The Post

It’s been nearly forty years since the Great War, since the day the skies burned. Only legends and myths survive from those days though. No one’s sure anymore who started the whole thing but when the old kingdoms and empires went to war, nothing could have stopped them.

Only in the past twenty years now has the world really begun to rebuild and arise from the ashes of its old self. In the years that followed the Great War and the burnings that occurred, people were more worried about survival then rebuilding. Now communities are starting to form again and new alliances are being forged between them as trade finally begins again.

Recently the biggest revival was in the old post system. Some one had found some books about how letters from one city would be transported and delivered to other cities. The idea was interesting when I first heard about. The idea was launched to bring the wide spread communities closer together by creating a steady flow of communication between them. I guess that’s what got me involved in all of this, trying to help our new world come together.

The job is not too bad, although it gets pretty lonely during some of the longer runs. My last run sent me to the small town at the base of the mountain range several days ride away. The trip wasn’t the most interesting part. One of the letters I received was addressed to one of the old cities destroyed during the Great War. Letters like these have come in before on rare occasion and usually they’re nothing more then a fool’s errand; a hope that the rural survivors cling to that the great cities and the people there survived. I’ve known people that have travelled the wastes surrounding some of the great cities, all of whom have brought back their own stories that nothing exists out there anymore. However the lure of on old city gnawed on me.
Taking a leave of absence from my post in the north I took the old letter and set out for the city of the old world. The trip through the country was nothing remarkable, I’d done it dozens of times before. All the streams and springs had been marked out on old maps and trails were decently marked, if you knew what to look for.

When I finally came to what I thought were the outskirts of the old city I was amazed, no tale could compare to the sight of absolute ruin before me. Enormous structures of stone and steel stood as empty husks against the horizon and the smaller structures around the city were seemingly torn apart, as if a great hand had ripped the buildings a sunder.

Debris of stone and metal were strewn everywhere and passage into the city was like picking one’s way through a briar patch. The old city wall had all but collapsed from the passing of the years but some of the buildings within the city were like stubborn weeds, refusing to fall and die. Much to my surprise one of the outer service buildings of the city still had some of its wares, and despite their age, a glossy map of what the city used to be was an amazing site to behold.

People, in their idle time, had speculated as to what one of the old cities would have looked like and as far as I knew no one had actually visited one of the old ruins. Everyone in my postal area thought visiting the ruins was a waste of valuable time, time that could have been used sowing crops, that’s what my father always said anyway.

Taking a break I pulled out the letter I had gotten in on my last trip. It had been recently written; someone actually thought someone lived out here. I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. Looking around the ruins of this ancient city I couldn’t see how anyone could live out here if they had wanted to. The whole of the city had an eerie feel to it, like walking through a cemetery where no one was actually buried; just a bunch of tombstones marking where it seemed like people should have been.

Moving on, I had finally found the street to which the letter had been addressed. Unlike the inner city the letter was supposed to go to somewhere outside the city walls, in the outskirts on the far side of the city. I thought about ignoring it at first, the letter really wasn’t going to anyone so what did it matter if it got there or not. Sighing I knew my own sense of duty to my job would spur me on.

Walking past the massive ruins of gigantic buildings that seemed to scrape the sky made me feel so small. The constructions of the old world were marvels to what was being built today. Even in one of the more developed cities I’ve been to, the buildings are no more then a story or two tall. Here they seemed hundreds of stories tall, it was something that simply took my breath away. I could never have imagined some of the buildings my ancestors had created, large coliseums where the concrete seemed to flow like hanging drapes on a window, towering statues carved with precision and skill, ornate fountains that looked as if they could still pumped water after all these years.

The sun had fallen quite low before I had walked the entire length of the city, a distance that was truly amazing. That a city could be so large, it must have been filled with hundreds of thousands of people. I tried to picture them, walking down the streets, playing in the parks. I looked around the buildings, but grazing grounds were far and few between, I could only imagine how they fed so many people without the space for livestock.

Looking down the street I glanced at the letter and the row of houses that all appeared in decent shape. Plants all over the city were usually dead, however the grass and bushes along the street were all green and full of life; hefting my satchel I made my way down the street. I could hardly believe the sounds I heard as doors from numerous houses creaked open and several hesitant people walked outside of their homes to watch my passing. I wasn’t quite sure what to do but habit acted for me, simply tipping my hat I continued to walk down the road, drawing the stares of everyone I passed until I came to the address written on the letter. The address written on the front of the house was almost completely worn away; no care had been made in upkeep since no mail carrier had probably visited this city since the Great War nearly forty years back.

With a host of spectators at my back I straightened my posture and rapped solidly and quickly on the door. The seconds that passed seemed like an eternity before the door finally creaked open. The women that answered the door couldn’t have been more then twenty-five, life in this city was probably all she’d ever known and probably all she ever would know.

Clearing my throat I held out the letter for her and managed to speak up, “Miss Cassandra, here’s your post.”

Copyright 06.2004

The story "The Post" is the property of Jeff Fischer and can not be reprinted or redistributed without my permission.