The Great Calamity. The Final Days. The Event. The End. All of these are quaint, little names we gave to the end of our world. We give names to it, we try to put reason to it, but none of us except the old people actually remember how it happened. All I know is that it, obviously, sucked. My name is Ian. I'd tell you my last name if I knew it, but you'd be surprised how many formalities go out the window when the world ends.
Although I was born before everything went downhill, there are some younger kids that we call first-gen Apocalypse babies. This is a pretty big deal when you factor in our total lack of health care facilities. Not a lot of hospitals were left standing after what happened, and none of them are up and running... yet. Most of the men and women with the know-how to repair the old buildings, or build new ones, are either dead or too old to do much more than teach. Things like architecture, engineering, medicine, science- things that were commonplace before the end- fit into one of two categories of arts: lost or dying.
Now by this point you may be wondering how a kid like me (even though I'm 17, which is hardly young enough to still be considered a kid thankyouverymuch) knows so much about these things if they're supposedly "lost knowledge." Well, that's a funny story. You see, when I was little my mom just knew that I was special. Genius. That's what they call me. I don't really see why they think I'm special for doing something that comes to me like breathing, but apparently it's a pretty rare thing.
I'm not really even sure where all this knowledge comes from to be honest. I just seem to know things. A few of the old "scholars" in the town brought me their old book collections to read and study. I had books from all over the academic world; Shakespeare, Calculus, Biology, Engineering, you name it I had a book for it. I knew them all by heart, too. Cover-to-cover without fail I could recite those books by heart.
"Ian, what the hell are you doing wasting my lamp oil?" asked the woman in the doorway.
"If you must know, Alice, I'm writing my autobiography."
"Don't you pull that high and mighty I'm-an-all-powerful-genius stuff with me, kid. I've been your best friend since we were little, and if there's anyone who doesn't have to put up with it, it's me," she said as she made her way to my makeshift writing desk at the other end of the room. "Besides, you're 17, Ian. What in God's name do you have to write about?"
After reading my paper, Alice laughed and said "Who are you writing this for? It's not like anyone outside of here even knows who you are, much less gives a damn." I rolled my eyes at her and snatched the paper from her hands. God, her skin is soft, I thought to myself before coming to my senses.
"I dunno Al, it just makes me feel better knowing that if something happens to me, my memory won't just turn to dust."
"Ugh," she said as she huffed and pulled me up from the chair, "c'mon, Ian. The Chairman wants to have a word with you."
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