Uncle
from the Volcano
by Paul Williams
The
dead sheep lay
in the usual place beside the urinal, its fleece
camouflaged by snow. I turned
it over and felt around the neck wound. Satisfied that
the blood was fully
drained, I hoisted the carcass over my shoulders.
Behind the slaughterhouse
walls, workers cheered to celebrate another kill. It
was nearly the end of
their shift and then they would head home, allowing
the carters to enter and
take the other bodies to the huts, restaurant and
boats. I was at the bent tree,
slightly behind schedule, when the exodus began. Not
enough time to climb up
and watch my father. Instead, I listened to the echo
of trudging, weary, feet
and the calls of farewell as each man reached his hut.
A morning ritual
unchanged for centuries.
As
I climbed, the sun emerged to partially melt the snow
and wake the black flies.
My legs were soon covered with bites and scratches.
Father said I could have
long trousers when I was old enough to earn them. The
sheep delivery was unpaid,
and at least one more man had to die before I could
work at the slaughterhouse.
I reached the top and placed the sheep down. The flies
immediately left me and
settled on it.
The
volcano was a large hole in the ground, with a rock
covering a smaller hole
beside it. Underneath the rock was a ladder. Father
told me never to climb down,
but I had twice descended to a wooden door, with a
lock like the slaughterhouse,
and knocked. Nobody answered. Now I only lifted the
rock for shelter in stormy
weather. It rested on a short ditch, allowing someone
to push from below
without rolling it into the dead volcano.
Nobody
living could remember the volcano erupting. No smoke
or light showed inside the
big hole. No signs of lava rose to incinerate the
village. Only the ochre earth
served as a reminder that once, long before we settled
in the place below, the insides
of the volcano burnt their way out.
I
stepped back then kicked the sheep over the edge. As
always, the drop was
soundless and only a few flies came back.
I retraced my steps, slowing as I crossed from
the volcanic earth to
normal soil. Slippery patches defied the sun, and
twice I had discovered the
bodies of outlanders who had skirted around the hole
and fallen to their
deaths. Suddenly I heard a noise behind me. A
scrambling sound, like a rodent.
Except that rodents did not live on the volcano.
Nothing did apart from the
insects. I clambered back to see, confident that I
could move faster than an
outlander.
The
rock by the hole had moved, exposing the tip of the
ladder. A man stood beside
it. He wore a shirt like the one that hung over our
hearth, ready for funerals.
His was covered in dust, grime, and holes, as were his
trousers. A beard, an
outlander’s beard, reached to his waist, and his
exposed flesh was riddled with
scars.
I
was not old enough to carry a knife and never wanted
to before then. “Who are
you?” I asked. Some outlanders spoke our language,
being former members of the
village or their descendants.
“Uncle,”
he said. “Hello, Vica.”
“How
do you know my name?”
“I
saw you ten winters ago. A child on the verge of
taking his first steps. How
are your parents?”
“My
father is well sir.”
“And
your mother?”
I
stared past him. Beyond the hole and over the volcano
to the graveyard at the
foot of its eastern side. Father visited once a year,
wearing his funeral
shirt. Until last year he had taken Grandmother.
“Childbirth?”
guessed Uncle.
“Illness,”
I said. “We were all sick.” She was the only one taken
from our household. All
the neighbours on the right side perished. The
headsman had to reallocate their
hut because there was nobody to claim it. I remembered
Father making a bid, on
the basis that Grandmother was no longer part of his
family, and we needed a
hut of our own. He lost, and Grandmother continued to
live with us. If not being
able to see, hear, chew, or venture outside in winter
could be classed as
living.
“And
now you are better,” smiled the man. I stared at the
flies settling on his
beard and nodded, even though it wasn’t true. The
twins did not remember
Mother. I did, and they were happy memories of a time
when people laughed in our
hut.
Uncle
followed me down, stumbling a few times , but refusing
to take my hand. He
stopped at the bent tree. The only tree until you
passed through the village
and into the woods. Some said that the volcano was in
woodland once and that
the bent tree was the sole survivor of the eruption.
Certainly, the incline was
due to a powerful force of nature. Something had
forced the trunk to bend and
hang precariously over the village. One theory was
that the tree originally reached
heaven and God pushed it away to stop his evil twin
descending. Uncle assessed
the marks around the bark with a critical eye. “Not
fallen yet,” he said. I
stared at the lines on the back of his legs,
criss-crossing the hairs and other
scars in a pattern like the one on the tree.
Uncle
straightened and continued downhill. I followed,
listening to the shouts of
children. They stopped as we approached. The shouters
left their balls of mud
and makeshift toys to stare at Uncle. A few ran inside
to wake their fathers or
summon their mothers. Some parents came out. Watching.
Not speaking. I sensed
that they recognised Uncle. He extended his hand to
me. I took it and we walked
together, past the silent observers until we reached
my house. The smell of tobacco
wafted in from the rear. Father was smoking instead of
sleeping. Carrot soup
was a more attractive smell. We entered.
Grandmother
stood precariously by the soup cauldron, stirring. The
twins were beside her,
occasionally guiding and steadying her hand with a
maturity beyond their five
years. Seeing us their hands left Grandmother and she
too turned, splattering
the ceiling with dabs of soup.
Insects
raced to taste, temporarily abandoning their fear of
the smoke that drifted up
and away through the hole at the top. One of the twins
took the ladle from
Grandmother and spun it quickly round the cauldron as
Mother used to do. The
other helped Grandmother walk towards Uncle.
“Mother,”
he said.
Grandmother
reached out. Her fingers grasped his beard and tugged.
She tutted and flapped
her hands to clear the grease. Then she ran the hands
over his shoulders and
down his arms. “I know your smell,” she said. Slowly
he embraced her.
“Smell
is the most important sense,” said Uncle.
Father
came in, holding his pipe. Uncle eased away from
Grandmother and surveyed him.
Father looked cross, like he did when he chased
rodents across the hut. “You’re
back,” he said.
“It
is the hibernation time.”
“Only
you say so.” Father reached to the basket of tools
beside the hearth. His
fingers touched a pair of tongs then a poker and
finally a pair of large
scissors with the slaughterhouse’s symbol engraved on
their top. Senior staff
could take their instruments home. One of the twins
exhaled and Father paused.
“I’ve been smoking,” he said, making it sound like a
crime. “Might be best if
someone else made you look respectable.”
Uncle
bowed. “Is the blacksmith still in the end hut?”
“We
still have horses,” said Father. By we, he meant the
village. Grandmother owned
a horse once, but it went to the slaughterhouse when
she could no longer ride.
Father smuggled out pieces of the meat for us. “Come
on Vica,” said Uncle,
heading for the door.
“Vica
stays here,” said Father firmly. “There’s soup to
cook.”
“You
have girls,” remarked Uncle. I looked at the twins,
mother’s last gift then at
her mother who gesticulated at the door. Sometimes she
sensed what was going on.
Ignoring Father’s scowls, I followed Uncle to the
blacksmith.
The
end hut smelt of a tobacco far richer than anything
that Father smoked. The
blacksmith could afford it. His hut was bigger too,
funded by only having
himself to feed. He even had a chair, clambering off
it to greet us and putting
his pipe down. “Is it ten years already?” he asked.
“You
don’t look a day older,” said Uncle politely.
Laughing
the blacksmith reached for his scissors, motioning for
Uncle to sit. Then he
began cutting the beard and ordered me to sweep. I
grabbed his broom and pushed
all the bits, and their lice, out onto the path. The
scissors passed perilously
close to Uncle’s chin, which slowly became visible.
The blacksmith took a
razor, heated it over the fire and proceeded to shave
Uncle’s face. I felt my
own hairless face. Soon it would grow if Father
forgave the act of
disobedience.
“There,”
said the blacksmith proudly. Uncle no longer looked
like an outlander. His eyes
sparkled as he stood and examined himself in the
blacksmith’s broken piece of
glass. “Do you want clothes?” asked the blacksmith.
“Mine will be a bit big.”
The blacksmith weighed twice as much as Uncle. “The
widow at number six will
have some.”
We
visited number six. The widow, whose daughter was also
present, silently
produced a couple of shirts and two pairs of trousers.
Uncle went around the
back to change. “You must be proud of him,” said the
widow to me.
“I
hardly know him.”
She
gave me a cup of water. “My man could have gone,” she
said. “Or your father.
They drew sticks. I remember it well. Sticks from the
bent tree.” Grandmother
used to talk about her friendship with the widow,
saying that it stopped when
Father and Mother agreed their union. I vaguely
remembered an argument between
the daughter and mother when I was younger. Possibly
it was about the
daughter’s failure to make her own union. She was well
into her childbearing
years, and unattached.
Uncle
returned. The widow’s daughter gave a crude whistle.
The widow smacked her arm.
Uncle looked clean. Water dripped from his face,
suggesting he had used the
widow’s water bucket. “I am very grateful,” he said.
“Could I also borrow a
shovel?”
I
stayed with Uncle as he headed back towards the
volcano, carrying the shovel.
The smell of the soup drifting from our hut failed to
tempt me. Uncle turned
and frowned at me. “You will get into trouble if you
follow me,” he said.
“I’m
already in trouble,” I replied.
“Only
with your father. What I am about to do is against the
law and that means the
headsman, you still have a headsman?” I nodded.
“He won’t make allowances for your age.”
“What
about you?” I asked.
“I’m
immune from prosecution,” said Uncle. “I think.”
“Then
extend that to me.”
“Not
within my authority.”
It
was not a direct order to leave, and I
would not have obeyed if it were. I followed him
around the side of the hill to
the graveyard. An uneven field not populated by crops
, but by
corpses. Rotting beneath the ground
in shallow graves. Some were marked with bits of wood,
flowers, or pieces of
inedible fruit. Most were anonymous, with only the
size of the mound indicating
if they had been adult or child. “Which is your
mothers?” asked Uncle.
“I
don’t know.”
He
sighed and walked around, prodding the earth with his
spade. Then he knelt and
sniffed the soil. It looked disgusting, as if he were
eating dirt. He did this
in several places then picked a mound and began
digging. “You can’t disturb the
dead,” I informed him.
“You
hide them out of sight. I have learnt that it is
better to have them close by.
They follow the scent and I follow theirs.”
“Who
do?”
He
flicked the spade up. I glimpsed bones then something
moved. A horrible purple
shape. I screamed and leapt behind Uncle. To my
amazement he put the spade down
and reached in the grave. The shape moved onto his
arm, pulsating with light. A
worm the size of six. He placed it down and we watched
it crawl over bits of
bone that once formed a woman and brought me into the
world.
“Meet
my family,” said Uncle. “Fireworms. They’re supposed
to hibernate ,
but this one doesn’t. It leads them when
they swarm. That’s why it’s dangerous.”
The
creature climbed out again.
I let it
touch me, feeling a wet sensation on my ankles. Then
it withdrew. “It knows
your scent now,” said Uncle. “It came here for her
when it couldn’t find me. We
must get her up the volcano, quickly. Before the
others follow.”
Retching
I helped him pick up the pieces of bone. We had no
wheelbarrow so had to place
them on the handle of the spade. Uncle pulled out the
skull. I felt cheated.
She had left me. The fireworm started to climb out.
Uncle quickly tossed it back.
Then he threw the earth on top and stamped it down
carefully, making use of the
donated boots and checking the fireworm was not
immediately below his feet. I
did the same. “Hopefully it will go back,” said Uncle.
“Easier when I’m there.”
“You’re
going back?”
“Not
just yet.”
We
ascended the volcano, an easier task in the middle of
the day, but Uncle kept
stopping to rest. The insects greeted us in their
thousands yet stayed away
from the bones and the skull. “They know a fireworm
has touched them,” said
Uncle.
“The
fireworms eat insects?”
“Incinerate.
They spit out fire when they are angry or distressed.”
“Like
a dragon?”
“There
are no dragons,” said Uncle. “Just fireworms.”
“Where
do they come from? Why have I not seen them before? Or
heard any stories.”
“Three
questions at once is a lot for any uncle to answer,”
said Uncle. “They came
after the volcano erupted. Following the heat and then
settling near it, in the
hope that it might come back. For some reason, they
stayed. I used to think
they were searching for something else, especially the
leader, but they don’t
venture far when I’m around.”
At
the top, I expected Uncle to dig a new grave. Instead
he hurled the skull in
the hole, followed by the contents of the shovel. “The
fireworms must stay
underground,” said Uncle. “In a damp place with
abundant water. Out here, on a
hot day, just one could burn the village.”
“Or
the tree,” I said, imagining hundreds of fireworms,
cascading down the slope.
Igniting the side of the tree and forcing it to crash
forward. “They caused it
to bend?”
Uncle
nodded. “I saw them one day, when I was chasing an
outlander up the volcano.
Next day my mother, your grandmother, found one
outside the hut. When others
came the villagers decided that someone needed to keep
them underground. Like a
shepherd.”
Six
men, including Father, waited at the graveyard. Uncle
put the shovel down and
approached them, holding his hands in the air. “You’ll
have to answer to the
headsman,” said Father.
Uncle
shrugged. “Didn’t we establish that I could do what
was necessary to protect
the village?”
“You
were chosen to protect the living, not desecrate the
dead.”
“A
fireworm was in the grave. It would have risen to the
surface.”
“She’s
been there for eight years,” said Father. “Nothing’s
happened.”
“It’s
because I’m not there,” said Uncle. “The one who did
not hibernate was looking
for me. Following the scent. I’ve learnt so much about
them. So much I didn’t
know ten years ago.”
Father
grabbed the spade and stuck it into the ground. “All
you need to know,” he said,
“is that they must stay down there. That’s what is
necessary to protect the
village and you violating your duty risks that.”
“There
will come a time when it is not my duty,” said Uncle.
“When someone else is
required. How can they be ready if I cannot speak to
them?”
“None
of our boys will go,” said Father.
“Then
they will destroy the village.”
“We
have pipes connected to the river. Enough water to
extinguish any fire and, if
necessary, to drown them.”
Uncle
stared at him, horrified, then retrieved the shovel.
“I must return this,” he
said.
*****
I
expected Uncle to spend the night with us, sharing the
floor with three
children, two adults, insects, and rodents. Instead he
went to the blacksmiths,
who had a second room. I watched the stars through the
doorway and saw the
blacksmith carrying several pails of beer back from
the tavern. Father went to
bed without speaking to me. No punishment for the
disobedience.
When
the sun woke me, I saw that father had already gone to
the slaughterhouse. I
hurried out, but no sheep was there. I
found Uncle snoring in the blacksmith’s chair. The
blacksmith slept on the
floor. “The sheep,” I cried desperately. Uncle woke,
stretched and jumped up in
a panic, murmuring about light. That woke the
blacksmith who raced outside then
returned with bits of fresh vomit decorating his
shirt.
“I
have already eaten,” said Uncle.
“The
sheep was for you?”
“The
fireworms had the scrapes , but they prefer smaller
prey. I get them to make a
fire and then, every day, I have the same meal.” He
glared at the blacksmith.
“This clown cooked lamb last night.”
The
fire contained pieces of burnt meat. I thought about
the beer and guessed that
the cooking was not successful.
“You
go back to bed,” said Uncle. “I’ll see you after the
hearing.”
“I
want to go,” I objected.
Uncle
put his arm around me. His new clothes stank.
“Children not allowed,” he said.
I
spent the morning supervising the twins. Despite the
cold they wanted to play
outside and that let me keep an eye on the building at
the side of the slaughterhouse.
The only building in the village that had a bell. It
rang whenever an outlander
was spotted , but not to signify a trial. I watched
people going in, including the
blacksmith, the widow and her daughter. Then,
after an hour of making headless snowmen
and listening to complaints about the cold, a group
came out of the building
and made for me. First was the headsman, wearing the
traditional deerskin hat.
Behind him was Uncle, then my father and a couple of
other men, who both had
children in the village and relatives in the
graveyard.
“A
legal point has been made,” said the headsman. “We
must ask the next of kin,”
“Me?”
I said stupefied. “I am a just a child.”
The
headsman smiled. “You are the eldest descendant, but
an ancestor lives.”
We
went inside the hut. Grandmother stood by the fire.
She rarely sat in the
daytime now. In the mornings, it took her several
minutes to crawl to the wall
and pull herself upright. Her handprints showed the
spot, always the same
place.
The
headsman went up close and bowed. She felt his hat.
“Headsman,” she said. “I
remember your father.” Then she laughed at an unshared
memory.
“You
are the mother of Jasmonerate,” said the headsman.
“Yesterday her grave was
violated and her remains removed.” Grandmother showed
no signs of hearing. “As
the next of kin, you have the authority to approve of
this action or condemn it
and allow the village to punish the perpetrator in
accordance with our law. Do
you approve?”
He
waited. Grandmother’s eyes started sightlessly back.
“She
doesn’t know,” said Father impatiently. “That makes me
the next of kin.”
“Vica,”
said the headsman sternly.
“Same
thing. The boy won’t defy me.”
Everyone
except Grandmother looked at me. I couldn’t choose
between my father and the
uncle I had only known for two days. If I picked him I
would lose the twins and
grandmother, not to mention my home. I would be an
outlander. Desperately I
turned to Grandmother and saw her nod. She repeated
the motion.
“She
approves,” said Uncle.
Uncle
still did not stay with us. He went to the
blacksmiths, consumed more beer,
then wandered through the village looking for
children. I watched him, whilst
watching the twins. He only entered the houses where
boys lived. Sometimes he
stayed for several minutes ,
but more
often he left quickly as parents shouted insults at
him. Seeing me he produced
two biscuits from his pocket, the blacksmith cooked
well when sober. I gave
them to the twins, ordering them not to tell Father.
“He
snacks all day at the slaughterhouse,” said Uncle. “I
used to work there with
him. We pulled bits off before the packaging, roasted
them on a little fire. I
think I’ve seen all the boys now. Nobody wants to
help.”
“I
do,” I said.
He
laughed. “We need someone whose parents cannot refuse.
An orphan would be best.”
“Aren’t
any,” I said. “They’ve all been taken in.” After the
plague, it made sense for
the parents deprived of children to adopt the children
deprived of parents.
Uncle sighed and sat down. One of the twins sat on his
lap and the other walked
in a circle behind him. “Then I’ll have to keep asking
the parents,” said
Uncle. “Or get the headsman to draw lots again. Your
father’s plan to drown the
worms will need the approval of the village and many
will agree that it is
insane. Better to sacrifice one life than commit
genocide.”
“What
about me?” I asked. “You ask strangers, but you don’t
want your own kin.”
“You
are no longer my kin,” he said. “When I accepted the
role, I severed all claims
on the family, but I still know who you are and that
my sister would not have
sacrificed you willingly.”
“When
I am older, I will make the choice for myself.”
“No
time,” said Uncle. He told the twins to go indoors and
check on Grandmother.
Obediently they went. Uncle rolled up his trouser leg,
glancing around to check
that nobody else was watching. I
saw heavy
marks across his skin, as if a whip had been applied
and twisted in multiple
circles. “They don’t mean to,” he said. “Physical
contact is a part of their greeting.
In accepting me they obliged me to participate. Over
time the pressure has
affected my balance. You may have noticed that I
sometimes struggle to walk.” I
nodded. “I may be able to climb back inside the
volcano, but I will not be able
to ascend the ladder again.”
I
tried not to think about death, then the twins came
out crying and saying that
Grandmother had fallen over.
We
buried Grandmother the next day in the slot that had
held her daughter. As they
raked the earth I looked for the fireworm ,
but could not see it. Father
told Uncle that he was not allowed to
take the body. “It’s not her scent that they’ll
follow,” said Uncle.
“It
is time you went back to them?”
“I
have the right to remember her, don’t I? No other
surviving children.”
I
have never understood the remembering ceremony where
people drink copious
amounts of alcohol, which is known to distort
memories. I was allowed some for
the first time. One glass according to Father ,
but Uncle refilled it twice and the
blacksmith twice more. Father never commented as we
staggered home. Instead, he
told me about the slaughterhouse. About a job that
would be available soon.
“Cut himself,” said Father grimly. “Let the knife slip
and it sliced into his
hand. We cannot give you his position until it’s
definite that he can’t come
back but he wasn’t here tonight, and I’ve seen that
wound before. Two days and it
will be his remembering ceremony.”
“Suppose
I don’t want to kill,” I said.
“We
can get you a job on the carts, promote one of the
drivers to the slaughter.
Less prospects though. You’ll get used to it. I did.”
I thought of him as a
young man, walking with my mother back to the house
where a younger grandmother
waited with a ladle of hot soup. The house was now
cold. The twins lay across
the floor, without a fire. It could not be lit whilst
the adults were absent.
The widow from number six, who no longer drank, had
toured the village checking
on all the unattended infants.
I
had some presents for the twins, from the ceremony, so
put them down and went
to sleep. Father smoked for a bit then came to join
us. His snoring was worse
than usual. Combined with the bright moon and the
noise from drinkers still at
the ceremony, it stopped me from sleeping. I was awake
when the revellers
finally retreated, the moon started slipping, and the
fireworm entered the hut.
It glided along the snowy path, pivoting its head like
a deranged maggot. I
leapt up to protect the twins. The fireworm followed
my movements like a shadow.
I ran outside. It came after me. I slid on the ice and
fell, clutching my foot.
The fireworm swivelled across my hand then up the leg.
It felt comforting, like
a heavy insect. Not biting or excreting poison. More
like the cuddles that
mother used to give me when I fell and hurt myself.
Suddenly
it was swept away. I heard a loud roar and looked up
to see Father smashing the
fireworm on the ground. A geyser of green blood
erupted. One of the twins was
awake and screaming. I struggled up. Someone pushed
past, nearly knocking me
down again. I smelt Uncle and the alcohol on his
breath. “You’ve killed it,” he
shouted at Father.
“It
attacked my son,” said Father. He hugged me, his hands
dripping the blood down
my back.
“It
followed his scent,” said Uncle.
“Or
followed you. It is time for you to return.”
Uncle
shook his head. “Not until I find a replacement.”
“Then
the decision will be made for you.”
Uncle
bowed. He held out his hand to me, seemingly in a
gesture of farewell. Limping
I took it and felt something metal pressing against my
palm. Uncle put a hand
to his lips and walked off towards the blacksmith’s
hut. I looked down at the
key.
The
next day Uncle went back to the headsman’s hut. The
widow’s daughter visited,
saying she wanted to help me with the twins. She had
never volunteered before,
only in the street. She carried two buckets of water
and a cloth. Sending the
twins outside she began to wash the walls, starting
with the marks left by
Grandmother’s hand. Finding the task too difficult she
ordered me to help. The
twins came over, splashing in the water. She laughed
with them. The game ended
with me throwing the bucket over her and being sent to
the widow’s house to
fetch more. My leg still hurt ,
but I
could walk normally and carry the bucket.
Just
before dark, my father came home. “You’re
back on sheep duty tomorrow,” was all
he said to me. Then he thanked the widow’s daughter by
hugging her, like he
used to hug mother. He whispered to her, “Not an
outlander. Got a concession.”
I pretended not to hear. Then Father offered to walk
her home, saying it was
the last time.
“Tomorrow
you’ll have a new mother,” he told us. “And I will own
the hut.”
I
remembered something Grandmother had said before she
lost her senses. Property
belonged to the oldest then passed to their next
descendant. The hut now belonged
to Uncle. Father had always known that, hence his
petition to the headsman when
mother passed.
That
night I dreamt of the dead fireworm, then did not
sleep. I was ready to leave
the hut after Father, but there was no adult to watch
the twins. I woke them
and made them walk to the widow’s hut, waiting until
she opened the door ,
but not staying to talk. I
hastened to the slaughterhouse and found the
sheep by the male urinal. I checked for blood and put
it on my shoulder. It
insulated against the driving snow, but I could only
think of Uncle and hope
that he would endorse my claim on the hut. To
say that I could still live there, even
though I wasn’t sure that I wanted to share with the
widow’s daughter who
prioritised cleaning over childcare. Who washed away
the memories of
Grandmother and wanted to replace mother.
Uncle
knew that too. That was why he gave me the key and
never returned for it. I
expected to meet him at the rock , but found him lying
against the dead tree.
The flies avoided his body as they avoided mine. Marks
in the snow showed where
he had stumbled. Blood congealed around splinters in
the wound in his head. I
put the sheep down and picked him up, knowing he would
not have wanted the
graveyard. I staggered uphill, step by painful step.
The sun came out, , but
the insects stayed away. Other lights twinkled through
the snow. Purple lights.
Fireworms. Tens of them rising from the soil and
inching along after me.
Following Uncle’s scent. I quickened pace as best I
could.
At
last, I reached the top and, with a murmur of
farewell, dropped Uncle in. Then
I stood aside to let the fireworms follow. They stayed
with me. I stepped left.
They stepped left. Nearly a hundred surrounded me.
Waiting for my next move.
I
could not lead them to the village where they would
either be killed or
unwittingly kill my father, stepmother, sisters and
others. I stepped around
the rock and descended the ladder. At the bottom, I
unlocked the door to my new
home where my dead family lived. The living followed
me in.
END