The Last Act of Sybil Fontaine

What Was and What Will Be

     Ash.
                  Dust.
                                 The rubble of Old America, laid bare before the scientists of the Archaeological Institute of the New Commonwealth. All of the ruined country's lands, like most land throughout the New Commonwealth, had been turned to concrete and dirt fields vast and imposing. The destruction reached so far and ran so deep that even the beaches and shorelines had become glass monuments to humanity's hubris. Despite the visual evidence of the carnage that came before, there was little recorded text about what events actually transpired. The AINC was an organization which sought to uncover exactly where the world had gone wrong - where the apocalypse started. Massive nuclear fallout seemed to suggest that a radioactive war had swept across the globe, wiping out 90% of the population in a matter of days.  All evidence seemed to point to the exact area they now stood, the center of the blast that forever changed the world.

     Senior Scientist Dr. Everett Hardt was a senior fellow for the Institute and had pitched this expedition to the board members only weeks ago. He took with him a small collection of interning scientists, each with their own interests and goals in this mission. Among them was chief of operations and major stakeholder Maryland Caldwell, a shrewd woman who demanded to come along and be put in a position of leadership so she could "protect her investment" as she so aptly put it. There was also chief of security Dana Pilgrim - a time-tested soldier and loyalist to the Commonwealth, and Dr. Hardt's most dedicated student, Robert Hansen. The common goal was simple: retrieve any information which might further explain the history of the Commonwealth and which might shed light on the mysteries of the bombs used in the previous world's final moments. Their private goals were much more diverse, each having made the conscious choice not to share them. 
     Despite this relative silence on what their personal motivations were, they had become an adept team at traversing the scarred wastelands and had overcome many a challenge that they had faced in this line of work. There had been scrapes with the mutagenic beasts that roamed the barren blast zone, issues with their food spoiling due to the radiation, sickness had threatened to take their soldier and student in one night, and they had even lost one of their own - an intern with a promising future in ecological cleaning efforts. Many had suspected these were portents of what lies at the center of the destruction, but Dr. Hardt had pressed them ever onward.  
     Now, as they stood at the precipice of the crater that started it all, they started to believe it was all worth it. They wore suits which had been specifically designed to withstand the high doses of radiation and disperse it into their surroundings; inside, a variety of computers and components hissed and whirred and whined and beeped their resistance to the radioactive air. These suits were what allowed them to stop here and admire in mute horror what had taken place.
     Mere hours of oxygen - that was what the suits could produce.
     In an effort to make sure that the air would last, C.O. Caldwell had ordered everyone to wait as long as humanly possible to have everyone put them on. Dr. Hardt had disagreed at first but, realizing how it could jeopardize his prize, relented with a grumble. Even that - a corporate measure accounting for the bottom dollar over human life - did not dull the gleam of the moment though. No one had ever been this close to the source before and the solemnity of the moment did not escape him.
     "How grim and beautiful." he commented in the detached tone of someone who viewed something like this with academic reverence, and none of his charges nor his management seemed eager to disagree. 
     At the exact center was not charred earth, turned to ash by the initial flash...no, at the center was a perfectly preserved house. It was pink of all colors, and one of the interns cracked a joke about the apocalypse riding in on a pink horse in what everyone else assumed was a poor attempt at gallows humor. 
     Dr. Hardt, not amused by this and anxious to get inside, told most of the students to wait back while he and Robbie, one of Hardt's rare nicknames for a student, checked it out first with the added protection of C.S. Pilgrim. They slowly made their way down the sloped edge of the black crater, Robbie cursing as his foot slipped and faltered against the charred dirt. Nevertheless, they managed. 
     By the time they made it to the front door of the two-story house they were sweating and out of breath. Dr. Hardt surveyed the outside along with C.S. Pilgrim and made sure that no radioactive hazards were waiting for them. The simple porch had flecks of debris covering it, likely swept up from the howling winds which sometimes ripped through the wastelands. The windows were shut tight, clean white curtains parting to show glimpses into the room inside. Strangely enough, there was only basic superficial damage on the outside of the house - the roof seemed weathered and worn and the siding had chips and tears in it, but nothing unusual for a house that was nearly 100 years old. The entire thing had an almost ethereal, dreamlike quality to it - undisturbed way out here, where nothing lives past a half-life and nothing grows except danger. The doctor made his way all the way around the perimeter and came back to the porch, swallowing hard as he stared at the inviting-looking front door. It was plain, but it spoke to something...old. Old and gone. 
     When he had decided he had waited long enough, he did something quite strange. 
     He knocked.
     Robbie and C.S. Pilgrim gave him a strange look, a bewildered expression that might've conveyed some amount of confusion as to who or what he expected to answer, but the door simply...swung open. A crack, not as if a forceful wind had whipped it wide open, but opened nonetheless. No one spoke to question it, as if it weren't the strangest thing they were prepared to see.
     Dr. Hardt took the invitation without a second thought. His companions followed. 
     Something strange became immediately apparent - the mechanical noises of the suits died away completely. The computers inside detected no radiation, no threats to life, and steady oxygen supply in the atmosphere of the home. Robbie, C.S. Pilgrim, and the doctor all looked between each other with questioning eyes. Finally, after a too-long silence, Dr. Hardt reached up and slowly removed his helmet. For a moment, Robbie thought that the hiss of the seal sounded eerily similar to the hiss of the vacuum seal of a coffin. Lead lined, to keep the radiation in. Everyone held their breath for another long moment, and then Dr. Hardt spoke. 
     "I feel...nothing." he said. If he wasn't normally so stoic, someone might've thought they heard a touch of disappointment and disbelief in his voice. Maybe. He began to breathe slowly, taking note of any strange or upsetting feelings in his lungs - but nothing was there. If anything, the air felt impossibly fresh and clean, like the windows of the home had been left open to air out. He noted that the air felt warm and welcoming, light and earthy even, and that this must be what the occupants of the past would refer to as the "spring" season. The Commonwealth had no such seasons, instead having to manufacture light and heat and fertile earth and all the warmth those things bring. There was no metallic taste to the air, no uncomfortable heat. It was as if this house had captured an exact moment, taken a picture of it, and hung it like a tent around itself. Dr. Hardt began to run over a list of tests he would need to run in his head, scanning the interior to take in all of its contents.
     The inside, much like the outside, was largely undisturbed. The C.S. Pilgrim, acting as security, made a sweep first. She searched for any and all threats the expedition might face. She passed through each room, 4 bedrooms and two bathrooms in total, and checked every nook and cranny she could find. As she did so, her brain began to construct a rudimentary story of the people who once lived here. 
     The layout was simple, with a large living room attached to a decently sized kitchen and an office downstairs. Photos, sepia toned and black and white, hung all over the walls next to achievements and plaques and wall hangings. Inside of the photographs were the lives of a small family - a mom, dad, and daughter - painted in snapshots. Many of them seemed to take place in a diner, various memories against a backdrop of vinyl seats and chrome napkin dispensers. The middle aged woman in the photos looked so kind - her hair was a sea of shoulder-length grey curls, cut into a shaggy bob with a streak of white framing her face. It made her look dignified, and the soft smile that seemed permanently stuck to her lips made her seem so loving. Even in these stills, Dana noted, she seemed so full of life.
     "I bet she was good to them." Dana whispered, her own heart thumping with sadness at the sight. She felt a strange mix of emotions as she studied the other two people in the photos. There was what she assumed to be the father, a funny-looking man with a thin, pinched face and a mischievous smile - she guessed his occupation was a doctor, judging by the few photos where he sported a white coat - and his daughter, a girl with her mother's curly hair and squat nose and kind smile. The kid smiled in every photo, Dana noted again, which must've spoke some praise over how she was raised. 
     In precious few photos, the daughter hugged or played with an older looking woman - smiling in some, stern in others - who had the deep-set wrinkles of someone with a million good stories. 
     Maybe she's grandma? 
     Dana ran a finger over the frames, as if touching them would impart more knowledge, a wider glimpse into the life of the family inside...only nothing came. It rang hollow and empty and a good reminder that she was here to do a job.
     Upstairs, three bedrooms - likely the parents', daughter's, and an office - seemed untouched by the ravages of time and nuclear decay. They, like the rest of the house, were decorated simply. A floral wallpaper ran throughout and the beds were antique, but not so antique as to be uncomfortable. The office contained a desk and a filing cabinet, an L-shaped bookshelf pressed into one of the corners. As she scanned the shelves, she realized that the father was in fact a doctor - medical textbooks lined the top portion and patient files lined the bottom.
     "Hardt will shit." she mused aloud, moving on.
     As she explored more and checked the other basic-looking rooms, she saw that the furniture matched the vintage aesthetic, looking as if it had been painted into the house before it was even finished being built. Like it had been lived in for quite a while, but hadn't been touched in years. There was a stillness here, not like holding your breath in rapt attention, but like being stuck in place by the beauty of a field of flowers, or the sun peaking through the clouds, or a rainbow shimmering through the rain...no, it wasn't an antagonistic or fearful stillness, it was a joyful one. It made her job all the easier - more pleasant than she expected. By the time she had finished her search, she was confident it was as quiet as it appeared. 
     She returned to the living room, finding Robbie peeking into the end tables and looking through coffee table books - but Dr. Hardt seemed to be just staring at the ground. She cleared her throat, both the scientist and his protege whipping their heads around to face her. 
     "Well?" the doctor asked, not needing to expand on the question. They all understood what he was asking. 
     "As safe as this place can be, I guess." she replied, not one to mince words. If anything, this had been the longest string of words she had formed since signing up for the expedition. 
     "We'll start with bedrooms. Robbie, get the others." Dr. Hardt gruffly barked, making his way through the house with what seemed like a pre-determined course. Robbie had already turned around to invite the other interns and C.O. Caldwell into the structure, but C.S. Pilgrim followed steadily behind her main concern. 
     Why was the doctor acting like he'd been here before?
      Dr. Hardt, having long grown immune to the stares and confusion of those around him, which left him unhindered in being able to make a beeline for a wardrobe in the unnamed daughter's room. It was a large thing, looking as old as everything else, and seemed to be constructed from some sort of woody material. C.S. Pilgrim had only a moment to admire the craftsmanship of it before the doctor tossed the doors open, beginning to methodically pick through it. It seemed to have an array of women's clothing in it, dresses and blouses that at one point would have been a simple expression of fashion but which today represented cultural artifacts of a long-gone age. 
     Unsatisfied with his initial sifting, he began to work his way through the drawers. Shirts, pants, underwear, socks. He searched like a man possessed, unhappy until he had personally inspected each article as if one of them were going to whisper the exact answer to his question. It was only once he had gotten through three quarters of the sock drawer did he finally discover it - a small book with the word "diary" printed across the front. 
     Dr. Hardt's eyes lit up with the sort of feral excitement typically reserved for children being given sweets, and he delicately lifted up the small book as if breathing too hard might make it crumble to dust. 
     The sound of footsteps against creaking floors began to thump from the living room and both Pilgrim and Hardt's eyes shot to the door. 
     "Quick, close it and lock it." he hissed, nodding to the doorway. Dana complied, some part of her moving to lock it before he had even finished the sentence. She understood his desires - that this moment was more private than either of them cared to share. This moment represented the history of their whole society, and it deserved the reverence it commanded - free of prying academic eyes trying to dissect every word. Hardt and Dana agreed in that regard. They would respect the moment as it was, as it was intended to be.
     She stood guard by the door for a moment, waiting in tense silence as the footsteps grew nearer and nearer, stopping in front of the door. The handle jiggled a few times and then stopped, and for a second it felt to Pilgrim and Hardt as if the air had been sucked from the room. Then, an indistinct voice spoke up.
     "Maybe we'll find the key in another room - check the office with me?" the intern said. The retreating sound of feet told the pair that the question had been answered. She nodded to him and pointed to the bed, a silent suggestion. 
     Dr. Hardt understood immediately and carefully carried the book over to the soft, slightly squeaky mattress. They both sat upon it and cringed as a metal whine echoed out, then stopped and sat in the quiet for a second before daring to open it up. 
     The inside cover had a single sentence printed into the book, a declaration of ownership with a name scrawled in curly handwriting into the blank space at the end. 


                                               Sybil Fontaine.

     They both held their breath. It seemed so surreal, so ephemeral this book. Inside it were the secrets and troubles of the past - a tangible link to their predecessors. If nothing else, they knew the name of at least of the people who came before them. 
     A name wasn't all that was here, though. So, with trepidation, Dr. Hardt turned the page. They both drank in the first few sentences and began to read about Sybil's journey.

                           "I have to make a terrible choice."