Empty. Not Broken.

Empty. Not broken, Grendel thought as the caravan sped down what was once the I-10. Two years, and the outdoors still haunted him. He would have preferred missiles, or asteroids, or earthquakes—not this. Cities could be rebuilt, but when the soil collapses…

He forgot what grass felt like, what flowers looked like, what anything tasted like; his entire existence was the pavement beneath his feet, and the roaches between his teeth, and all that was left of Mother Nature was her lifeless body hugging the long, cold road.

Sarah smiled her brave smile, caressing his hand like a dying wind.

“How many?” her soft voice asked through pale lips.

Grendel held up seven fingers. With a dozen in each van, nearly their entire settlement was on the road, half of whom were in worse shape than his wife. But even in a world where promises meant nothing, Sarah kept her Hippocratic oath. She was determined to help the sick, and he was determined to help her.

Heron was in their van. They were supposed to feel privileged to share the journey with the witch doctor and his urns of snakes, mud, and ash. He was a madman before the apocalypse, screaming riddles which, to those fond of loose interpretation, predicted the great collapse. But lunacy became leadership during the famine, and now ‘a spirit’ demanded the tribe uproot to New Orleans—conveniently after Sarah told Grendel that her alma mater, Tulane University, held a reserve of Potassium Iodide and Levothyroxin.

No soil meant no selenium, and the global selenium deficiency gave rise to an aggressive, new thyroid disease that chipped away at what was left of humanity. Sarah was an endocrinologist, someone whom the caravan should be following, but her failing voice and constant fatigue made it as if she wasn’t there. Her expertise was no match for the man with a skull attached to his staff and vials of venom dangling from his neck.

“Let him dance and pray,” Sarah whispered, “if it leads you to the medicine, he can preach whatever he wants.”

Grendel nodded, though he didn’t agree. He had come across his fair share of crazies during his time in the war. The worst ones think they’re the heroes. Like the bastard who had ruptured his vocal cords. So, wherever the road took them, he was sure it wasn’t good. For as naturalistic as Heron claimed to be, it didn’t stop him from killing strangers to siphon petrol or maintaining an arsenal of stolen firearms.

Once the bayou came into view, Heron ordered the driver to take the backroads until the caravan met with the Mississippi River.

The witch doctor exited the vehicle, signaling to everyone else in their van—and the six vans that followed—to remain inside.

Grendel didn’t listen.

Heron knelt before the thick, brown water and uttered prayers while ritually sprinkling some over his head. His body convulsed as he released a snake into the stagnant river.

“Your ears have learned from your tongue,” Heron said without turning to look at Grendel. “This must be why you defy me, why you interrupt me as I commune with the Lwa.”

Grendel folded his arms and stared at the back of Heron’s thinning grey dreadlocks until the man turned around.

“Agwé is dying. The goddess has no blood, but she is bleeding. No tears, but she is crying.” Heron leveraged his staff to stand. “You fear because you do not know. I fear because I know too much. The dead love to talk. They tell me you think I mislead my people. Tell me, friend, what are the dead saying to you?”

The snake returned from the uninhabitable river and slithered up the witch doctor’s leg.

“Look around, if your eyes have not befallen the same fate as your tongue. Survival burdens no one else. The old world has failed you, while the older one has nourished. I have every intention of taking you to Tulane. Then we will visit Marie Laveau.”

Grendel followed Heron to the van, wondering if it was the dead or his expressions that betrayed him. Either way, he found it fitting that their journey would end at a tomb.

When the caravan arrived at the Tulane School of Medicine, Grendel watched his wife gently. Blissful nostalgia painted her face, and, for a brief moment, she was a med student again.

The van door slid open, and Grendel got out, acting as his wife’s crutch as she hobbled to the entrance.

“It’s locked,” she told him after his forceful tugs proved fruitless.

“Step aside,” Heron said, aiming the skull of his staff at the school before six armed followers unleashed a barrage of bullets, shattering the glass windows on the side of the building. “The Lwa always provide another way.”

The armed men cleared the broken glass and made room for Grendel to get through.

They moved in silence through the academic hallways; motivational posters still hung high, trophy cases still glittering with useless accolades.

“There,” Sarah said, her skin growing paler with each step.

Grendel pointed to the pharmacy’s storage room door, which took a few shotgun rounds to unhinge. He was his wife’s hands and arms, gathering whatever bottles and boxes she instructed him to, and collecting them in large plastic bags. And when the shelves were empty, Grendel carried her and the supplies back to the van.

Heron forwent the passenger seat and sat in the caboose with Grendel and the other poor souls.

“The dead have led us well,” Heron said, poking at the box under Grendel’s seat.

Grendel rolled his eyes and continued to stroke his wife’s hair.

“If anyone is worthy of being buried next to the great Marie Laveau,” Heron continued, “it’s your Sarah.”

Grendel stood up in anger at the suggestion that his wife was dying—stood right through her.

And the memory of her death came flooding back. The way it does from time to time.

Leaving his heart empty.

Empty. Not broken.