Challenge #01733-D272: Betrayed

...Deciding to shelve that until my next scheduled freak out, I... -- RecklessPrudence

Sometimes, there's no help. You just have to deal with whatever until it's dealt with or the help finally gets there and you can let other people deal with the thing. I long for those days.

My name is Yani. And this is my second year alone. I'm getting ping from the comms networks, so I know these are going out. As is the automated distress signal. Why anyone hasn't come... I don't know. I have my suspicions, but... I'm not receiving anything other than a ping. I can't say anything for certain.

What I know is: I crashed. By the time I came to on this little island, something had happened to blacken the sky. Every day is overcast, now. And I can't repair my plane. It's a write off. I know that I'm not worth much to my Great Nation. I've been sending out the signal for... for too long. No sign of rescue. I know the war is still going because... there was never a time of peace. And I know I used to have two options: Army or Jail.

What makes my country great is the army. And you either leave school as a warrior or you leave it as a criminal. Those are the only two choices. Women serve in respite ships and breed up the next generation, or they're the whores in jail whose kids are adopted out to those who can afford them. I was one of the whore brats. Raised in a foster home with thrifty facilities that were always threatening to fall to pieces. Ten or more of us to a room. They expected me to be the criminal element.

But I wasn't. I worked hard. Studied hard. Took every opportunity. And I made it out as a Soldier. Fighting the good fight for our Great Nation. I had the reflexes to be a pilot, so I did bombing raids on the enemy. We had to have what they had. Or we had to stop what they were doing. Or their leader had insulted our leader. After a while, you learn to stop asking. Answers are above my pay grade.

Survival lessons, thank God, were not. I knew a few things. What things could be edible. How to make a fire. How to make a shelter. I mean, I didn't have to live in a cave? But after the last few storms, it's just... easier. The rock here is soft. Volcanic. Good for growing things if there was any sun. I tried to farm but... nothing new grows. I have to forage.

I've seen plants die, and none of their seeds sprout. I know something has gone wrong with the world besides the permanent cloud cover. I collect driftwood and make the fires out of that. I need every tree on here.

I stay organised, you know? I count the days. I worked out a calendar. And every Wednesday is freak-out day. That's the day when I just run around and scream about things. It keeps me sane, you know? Well. As sane as I can get. I save up whatever reading material drifts in. I dry it out real careful. You need to read. Even if the stuff you have is some foreign gibberish. It's something to do.

You know. Apart from foraging, beachcombing, and talking to yourself on the comms system.

The storms are getting worse. Things on this island are getting worse. Nothings growing. Nothing's repopulating. The fish are disappearing. There's less to eat. Sooner or later, there'll be nothing at all.

Not even me.

I got one bullet left. One bomb. I can set it off and go quick, rather than starve.

If you can hear me, please trace this signal. Please take me back? I'll even go to jail. No contest. I know I broke the law by being AWOL this long. Just... come get me.

Airman Yani Smith. Signing off.

The nearest airbase, half a world away, caught the signal. Automated systems recorded it for posterity, and sent it on to Command. Playing it for blackened skeletons still at their post. Where there is nobody alive left to hear.

It matters not which side fired the first volley. Or which side fired the last. Nobody won this war. Nobody owns the blackened remains of a dead world. Only machines will ever hear the last transmission of Yani Smith, last survivor of the last war.

[Image (c) Can Stock Photo / outsiderzone]

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