. for the French coast guard, but when the virus…" he waved his hand around. "…You get the point. But I had some parts leftover from a project I was working on a few years back. That thing there…" He pointed to the silver disk. "Is a P.E.T.D. And that thing there…" He pointed to the plastic sheet. "…Is an electrode mount. I think I can wire those up to get your voice back." He looked at Ezra, who had one ear up and one ear sideways, her eyebrows cocked. Her lips were in a half-cringe.
"Jesus… sorry… it's been awhile since I've talked at all. A P.E.T.D. basically transforms psychic energy into electrical energy. And the electrode mount can transfer electricity to the body without pain." He used his uninjured hand to point to the powder. "That is powdered silver with a special adhesive. It can also transfer electricity to tissue without pain. My partner, who was a gardevoir, invented this. Can I…" he pointed to the paper. She waved him off and nodded. He grabbed the paper and drew a crude diagram.
"I may not be a doctor… but I think I can wire these things up to get your voice back. It was originally for my wife before…" he stopped there. "…You know. Do you have a soldering set?" She shook her head. "Darning needle?" She shook her head again. "Large nail?" She held up her paw and pointed up. A small claw poked out of her finger. "No, not that. Like a metal nail." She nodded and walked over to the rack of boxes. She dug around in one and pulled out a nail. "Do you have soldering wire?" She shook her head yet again. He stood up and looked in her box. "Yes you do!" he said as he pulled out a plastic spool with some wire wrapped around it. "You don't know what soldering is, do you?" If she had visible skin she would be blushing very, very hard right now. But by her flattened ears and her posture and lack of eye contact, he knew all he needed to know. "Uh-huh. Your water is boiling." She perked up and ran over to the water, picking up the bags and slicing the tops open with her claw. She poured the water into each of the bags and zipped them shut, setting a wind-up timer to a few minutes. She walked over to the couch and sat down, huffing and putting her hands on her lap.
"Dude…" he said. "Are you okay?" She nodded and picked up the paper.
Yes. First time taking care of someone I shot.
He laughed and lay back, sighing.
"You're funny, man. If the human race ever gets back on its feet, you need to be a comedian." He laughed again, dying out into a chuckle. He turned to her and saw that she looked sad. "Hey, man, what's really wrong?" His smile melted into a grin, and then a concerned expression. She looked at him with her ears down and hesitantly picked up the paper.
Why are you so happy?
He thought for a second, and said, "You know, you have to look at the good side of things sometimes. And I know that the good in a post-epidemic situation isn't that plentiful, but still look to it. Being a wet blanket doesn't really help anything, you know?" He rubbed her shoulder. Her ears perked up, and she nuzzled his hand with her head. He chuckled. She opened her eyes and picked up a new piece of paper.
Name? Age? Gender?
"Oh. My name's Dillon. I-I'm 30. Would—why do you need to know that? It's obvious I'm a dude." He put his arms up, or rather, put his good arm up. "It's not that hard to infer from me. Though… it is kind of hard to tell if you're a guy or girl…" he said as he eyed her. "Ah… I don't really care. I'm just hungry." He flopped his arm to his side. And, as if on cue, the timer rang. She jumped up and ran to the food and brought it to the table. She opened the packs and handed the mac and cheese with bacon to him. She grabbed two spoons, but put one down. She turned around and held up a spoon and a fork. He pointed to the fork and she walked over. Ezra put the fork in his food and the spoon in hers. She gasped and ran to the boxes. To the side of the rack was a mini fridge full of water and soda. She slammed her hand spike on the rack to get his attention. He jumped up in his seat and looked over. She pulled out glass bottles of Coke, Pepsi, and Dr. Pepper. He swallowed the food he had in his mouth and said, "Dr. Pepper." She put two bottles back in and took out two Dr. Peppers, shutting the fridge.
Ezra walked over and twisted the cap off of one, tossing the cap onto the table and setting the bottle by his food.
"Thanks" he said. She twisted her bottle and set it by her food, sat down, and began to eat.
In the middle of a bite, she picked up the paper and wrote something down.
Ezra.
He swallowed his food and hummed interrogatively. "What?"
You are Dillon. I am Ezra.
"Oh. Well, nice to know your name now, Ezra." He speared his fork into his food and took another bite. She put the paper down and resumed eating….
When they were done she took the trash and tossed it into a large black bag by the door. She walked over to the couch and turned over the paper.
Is Dillon tired yet?
"No, not really. I could stay up a bit longer." She looked at him and wrote down a few words quickly.
How come you are still happy? I shot you.
"What do you mean? There's no reason to be mad at you. Again, what use is it to be enemies with possibly the only other living being on earth? I want to be friends with you and I want you to be happy. It must be so hard and sad living alone for all these years without someone to talk…" He looked at her scar on her neck. "…To… let me rephrase that. I would love for you to be nice, and for me to return your kindness. I want to keep it that way. Like I said… I want to have good relations…" he looked her in the eyes. "…With one of the few people on earth. Can you please stop being timid? It… really… doesn't help. It sucks being sad. I tried being sad at one point… and it didn't help." He rubbed her shoulder again, but more slowly. "But being optimistic about things led me to here… and it, by fate alone, led me to you. While I would rather no have been shot by a 40 gauge…" he said as he looked to her shotgun. Dillon chuckled. "It still led me to one of the most open and honest lucario I've ever met. No wonder the virus didn't get you. You're so… different." Her ears flattened. He patted her shoulder and she looked at him. "I like different." She picked up the paper.
I tired. I take couch. You need heal on bed.
"Nah, you've done so much for me already." He finished off his soda and set it on the table. She shook her head and grabbed both of his shoulders. She shook her head again, vigorously. Ezra grabbed the paper again.
Heal. You need heal. Couch no help heal.
"Al… alright, Ezra. If you want me to." He stood up and walked over to her bed. She ran over and hit a switch, which turned all the lights off except for a small light by the switch. "Goodnight, Ezra" he said through the thick darkness. She hopped onto the couch, using the armrest as a pillow.
Being a canine-like creature, she had fur. She still had fur. While the blanket was comfortable, it was not needed. So she slept fine.
She did a good job with the bleach, no Betas scratched on her door that night, which, thankfully, caused Dillon to rest well. But for Ezra, on contrast, was restless. She spent the first few hours awake, thinking about Dillon. He made her have that warm feeling in her when she played with the eevee, when she rested with her master, and when she had the ramen. While the ramen wasn't as immersing, it was still there. That warmth was something she hadn't truly felt for a while. She forgot what humans called it; it had been so long since she actually communicated with one. She was surprised that he could still speak fluent English. But about that warmth… she faintly remembered what it began with.
An… 'l' sound…. she thought as she drifted to sleep.