There was this lovely little town I drove through once. I didn't have time to explore, but I drove slowly, with the windows down to smell the pine trees. I delayed my trip to stop for coffee for an excuse to see more of the place. I'd been driving mostly through fields and forests for the past few hours, both lovely in their own right, but the town was a welcome change of pace. All around the town were green lakes and gentle rivers. You could tell when you passed into the town itself, even before getting out of the wooded area, because the bridges were all painted different colors -- sunset orange and sky blue, and one done in zebra stripes.
The real appeal was the town itself, though. The houses and storefronts had obviously been built up over time with little regard for consistency, leading to a fusion of antique and modern side by side. Salmon pink tudors sat next to sleek cubist creations. Some of the roads were paved with asphalt, and others with red brick. I recognized the names of a few stores. Others were identified only by possessive names and maybe a descriptive word or two (Larry's appeared to be an ice cream shop; Angela's Coffee & Sandwich is where I bought my coffee.)
I'm used to cities. Small towns still hold some fascination for me. I made a point of remembering the town's name so I could go back when I had more time. I recently made the trip, and this is what I found:
The town was gone. The ruins in its place reeked of sulfur and ash. I may never have known what happened if I hadn't met a man in a hazmat suit -- the only other living being I saw in a twenty-mile radius. He was very polite, and gave me advice about how to drive safely out of the area. He didn't seem at all concerned that he had lost the hood of his suit, or that the yellow rubber had fused to his arms. The barnacles did bother him, though. He kept itching his forehead, where the worst of them were colonizing.
He told me the town had been overcome in a cloud of pestilence that rose up suddenly one day and consumed them all. Those who could evacuate tried to, but they didn't get far. He wasn't a native resident of the town. He had come in to investigate, and stayed long after everyone else was dead or gone. At one point, it had become apparent that figuring out what had caused the pestilence wasn't going to save anyone in the town, but he was obsessed. Just a week ago, he had tracked the stinking miasma to one of the rivers. Near the mouth of a cave was the source: a massive pile of salmon, so tall it reached the roof of the cave. He theorized that the salmon had carried some disease, or that all of them decaying together had produced the toxic effect observed in the town.
I had a sinking suspicion. I could tell from the feverish glow in his eye (the one not supplanted by the barnacles) that his obsession with solving the mystery was all he had left, and I couldn't bring myself to take that from him. But I had to ask -- had any of the fish looked like something had tried to eat them?
He nodded, like I knew he would, and I deflected when he eagerly demanded if I knew anything. Just a concern, I said; if the wildlife had eaten the fish maybe they could spread the pestilence. He nodded gravely at that and promised to research the possibility.
I tried to give him the sandwich I had packed for the drive, but when I held it out the window he hissed at it like a cornered possum and wouldn't speak again until I put it away. I said goodbye and continued on my way with a heavy heart.
I knew what had destroyed the town. I recognized the hedonistic appetite for salmon and the reckless littering, just as I recognized the trail of destruction that surely followed.
This was the work of that most evil of bears, the monster who went by the name Ericthebearjew.
This post: brought to you by Hate Week, a dream about carnivorous slugs, and video game landscapes. Video game landscapes: brought to you by animators' appreciation for apocalyptic wastelands. Apocalyptic wastelands: brought to you by Ericthebearjew. Ericthebearjew: brought to you by carelessly reading aloud from arcane texts. Arcane texts: brought to you by starting to write something simple that grows out of all control. Starting to write something simple that grows out of all control: brought to you by this post.Edit from Kate,
linking for context.