This Thing, This Thing, This Thing, haunts my mind.

The iron in my bones itches, as I run to tell someone, but I fret I can’t. So, I’ll tell you.

 

Two centennials after the collapse, society has gone-on well. The metal spires of the old-world have rusted and been renewed. The ivory floors of their old palaces re-varnished.

 

Tongues lost, and re-found – literature faded, and re-written, and through it all, we’ve carried on. Hard to believe we’re almost 300 annuals since their “New Millennium”.

 

I myself, am a scribe – a translator of tongues. Studying characters dropped, and spoken novelties lost in the hundreds of annuals since they met their ends. The peculiar ways they dotted their “i”s and the million different ways they had to do it (to which, we have only one).

 

…and this, is where the horror started.

 

An expedition was made, from their old grey spires in the east, to the Rocklands of the west.

 

The goal, to find records - anything of the world they once knew…. And of course I was tagged along.

 

To our benefit, was the blessing of our high-palace’s greatest asset; The Tablets.  The miraculous terminals of knowledge new and old, recovered and preserved sparingly by and for expeditions just like this.  We each were given one attuned to our needs (mine with the scribes of more tongues than I could ask for) and sent on our way.

 

As we traveled through the great prairies of the west, we were lead by one Bartholomew – a head-strong one of scout-blood, who kept us safe and in high spirits for our troubles.

 

As he traded and bartered for us through the towns we passed, or lead us through the toxic marsh, there would always be a smile on his face towards all those he met - especially me who he often kept company at the campfire. He almost made my participation here worth it.

 

At last, we reached the western beaches, and their accompanying seas of rubble.

 

The dig lasted four days, and before long we were lost to the surface.

 

Below, as told and guided by Bartholomew’s tablet, were their old steel libraries. With the aid of another’s, the steal soon sprung to life and light sprung forth all around us – showing us words and names I’d only seen some of before. I was in wonder.  If only I’d known my horror.  

 

By the eighth day, my steal was linked to theirs, as was everyone’s; flowing information and histories in front of my very eyes. At first, I learned of their… our collapse.  How the bombs dropped, and the flags faded. Nothing much more than what I already knew.

 

But then, I learned of their time; of their flying whales and their instant transmissions. Of their “high-ways” and their “Auto-bahns”. Of their beautiful networks and their leaders… OH, even their wars seemed glorious!

Soon, I could even see them.

 

By the twelfth day, I was hunched around my tablet – a hermit in my own shell to all those around me, except Bartholomew, who I showed my best findings.

 

My studies did not matter anymore, because their words became my own.

 

The tongues of the world didn’t matter anymore, because their tongues were my own. My duties to “the group” were done…

 

…and that’s when I saw it… or rather, didn’t.

 

My records and best translations recognized it as four serials; 2 0 2 0 .

 

Numerals, an annual almost surely, and one far before the collapse, but with it came the pattern.

 

It.

 

“It.”

 

“It happened.”

 

“It broke out, It wiped out many.”

 

“It spread, it smothered, it killed…” but what was “It”?

 

Some archives talked of quakes and storms.

 

Some talked of “It” like a great beast… or a ruler who used their kind as some kind of prey.

 

But to my eyes, none would speak to what It was.

 

I dug deeper – like the dig that started this, away from characters and names, to them themselves.

 

STILL, even seeing their eyes with my own, they spoke of nothing. Their lips spoke of “staying indoors” and “safe” like some great beast stalked the globe, ready to eat them if they didn’t say inside at all times.

 

They spoke of helicopter crashes and death.

 

They spoke of bombings, and packed earth, and plagues….

 

BUT STILL they wouldn’t just say what IT was!

 

This spread across my mind like a virus – all linked together by these four characters… 2 0 2 0 .

 

How could these old ghosts I’d come to love betray me? How could these lost souls speak of so little, yet so much? How across annuals, and centennials, and more… years than you could imagine could nothing be worse than this thing?!

 

I was going mad - and growing even madder by the fact not another soul around me could understand these old words? How could they betray me? How could my own tablet betray me? What was this thing?!

 

…and then Bartholomew entered, long worried of my great absence and carrying for my state of mind.

 

And then, he coughed.